Fic, Doctor Who: An Itch in a Small Closet
Jan. 3rd, 2014 05:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eloriekamCrack, basically.
Title: An Itch in a Small Closet
Author:eloriekam/![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
eloriekam
Rating: Teen (should be reasonably clear but nothing explicit)
Disclaimer: Not mine or there would be a lot more of the whole getting captured thing on the show.
Characters: Martha, Ten
Word Count: ~1100
Summary: The Doctor and Martha take refuge in a very small space, with almost no room to move. The Doctor is apparently oblivious. Martha is not.
Author's Notes: Sosilverlunarstar used a series 3 promo pic in one of her posts a while back, and my cracky brain decided this meant that Ten's shoulder blades and Martha were totally a thing, at least for the duration of the fic. Crack, with a little bit of Ten being an arse (or oblivious, can go more than one way). This is probably best set after HN/FoB, and even with the crackiness Martha is a bit, erm, frustrated with the Doctor.
They were stuck in a closet somewhere because the Doctor had annoyed someone. Or they had been annoyed to start with and the Doctor opening his mouth was just the last straw.
It was a very, very small closet. Martha was standing on a ledge at the back, facing the wall (really, her nose was almost touching the wall, she wouldn't be able to see straight for at least ten minutes after they were out of here), with a bucket of something between her legs, her back against the Doctor's, and the Doctor facing the door, trying to hold it closed and fiddle with his sonic at the same time.
At least they weren't in the closet facing each other. Small mercies.
But that bucket was spreading her legs, and even with all the running she'd been doing, her legs were starting to ache a little, and her knees were a bit sore from when the Doctor had backed into her and she'd had to use them to balance against the wall so they wouldn't fall over and out of the closet until he managed to close the door reasonably well.
Actually, Martha thought that a jail cell might be an improvement on this. If only they could be certain of getting the jail cell instead of an execution or torture squad.
The torture squad might be an improvement, because the ledge and the bucket meant that her bum was close to level with the Doctor's bum, and they were pressed against each other and she could feel him twitching in irritation.
At least, she assumed it was irritation. It might be something else, but she was never sure about him, really. He would say she was brilliant, but the next moment she would miss something vital so he'd comment on that too and he didn't really look at her. He never had properly explained why he'd had to kiss her on the moon to get a genetic transfer. There must have been other ways. He was dazzling, but oblivious or a complete jerk or both.
She could feel just how skinny he was where their backs met, and the way he was sticking out his arms made him seem even more bony. His shoulder blades jutted out, pressing against her back.
They were both long and hard and they flexed a little against her and under his suit every time he moved, and she was stuck between them and the wall for the foreseeable future.
Experimentally, she stood up on her toes, twisting one hand to brace against the wall a little, and slid back down, letting her knees bump against the wall. Her muscles protested, but she shivered a little at the feeling of fabric moving against fabric and skin.
She flexed up to tiptoes again, then back down, just a little knee bend, and tried to breathe deeply and imagine the wall in front of her wasn't painted a dozen clashing colors in thin stripes. Perhaps they looked better to the natives? Or it was a way to discourage people from doing sort of what she was doing right now?
The stripes were probably about the thickness of the pinstripes on the Doctor's suit, she thought.
As Martha moved up and down against the Doctor's shoulderblades for a third time, feeling the friction shiver deep into her, she decided that this was definitely better than the torture chamber, as long as the Doctor didn't notice.
"Martha? What... what are you doing?" His voice squeaked up half an octave on the 'whats'. He moved his arms again, and she tried not to shudder.
"Just scratching an itch," she replied, entirely truthfully.
"Oh. Well. Carry on, then. Don't want you to start squirming around and both of us fall out of the closet," he muttered in response, probably at the door handle.
"Thanks. It shouldn't take long, it's easing up now." She rose and fell against them, again, and then again, a little quicker. Her knees were really starting to hurt again, and her hands ached from being turned around and pressed against the wall so hard, but the little shivers and shudders and the feeling of the Doctor against her made up for it.
He was really very oblivious sometimes.
And she was taking a long bath as soon as they got back to the TARDIS, for several reasons.
