fic: The Fabric of Your Flesh
Title: The Fabric of Your Flesh
Pair: Ten/Rose
Rating: Adult
Summary: Sequel to ( Turn Your Camera On ) Written for Challenge 52, "Sequel/Prequel", at then_theres_us .
"I want you to stay with me," he said, snapping a photo of her body (click, beep, the camera noted approvingly) arching towards him, a slippery, shining thing, a wild goddess of the kingdom of his bathtub. Of him. He smiled, warm and lopsided and sincere, and there was raw truth in his words.
"Forever?" she asked. And he knew, yes, forever.
2,535 words
Soft. God, she was soft. Wet, and her dripping hair was curling itself around her skin in golden sweaty trails, her eyes looking at him like she housed time itself. He looked into her, and she looked into him.
For a moment, he held no memory of anything else. He pushed farther in, tested her edge, rammed his cock against her cervix just like he had shoved his fears (and hers) to the back of his mind. He took them into the stars until she threw her head back and said she was his, forever, and he knew bliss so strong it was agony.
***
His tea was cold, and the sun was setting. He shouldn't be feeling so disappointed.
The chippy was stilling just like the evening air outside. Wednesday traffic sputtered, making the air dank with car stench and unbearably thick. Maybe it was just his disappointment that was so oppressive, or his anger at himself. This was why he didn't date; he knew better.
He fingered the camera in his pocket achingly. It was the only lover that stayed forever.
He did, however, stop thinking completely when the door was opened and her long legs clad in pinstriped hose carried her magnificent self to his table. She quirked an eyebrow at him, and stuck her tongue between her teeth. He wanted it in his mouth, wanted to tear her red jumper from her body, rip her pantyhose past her knees and fuck her without taking off her childish denim skirt.
Bloody hell. She was wearing glasses.
"Chips then, yeah?" she asked confidently. No other greeting. He eyed her warily; she was so smug. She knew he'd been waiting. Cheeky bint.
They ordered, and he winced as she slathered her chips in vinegar. There was small talk. The brown liquid soaked into the steaming potato as she pulled it into her mouth, closed her eyes and savored. He stared, and wholeheartedly wanted to see how far this game of hers could go. He decided it was his move, and he was going to eat her up.
He leaned in close, stealing the remainder of her chip with his lips. He chewed thoughtfully, disliking the sharp vinegar tang but endlessly searching for the taste where her fingers had been. His breath brushed against the quiet stillness of the chippy. "You have no idea who I am, Little Red. I could be a very, very mad man."
"What makes you think you're the wolf and I'm the little girl who wandered off?"
He laughed, softly. "You're not exactly threatening enough to be Big Bad, love."
She gave a wide smile. "The wolf weren't threatening though, was he? He just wanted her so much. Hard to be good when y'can't see past that want."
His eyes darkened, and he stole another chip. "It is. Hard to be good."
Her eyes lit up, and she swirled her tongue around her food before swallowing. "Is it? Hard?"
He choked. She said it so idly, filthy things from a filthy mouth, and he was suddenly very certain he was going to die by her dirty talking hand. And that the remainder of the food was the least important thing in the world.
He stood abruptly and gripped her by the arm, nearly hard enough to bruise. Her eyes widened, but for reasons she couldn't explain, she trusted this man. She also decided he was most definitely very, very mad.
He strode confidently out of the chippy and she stumbled along with him. Out the door, the bell above their heads giving a cheerful ding to the night the color of squid ink. When had it gotten so dark? How long had they been in there, staring at each other, eating chips while they pretended to get to know each other?
The fall chill hit her skin everywhere with a whoosh, and her nerves lit up like a christmas tree. She gasped and looked at the wild eyed man ahead of her (hedgehog hair, she thought), who was looking back and grinning somewhat manically. "Would you run with me? Somewhere, anywhere? Run in the name of feeling the danger of being alive?"
She nodded, laughing, gold hair singing to the night. "Anywhere!" she agreed, and together, they fled.
***
Was it possible to die of starvation when his mouth wasn't on hers?
