Fic: Ambidextrous (1/1)
Title: Ambidextrous
Rating: R
Pairing: Ten/Rose
Word Count: 2,152
Summary: He wasn’t sure, in the end; but he was grateful, so very grateful that it was her tucked beneath him now, her hand in his, her heart under his own. Spoilers for Doctor Who 4.13 - Journey's End.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: So - here I am, all surger-ed and still drugged with the good stuff, and what is it that I deem most fitting to spend my recovery time pursuing? Ten/Rose fluff, of course. Inspired by a conversation with one of my favorite people - it had to take a backseat as I finished my Janto submission for the Stopwatch Exchange, but now that that’s done with, I figure I can move on to this project ;) Apologies in advance if it’s not entirely coherent - I blame the painkillers.
Ambidextrous
As odd, perhaps as terribly selfish and juvenile as it was; the hardest thing to get used to about being a human was having just the one heart, on the left side of his chest.
In the past, he’d always unconsciously favored his right heart - it had always led the pace, by an interval undetectable by human ears but enough space for a Time Lord to discern; the dual throbbing not only familiar, normal even, but comforting. It was the soft lullaby of his mother, his father, of his entire people; it was a definitive piece of who he was, that double beat singing in his chest, slow and steady and rarely altering, even in the most dire of circumstances - unwavering, like him - reminding him to center himself, urging him to stay the course whenever his emotions would try to best him. His hearts were his compass; at his left, the needle, pointing to the north of his right. Together, they led him to do what was best, to make the sacrifices that were necessary to save lives, to save worlds.
Apart, though; he was just a needle, spinning wild and dizzily out of control.
He didn’t know what to make of it, the way he panted breathlessly as his single, lonely heart raced out of control beneath his ribs, the way it leapt and shook around like mad, the way it strangled him, battered his lungs when he was nervous, when he was anxious, when he exerted himself to uncommon heights. He found himself placing his palm to his chest a great deal, as if to check and make certain that at least the one heart was still in its proper place - it invariably was, but it always seemed too eager, too rambunctious. When he stepped beneath the shower before sunrise, standing beneath the spray just a moment too soon, the cold taking him by surprise, his heart would speed with the shock. When he playfully chased after little Tony, once Jackie had finally deigned to trust him with the task, his pulse would shoot up gradually with each lap they took around the kitchen. When he climbed the stairs too quickly, when he rose out of bed too fast, when he watched some thriller that Pete had brought home from the rental place; blimey, even when he caught the smell of the one food he’d come to enjoy that Jackie wasn’t entirely inept at preparing - vegetable linguine - it never failed, every time, his heartbeat would pick up just that tiny notch, that bit that was all too noticeable for his liking. It was maddening, and it made him nervous - which in turn just fueled his solitary heart to ever greater attempts at breaking the sound barrier.
It was disconcerting, to be sure, and he wanted nothing more than to ask someone, to inquire as to whether it was normal, this constant fluctuation, but he couldn’t gather the nerve to ask the only people who would understand; the only person he knew he could trust. He’d tried, goodness knew - he’d even gone so far as to slip his hand around her just so, with his fingers curled between her cleavage, innocent but placed just over the sweet, subtle beat of her heart, counting in his head the speed, calculating the pauses, but it was a moot point - so close to her, with her small figure pressed tight against him, his own pulse drumming too fast in his ears, through his fingertips, he couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t focus.
And that was the real reason that he couldn’t manage to ask her if this was normal, the fluttering feeling in his chest, the rapidity of it; because that very sensation was never greater, never more profound or terrifying as when he was around her, his beautiful Rose.