"Just how much of an itch do you have?" the Doctor inquired after a couple of minutes, head turned to speak into a mop. "The sonic could probably take care of it in just a few seconds, if you wanted?"
"I'll be all right, thanks," Martha answered after taking a deep breath, trying not to grit her teeth because she didn't want him to hear anything different in her voice and he was being an oblivious git. Again.
The itch built more, and Martha tipped her forehead against the wall, thinking about how her bum was pressing against his and the hard silkiness of his upper back moving against her, then sagged a little, leg muscles protesting.
"You all right?" came the inquiry after a minute or three, in a light tone.
"Yes, thanks," Martha told the wall.
"Should be able to get out of here soon, and back to the TARDIS."
"Without getting captured?"
"That's the plan, yep."
"You don't have plans, but good." She took a few deep breaths and cursed to herself.
She couldn't really do anything about the Doctor's bum and hers, but they were close and her jeans were tight and so were his trousers, and even with his suit jacket over them, that answered one of her questions.
Martha changed her mind again, and decided that even getting captured would be fine if they got out right now, and that maybe a long bath would the second thing she did in the TARDIS.
They were both quiet for a while, only the sonic humming occasionally (and now that he'd said that while she was doing that, she couldn't stop thinking about it). Finally, the Doctor opened the door just a crack.
"Nice pheromones," the Doctor remarked as they began extricating themselves from the closet.
"Nice tight suit," Martha retorted.
The Doctor opened all the doors for her on the way back to the TARDIS, and cooked a spectacular dinner for her several hours later, after she'd taken her bath and mysteriously found some muscle-relaxing oil next to the tub. The prelude to the bath (including the full charge reading and what she found next to it, bit of a surprise), the long soak itself, and the oil had all been perfect, easing the remaining itches and soreness and aches. The dinner had been stunning, some of the best food she'd ever tasted in her life, and every bite different to the next and all the dishes equally different.
On the next planet, they looked into another small closet as they ran away, looked at each other, and raised their hands in surrender as their pursuers came around the nearest curve.
They were stripped naked before being tossed into a jail cell. But it was still less uncomfortable than the closet.
Title: An Itch in a Small Closet
Author:
eloriekam/eloriekamRating: Teen (should be reasonably clear but nothing explicit)
Disclaimer: Not mine or there would be a lot more of the whole getting captured thing on the show.
Characters: Martha, Ten
Word Count: ~1100
Summary: The Doctor and Martha take refuge in a very small space, with almost no room to move. The Doctor is apparently oblivious. Martha is not.
Author's Notes: So
silverlunarstar used a series 3 promo pic in one of her posts a while back, and my cracky brain decided this meant that Ten's shoulder blades and Martha were totally a thing, at least for the duration of the fic. Crack, with a little bit of Ten being an arse (or oblivious, can go more than one way). This is probably best set after HN/FoB, and even with the crackiness Martha is a bit, erm, frustrated with the Doctor.They were stuck in a closet somewhere because the Doctor had annoyed someone. Or they had been annoyed to start with and the Doctor opening his mouth was just the last straw.
It was a very, very small closet. Martha was standing on a ledge at the back, facing the wall (really, her nose was almost touching the wall, she wouldn't be able to see straight for at least ten minutes after they were out of here), with a bucket of something between her legs, her back against the Doctor's, and the Doctor facing the door, trying to hold it closed and fiddle with his sonic at the same time.
At least they weren't in the closet facing each other. Small mercies.
But that bucket was spreading her legs, and even with all the running she'd been doing, her legs were starting to ache a little, and her knees were a bit sore from when the Doctor had backed into her and she'd had to use them to balance against the wall so they wouldn't fall over and out of the closet until he managed to close the door reasonably well.
Actually, Martha thought that a jail cell might be an improvement on this. If only they could be certain of getting the jail cell instead of an execution or torture squad.
The torture squad might be an improvement, because the ledge and the bucket meant that her bum was close to level with the Doctor's bum, and they were pressed against each other and she could feel him twitching in irritation.