She felt this need in her fists, and her thighs, and her solar plexus. In her mind. The nerves that couldn't stop burning and making her do crazy things. Her flesh was crawling with life, rebelling against the cold night with its heat. It was everywhere and nowhere. It was sure to drive her mad, if she didn't have him.
Her lungs burned. She lost count of the number of blocks fifteen or so ago. They had been on a street corner that didn't matter. Before that, they had sprinted past bemused pedestrians, running toward somewhere to shag and away from everything neither of them wanted said out loud. The streetlamps were harsh in the night, oddly orange, bathing everything in the light of a man made sun (he had hundreds and hundreds of freckles and oh god he was beautiful and they shone together).
After, they had been against the wall of a shop called Henrik's, all the lights out inside and the outside filled with wet sounds and whimpers. He licked her neck and sucked her breasts and she was saying nonsense like fuck and yes and ohgodohgodohgod.
He had been right. He'd never been with anyone so much fun.
(Had he really thought anything before?)
She remembered how he looked in the flash of his own camera. She remembered what he tasted like, his long fingers with their thick knuckles, his flavour a very blue sort of blue. He was something old and wise, and she was the big bad wolf who had fallen in love with a little boy in the forest. He should have been old enough to know better; he wasn't.
She found he tasted differently tonight. Like sparks. Like a storm.
"Tell me your name," he growled low into her collarbone. He bit her hard, and drew blood; she gasped into the night and could not deny him when he soothed the wound and sucked it clean. She felt fresh dew on her thighs.
"...Rose."
Long ago, she had wished to know why her life had never been enough.
At least he was as scared as she was.
***
They didn't walk into his flat as much as stumble. He hurled his keys to a side table by the door, where they chinked loudly on the glass and skidded onto the white carpet. He didn't notice. Her jumper was over her head before the door had closed, nipples taut and greeting the still apartment air through her black lace. She slid two fingers into the space between the buttons of his shirt and tugged, hard. Buttons flew and landed with little plops on the plush carpet; she gave a noise of delight at the chance to tug on his chest hairs.
He was thin, and wiry. Much more so half naked than through his clothes; he chose them to hide his physique well. His skin was taut over his muscles which in turn were taut over his insides; she thought even his organs must be beautiful. She took a nipple between her teeth and bit him; he gasped and pulled her hair, forcefully walking her backwards, flipping her around and shoving her face first over the back of his couch.
She was a little embarrassed of the girly squeal that slipped from her mouth, but all thought fled her when he had his hand up her skirt so so suddenly, shoving her knickers roughly to the side and slipping two fingers in her as deeply as he could reach.
It was rough and uncouth. Her sharp intake of breath echoed into the quiet flat, the only noise as she held her breath his labored panting behind her. The world around her stilled atom by atom as she focused on one thing: part of this man was inside her, and she wanted every other part to be, too.
She clenched, and he chuckled darkly. Maybe, she thought, Little Red should have been less fearless.
Maybe she should have had more fun, too.
He bent his head to lick her spine, the delicious little points all the way up her back that cradled her spinal cord, her nervous system, the biological power that made her body shudder beneath him. He bit into her shoulder blade gently and curled his fingers inside of her; she didn't even try to hide her moan this time. He could imagine her neural receptors lighting up like dozens of fireworks, dopamine and serotonin and oxytocin and red and silver and gold flooding her mind and making her mew and buck into his hand. He closed his eyes and saw them both burning.
"I think," she began, and was cut off viciously as he added a third finger into her folds. She nearly screamed and struggled to collect her thoughts (so full so full ohgod), to finish this one sentence before she couldn't speak or walk at all. "I think... I'd like to stay with you."
He stilled. She flipped her hair over her shoulder to meet his eyes; they were both breathing so hard it was musical, staring into each other and really seeing each other for the first time this night. It was a fugue being written between them, and it wasn't sex anymore.
"Is that all right?"
And just like that, she sounded like the little girl lost in the forest. He knew his answer without thinking, and he cupped her cheek.
"Yes."
***
Five and a half hours later, the cupboards closing in the kitchen down the hall were the only noises to indicate she did not occupy the flat alone. That, and the delicious deep ache that crept through her whole body and held her muscles suspended in memory of him.
