Three men that kissed Martha Jones

He doesn’t regret the kiss until she’s gone.

Having lived as long as he has, it’s not the first kiss he’s been party to, nor will it be the last. It wasn’t the most exciting. That honor belongs to a crimson skinned Phoínix huntress, whose amorous advances caused his own skin to quite literally burn for days. Nor did it repulse him in any way. She left no trace of mucus behind—green or otherwise. Technically it wasn’t a kiss at all in the sense of expressing some sort of affection on his part or hers, because they’d only met and while the conversation had been far more pleasing than he expected, it was severely limited as well, with all the running and hiding that was necessary at the time.

No, it was a genetic transfer, nothing more. An idea that hit him slightly later than he would have liked, but overall quite effective in hindsight, allowing himself time to pursue an increasingly lethal Plasmovore, while the Judoon were busy scanning human lips for traces of alien DNA. Martha’s lips. His DNA.

It was a fairly brilliant idea actually.

As is she. Brilliant, that is.

Which is why upon watching her go, he reflects that perhaps though brilliant, the strategy was slightly misguided. Questions if it could have been altered some way. He could have cut his hand or licked her fingers, which would have been fairly distasteful for both of them, but perhaps wreaked less havoc in the long run. She’d already considered him odd—most did upon meeting him—so would it have mattered if he came off even more eccentric than he already seemed. Knowing her as well as he does now he’s sure it probably wouldn’t have changed much, that she’d still have come to his rescue, because that’s who she was—and still is. But perhaps—and he can’t help himself from thinking of five, maybe ten different sorts of perhaps, because she’s gone now. And he doesn’t stop her because he knows that it’s right, her leaving, that staying would only make the sadness in her eyes grow stronger.

Make her beautiful smile the faintest of memories.

He doesn’t want that anymore than she does, so he lets her go. And wonders if he’d had a different plan—if he’d actually had taken those slim fingers in his mouth—if it would have truly changed things between them. Made her love him any less.

If he’ll miss that too. Her loving him.

Perhaps he already does.

But he resents the kiss because it was their first. The easiest to explain away, write off as a flash of light between them. But a second lingers. Makes promises he’ll never be able to keep, so he only holds her. Remembers how she felt against him long after she’s walked away.

He shouldn’t have kissed her then because he didn’t want it enough. Now he wants it too much. Wants her to come back to him.

He doesn’t regret the kiss.

Not until she’s gone.

He wants to kiss her the first day they meet.

Hell, she’s practically on top of him at the time. But he’s just traveled about a trillion years into the future hitched the outside of the TARDIS and can barely give her a proper wink, let alone some of his patented tongue action. So he settles for little flirting and the occasional stray hand on her hip, something he notices she doesn’t exactly pull away from. He makes a mental bookmark to revisit that detail at a later time, when the end of his world wasn’t such an imminent threat.

Then he realizes there’s always an imminent threat.

That he’ll always be Torchwood, and she’ll always be The Doctor’s. And that kinda pisses him off, though he’s not sure exactly who he resents more because of it. So he leaves them both behind, still smiling of course, because that’s what he does. And he misses them at times, The Doctor and Martha. But mostly Martha and that sweet smile of hers.

Wonders what it would take to make her his instead.

He thinks of it again the night she kisses him. He considers pulling away. Then bringing her closer. Brushing it off or asking for more. But she’s gone before his mind can slow; settle on the right course of action. He can only listen in silence as she explains away the impulse.

He says goodbye. Hoping she’ll come back eventually. Maybe when the world’s not ending quite so soon.

And give him a chance to satisfy a few impulses of his own.

It’s always different between them. And yet it always feels the same.

Or maybe it’s just her that’s different, unsure that this is what she wants. That he’s what she wants.

But there are moments. Flashes, when she knows how much she means to him. That he’ll give her everything if she’ll only ask. But Martha never takes more than she’s willing to give.

And all he wants is for her to be with him.

He grasps her hips.

Presses his lips against hers and needs her to love him.

She gasps.

Clenches her thighs against him and swears its forever.

That she’ll never leave—doesn’t want to leave him and he believes her. In that moment, while she writhes above him in the dim bedroom light, she loves him more than anything. Or anyone.

But her kiss is always sad afterwards, fleeting before she falls asleep in his arms.

It feels final.

Almost like she’s saying goodbye.

He spends an entire year fucking a woman he despises.

When he should be fucking Lucy. Doe eyed, malleable, devoted Lucy, who lifts her ass at his constant beck and call. She’s the perfect woman really. Simple enough not to question his actions, yet aware enough to follow each and every instruction. She’ll kill for him just as quickly as she’ll suck his cock and that dear friends is arguably the perfect woman. She’s obviously perfect for him.

Yet he doesn’t want her.

Her skin is too pale, her eyes too blue. She’s pliable where he wants resistance. Agreeable where he wants fight. He’s spent his entire life fighting, hating so much, everything he touches and now he craves it. He craves anger and violence. The rush that comes with destroying something worthy—perhaps equal to himself.

She hates him, that Martha Jones, more than anyone has in centuries. Certainly more than The Doctor, which disappoints him greatly. Takes a bit of fun out of getting the best of that one.

But she’s still out there. Fighting him. He can feel her resistance to what most see as inevitable. That he’ll win. Have this world—have her. He will have her. Be her Master.

Take her on her knees.

He doesn’t bother open his eyes with Lucy, because it’s never her. It’s brown tight nipples. Dark short curls between smoothly curved thighs. Its full dusky lips and tangled black hair. He’ll tie her up because she resents him, hates him. Her eyes will burn with it and he’ll fuck her then, with her cursing him. Fighting and yet drawing him deeper, begging for more. He makes Lucy scream, shout at him, but it’s not the same. It’s not how he imagines, so he gags her instead, the muffled shouts an inadequate substitute for the real thing. What he truly wants.

He’ll kiss her. Sweetly. As a lover would do and she’d hate him for it.

But she’ll call him Master.

God, he’ll make certain of that.

She’s been there. She’s felt the heat of an exploding sun against her skin. She’s seen the end the universe, flew back and forth through time and space.

She’s walked with heroes. She’s been one herself.

They called her a legend, a prophetess. Occasionally a savoir and she was none of those things. And yet, for a moment—a single year, she was. She became what they needed, whatever they wanted her to be to give them hope. Hope that they’d all be saved, return to the life that they’d always taken for granted.

That she’d taken for granted. And she does miss it sometimes.

The sudden rush of fear before she takes his hand.

That flirty wink and smile that comes with being his nightingale.

Feeling safe. Loving someone who finally loves her back.

Being feared. Hated because she’s stronger than he ever thought possible.

But most of all she misses being up there. Some days a bit more than others.

But always when the stars come out.

The End