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Oceanside
Doctor Who
Nine/OFC
625 words
February 2009
Adult content: explicit sex
Note: for the prompt "Nine/mermaid"
Summary: He wakes, to the barely-heard ticking of his watch where it lies, close-faced, on the sill of his window. He'd found it one morning in the frothy spume, the same morning he'd found her.






One rough hand on the sunwashed driftwood threshold of his home, watching the water; the other on his stiffened prick, furling skin over the sore red and swollen crown, unfurling, to the sound of the sea. She'll come, but on her own time, damn her, and he can't wait. Aching to part her slippery cunt and fill her until she spills out around him, flooding their bellies and thighs with slick, fragrant white.

He cries out, startling gulls on the roof, and fills his hand. His eyes on the empty shore.

Immediately his prick goes soft, he aches for her again, and is pressing half-hard in his trousers and half-mad with it as he works all the rest of the day: laying up rope, mending nets, taking the boat out to gather traps, hunting firewood. And then it's sundown, and she still hasn't come, and he heats his meal over fire in the dark of his little house. And then he sleeps.

And then he dreams. Mad, chaotic dreams of storms and fire. Seeking in a maelstrom of numbers and losing threads, losing people, losing time. He dies, a thousand times, and is reborn again.

He wakes, to the barely-heard ticking of his watch where it lies, close-faced, on the sill of his window. He'd found it one morning in the frothy spume, the same morning he'd found her. The closed metal eye stuck sleeping, the uncanny ticking though he never winds it. He accepts this, in the way he accepts his life here, and the gray cloud that swallows his memory of what came before.

He wakes, to find her in his doorway, dripping wet and naked, the seawater in her hair turning it to tangles and tendrils. He rubs his balls and prick beneath the blanket and eager, jutters a thread of slick onto the back of his hand. He shoves blanket aside and raises knees, making a seat for her.

Raises a shaking hand to frame her. Lips and hair, cunt and tits the color of a knifecut, the color of wet coral and darting halfseen things. Plump in breast and belly and thigh, nipples like pebbles and she hisses when he sucks her, open-mouthed. Bites and worries the fleshy bead as if she'd give up more than a moan.

She straddles his prick, keeping just out of reach. Dipping down to rub the tip of him with her lips, her hole; pulling away when he tries to thrust up inside of her. A murky string of slick connecting them, mingled want.

"Fuck you," he says, and it's not a curse, it's a plea. Let me, let me, stay stay stay. She impales herself on him, then, swallowing him whole.

**

There are things that remain:

The smell of her cunt. It stays on his fingers and his beard, keeping him warm with the memory of fucking her; until the work and salt wind wear it away, and there is only sweat, and fine pale sand.

Her hair on his pillow, oddly domestic. He would shake her free, preferring her to remain a dream, cyclical and wild like the tide, and not a woman who leaves behind stiff orange curls crusted in his spunk. He can't bring himself to do so, and lies at night with the proof of her realness tangled in the hair of his legs, trapped between his fingers, pressed to his cheek. Taming her in sleep as he will not awake.

Him. He remains. Waiting for her. He accepts this the way he accepts the sea, the moons rising and falling back, the way he accepts time. He'll wait, and wait for her forever, if need be.