At least, she assumed it was irritation. It might be something else, but she was never sure about him, really. He would say she was brilliant, but the next moment she would miss something vital so he'd comment on that too and he didn't really look at her. He never had properly explained why he'd had to kiss her on the moon to get a genetic transfer. There must have been other ways. He was dazzling, but oblivious or a complete jerk or both.
She could feel just how skinny he was where their backs met, and the way he was sticking out his arms made him seem even more bony. His shoulder blades jutted out, pressing against her back.
They were both long and hard and they flexed a little against her and under his suit every time he moved, and she was stuck between them and the wall for the foreseeable future.
Experimentally, she stood up on her toes, twisting one hand to brace against the wall a little, and slid back down, letting her knees bump against the wall. Her muscles protested, but she shivered a little at the feeling of fabric moving against fabric and skin.
She flexed up to tiptoes again, then back down, just a little knee bend, and tried to breathe deeply and imagine the wall in front of her wasn't painted a dozen clashing colors in thin stripes. Perhaps they looked better to the natives? Or it was a way to discourage people from doing sort of what she was doing right now?
The stripes were probably about the thickness of the pinstripes on the Doctor's suit, she thought.
As Martha moved up and down against the Doctor's shoulderblades for a third time, feeling the friction shiver deep into her, she decided that this was definitely better than the torture chamber, as long as the Doctor didn't notice.
"Martha? What... what are you doing?" His voice squeaked up half an octave on the 'whats'. He moved his arms again, and she tried not to shudder.
"Just scratching an itch," she replied, entirely truthfully.
"Oh. Well. Carry on, then. Don't want you to start squirming around and both of us fall out of the closet," he muttered in response, probably at the door handle.
"Thanks. It shouldn't take long, it's easing up now." She rose and fell against them, again, and then again, a little quicker. Her knees were really starting to hurt again, and her hands ached from being turned around and pressed against the wall so hard, but the little shivers and shudders and the feeling of the Doctor against her made up for it.
He was really very oblivious sometimes.
And she was taking a long bath as soon as they got back to the TARDIS, for several reasons.
"Just how much of an itch do you have?" the Doctor inquired after a couple of minutes, head turned to speak into a mop. "The sonic could probably take care of it in just a few seconds, if you wanted?"
"I'll be all right, thanks," Martha answered after taking a deep breath, trying not to grit her teeth because she didn't want him to hear anything different in her voice and he was being an oblivious git. Again.
The itch built more, and Martha tipped her forehead against the wall, thinking about how her bum was pressing against his and the hard silkiness of his upper back moving against her, then sagged a little, leg muscles protesting.
"You all right?" came the inquiry after a minute or three, in a light tone.
"Yes, thanks," Martha told the wall.
"Should be able to get out of here soon, and back to the TARDIS."
"Without getting captured?"
"That's the plan, yep."
"You don't have plans, but good." She took a few deep breaths and cursed to herself.
She couldn't really do anything about the Doctor's bum and hers, but they were close and her jeans were tight and so were his trousers, and even with his suit jacket over them, that answered one of her questions.
Martha changed her mind again, and decided that even getting captured would be fine if they got out right now, and that maybe a long bath would the second thing she did in the TARDIS.
They were both quiet for a while, only the sonic humming occasionally (and now that he'd said that while she was doing that, she couldn't stop thinking about it). Finally, the Doctor opened the door just a crack.
"Nice pheromones," the Doctor remarked as they began extricating themselves from the closet.
"Nice tight suit," Martha retorted.
The Doctor opened all the doors for her on the way back to the TARDIS, and cooked a spectacular dinner for her several hours later, after she'd taken her bath and mysteriously found some muscle-relaxing oil next to the tub. The prelude to the bath (including the full charge reading and what she found next to it, bit of a surprise), the long soak itself, and the oil had all been perfect, easing the remaining itches and soreness and aches. The dinner had been stunning, some of the best food she'd ever tasted in her life, and every bite different to the next and all the dishes equally different.
On the next planet, they looked into another small closet as they ran away, looked at each other, and raised their hands in surrender as their pursuers came around the nearest curve.
They were stripped naked before being tossed into a jail cell. But it was still less uncomfortable than the closet.
