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Kinkmeme Stories by nonelvis [Reviews - 43]  Chapter or Story Author's Notes: Prompt: Ace/Martha, scars. | |
Time may have settled back into place, but Martha hasn't. London is bustling and alive, and its citizens walk the streets with arrogant fearlessness Martha finds totally unfamiliar after a year of huddling in the shadows. Late at night, after her family has gone to bed at an hour when Martha might have been tracking down another group of survivors, she now visits the dingiest, darkest pubs she can find; places where she can watch people be themselves, struggling with ordinary domestic troubles like lack of money or lack of sex, instead of lack of safety.
Usually, people leave her alone and anonymous in her corner. Tonight, a tough-looking brunette seats herself backwards in the chair opposite Martha and sets down an extra beer.
"So, you're one of us, then. Which means you've earned a drink," the woman says.
"Excuse me?"
The woman digs in her jacket pocket and sets a wedge of dark green plastic next to the beer. A blue glow strobes faintly across its surface.
"You've travelled with the Doctor." The woman takes a long swig of her beer, setting down the glass with a satisfied thud.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't." She taps the wedge. "Artron energy detector, specially tuned to track people with a specific waveform signature."
Martha tightens the grip on her own pint glass. She could throw it in the woman's face, be out of here in ten seconds flat. It wouldn't be the first time she's had to run after being discovered, not by a long shot.
"Tell me who you are, and I'll tell you if you're right," she finally says.
"Ace McShane. Spent some time seeing the universe in a dodgy old police box with a dodgy old pilot."
"Ace," muses Martha. "I don't think he mentioned you."
Ace snorts. "No surprise there. He always was one for secrets."
"Don't I know it," Martha replies, shaking her head. "The things he didn't tell me — the things I could tell he wasn't even thinking of telling me ..."
"That's him, all right."
"So, you came looking for me ... why, exactly?"
"Every now and then this little dingus goes off, tells me when I'm near someone else like me. And if I like their looks, I go talk to them, see how they're doing."
Martha runs a fingertip over the rim of her glass. "I guess you like the way I look, then."
"Could be," Ace says, and drains her beer.
"So," Ace continues when she returns with her next drink, "you're a soldier, too."
"Me? No. I'm a doctor. Well, training to be a doctor. Taking my exams soon."
Ace shakes her head. "No one sits the way you do, watching the room like that, unless they've been in combat. I should know."
Martha shifts in her seat, stares at her hands for a moment. Near her left thumb, a pair of initials scratched into the table surface declares eternal love for another pair, shallow gouges delineating what might or might not exist anymore.
"It was more of an occupation than a war," Martha finally says. "He told me I was the only one who could stop it. I walked the Earth for a year, a whole year, nearly got myself killed I don't even know how many times, saw things I wish I'd never seen, did things ... well, you know." She winces. "Things."
"Was it worth it, then, in the end?"
"Yeah. Yeah, it was. We won. Even though hardly anyone knows we lost the first time round."
"You won, eh? Well, you did better than we did."
"You said you were a soldier."
"Among other things," Ace says. "I was a soldier, all right. In the Time War."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"Not particularly. Not right now, anyway. We can compare scars later."
"Scars," says Martha. "Yeah, I've got a few of those."
"Tell me how you got them," Ace replies.
"Hard to imagine the Professor in love with someone."
"Harder to be the one he's not in love with."
"You still fancy him, then?"
"You never do stop loving someone, do you? Even your crushes? But I'm not waiting around for him, if that's what you're asking. I'm not waiting around for anyone. Never again."
"I'm not waiting for you, Martha."
"Is that so?"
"It isn't waiting if you know it's about to happen," Ace says, and kisses her.
The flat Ace keeps for her visits to this time period is nearly bare: a couple of chairs, a rickety table, a futon with rumpled sky-blue sheets. She shucks her clothes and drops them in a heap on the floor, then flops on the futon and motions to Martha.
"Come on," Ace says. "Time to compare scars."
