{DW} In Absentia
Title: In Absentia
Rating: Eh, vaguely adult?
Characters: Rose/Ten
Genre: Angsty
Warnings: Vague spoilers for 2.13 Doomsday
Word Count: 858
Summary: "It is some sort of gravity, he thinks, that pulls him to her this way, all ways, and while he's all for denying impossibility, sometimes inevitability comes first and he doesn't have the strength to deny this."
Author's Note: I'm actually vaguely embarrassed about posting this since this is very different for me, and definitely the most adult thing I've ever written, and I can't actually say that I know what I'm talking about on that aspect of it. At any rate, it was inspired by a quote from one of the challenges over at then_theres_us and also by Armistice by leda13, which is Kara/Lee and not Rose/Ten but which is very well written and very inspiring, especially when coupled with the quote prompt.
In Absentia
"i would like to make
love to you a hundred times with the shuddering knowledge
of you, with your frozen smile and untraceable fingertips."
They speak without words in the near-silence of his room, all fingers and palms and lips and tongues and their sweat mingling on his pillow. She is golden and glowing above him, skin sparkling and slick as she sits, pulls her hair back with one hand to look at him, grin wicked and dancing and he thinks he can almost see I love you written in her irises, blown wide like black holes. It is some sort of gravity, he thinks, that pulls him to her this way, all ways, and while he's all for denying impossibility, sometimes inevitability comes first and he doesn't have the strength to deny this.
His arms wrap around her waist and he uses her to pull himself up, pull closer, until they're pressed against each other, soft curves and hard planes and his mouth on hers and everything so perfect he thinks he might weep from the beauty of it all. He's the one with his arms wrapped around her like steel bars, but it's her lips on his that are hard and demanding, expecting the surrender he so willingly gives. When she tangles her fingers in his hair, pulling just enough on the back of his neck, he gasps, and she takes it as an invitation to explore him deeper.
He wonders if she can taste his soul on her lips, the agelessness and timelessness and the sheer fragility of him that he's tried so hard to keep buried inside. The way she presses closer, hands relinquishing their hold to slide down until she is cupping his face in her hands, tells him that she probably knows more about how to break him than he does himself. But when she pulls back slightly, there is a look in her eyes like cotton padding around porcelain, and he wonders when she learned to hold him so securely.
When he turns them, lowering her until her back presses against his mattress it is thank you, twining their fingers together on the pillows and capturing her lips again because he has no words to tell her how completely beautiful she is.
He is used to talking all the time, and this way of speaking with his body is new, but he is finding ways to say things things he cannot say out loud, and somehow he thinks she'll understand them better this way. His fingers trace possession down her spine and his palms map his love for her across her ribs. His mouth moves over hers, tongue sliding against hers in time with his hips, questioning, demanding; her gasps and soft breathy moans are answer enough, but in case he is unsure there is something in the way her fingers scrabble at his shoulders, her nails digging and dragging down his back, that feels like the music of forever.
It is like standing at the edge of a cliff and looking over the edge, waiting for just the right moment to fall. He can feel it all through his skin, like the moment when they're flying, the moment before they come out of the vortex and time seems to stand still, an eternity caught up in a single moment. His breath is coming in shudders, and it seems so much easier to focus on her breath whispering across his lips. He realises he is speaking, her name falling from his lips like raindrops, over and over, like a littany, like a prayer. Beneath him, she opens her eyes and catches his, his name whispered just once and it is like a supernova, all brilliancy and colour and light, and he feels her lips on his like fire as they fall into oblivion.
When the stars clear behind his eyelids, he keeps them closed against the silence and the chill which comes from the space beside him, so much more apparent in its emptiness. The outline of her shape is left only in the air, like dust motes swirling through sunbeams, or the imprint of the sun on closed eyelids left staring at the sky too long. He can still feel her hands on his heaving chest like a shadow, can feel where her nails would have cut lines down his back that he would have worn with pride. He catches gold at the corner of his eye and blinks. There will be tear-stains on his pillows in the morning.
There is a humming in his ears that long ago began to sound like home and only recently has begun to sound like loss. And there is a deeper whisper in his head that sounds like cold wind across a lonely beach and tears falling silently onto wet sand and metal grating alike.
He curls onto his side, eyes screwed tightly shut and loses himself in the sound of his hearts, one beating faint and harsh inside his chest, and one beating faint and distant beyond walls even he cannot breach, but both of them beating broken and out of time.