She was curled in his bath, soap bubbles tickling her skin and sliding around her like his hands. She dipped her fingers into herself, feeling his wetness left behind there and closing her eyes, letting her head fall back. She curled her fingers and hissed in pleasure, remembering how he sank into her, stared at her like she was forever and he was a man without air and he was dying and when he came, fuck, how he came.
She shuddered and sank deeper into the water, its near scalding slickness stinging the bites and scratches peppering her back, chest, legs. She'd never been fucked so hard in her life, never fucked so hard. She knew she wouldn't have any gigs anytime soon; she'd have to pick up more hours at the shop for the next couple of weeks to make rent. She couldn't do any photo shoots like this.
Unless they were with him.
Her breath hitched at the thought, the dark man and his camera, and she languidly pulled a finger into her mouth, remembering when he had made her suck his finger, telling her to make him wet, only to remove it and swirl it teasingly around her ass.
Did all lonely men make love like that? She knew without asking how special he was.
She also knew she would be content to never leave, and she smiled softly. Maybe this warmth was real love, not Jimmy Stone or Mickey Smith but so tangible, so very kind, and his loo would be the only thing to witness it.
The bathroom door clicked open, and despite her sudden flinch at being caught, she didn't stop. Refused to. After everything, she wouldn't be ashamed; she would be fearless. She was Rose Tyler, and she was a goddess to this man. She thought he may have been a terribly lonely god, but as long as he was near her, that was okay. The sadness he cloaked around himself couldn't fight her. Neither of them wanted it to.
There was time to learn his past. But in this second, her amber eyes met his sable ones, and she spread her legs wider in his bathtub. She rubbed his soap over her breasts, and pulled her finger from herself and sucked his come and her juice from it, slowly, the salty remnants briefly making her close her eyes and turn her attention away from him. She spread the soap down her abdomen, her legs, wiggled it between her toes.
He crossed his arms and leaned naked against the door frame, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and his cock already hardening again. He watched.
She shaved her legs with his razor, the foam of his soap disappearing line by line as she drifted between not cutting herself and his dark, endless eyes. Of everyone in the world, she found the one man who contained an entire abyss.
Of everyone in the world, he found the one that filled it.
Another line disappeared, and she lathered her other leg, curling his razor along her inner thigh and so, so close. More skin clear and exposed. More bubbles in the bath. More breaths to fill this steaming room, more blood to gather in his erection and make every fiber of his being yearn to go to her. He vibrated with energy, a thin wire pulled taut onto the brink of snapping.
Still, he watched.
When she finished, she turned completely sideways in the tub, opening her legs as widely as the porcelain would allow. She reached her left hand back and gripped the bath's safety bar, taking her right and unceremoniously plunging a full three fingers into her folds. She couldn't have stopped her gasp even if she wanted to, and she whimpered when he gasped with her.
He vanished suddenly and returned not fifteen seconds later, having commandeered a small digital camera from wherever his coat had been flung in the lounge. Her eyes widened, and it beeped merrily as he turned it on. She nodded, thrust faster as permission.
He watched.
"I want you to stay with me," he said, snapping a photo of her body (click, beep, the camera noted approvingly) arching towards him, a slippery, shining thing, a wild goddess of the kingdom of his bathtub. Of him. He smiled, warm and lopsided and sincere, and there was raw truth in his words.
"Forever?" she asked. And he knew, yes, forever.
He came forward and cupped her face, so tenderly after how roughly they had found each other's bodies. He had been afraid his whole life, his heart far more fragile than his mind. But he knew this woman belonged right where she was, in his home and in him, wet in his bathtub with her clothes all over his flat after they had chips. Their war of tongues and nails and mixed humid breaths into the night air, murmurs of adoration and whispered nothings: this love was the stuff of legend.
Amidst water splashing and her contented giggle, he pulled her flush against his chest and kissed her.
Click, beep, said the camera.
Pair: Ten/Rose
Rating: Adult
Summary: Sequel to ( Turn Your Camera On ) Written for Challenge 52, "Sequel/Prequel", at then_theres_us .
