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Story: Innocence
Author: Love! Slash! Angst!![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
loveslashangst
Characters: Ten, Martha Jones, Rose Tyler (implied)
Rated: R for some EXTREMELY suggestive banter and at least one scene that's not ready for primetime, though this is not -- strictly speaking -- a Ten/Martha fic
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, because if I did, there might be real science in Dr. Who instead of just the usual pseudo-science. (ophymirage adds: But Stephen Moffatt's welcome to steal the Universal Model Map any time. Because I want to see that on screen, dammit...)
Spoilers: AU, Sequel (kinda) to The Lady in the Fireplace.
Summary: Ten makes a decent proposal. Martha takes him up on it. Hilarity and adult-themed hijinks ensue. Not exactly a Martha/Ten, but more my love letter to her, hoping she finds what she's REALLY looking for.
Author's Note:
"It's not what you think. I would never do that to either of them, though I'm going to push a few buttons (and some boundaries.) Like I said, I'd already fallen for Ten during "The Lady in the Fireplace", and I definitely fell for Martha during this story. (You'll see why in another chapter or two.) Oh! And FWIW, this takes place almost directly after "Gridlock" in S3.
"More than anything, I want Martha to realize what Ten sees in her, because -- for me at least -- that sense of self worth far outweighed the temporary high of any meaningless shag."
“You’ll have your sleepover...” Martha steps toe to toe with the Doctor. “...When I get my kiss.”
He stares. “When you get your WHAT?” His voice squeaks in outrage.
“My kiss,” she says. “Or am I too irresistible for you to consider it?”
“You’re not irresisti--” He glares. “What IS it with humans and kissing?”
She grins. “You’re scared.”
“I am not afraid of you!” Ooh! She’s got him in the pride!
“Oh, really?” she says. “Then why did you have to tell me three times in the last five minutes ‘I’m not soliciting you for sex’?” She does her best impersonation of him for the last.
He steps back. Holds up one finger at a time. “First, there’s no way I sound like that so kindly withhold your impersonations until you can do a better impression. Second, I was trying to be clear because I misspoke at first and made it sound like I wanted something from you that I very clearly do NOT. Third...” His eyes go all sparkly with righteous indignation. “It will be a cold day in hell, Martha Jones, before I lose my ability to resist you.”
She narrows her eyes. Oooooooh. The TWIT! She lets her grin turn predatory. “That sounds like a challenge, Mr. Smith.”
His eyes narrow. “Take it how you like, Miss Jones.”
Alien or no, he’s still a man and men have pride. Good to know. “Then prove it.”
“I do not need to prove I can resist you,” he says tersely. “And this conversation has become beyond ridiculous.” He turns to go. “Good night.”
“Oh.” She pitches her voice to carry. “So you ARE scared then.” (This will be easier than she thought. If she were in love with him, she could have him in a trice.)
He turns, eyes blazing. “I am NOT afraid of you, Martha Jones.”
She clucks like a chicken. Even adds the flapping-wing gestures for good measure.
“This is your idea of persuasion?” he says. “You’re completely mental.”
“And you’re completely terrified.” She glares a challenge. “It’s just a kiss. One kiss seems a pretty small price to pay for a whole night, especially if you’re so good at resisting me.”
“I will not be baited.” God, he’s cute when he’s peeved.
She folds her arms and gives him her best bluff. “So prove it. Prove that I mean nothing to you.”
“I never said you meant nothing.” She’s seldom seen him this annoyed. (He’s actually working his way up to a full-blown snit.) “I seem to recall risking life and limb to save you -- and nearly asphyxiating myself in the process. It’s just that I’m not in love with you.”
“And I’m not in love with you.” She pretends she means it.
“Then we’re agreed, because I don’t kiss people I’m not in love with,” he says.
“Since when?” She tries not to remember too vividly that short, sweet snog in the hospital.