Sometimes, when she walked into a room, his whole body felt suddenly warm, his heart in his throat as he matched her smile, as she approached him, straddling him with her legs and sliding his glasses off of his nose. When they kissed, the tingling burn of their lips against one another was coupled desperately with the jump of his pulse beneath, and sometimes he swore that, when they paused, tongues entangled and just tasting one another, she had to be able to feel it, to feel the uncontrollable, unbridled throb of his blood through his veins. He knew she couldn’t miss it when her hand would slide to his chest as he drank her in, as everything in him reached out to her and pulled her close - sometimes, even he could feel the slight shudder, the tiny jump of her the heel of her palm when she wrapped herself around his neck, her hand against his throat. He wanted to be embarrassed of it, ashamed of the foreign reaction, the weakness he exhibited so openly with her, the lack of restraint, but he couldn’t - wouldn’t - it felt too damn good to worry about in the moment, and afterwards, when all he had was the memory, the shadow of the act resonating hard and hot in his mind, on his skin, it was too late for shame, or for regret.
But it was never worse, or perhaps never better, than when they were alone in their bed, sweat-slicked and chests pressed tight together, their naked skin sliding effortlessly as they shifted, sticking only at the joints but going unnoticed as they moved, as he slid into her, as she wrapped her arms around him, nails digging into his shoulder blades as she pushed him deeper, as she moaned when he hit her just right. It was in those moments, those perfect moments of heat and passion and need, those dizzy, hazy instants; they were the most powerful, the ones where he felt trapped, cornered, and utterly consumed by a rhythm, a war march, a gallop throughout his entire body, surging through his arteries and and pulsating freely, spilling over and exploding as he shook, trembled; and when he released into her, thighs slick with the both of them, he felt like he might die in that moment, as if his heart might explode in his chest and take him then and there.
He’d known want before. He’d even thought he’d known love. But never like this. This was intoxicating. This was new. This was beautiful and real and somehow, he felt like this was what a heart was meant for; this is what it was there for in the first place.
His hands fell to her chest as he lost all control of his muscles and settled on top of her in a heap of limbs, burying shaky hands in her damp, stringy hair. His fingers gripped the curves of her breasts, caressing the soft, still tacky skin, thumbing her nipples instinctively, as if memorizing the backs of his own hands, reacquainting himself with something he already knew so intimately. He stopped a moment as he registered her hands dancing along his spine, her breaths fast and uneven against his ear, his right hand pausing in its ministrations for the barest of instants as he felt something; something extraordinary.
His eyes were wide as he studied her face, a blush the shade of her namesake dusted heavy upon her cheeks as she panted, her chest heaving, her breasts trembling, eyelashes splayed downwards and lips turned up as puffs of hurried air passed through the pursed break between them. He leaned forward a bit, pressing more weight onto his right side at his palm, face slack with wonder as he felt it - harsh and stark like a knife, but exquisite, tugging at his soul with every flutter, every beat, a butterfly caught between his hands, a hummingbird under the cup of his fingers.
And with that heart, that gloriously human heart racing perfect and true beneath his touch, just out of time with his own, just that slight bit more frantic, his own calming pulse surged once more in wonder, in delirious hope that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t so alone after all.
“Rose,” he whispered, pushing her hair on a stream of his breath as he stroked her right cheek. “My Rose...”
As their pulses slowed, for a long moment matched in flawless cadence, he knew it was the right moment. He knew it was time to take the heart he had and set it free, surrender it to the most stunning and vulnerable leap of faith.
“Marry me.”
He watched Rose’s eyes open slowly, blink once, focusing on his gaze; the grin that played on her lips widening a bit as she cocked a lethargic eyebrow up at him, the shadows on her bare skin shifting erotically as she whispered back; “Marry you?”
He smiled down at her, his veins throbbing, his blood rushing as he pressed his mouth to hers, kissing her soundly before pulling back, brushing his nose against hers as he spoke hot into her swollen lips. “I love you,” he breathed, the condensation of the words gathering on her flesh. “I always have.”
He stretched with an almost inhuman grace, a flexibility that Rose had seen the numerous benefits of already, reaching to the bedside table next to him, the slide of the drawer echoing in the darkness as he opened and closed it, his weight covering her, warming her again in an instant as he took her hand, pressed it to his chest, and uncurled her fingers to place something in her grasp, nestled secure into the give of her palm.
A round, cool, very distinctively-shaped something.