"I want you to stay with me," he said, snapping a photo of her body (click, beep, the camera noted approvingly) arching towards him, a slippery, shining thing, a wild goddess of the kingdom of his bathtub. Of him. He smiled, warm and lopsided and sincere, and there was raw truth in his words.
"Forever?" she asked. And he knew, yes, forever.
2,535 words
Soft. God, she was soft. Wet, and her dripping hair was curling itself around her skin in golden sweaty trails, her eyes looking at him like she housed time itself. He looked into her, and she looked into him.
For a moment, he held no memory of anything else. He pushed farther in, tested her edge, rammed his cock against her cervix just like he had shoved his fears (and hers) to the back of his mind. He took them into the stars until she threw her head back and said she was his, forever, and he knew bliss so strong it was agony.
***
His tea was cold, and the sun was setting. He shouldn't be feeling so disappointed.
The chippy was stilling just like the evening air outside. Wednesday traffic sputtered, making the air dank with car stench and unbearably thick. Maybe it was just his disappointment that was so oppressive, or his anger at himself. This was why he didn't date; he knew better.
He fingered the camera in his pocket achingly. It was the only lover that stayed forever.
He did, however, stop thinking completely when the door was opened and her long legs clad in pinstriped hose carried her magnificent self to his table. She quirked an eyebrow at him, and stuck her tongue between her teeth. He wanted it in his mouth, wanted to tear her red jumper from her body, rip her pantyhose past her knees and fuck her without taking off her childish denim skirt.
Bloody hell. She was wearing glasses.
"Chips then, yeah?" she asked confidently. No other greeting. He eyed her warily; she was so smug. She knew he'd been waiting. Cheeky bint.
They ordered, and he winced as she slathered her chips in vinegar. There was small talk. The brown liquid soaked into the steaming potato as she pulled it into her mouth, closed her eyes and savored. He stared, and wholeheartedly wanted to see how far this game of hers could go. He decided it was his move, and he was going to eat her up.
He leaned in close, stealing the remainder of her chip with his lips. He chewed thoughtfully, disliking the sharp vinegar tang but endlessly searching for the taste where her fingers had been. His breath brushed against the quiet stillness of the chippy. "You have no idea who I am, Little Red. I could be a very, very mad man."
"What makes you think you're the wolf and I'm the little girl who wandered off?"
He laughed, softly. "You're not exactly threatening enough to be Big Bad, love."
She gave a wide smile. "The wolf weren't threatening though, was he? He just wanted her so much. Hard to be good when y'can't see past that want."
His eyes darkened, and he stole another chip. "It is. Hard to be good."
Her eyes lit up, and she swirled her tongue around her food before swallowing. "Is it? Hard?"
He choked. She said it so idly, filthy things from a filthy mouth, and he was suddenly very certain he was going to die by her dirty talking hand. And that the remainder of the food was the least important thing in the world.
He stood abruptly and gripped her by the arm, nearly hard enough to bruise. Her eyes widened, but for reasons she couldn't explain, she trusted this man. She also decided he was most definitely very, very mad.
He strode confidently out of the chippy and she stumbled along with him. Out the door, the bell above their heads giving a cheerful ding to the night the color of squid ink. When had it gotten so dark? How long had they been in there, staring at each other, eating chips while they pretended to get to know each other?
The fall chill hit her skin everywhere with a whoosh, and her nerves lit up like a christmas tree. She gasped and looked at the wild eyed man ahead of her (hedgehog hair, she thought), who was looking back and grinning somewhat manically. "Would you run with me? Somewhere, anywhere? Run in the name of feeling the danger of being alive?"
She nodded, laughing, gold hair singing to the night. "Anywhere!" she agreed, and together, they fled.
***
Was it possible to die of starvation when his mouth wasn't on hers?
She felt this need in her fists, and her thighs, and her solar plexus. In her mind. The nerves that couldn't stop burning and making her do crazy things. Her flesh was crawling with life, rebelling against the cold night with its heat. It was everywhere and nowhere. It was sure to drive her mad, if she didn't have him.