Martha licks a sticky splash of beer from the dark patch on the underside of Ace's wrist, just below her pulse point.
"Hot oil. Burnt myself frying fish," Ace says.
Martha follows the trail of veins up Ace's arm, lets her tongue linger in the tender skin at the crook of the elbow. "It's the first one I've found you didn't get from the war," she says. She kisses Ace's bicep, nipping at the edge of the mark Ace said came from a laser pistol blast.
"It's the only one like that," Ace says.
"I know the feeling," Martha replies.
She tastes every ridge of the keloid scar, rough and ribbed under her tongue; slides her lips up to Ace's shoulder and beyond, to a divot near her collarbone ("sodding body armour never fits right," Ace mutters); kisses along Ace's jawbone until she reaches her lips, slightly sour from the beer.
Ace draws Martha closer with one hand on her bum and the other stroking the nape of her neck. "Lower back," breathes Martha. "On your left."
Ace's fingertips trace the scar, a shallow three-inch ridge running laterally across Martha's skin, and Martha shivers. "There was a man with a knife," she says. "Nearly caught me as I was running away."
A finger sneaks into the crack of Martha's arse, making her squirm against Ace and her thigh, well-placed between Martha's legs.
"You were lucky," Ace says, rocking into Martha, not quite fast enough, but oh, it's an excellent start.
"Very lucky," Martha agrees. "Very, very lucky."
Ace's breasts and belly are some of the only unmarked parts of her body. Martha knows, because she examined the areas thoroughly with lips and tongue-tip and soft brushes from the pads of her fingers: smoothing the tan, crinkled areolae, the pale wisps of hair on the abdomen, the coarser strands that trail from Ace's navel, gathering into a thatch between her legs.
Martha flattens her palms against Ace's inner thighs, pushes outward lightly, and drops down to taste the skin here: sweaty, a hint of mineral salts. Here, too, Ace is unscarred, though when Martha sweeps a hand below Ace's knee, lifting it to improve the angle, there's another ridge, another slice of history to explore.
"Banged it on some rocks escaping from Daleks," Ace breathes. "Bloody hell, Jones, just do it already. You're killing me." She strokes Martha's hair. "And here's me thinking I was going to have to do all the work in bed."
"You'll get your chance," Martha says.
Ace shudders beautifully under her tongue, thrashing and moaning at the curl of a finger within her, the licks and swirls Martha makes along her labia. A soft sucking-in of Ace's clit; swift flutters along the edges, deeper pressure from the flat of the tongue. Ace's muscular thighs start to clamp shut, but Martha guides them apart, backs off to gentle flicks, then ramps things up again, seeing how far she can push Ace.
Far. Very far. Ace's frustrated groans only strengthen Martha's resolve to keep teasing her.
She lets her fingers do the work for a while, one set occupied with Ace, the other slipping between her own legs. Sharp, short motions are best in this position, with her body's weight pushing herself into her hand; she finds she's as slick as Ace now, her fingers able to skim back and forth without resistance, and ah, there, that's the spot ...
"Oh no you don't," Ace says, breath ragged, and sits upright just enough to reach Martha's arm, pulling it towards her until Martha's wrist is clasped tight near Ace's mouth. "You promised me my chance." She closes her eyes, envelops Martha's sticky fingers with her mouth, wrapping her tongue over and under and between and all the way around.
For a moment, Martha stops breathing, just concentrates on the electric jolts between her legs. If this is Ace's idea of teasing, then perhaps it's time to let her do what she obviously does very well.
Martha picks up the rhythm she'd found before, the one that makes Ace whimper, makes her thigh muscles quake around Martha's head, and finally, after a few precise, carefully placed swipes, Ace cries out, her cunt pulsing against Martha's tongue.
She clutches so tightly at Martha's hand when she comes that Martha knows there'll be scratches there in the morning, nail-crescents tattooed across her skin as a souvenir. They won't last forever, not like the other scars, but they'll leave a mark all the same.
Time to leave some of her own on Ace, then.
She lies back and runs her fingers through Ace's hair, and lets her get to work.
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