“Be mine,” he spoke into her shell of her ear, kissing the lobe gently. “Forever.” His heart pumped hard as he awaited a reply, trying to bring to mind if he’d ever really believed this moment would come, when he’d picked up the ring on an impulse a lifetime ago, on some backwater planet known for their mining of the most unique and precious jewels; trying to recall if even as he retrieved it from where he’d hidden it in his own room on the TARDIS, as his counterpart was bidding farewell to Jack and Martha, and Sarah Jane back on Earth, if even then he’d truly believed that this moment, this life-altering step would ever come for him and her, would ever be theirs. He wasn’t sure, in the end, but he was grateful, so very grateful that it was her tucked beneath him now, her hand in his, his ring pressed to the insides of her fingers, her heart under his own.
If he moved just so, aligned his eyes just right, the moonlight glistened in the tears filling her eyes; he could feel her fingers clench around the ring he’d given her, almost protective, her nails buried hard in the soft skin of her chest as she turned her hand, clutching the tiny circle to her, close and safe. “I’d already planned on it,” she murmured, ducking her chin just a bit as the first teardrops fell down her cheeks. “You didn’t have to ask.”
He brushed the tiny droplets from her face, retracing the salty trails with the back of his hand as he gazed into her shining eyes, as he relished her beautiful smile, as he processed the meaning behind the nodding of her head and felt his heart soar to know that she was his, she would always be his. She slowly opened her hand, stretching out her fingers and offering him the ring; he took it tentatively, his chest filled to the brim with hope. Extending her fingers to him, she divided them at the middle and presented him with her left hand, the euphoric sort of sigh that escaped her as he slid the ring past her knuckle melting him blissfully without a word.
He kissed the stone, one that she wouldn’t know the name of, but that he’d tell her in the morning, explain to her its meaning and its significance in the shimmering light of day, and then he kissed her palm as she studied the band with a serene smile, and he felt light, unfettered; like he could take on the world, the universe, even as a mortal man, so long as she was at his side.
And when she kissed him hard, with everything she was, his lone left heart beat out an uncontrollable hymn of celebration, feeling suddenly complete as its twin throbbed hard and fast though bones and skin, but ever so close; his beloved Rose’s heart, humming just as ardently where she she held to him, pressed into the right side of his chest.
Rating: R
Pairing: Ten/Rose
Word Count: 2,152
Summary: He wasn’t sure, in the end; but he was grateful, so very grateful that it was her tucked beneath him now, her hand in his, her heart under his own. Spoilers for Doctor Who 4.13 - Journey's End.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: So - here I am, all surger-ed and still drugged with the good stuff, and what is it that I deem most fitting to spend my recovery time pursuing? Ten/Rose fluff, of course. Inspired by a conversation with one of my favorite people - it had to take a backseat as I finished my Janto submission for the Stopwatch Exchange, but now that that’s done with, I figure I can move on to this project ;) Apologies in advance if it’s not entirely coherent - I blame the painkillers.
Ambidextrous
As odd, perhaps as terribly selfish and juvenile as it was; the hardest thing to get used to about being a human was having just the one heart, on the left side of his chest.
In the past, he’d always unconsciously favored his right heart - it had always led the pace, by an interval undetectable by human ears but enough space for a Time Lord to discern; the dual throbbing not only familiar, normal even, but comforting. It was the soft lullaby of his mother, his father, of his entire people; it was a definitive piece of who he was, that double beat singing in his chest, slow and steady and rarely altering, even in the most dire of circumstances - unwavering, like him - reminding him to center himself, urging him to stay the course whenever his emotions would try to best him. His hearts were his compass; at his left, the needle, pointing to the north of his right. Together, they led him to do what was best, to make the sacrifices that were necessary to save lives, to save worlds.
Apart, though; he was just a needle, spinning wild and dizzily out of control.
