Story Notes:
All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Sister Winter
She fingers the pink silk of her shift, the soft fabric feeling perverse against her skin. Outside of her window the sky is thick with the smoke of the burning earth but in her gilded cage all is comfort and pleasure. She recalls the sight of her mother chained and dressed like a maid. Of Jack's naked and bloodied body chained to a wall. Of the Doctor white haired with paper thin skin made to drink from a dog dish. Of her sister’s tear streaked face before she disappeared. The silk burns her skin.
She curls her fingers tightly around the hem trying and failing to rip it in two. She curses. She is powerless in this too. Her eyes fall on his latest gift: a vase of a dozen red roses. Tish stumbles towards it, her slippers moving soundlessly over the plush carpet. The crystal is cold and heavy in her hands, the roses soft and sweet. She draws her arm back and hurls the vase at the door of her cell. The crystal shatters and the flowers break.
The door slides open and he is there. His blue eyes flick towards the devastation on the rug before resting on her.
"See, that is why we cannot have good things, love," he purrs as he enters the room.
She turns away determined not to give him the pleasure of a response. She can hear the whisper of clothing being shed as he approaches. She shuts her eyes and steels herself. She will be strong. He will not win again.
Cool hands grasp her arms, the fingers caressing her skin as they slowly move up towards her shoulders. Soft lips place wet kisses along her neck. She shudders and tilts her head.
“Ah, sweet Tish,” he breathes against the back of her neck as his fingers slip the thin straps of her negligee off her shoulders. “Why must you tease me so?”
“I hate you,” she replies, ashamed of the tremor in her voice.
“ I know,” he smiles against the skin of her shoulder as his hands push her negligee to the ground. “Yet you burn for me.”
She wants to call him a liar, but his cool fingers have already proven him right.
She is still surprised by how gentle he is, this man who had killed billions and laughed, this alien that moves within her with such skill. She cannot help but follow him in this dance, her hips moving with his, her hands clasped above her head, his name slipping from her mouth. She knows he is close when he presses his lips to her ear and chants “mine.” She draws strength from this desperate admission. She arches and sighs her assent.
“My Persephone,” he whispers into her hair as he curls his lithe body around hers. “You may yet tame the devil.”
She stares out the window at the darkening sky. No. Persephone hoped for spring.