“Since always.” He glares. “That kiss was the surest way to save your life and to create a distraction so I could save everyone else. It’s no more personal than when you resuscitated me.”
That’s hardly complimentary. Now she’s really going to get him. “So give me a kiss that proves you can resist me and I’ll enjoy milk and cookies with someone who’s not a complete coward.”
They reach a stalemate of glares. She mimes the flapping wing motion again. He gets a high flush of outrage on his cheeks. (Just when she thought he couldn’t get any cuter. If he had the specs on, she’d be swooning too hard to properly bait him.)
“All right.” Should she be worried about that smirk? “But remember, Martha Jones; you asked for it.”
She’s in his arms before she can blink. He’s stronger than he has any right to be. His mouth hovers above hers. A hint of breath against her lips. She tips her chin up, wanting. He possesses her mouth. Slow. Fierce. Searing. His hand presses her lower back. Hers fists in his coat. His other hand cradles her head. She presses against him. His body is rigid. Unyielding. Cold. Her heart pounds. She loses the ability to breathe right. He’s relentless. Seeking tongue. Strong lips. Deep caresses of her mouth with his. Her knees threaten to give out. She clings to him for fear of collapsing to the floor. It’s even better than she’d imagined! (Not that she imagined it.)
And just like that, he lets her go. She slithers, boneless, to the floor. Looks up at him, panting and hot and bothered and dear God she is in love with him!
He gives her a look that’s part clinical amusement and part triumph. “Had enough?”
Not a hair out of place! (Well, no more than usual.) He shoots his cuffs and the suit unwrinkles. The bastard isn’t even out of breath! Cheeks burning, she tries not to pant. He folds his arms. Raises an eyebrow at her as if to say, “See?”
She could kill him where he stands. That is, if SHE could stand. “You’re not in love with me.”
He gives an eloquent shrug. His face softens in sympathy. “I did try to tell you. Several times, in fact.”
She stares, still trying to recover her breath. “You kissed me like... that... and you’re not in love with me?”
He bends slightly, eyes sincere. “I didn’t choose you because I was looking for a lover, Martha. I chose you because I could rely on you not to lose your head when the situation called for decisive, intelligent, and effective action.” He offers her a hand up. Gives a self-deprecating sigh. “Silly me, I assumed YOU would be able to resist ME.”
“I can resist you.” But she can’t make her knees work right on the first attempt to stand. She glares at him.
He looks sheepish. “Sorry about that. Might’ve overdone it just a bit.”
“Just a bit, yeah!” Now he’s got her in the pride. “And don’t think this” she indicates her wobbling knees “is because of you. ‘Cause it’s not.”
“Of course not.” He holds her hand until she can balance again.
“Because it’s not like that.” Her cheeks burn. “I mean, I must’ve tripped or something.”
“Naturally.” He stamps the perfectly-smooth surface of the decking with one trainer-clad foot. “Must’ve been some lump in the plating. Have to have a look at that later.”
She either wants to kill him for playing along or throw herself into his arms with gratitude for trying to save her pride. “Yeah. You should. Someone could really get hurt.”
He moistens his lips, slightly shy again. “So... was that enough?”
The man could well have kissed her until she came. The thought both turns her on to unbearable levels and scares her half to death. “Enough?” she says, confused. (Oh God, would he kiss her again if she asked?)
“For our bargain?” he says. “Did I meet your terms? A night for a kiss?” The loneliness lurks at the edge of his eyes. “I mean. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to... after... I did overdo it, after all.”
He’s got her in the pride again. “No, ‘s all right. I’m fine.” She straightens. “I can resist you, you know.”
He grins. “Fantastic! Let’s go!”
“Go where?” She lets him pull her down the hall by the hand. “Your room?” (She shouldn’t be hoping.)
“Heavens no!” he says. “First things first. Stop by the wardrobe for pyjamas and the galley for milk and cookies.”
Stomach sinking, Martha has a feeling it’s going to be a very long night.