He didn’t know what to make of it, the way he panted breathlessly as his single, lonely heart raced out of control beneath his ribs, the way it leapt and shook around like mad, the way it strangled him, battered his lungs when he was nervous, when he was anxious, when he exerted himself to uncommon heights. He found himself placing his palm to his chest a great deal, as if to check and make certain that at least the one heart was still in its proper place - it invariably was, but it always seemed too eager, too rambunctious. When he stepped beneath the shower before sunrise, standing beneath the spray just a moment too soon, the cold taking him by surprise, his heart would speed with the shock. When he playfully chased after little Tony, once Jackie had finally deigned to trust him with the task, his pulse would shoot up gradually with each lap they took around the kitchen. When he climbed the stairs too quickly, when he rose out of bed too fast, when he watched some thriller that Pete had brought home from the rental place; blimey, even when he caught the smell of the one food he’d come to enjoy that Jackie wasn’t entirely inept at preparing - vegetable linguine - it never failed, every time, his heartbeat would pick up just that tiny notch, that bit that was all too noticeable for his liking. It was maddening, and it made him nervous - which in turn just fueled his solitary heart to ever greater attempts at breaking the sound barrier.
It was disconcerting, to be sure, and he wanted nothing more than to ask someone, to inquire as to whether it was normal, this constant fluctuation, but he couldn’t gather the nerve to ask the only people who would understand; the only person he knew he could trust. He’d tried, goodness knew - he’d even gone so far as to slip his hand around her just so, with his fingers curled between her cleavage, innocent but placed just over the sweet, subtle beat of her heart, counting in his head the speed, calculating the pauses, but it was a moot point - so close to her, with her small figure pressed tight against him, his own pulse drumming too fast in his ears, through his fingertips, he couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t focus.
And that was the real reason that he couldn’t manage to ask her if this was normal, the fluttering feeling in his chest, the rapidity of it; because that very sensation was never greater, never more profound or terrifying as when he was around her, his beautiful Rose.
Sometimes, when she walked into a room, his whole body felt suddenly warm, his heart in his throat as he matched her smile, as she approached him, straddling him with her legs and sliding his glasses off of his nose. When they kissed, the tingling burn of their lips against one another was coupled desperately with the jump of his pulse beneath, and sometimes he swore that, when they paused, tongues entangled and just tasting one another, she had to be able to feel it, to feel the uncontrollable, unbridled throb of his blood through his veins. He knew she couldn’t miss it when her hand would slide to his chest as he drank her in, as everything in him reached out to her and pulled her close - sometimes, even he could feel the slight shudder, the tiny jump of her the heel of her palm when she wrapped herself around his neck, her hand against his throat. He wanted to be embarrassed of it, ashamed of the foreign reaction, the weakness he exhibited so openly with her, the lack of restraint, but he couldn’t - wouldn’t - it felt too damn good to worry about in the moment, and afterwards, when all he had was the memory, the shadow of the act resonating hard and hot in his mind, on his skin, it was too late for shame, or for regret.
But it was never worse, or perhaps never better, than when they were alone in their bed, sweat-slicked and chests pressed tight together, their naked skin sliding effortlessly as they shifted, sticking only at the joints but going unnoticed as they moved, as he slid into her, as she wrapped her arms around him, nails digging into his shoulder blades as she pushed him deeper, as she moaned when he hit her just right. It was in those moments, those perfect moments of heat and passion and need, those dizzy, hazy instants; they were the most powerful, the ones where he felt trapped, cornered, and utterly consumed by a rhythm, a war march, a gallop throughout his entire body, surging through his arteries and and pulsating freely, spilling over and exploding as he shook, trembled; and when he released into her, thighs slick with the both of them, he felt like he might die in that moment, as if his heart might explode in his chest and take him then and there.
He’d known want before. He’d even thought he’d known love. But never like this. This was intoxicating. This was new. This was beautiful and real and somehow, he felt like this was what a heart was meant for; this is what it was there for in the first place.
His hands fell to her chest as he lost all control of his muscles and settled on top of her in a heap of limbs, burying shaky hands in her damp, stringy hair. His fingers gripped the curves of her breasts, caressing the soft, still tacky skin, thumbing her nipples instinctively, as if memorizing the backs of his own hands, reacquainting himself with something he already knew so intimately. He stopped a moment as he registered her hands dancing along his spine, her breaths fast and uneven against his ear, his right hand pausing in its ministrations for the barest of instants as he felt something; something extraordinary.
