Fic: Midnight (1/1)
Title: Midnight
Rating: R
Pairing: Ten/Donna
Word Count: 632
Summary: She’s the only diamond he will ever need. For catvampcrazines’s doctor_donna New Year's Kisses Fic Festival. Spoilers through Doctor Who Series Four.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Mix confetti in Times Square on New Year’s Eve and the fact that it snowed here all morning, and you get this really vague, fairly simple, hopelessly romantic little vignette. Double, no - triple servings of the kind of fluff that feels almost sticky, it’s so sickeningly sweet, and extremely heavy on the description.
I have to thank the brilliant Rabindranath Tagore for the poetic masterpiece that is “Stream of Life,” and also Garry Schyman and Palbasha Siddique for putting it to music in the most fitting and beautiful of ways - both renditions helped immensely in inspiring this itty bitty thing :) Anyway - Happy New Year, all; here’s to a happy, healthy, and blessed 2009!
Midnight
The shower of glitter falls like diamonds - for all she knows, they may be just that - frosting the towers of steel and glass that crop up all around, mirroring the facets of the falling specks and setting a sparkling stage more beautiful than anything she’s ever seen before.
The wind billows around the sugar-fine powder in a cyclone; she tilts her head back with a shiver, wrapping pale palms around her freckle-dusted arms, following her breath as it condenses and spirals upward to meet the delicate waterfall of shimmering, disjointed light as it comes to rest upon her eyelashes, her naked shoulders.
He watches her through the windowpane, his chest bare - warm despite the cool outside - and heaving, his hearts thrumming steady but hard - heavy. Leaning casually against the doorframe, he’s found the perfect vantage point, where he can see the glimmer of her eyes, their natural dampness glistening in the moonlight, unique from the general splendor falling from the heavens - she’s the only diamond he will ever need.
She breathes deeply, the dark stains of her nipples pert and visible beneath the soft silk of her dressing gown, the fabric rustling and shifting with the rise of her chest, parting to fall between her cleavage; he watches her close her eyes and spread her arms, the stark white of her skin pearlescent, ethereal, the way her breasts tremble entrancing; she’s a succubus, she’s an angel - he can’t hear anything but his humming pulse as he watches her twirl once, twice, her bare feet tracing innocent patterns in the soft layer of crystalline flecks, the bed of satin under her toes that has gathered over the course of the maelstrom; and suddenly, he can’t hear anything at all.
He’s next to her quicker than he knows - every instant without her in his arms stretching into separate shards of eternity - and she turns to him as the door whisks shut, her eyes alight. So close to him now, the evening chill is nothing. He runs willing, pliant hands along the curves of her arms, her hips, molding to her obediently, desperately - she is everything, all things; from her alone, he could rebuild the world.
She smiles gently up at him, the fire of her hair subdued but not extinguished as it cascades around the succulent cream of her flesh, covered lightly with the sparkles falling like snow. She exhales, her lips parting, and his own breath catches; he will never know how he managed to live without her. He leans down without ceremony, needy and too taken for any gesture grander than to simply press his lips to hers, than just to run the tip of his tongue along the length of hers and drink her in.
She tastes electric, and the sparks against his taste buds burn with the echoes of champagne and chocolate gâteaux, the subtle oil from the salmon he’d fed her from his fingers, the two of them stretched nude atop the duvet, the salty hint of the sweat daubing her lips clinging to his fingertips long after she’d licked the sampling away. She presses impatiently, passionately against his shoulder blades so that they’re skin to skin, every stolen breath between them knocking their chests together - heart against heart as they deepen the kiss - and he’s never known life to be this simple before, to be this positively profound. Her lips massage his own, and he moans first - a concession he’s willing to allow so long as he never has to part with the perfection of her touch, her scent, her presence. Her very being.
There were no clocks, no way to tell the hour to be struck, but it didn’t matter, really - bathed in sparkling crystal, aglow with its luminance, it had to be midnight somewhere.