Link to All Previous Chapters
Author: Love! Slash! Angst!
loveslashangst Characters: Ten, Martha Jones, Rose Tyler (implied)
Rated: R for some EXTREMELY suggestive banter and at least one scene that's not ready for primetime, though this is not -- strictly speaking -- a Ten/Martha fic
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, because if I did, there might be real science in Dr. Who instead of just the usual pseudo-science. (
ophymirage adds: But Stephen Moffatt's welcome to steal the Universal Model Map any time. Because I want to see that on screen, dammit...) Spoilers: AU, Sequel (kinda) to The Lady in the Fireplace.
Summary: Ten makes a decent proposal. Martha takes him up on it. Hilarity and adult-themed hijinks ensue. Not exactly a Martha/Ten, but more my love letter to her, hoping she finds what she's REALLY looking for.
Author's Note:
"It's not what you think. I would never do that to either of them, though I'm going to push a few buttons (and some boundaries.) Like I said, I'd already fallen for Ten during "The Lady in the Fireplace", and I definitely fell for Martha during this story. (You'll see why in another chapter or two.) Oh! And FWIW, this takes place almost directly after "Gridlock" in S3.
"More than anything, I want Martha to realize what Ten sees in her, because -- for me at least -- that sense of self worth far outweighed the temporary high of any meaningless shag."
“You’ll have your sleepover...” Martha steps toe to toe with the Doctor. “...When I get my kiss.”
He stares. “When you get your WHAT?” His voice squeaks in outrage.
“My kiss,” she says. “Or am I too irresistible for you to consider it?”
“You’re not irresisti--” He glares. “What IS it with humans and kissing?”
She grins. “You’re scared.”
“I am not afraid of you!” Ooh! She’s got him in the pride!
“Oh, really?” she says. “Then why did you have to tell me three times in the last five minutes ‘I’m not soliciting you for sex’?” She does her best impersonation of him for the last.
He steps back. Holds up one finger at a time. “First, there’s no way I sound like that so kindly withhold your impersonations until you can do a better impression. Second, I was trying to be clear because I misspoke at first and made it sound like I wanted something from you that I very clearly do NOT. Third...” His eyes go all sparkly with righteous indignation. “It will be a cold day in hell, Martha Jones, before I lose my ability to resist you.”
She narrows her eyes. Oooooooh. The TWIT! She lets her grin turn predatory. “That sounds like a challenge, Mr. Smith.”
His eyes narrow. “Take it how you like, Miss Jones.”
Alien or no, he’s still a man and men have pride. Good to know. “Then prove it.”
“I do not need to prove I can resist you,” he says tersely. “And this conversation has become beyond ridiculous.” He turns to go. “Good night.”
“Oh.” She pitches her voice to carry. “So you ARE scared then.” (This will be easier than she thought. If she were in love with him, she could have him in a trice.)
He turns, eyes blazing. “I am NOT afraid of you, Martha Jones.”
She clucks like a chicken. Even adds the flapping-wing gestures for good measure.
“This is your idea of persuasion?” he says. “You’re completely mental.”
“And you’re completely terrified.” She glares a challenge. “It’s just a kiss. One kiss seems a pretty small price to pay for a whole night, especially if you’re so good at resisting me.”
“I will not be baited.” God, he’s cute when he’s peeved.
She folds her arms and gives him her best bluff. “So prove it. Prove that I mean nothing to you.”
“I never said you meant nothing.” She’s seldom seen him this annoyed. (He’s actually working his way up to a full-blown snit.) “I seem to recall risking life and limb to save you -- and nearly asphyxiating myself in the process. It’s just that I’m not in love with you.”
“And I’m not in love with you.” She pretends she means it.
“Then we’re agreed, because I don’t kiss people I’m not in love with,” he says.
“Since when?” She tries not to remember too vividly that short, sweet snog in the hospital.