His eyes were wide as he studied her face, a blush the shade of her namesake dusted heavy upon her cheeks as she panted, her chest heaving, her breasts trembling, eyelashes splayed downwards and lips turned up as puffs of hurried air passed through the pursed break between them. He leaned forward a bit, pressing more weight onto his right side at his palm, face slack with wonder as he felt it - harsh and stark like a knife, but exquisite, tugging at his soul with every flutter, every beat, a butterfly caught between his hands, a hummingbird under the cup of his fingers.
And with that heart, that gloriously human heart racing perfect and true beneath his touch, just out of time with his own, just that slight bit more frantic, his own calming pulse surged once more in wonder, in delirious hope that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t so alone after all.
“Rose,” he whispered, pushing her hair on a stream of his breath as he stroked her right cheek. “My Rose...”
As their pulses slowed, for a long moment matched in flawless cadence, he knew it was the right moment. He knew it was time to take the heart he had and set it free, surrender it to the most stunning and vulnerable leap of faith.
“Marry me.”
He watched Rose’s eyes open slowly, blink once, focusing on his gaze; the grin that played on her lips widening a bit as she cocked a lethargic eyebrow up at him, the shadows on her bare skin shifting erotically as she whispered back; “Marry you?”
He smiled down at her, his veins throbbing, his blood rushing as he pressed his mouth to hers, kissing her soundly before pulling back, brushing his nose against hers as he spoke hot into her swollen lips. “I love you,” he breathed, the condensation of the words gathering on her flesh. “I always have.”
He stretched with an almost inhuman grace, a flexibility that Rose had seen the numerous benefits of already, reaching to the bedside table next to him, the slide of the drawer echoing in the darkness as he opened and closed it, his weight covering her, warming her again in an instant as he took her hand, pressed it to his chest, and uncurled her fingers to place something in her grasp, nestled secure into the give of her palm.
A round, cool, very distinctively-shaped something.
“Be mine,” he spoke into her shell of her ear, kissing the lobe gently. “Forever.” His heart pumped hard as he awaited a reply, trying to bring to mind if he’d ever really believed this moment would come, when he’d picked up the ring on an impulse a lifetime ago, on some backwater planet known for their mining of the most unique and precious jewels; trying to recall if even as he retrieved it from where he’d hidden it in his own room on the TARDIS, as his counterpart was bidding farewell to Jack and Martha, and Sarah Jane back on Earth, if even then he’d truly believed that this moment, this life-altering step would ever come for him and her, would ever be theirs. He wasn’t sure, in the end, but he was grateful, so very grateful that it was her tucked beneath him now, her hand in his, his ring pressed to the insides of her fingers, her heart under his own.
If he moved just so, aligned his eyes just right, the moonlight glistened in the tears filling her eyes; he could feel her fingers clench around the ring he’d given her, almost protective, her nails buried hard in the soft skin of her chest as she turned her hand, clutching the tiny circle to her, close and safe. “I’d already planned on it,” she murmured, ducking her chin just a bit as the first teardrops fell down her cheeks. “You didn’t have to ask.”
He brushed the tiny droplets from her face, retracing the salty trails with the back of his hand as he gazed into her shining eyes, as he relished her beautiful smile, as he processed the meaning behind the nodding of her head and felt his heart soar to know that she was his, she would always be his. She slowly opened her hand, stretching out her fingers and offering him the ring; he took it tentatively, his chest filled to the brim with hope. Extending her fingers to him, she divided them at the middle and presented him with her left hand, the euphoric sort of sigh that escaped her as he slid the ring past her knuckle melting him blissfully without a word.
He kissed the stone, one that she wouldn’t know the name of, but that he’d tell her in the morning, explain to her its meaning and its significance in the shimmering light of day, and then he kissed her palm as she studied the band with a serene smile, and he felt light, unfettered; like he could take on the world, the universe, even as a mortal man, so long as she was at his side.
And when she kissed him hard, with everything she was, his lone left heart beat out an uncontrollable hymn of celebration, feeling suddenly complete as its twin throbbed hard and fast though bones and skin, but ever so close; his beloved Rose’s heart, humming just as ardently where she she held to him, pressed into the right side of his chest.