Rating: Eh, vaguely adult?
Characters: Rose/Ten
Genre: Angsty
Warnings: Vague spoilers for 2.13 Doomsday
Word Count: 858
Summary: "It is some sort of gravity, he thinks, that pulls him to her this way, all ways, and while he's all for denying impossibility, sometimes inevitability comes first and he doesn't have the strength to deny this."
Author's Note: I'm actually vaguely embarrassed about posting this since this is very different for me, and definitely the most adult thing I've ever written, and I can't actually say that I know what I'm talking about on that aspect of it. At any rate, it was inspired by a quote from one of the challenges over at then_theres_us and also by Armistice by leda13, which is Kara/Lee and not Rose/Ten but which is very well written and very inspiring, especially when coupled with the quote prompt.
In Absentia
"i would like to make
love to you a hundred times with the shuddering knowledge
of you, with your frozen smile and untraceable fingertips."
They speak without words in the near-silence of his room, all fingers and palms and lips and tongues and their sweat mingling on his pillow. She is golden and glowing above him, skin sparkling and slick as she sits, pulls her hair back with one hand to look at him, grin wicked and dancing and he thinks he can almost see I love you written in her irises, blown wide like black holes. It is some sort of gravity, he thinks, that pulls him to her this way, all ways, and while he's all for denying impossibility, sometimes inevitability comes first and he doesn't have the strength to deny this.
His arms wrap around her waist and he uses her to pull himself up, pull closer, until they're pressed against each other, soft curves and hard planes and his mouth on hers and everything so perfect he thinks he might weep from the beauty of it all. He's the one with his arms wrapped around her like steel bars, but it's her lips on his that are hard and demanding, expecting the surrender he so willingly gives. When she tangles her fingers in his hair, pulling just enough on the back of his neck, he gasps, and she takes it as an invitation to explore him deeper.
He wonders if she can taste his soul on her lips, the agelessness and timelessness and the sheer fragility of him that he's tried so hard to keep buried inside. The way she presses closer, hands relinquishing their hold to slide down until she is cupping his face in her hands, tells him that she probably knows more about how to break him than he does himself. But when she pulls back slightly, there is a look in her eyes like cotton padding around porcelain, and he wonders when she learned to hold him so securely.
When he turns them, lowering her until her back presses against his mattress it is thank you, twining their fingers together on the pillows and capturing her lips again because he has no words to tell her how completely beautiful she is.
He is used to talking all the time, and this way of speaking with his body is new, but he is finding ways to say things things he cannot say out loud, and somehow he thinks she'll understand them better this way. His fingers trace possession down her spine and his palms map his love for her across her ribs. His mouth moves over hers, tongue sliding against hers in time with his hips, questioning, demanding; her gasps and soft breathy moans are answer enough, but in case he is unsure there is something in the way her fingers scrabble at his shoulders, her nails digging and dragging down his back, that feels like the music of forever.
It is like standing at the edge of a cliff and looking over the edge, waiting for just the right moment to fall. He can feel it all through his skin, like the moment when they're flying, the moment before they come out of the vortex and time seems to stand still, an eternity caught up in a single moment. His breath is coming in shudders, and it seems so much easier to focus on her breath whispering across his lips. He realises he is speaking, her name falling from his lips like raindrops, over and over, like a littany, like a prayer. Beneath him, she opens her eyes and catches his, his name whispered just once and it is like a supernova, all brilliancy and colour and light, and he feels her lips on his like fire as they fall into oblivion.
When the stars clear behind his eyelids, he keeps them closed against the silence and the chill which comes from the space beside him, so much more apparent in its emptiness. The outline of her shape is left only in the air, like dust motes swirling through sunbeams, or the imprint of the sun on closed eyelids left staring at the sky too long. He can still feel her hands on his heaving chest like a shadow, can feel where her nails would have cut lines down his back that he would have worn with pride. He catches gold at the corner of his eye and blinks. There will be tear-stains on his pillows in the morning.
There is a humming in his ears that long ago began to sound like home and only recently has begun to sound like loss. And there is a deeper whisper in his head that sounds like cold wind across a lonely beach and tears falling silently onto wet sand and metal grating alike.
He curls onto his side, eyes screwed tightly shut and loses himself in the sound of his hearts, one beating faint and harsh inside his chest, and one beating faint and distant beyond walls even he cannot breach, but both of them beating broken and out of time.