Fic: Warmth (1/1)
Title: Warmth
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ten/Jack/Rose
Word Count: 527
Summary: Minutes seem like hours in his presence - days like moments. For random_nexus, who requested “Jack/Rose/Ten” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Spoilers for Doctor Who 4.13 - Journey’s End.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For random_nexus: By S4, Rose had kind of pissed me off. Thinking about her like this made me remember why I loved her in the first place. Thanks for that :)
Warmth
Minutes seem like hours in his presence - days like moments. There’s not much time, the three of them back together like this; there’s all the time in the world.
It's been forever, even for a lord of time; forever since the heat between them coalesced, the softness of flesh contrasted with the firmness of muscles, the lean stretch of limbs, the gentle swell of breasts above a fluttering pulse, caught between three hearts, two men who once comprised her entire world - who know just where to stroke between her thighs, know her better than she knows herself, whose lips fit perfectly against her mouth, against her neck, against her nipples and her clit, who slide against her with a flawless, aching certainty, a wanton, trembling sense of what she is at her most vulnerable, her most raw; two men who still, somehow, manage to make her feel more alive than anyone else, anywhere else.
For a man who cannot die, he feels reborn, feels himself renewed and slain again and again as small, feminine palms trace the 'v' below his hips, the heel of her hand pressing against the straining hardness of his need, lilting and longing as much as he does, as desperately as forever looms before him; as larger hands, firmer hands, tease behind him, press wet at his cleft, stretch him with a deftness, a quick, careful skill; it's the paradise of the damned, and he revels it, this piece of perfection, bought of blood and tainted by its weight, all the more precious for its price.
Holding time in his hands, against his mind is nothing compared to falling into bed with these two; a paradox of everything he wants and cannot have, of every impossible need he's ever been too afraid to admit, for fear of it crippling him, paralyzing him from within with the loss of it, with its absence. And yet, here they are, sprawled before him like a gift of the universe, a curse; fleeting and ephemeral, but real, solid, hot and thrumming beneath him, twin souls that beat so much harder than his own, that burn so much brighter; both here, now, because of him. What he doesn’t understand, they teach him; what they can never fathom, he shows them with his hands, tracing symbols with meanings, words like centrifugal forces in a centripetal dance. He cherishes the moments, and when the moments climb, build, peak - first himself, for fear of it ending before it begins; and then Rose, because anticipation can only stretch so far before it breaks; and then Jack, who's still not sure its real, who's not sure his weathered will can suffer the blow when it all fades back into dust, a wasted memory he needs to make last until the end of time itself - when they climax and then fall, new moments stretch in their place. New moments filled with panting breaths and dying heat; and there are no words between them, no fears spoken, no hopes divulged. The minutes, now; they fall like snow, like sunbeams. The days, like moments, leave them all behind.
Minutes like hours, they all breathe in time.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ten/Jack/Rose
Word Count: 527
Summary: Minutes seem like hours in his presence - days like moments. For random_nexus, who requested “Jack/Rose/Ten” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Spoilers for Doctor Who 4.13 - Journey’s End.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For random_nexus: By S4, Rose had kind of pissed me off. Thinking about her like this made me remember why I loved her in the first place. Thanks for that :)
Warmth
Minutes seem like hours in his presence - days like moments. There’s not much time, the three of them back together like this; there’s all the time in the world.
It's been forever, even for a lord of time; forever since the heat between them coalesced, the softness of flesh contrasted with the firmness of muscles, the lean stretch of limbs, the gentle swell of breasts above a fluttering pulse, caught between three hearts, two men who once comprised her entire world - who know just where to stroke between her thighs, know her better than she knows herself, whose lips fit perfectly against her mouth, against her neck, against her nipples and her clit, who slide against her with a flawless, aching certainty, a wanton, trembling sense of what she is at her most vulnerable, her most raw; two men who still, somehow, manage to make her feel more alive than anyone else, anywhere else.
For a man who cannot die, he feels reborn, feels himself renewed and slain again and again as small, feminine palms trace the 'v' below his hips, the heel of her hand pressing against the straining hardness of his need, lilting and longing as much as he does, as desperately as forever looms before him; as larger hands, firmer hands, tease behind him, press wet at his cleft, stretch him with a deftness, a quick, careful skill; it's the paradise of the damned, and he revels it, this piece of perfection, bought of blood and tainted by its weight, all the more precious for its price.
Holding time in his hands, against his mind is nothing compared to falling into bed with these two; a paradox of everything he wants and cannot have, of every impossible need he's ever been too afraid to admit, for fear of it crippling him, paralyzing him from within with the loss of it, with its absence. And yet, here they are, sprawled before him like a gift of the universe, a curse; fleeting and ephemeral, but real, solid, hot and thrumming beneath him, twin souls that beat so much harder than his own, that burn so much brighter; both here, now, because of him. What he doesn’t understand, they teach him; what they can never fathom, he shows them with his hands, tracing symbols with meanings, words like centrifugal forces in a centripetal dance. He cherishes the moments, and when the moments climb, build, peak - first himself, for fear of it ending before it begins; and then Rose, because anticipation can only stretch so far before it breaks; and then Jack, who's still not sure its real, who's not sure his weathered will can suffer the blow when it all fades back into dust, a wasted memory he needs to make last until the end of time itself - when they climax and then fall, new moments stretch in their place. New moments filled with panting breaths and dying heat; and there are no words between them, no fears spoken, no hopes divulged. The minutes, now; they fall like snow, like sunbeams. The days, like moments, leave them all behind.
Minutes like hours, they all breathe in time.