“Since always.” He glares. “That kiss was the surest way to save your life and to create a distraction so I could save everyone else. It’s no more personal than when you resuscitated me.”
That’s hardly complimentary. Now she’s really going to get him. “So give me a kiss that proves you can resist me and I’ll enjoy milk and cookies with someone who’s not a complete coward.”
They reach a stalemate of glares. She mimes the flapping wing motion again. He gets a high flush of outrage on his cheeks. (Just when she thought he couldn’t get any cuter. If he had the specs on, she’d be swooning too hard to properly bait him.)
“All right.” Should she be worried about that smirk? “But remember, Martha Jones; you asked for it.”
She’s in his arms before she can blink. He’s stronger than he has any right to be. His mouth hovers above hers. A hint of breath against her lips. She tips her chin up, wanting. He possesses her mouth. Slow. Fierce. Searing. His hand presses her lower back. Hers fists in his coat. His other hand cradles her head. She presses against him. His body is rigid. Unyielding. Cold. Her heart pounds. She loses the ability to breathe right. He’s relentless. Seeking tongue. Strong lips. Deep caresses of her mouth with his. Her knees threaten to give out. She clings to him for fear of collapsing to the floor. It’s even better than she’d imagined! (Not that she imagined it.)
And just like that, he lets her go. She slithers, boneless, to the floor. Looks up at him, panting and hot and bothered and dear God she is in love with him!
He gives her a look that’s part clinical amusement and part triumph. “Had enough?”
Not a hair out of place! (Well, no more than usual.) He shoots his cuffs and the suit unwrinkles. The bastard isn’t even out of breath! Cheeks burning, she tries not to pant. He folds his arms. Raises an eyebrow at her as if to say, “See?”
She could kill him where he stands. That is, if SHE could stand. “You’re not in love with me.”
He gives an eloquent shrug. His face softens in sympathy. “I did try to tell you. Several times, in fact.”
She stares, still trying to recover her breath. “You kissed me like... that... and you’re not in love with me?”
He bends slightly, eyes sincere. “I didn’t choose you because I was looking for a lover, Martha. I chose you because I could rely on you not to lose your head when the situation called for decisive, intelligent, and effective action.” He offers her a hand up. Gives a self-deprecating sigh. “Silly me, I assumed YOU would be able to resist ME.”
“I can resist you.” But she can’t make her knees work right on the first attempt to stand. She glares at him.
He looks sheepish. “Sorry about that. Might’ve overdone it just a bit.”
“Just a bit, yeah!” Now he’s got her in the pride. “And don’t think this” she indicates her wobbling knees “is because of you. ‘Cause it’s not.”
“Of course not.” He holds her hand until she can balance again.
“Because it’s not like that.” Her cheeks burn. “I mean, I must’ve tripped or something.”
“Naturally.” He stamps the perfectly-smooth surface of the decking with one trainer-clad foot. “Must’ve been some lump in the plating. Have to have a look at that later.”
She either wants to kill him for playing along or throw herself into his arms with gratitude for trying to save her pride. “Yeah. You should. Someone could really get hurt.”
He moistens his lips, slightly shy again. “So... was that enough?”
The man could well have kissed her until she came. The thought both turns her on to unbearable levels and scares her half to death. “Enough?” she says, confused. (Oh God, would he kiss her again if she asked?)
“For our bargain?” he says. “Did I meet your terms? A night for a kiss?” The loneliness lurks at the edge of his eyes. “I mean. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to... after... I did overdo it, after all.”
He’s got her in the pride again. “No, ‘s all right. I’m fine.” She straightens. “I can resist you, you know.”
He grins. “Fantastic! Let’s go!”
“Go where?” She lets him pull her down the hall by the hand. “Your room?” (She shouldn’t be hoping.)
“Heavens no!” he says. “First things first. Stop by the wardrobe for pyjamas and the galley for milk and cookies.”
Stomach sinking, Martha has a feeling it’s going to be a very long night.
Link to All Previous Chapters
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