for realmofthemuse: 1.54.3: Lay, Lady, Lay
Stay, lady, stay, stay with your man awhile
Why wait any longer for the world to begin
You can have your cake and eat it too
Why wait any longer for the one you love
When he's standing in front of you
"It's a bit ironic," you say, toying idly with a lock of her auburn hair.
"What is?"
This is. You want to say that, but you don't. Shouldn't have vocalized the first part of your thoughts, either, but sometimes they just slip out. She does that. Breaks down your walls, makes things slip through that were otherwise held back by strong mortar and brick.
She wears at you. She's stronger than the Beylix gale wind that blows outside of lodge number 72, where you lie with her now. The weather is noisy, and it keeps you inside (which isn't the problem; there are always things the two of you can find to do alone, especially when equipped with a bed). She asks once why you don't go back to the TARDIS, but you change the subject, quickly. You don't want her to see the empty spaces where she isn't anymore. Don't want her to ask why the brass bed you built her in your youth isn't in your bedroom anymore. Why things she'd expect to be in your life forever simply aren't.
You haven't responded to her question, so she fills the space with words. They vibrate where she murmurs them above your left heart. "It sounds as if the storm is letting up. Must you leave soon?"
You're always the one who leaves. Be it by TARDIS or footfall or fireplace, you're the one who walks away, only briefly sticking your head in to see what you might've had. What you did have, back then, when you were that other man.
It's strange. You used to think of the man in the mirror, the man with the big smile and the floppy lips and strange hair as "him", as the other man, as the one she would leave you for. Now the man you used to be is "him", the one she goes back to after her brief affairs with you. You're sharing with the man you were, and the jealousy of your youth seems ironic, and painful.
Especially ironic considering this incarnation of you quietly but desperately longs for the normal life. The slow path. But you're still the one who has to leave. You're trapped with this. A spotlight in the darkness that's just out of reach. A glimmer of something better.
You look, but don't touch. Touch, but don't taste. Taste, but never swallow.
You get to watch yourself fall apart all over again. You shook your own hand once, before, shared a drink with him-it's so fascinating to hear the conversation from this side-and know the pain he'll feel. Remember it clearly. (You still remember) Can't say a bloody thing because of the paradoxes it will create.
"Front desk clerk says there'll be a lightning storm," you say, "Not quite safe to move around outside."
She sighs, then rubs her cheek against your chest. It's a simple action, but intimate. She's sliding under your skin, and you couldn't stop her even if you tried.
"It's safe in here, though," she says, "You and I. Here, safe."
Neither of you are safe, not outside, not in this room all intimate and under each other's skin, not anywhere. You know this but, as always, but you can't say anything. In fact, you lie. Murmur an affirmative, then pull her up, kissing her firmly, almost sharply. There's a sort of desperation to your kiss, a need to reaffirm.
You're doing this because you need her, even though you're only moving towards the day when she doesn't arrive at your designated meeting place, where your own paths meet, and you see yourself as you are. You're doing that, by doing this. Bringing about your own end.
If that isn't irony, then nothing is.
Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 626
Based on roleplay with decadentmind and ninewho
Why wait any longer for the world to begin
You can have your cake and eat it too
Why wait any longer for the one you love
When he's standing in front of you
"It's a bit ironic," you say, toying idly with a lock of her auburn hair.
"What is?"
This is. You want to say that, but you don't. Shouldn't have vocalized the first part of your thoughts, either, but sometimes they just slip out. She does that. Breaks down your walls, makes things slip through that were otherwise held back by strong mortar and brick.
She wears at you. She's stronger than the Beylix gale wind that blows outside of lodge number 72, where you lie with her now. The weather is noisy, and it keeps you inside (which isn't the problem; there are always things the two of you can find to do alone, especially when equipped with a bed). She asks once why you don't go back to the TARDIS, but you change the subject, quickly. You don't want her to see the empty spaces where she isn't anymore. Don't want her to ask why the brass bed you built her in your youth isn't in your bedroom anymore. Why things she'd expect to be in your life forever simply aren't.
You haven't responded to her question, so she fills the space with words. They vibrate where she murmurs them above your left heart. "It sounds as if the storm is letting up. Must you leave soon?"
You're always the one who leaves. Be it by TARDIS or footfall or fireplace, you're the one who walks away, only briefly sticking your head in to see what you might've had. What you did have, back then, when you were that other man.
It's strange. You used to think of the man in the mirror, the man with the big smile and the floppy lips and strange hair as "him", as the other man, as the one she would leave you for. Now the man you used to be is "him", the one she goes back to after her brief affairs with you. You're sharing with the man you were, and the jealousy of your youth seems ironic, and painful.
Especially ironic considering this incarnation of you quietly but desperately longs for the normal life. The slow path. But you're still the one who has to leave. You're trapped with this. A spotlight in the darkness that's just out of reach. A glimmer of something better.
You look, but don't touch. Touch, but don't taste. Taste, but never swallow.
You get to watch yourself fall apart all over again. You shook your own hand once, before, shared a drink with him-it's so fascinating to hear the conversation from this side-and know the pain he'll feel. Remember it clearly. (You still remember) Can't say a bloody thing because of the paradoxes it will create.
"Front desk clerk says there'll be a lightning storm," you say, "Not quite safe to move around outside."
She sighs, then rubs her cheek against your chest. It's a simple action, but intimate. She's sliding under your skin, and you couldn't stop her even if you tried.
"It's safe in here, though," she says, "You and I. Here, safe."
Neither of you are safe, not outside, not in this room all intimate and under each other's skin, not anywhere. You know this but, as always, but you can't say anything. In fact, you lie. Murmur an affirmative, then pull her up, kissing her firmly, almost sharply. There's a sort of desperation to your kiss, a need to reaffirm.
You're doing this because you need her, even though you're only moving towards the day when she doesn't arrive at your designated meeting place, where your own paths meet, and you see yourself as you are. You're doing that, by doing this. Bringing about your own end.
If that isn't irony, then nothing is.
Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 626
Based on roleplay with decadentmind and ninewho