Sailing, With Lime
Written for challenge 74 at then_theres_us.
There are places he's never been. Simorghia, the planet of the crimson-winged ravens. That one Dave Matthews concert in New York he'd always been meaning to attend.
Marigot Bay, St. Lucia, in spring. With margaritas and Rose-flavored kisses. And salsa dancing with Rose. And sex on the beach with Rose. Lots of sex on the beach with Rose. Well, lots of sex everywhere with Rose. He'd like to have sex with Rose in the little blue boat they're renting for the week, but she won't step near it.
"Never been a fan of sailing," she's always saying whenever he mentions it. And when he tells her that he doesn't feel like sailing but rather sailing, she rolls her eyes and reminds him that they can sail wherever they like, and it doesn't have to involve that creaky old thing rotting in the harbor. That's usually when he ravishes her on the bed or the counter top or against the wall or really, anywhere.
The Doctor's not all that picky when it comes to sex with Rose Tyler.
On one particularly clear-skied afternoon, they're lying on the beach, the hot white sand scorching against their thoroughly sunscreen'd but wholly English skin. (Later, when he should be applying aloe vera to her burnt shoulders, he licks the sun off of the flushed skin instead.)
The bright trilling of soca grinds through the dry air blend with his lover's soft breaths in his ear as lime and tequila still burns his tongue from their languid (and let's face it, properly drunk) kisses after lunch. But he's still him, so he lets her sleep for a good twenty minutes before gently prodding her bare stomach and whispering her name a bit too insistently.
"Rose, wake up, we can sleep tonight," he murmurs when she blindly swats at him. A hazel eye opens, clear skepticism breaking through the bleary fog.
"Not if your human biology has anythin' to say about it," Rose slurs into his chest. He snorts.
"I don't remember you complaining too much."
Her eye shuts again, and she nestles back into him. "You won't find me complainin' if you just let me rest my eyes for a mo', Doctor."
He runs a lazy hand through her windswept hair and presses his lips to her forehead. "Here we are, on this glorious island, teeming with passion and life and dancing, and you want to sleep." Sliding his tongue across the shell of her ear, he smirks. "Guess I wore you out last night."
"You wish, old man."
"Then you can't be too tired to embark on one harmless adventure with your loving and, dare I say, handsome husband, right?"
Her eyes fly open (and immediately fall into a glare) as she sits up. "Fine, you win! We'll go sailing."
He squeals excitedly, jumping up from the sand and wrapping his arm around his wife's waist before pointing to their little blue boat bobbing delightfully in Marigot Bay's small harbor. "It's not so bad, Rose. The water's calm, and I've checked the boat. It's safe."
The scowl melts into a smile. "And you'll be there," she begins with a sigh. "Gotta face my fears sometime, yeah?"
"There's my brave girl. Allons-y, Rose Tyler!" he exclaims as her hand slides into his.
Rolling her eyes, she brushes her pinky over his wedding ring.
"Allons-y, my Doctor."
There are places he's never been. Simorghia, the planet of the crimson-winged ravens. That one Dave Matthews concert in New York he'd always been meaning to attend.
Marigot Bay, St. Lucia, in spring. With margaritas and Rose-flavored kisses. And salsa dancing with Rose. And sex on the beach with Rose. Lots of sex on the beach with Rose. Well, lots of sex everywhere with Rose. He'd like to have sex with Rose in the little blue boat they're renting for the week, but she won't step near it.
"Never been a fan of sailing," she's always saying whenever he mentions it. And when he tells her that he doesn't feel like sailing but rather sailing, she rolls her eyes and reminds him that they can sail wherever they like, and it doesn't have to involve that creaky old thing rotting in the harbor. That's usually when he ravishes her on the bed or the counter top or against the wall or really, anywhere.
The Doctor's not all that picky when it comes to sex with Rose Tyler.
On one particularly clear-skied afternoon, they're lying on the beach, the hot white sand scorching against their thoroughly sunscreen'd but wholly English skin. (Later, when he should be applying aloe vera to her burnt shoulders, he licks the sun off of the flushed skin instead.)
The bright trilling of soca grinds through the dry air blend with his lover's soft breaths in his ear as lime and tequila still burns his tongue from their languid (and let's face it, properly drunk) kisses after lunch. But he's still him, so he lets her sleep for a good twenty minutes before gently prodding her bare stomach and whispering her name a bit too insistently.
"Rose, wake up, we can sleep tonight," he murmurs when she blindly swats at him. A hazel eye opens, clear skepticism breaking through the bleary fog.
"Not if your human biology has anythin' to say about it," Rose slurs into his chest. He snorts.
"I don't remember you complaining too much."
Her eye shuts again, and she nestles back into him. "You won't find me complainin' if you just let me rest my eyes for a mo', Doctor."
He runs a lazy hand through her windswept hair and presses his lips to her forehead. "Here we are, on this glorious island, teeming with passion and life and dancing, and you want to sleep." Sliding his tongue across the shell of her ear, he smirks. "Guess I wore you out last night."
"You wish, old man."
"Then you can't be too tired to embark on one harmless adventure with your loving and, dare I say, handsome husband, right?"
Her eyes fly open (and immediately fall into a glare) as she sits up. "Fine, you win! We'll go sailing."
He squeals excitedly, jumping up from the sand and wrapping his arm around his wife's waist before pointing to their little blue boat bobbing delightfully in Marigot Bay's small harbor. "It's not so bad, Rose. The water's calm, and I've checked the boat. It's safe."
The scowl melts into a smile. "And you'll be there," she begins with a sigh. "Gotta face my fears sometime, yeah?"
"There's my brave girl. Allons-y, Rose Tyler!" he exclaims as her hand slides into his.
Rolling her eyes, she brushes her pinky over his wedding ring.
"Allons-y, my Doctor."