Rating: R
Pairing: Ten/Donna
Word Count: 632
Summary: She’s the only diamond he will ever need. For catvampcrazines’s doctor_donna New Year's Kisses Fic Festival. Spoilers through Doctor Who Series Four.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Mix confetti in Times Square on New Year’s Eve and the fact that it snowed here all morning, and you get this really vague, fairly simple, hopelessly romantic little vignette. Double, no - triple servings of the kind of fluff that feels almost sticky, it’s so sickeningly sweet, and extremely heavy on the description.
I have to thank the brilliant Rabindranath Tagore for the poetic masterpiece that is “Stream of Life,” and also Garry Schyman and Palbasha Siddique for putting it to music in the most fitting and beautiful of ways - both renditions helped immensely in inspiring this itty bitty thing :) Anyway - Happy New Year, all; here’s to a happy, healthy, and blessed 2009!
Midnight
The shower of glitter falls like diamonds - for all she knows, they may be just that - frosting the towers of steel and glass that crop up all around, mirroring the facets of the falling specks and setting a sparkling stage more beautiful than anything she’s ever seen before.
The wind billows around the sugar-fine powder in a cyclone; she tilts her head back with a shiver, wrapping pale palms around her freckle-dusted arms, following her breath as it condenses and spirals upward to meet the delicate waterfall of shimmering, disjointed light as it comes to rest upon her eyelashes, her naked shoulders.
He watches her through the windowpane, his chest bare - warm despite the cool outside - and heaving, his hearts thrumming steady but hard - heavy. Leaning casually against the doorframe, he’s found the perfect vantage point, where he can see the glimmer of her eyes, their natural dampness glistening in the moonlight, unique from the general splendor falling from the heavens - she’s the only diamond he will ever need.
She breathes deeply, the dark stains of her nipples pert and visible beneath the soft silk of her dressing gown, the fabric rustling and shifting with the rise of her chest, parting to fall between her cleavage; he watches her close her eyes and spread her arms, the stark white of her skin pearlescent, ethereal, the way her breasts tremble entrancing; she’s a succubus, she’s an angel - he can’t hear anything but his humming pulse as he watches her twirl once, twice, her bare feet tracing innocent patterns in the soft layer of crystalline flecks, the bed of satin under her toes that has gathered over the course of the maelstrom; and suddenly, he can’t hear anything at all.
He’s next to her quicker than he knows - every instant without her in his arms stretching into separate shards of eternity - and she turns to him as the door whisks shut, her eyes alight. So close to him now, the evening chill is nothing. He runs willing, pliant hands along the curves of her arms, her hips, molding to her obediently, desperately - she is everything, all things; from her alone, he could rebuild the world.
She smiles gently up at him, the fire of her hair subdued but not extinguished as it cascades around the succulent cream of her flesh, covered lightly with the sparkles falling like snow. She exhales, her lips parting, and his own breath catches; he will never know how he managed to live without her. He leans down without ceremony, needy and too taken for any gesture grander than to simply press his lips to hers, than just to run the tip of his tongue along the length of hers and drink her in.
She tastes electric, and the sparks against his taste buds burn with the echoes of champagne and chocolate gâteaux, the subtle oil from the salmon he’d fed her from his fingers, the two of them stretched nude atop the duvet, the salty hint of the sweat daubing her lips clinging to his fingertips long after she’d licked the sampling away. She presses impatiently, passionately against his shoulder blades so that they’re skin to skin, every stolen breath between them knocking their chests together - heart against heart as they deepen the kiss - and he’s never known life to be this simple before, to be this positively profound. Her lips massage his own, and he moans first - a concession he’s willing to allow so long as he never has to part with the perfection of her touch, her scent, her presence. Her very being.
There were no clocks, no way to tell the hour to be struck, but it didn’t matter, really - bathed in sparkling crystal, aglow with its luminance, it had to be midnight somewhere.