who fic: "All about Her" (R, Ten/Rose)
title: All About Her
author: fannishliss
spoilers: none (this is speculation)
rating: hard R (classy porn!)
length: 662 words
disclaimer: The BBC owns these characters, and I'm not profiting off them.
Summary: redcirce prompted at the doctor_rose_fix summer fixathon: "Ten/Rose, any rating, no angst-- The Doctor is indeed asexual, AND him and Rose have a sexual relationship." Right down my alley apparently! :D
The Doctor doesn’t sleep much, but Rose likes it when he comes to bed with her -- especially after one of their more harrowing adventures.
Straightaway after getting back to the Tardis, she’ll head off to the baths while he goes to the galley. This body loves fruit, all fruit, all combinations of fruit (except for loathsome, horrid pears), and sometimes he’ll make up a little fruit snack, maybe wine and cheese and crackers if the food’s been rough, and carry that to the bedroom. And chocolate of course -- the Doctor’s fairly immune to the mind-altering effects of chocolate, but not Rose, and he loves to watch her moan in pleasure at the dark, bitter-sweet taste.
They’ll meet up in her bedroom, which the Tardis has conveniently taken joining up with his, and she’ll be all warm and moist in her fluffy bathrobe, and he’ll ply her with tasty tidbits and relaxing conversation until the stresses of their adventures have simply fallen away.
Her eyelids will begin to droop. She’ll stifle a yawn behind her hand.
This evening, the tray of goodies is forgotten; she’s drained the glass of wine.
She pulls him down beside her on the bed. Her robe is on the floor in a slightly damp heap he’ll tend to later.
She turns her back to him and cuddles back against him. She likes to feel skin against skin, so he’s thrown off his clothes, he’ll get them later too.
She was so shocked the first time, when she saw the place between his legs where human males hang their genitals. He remembers in his first body, the genitals he’d had when he was new, twinging from their hiding places inside him now and then. But after his first regeneration, he’d felt nothing from them.
She’d had such a look of pity, even horror, till he soothed her with his touches and she forgot she’d ever considered him in any way lacking.
Now, he smells a hint of arousal and strokes her side tenderly. She gathers up his hand and brings it around.
He dips his fingers lightly into her curls. The smell of her wafts into the air, bringing a smile to his lips, and he taunts her, keeping his touches light until she thrusts her hips against him. She’s wet now, ready and eager.
He lays her back on the bed. Every time he’s astonished at her beauty -- the perfection of her skin, her healthy glow, the resonance of her life within time -- she plays havok on his senses. Beyond that, he loves her, and he loves anything that gives her pleasure.
He is hers, and it’s nothing less than a miracle he intends to celebrate whenever he can.
He kisses her breasts, suckling them. She’s so sensitive, the nerve impulses his suckling sends zinging through her body are a symphony fascinating in their complexity.
His fingers find her entrance and slip inside, as he caresses her lightly with his thumb. Her hips jump; she seems a bit tender this evening, so he slides down.
He loves this -- burrowing into her pleasure, her nerves firing excitedly all around him, the smell and taste of her excitement coursing through him. Maybe this is what he’s missing with the chocolate -- though, he doubts it. Chocolate doesn’t call his name in such hoarse cries!
The Doctor loves to impress, and he loves to excel. He has catalogued Rose’s every reaction, can extrapolate her responses from a thousand different stimulations, and he puts his skill to good use.
Her heartbeat, her breathing, her ecstatic cries -- she is music to his ears. He plays her excellently, building to a crescendo and then, triumphantly, he pushes her over the brink.
“Oh, Doctor,” is all she can say, humming contentedly.
He curls up behind her, holding her till she falls asleep. He rests awhile, then goes on about his evening, a spring in his step and happy thoughts beguiling the pathways of his mind.
author: fannishliss
spoilers: none (this is speculation)
rating: hard R (classy porn!)
length: 662 words
disclaimer: The BBC owns these characters, and I'm not profiting off them.
Summary: redcirce prompted at the doctor_rose_fix summer fixathon: "Ten/Rose, any rating, no angst-- The Doctor is indeed asexual, AND him and Rose have a sexual relationship." Right down my alley apparently! :D
The Doctor doesn’t sleep much, but Rose likes it when he comes to bed with her -- especially after one of their more harrowing adventures.
Straightaway after getting back to the Tardis, she’ll head off to the baths while he goes to the galley. This body loves fruit, all fruit, all combinations of fruit (except for loathsome, horrid pears), and sometimes he’ll make up a little fruit snack, maybe wine and cheese and crackers if the food’s been rough, and carry that to the bedroom. And chocolate of course -- the Doctor’s fairly immune to the mind-altering effects of chocolate, but not Rose, and he loves to watch her moan in pleasure at the dark, bitter-sweet taste.
They’ll meet up in her bedroom, which the Tardis has conveniently taken joining up with his, and she’ll be all warm and moist in her fluffy bathrobe, and he’ll ply her with tasty tidbits and relaxing conversation until the stresses of their adventures have simply fallen away.
Her eyelids will begin to droop. She’ll stifle a yawn behind her hand.
This evening, the tray of goodies is forgotten; she’s drained the glass of wine.
She pulls him down beside her on the bed. Her robe is on the floor in a slightly damp heap he’ll tend to later.
She turns her back to him and cuddles back against him. She likes to feel skin against skin, so he’s thrown off his clothes, he’ll get them later too.
She was so shocked the first time, when she saw the place between his legs where human males hang their genitals. He remembers in his first body, the genitals he’d had when he was new, twinging from their hiding places inside him now and then. But after his first regeneration, he’d felt nothing from them.
She’d had such a look of pity, even horror, till he soothed her with his touches and she forgot she’d ever considered him in any way lacking.
Now, he smells a hint of arousal and strokes her side tenderly. She gathers up his hand and brings it around.
He dips his fingers lightly into her curls. The smell of her wafts into the air, bringing a smile to his lips, and he taunts her, keeping his touches light until she thrusts her hips against him. She’s wet now, ready and eager.
He lays her back on the bed. Every time he’s astonished at her beauty -- the perfection of her skin, her healthy glow, the resonance of her life within time -- she plays havok on his senses. Beyond that, he loves her, and he loves anything that gives her pleasure.
He is hers, and it’s nothing less than a miracle he intends to celebrate whenever he can.
He kisses her breasts, suckling them. She’s so sensitive, the nerve impulses his suckling sends zinging through her body are a symphony fascinating in their complexity.
His fingers find her entrance and slip inside, as he caresses her lightly with his thumb. Her hips jump; she seems a bit tender this evening, so he slides down.
He loves this -- burrowing into her pleasure, her nerves firing excitedly all around him, the smell and taste of her excitement coursing through him. Maybe this is what he’s missing with the chocolate -- though, he doubts it. Chocolate doesn’t call his name in such hoarse cries!
The Doctor loves to impress, and he loves to excel. He has catalogued Rose’s every reaction, can extrapolate her responses from a thousand different stimulations, and he puts his skill to good use.
Her heartbeat, her breathing, her ecstatic cries -- she is music to his ears. He plays her excellently, building to a crescendo and then, triumphantly, he pushes her over the brink.
“Oh, Doctor,” is all she can say, humming contentedly.
He curls up behind her, holding her till she falls asleep. He rests awhile, then goes on about his evening, a spring in his step and happy thoughts beguiling the pathways of his mind.