Her lungs burned. She lost count of the number of blocks fifteen or so ago. They had been on a street corner that didn't matter. Before that, they had sprinted past bemused pedestrians, running toward somewhere to shag and away from everything neither of them wanted said out loud. The streetlamps were harsh in the night, oddly orange, bathing everything in the light of a man made sun (he had hundreds and hundreds of freckles and oh god he was beautiful and they shone together).
After, they had been against the wall of a shop called Henrik's, all the lights out inside and the outside filled with wet sounds and whimpers. He licked her neck and sucked her breasts and she was saying nonsense like fuck and yes and ohgodohgodohgod.
He had been right. He'd never been with anyone so much fun.
(Had he really thought anything before?)
She remembered how he looked in the flash of his own camera. She remembered what he tasted like, his long fingers with their thick knuckles, his flavour a very blue sort of blue. He was something old and wise, and she was the big bad wolf who had fallen in love with a little boy in the forest. He should have been old enough to know better; he wasn't.
She found he tasted differently tonight. Like sparks. Like a storm.
"Tell me your name," he growled low into her collarbone. He bit her hard, and drew blood; she gasped into the night and could not deny him when he soothed the wound and sucked it clean. She felt fresh dew on her thighs.
"...Rose."
Long ago, she had wished to know why her life had never been enough.
At least he was as scared as she was.
***
They didn't walk into his flat as much as stumble. He hurled his keys to a side table by the door, where they chinked loudly on the glass and skidded onto the white carpet. He didn't notice. Her jumper was over her head before the door had closed, nipples taut and greeting the still apartment air through her black lace. She slid two fingers into the space between the buttons of his shirt and tugged, hard. Buttons flew and landed with little plops on the plush carpet; she gave a noise of delight at the chance to tug on his chest hairs.
He was thin, and wiry. Much more so half naked than through his clothes; he chose them to hide his physique well. His skin was taut over his muscles which in turn were taut over his insides; she thought even his organs must be beautiful. She took a nipple between her teeth and bit him; he gasped and pulled her hair, forcefully walking her backwards, flipping her around and shoving her face first over the back of his couch.
She was a little embarrassed of the girly squeal that slipped from her mouth, but all thought fled her when he had his hand up her skirt so so suddenly, shoving her knickers roughly to the side and slipping two fingers in her as deeply as he could reach.
It was rough and uncouth. Her sharp intake of breath echoed into the quiet flat, the only noise as she held her breath his labored panting behind her. The world around her stilled atom by atom as she focused on one thing: part of this man was inside her, and she wanted every other part to be, too.
She clenched, and he chuckled darkly. Maybe, she thought, Little Red should have been less fearless.
Maybe she should have had more fun, too.
He bent his head to lick her spine, the delicious little points all the way up her back that cradled her spinal cord, her nervous system, the biological power that made her body shudder beneath him. He bit into her shoulder blade gently and curled his fingers inside of her; she didn't even try to hide her moan this time. He could imagine her neural receptors lighting up like dozens of fireworks, dopamine and serotonin and oxytocin and red and silver and gold flooding her mind and making her mew and buck into his hand. He closed his eyes and saw them both burning.
"I think," she began, and was cut off viciously as he added a third finger into her folds. She nearly screamed and struggled to collect her thoughts (so full so full ohgod), to finish this one sentence before she couldn't speak or walk at all. "I think... I'd like to stay with you."
He stilled. She flipped her hair over her shoulder to meet his eyes; they were both breathing so hard it was musical, staring into each other and really seeing each other for the first time this night. It was a fugue being written between them, and it wasn't sex anymore.
"Is that all right?"
And just like that, she sounded like the little girl lost in the forest. He knew his answer without thinking, and he cupped her cheek.
"Yes."
***
Five and a half hours later, the cupboards closing in the kitchen down the hall were the only noises to indicate she did not occupy the flat alone. That, and the delicious deep ache that crept through her whole body and held her muscles suspended in memory of him.
She was curled in his bath, soap bubbles tickling her skin and sliding around her like his hands. She dipped her fingers into herself, feeling his wetness left behind there and closing her eyes, letting her head fall back. She curled her fingers and hissed in pleasure, remembering how he sank into her, stared at her like she was forever and he was a man without air and he was dying and when he came, fuck, how he came.
She shuddered and sank deeper into the water, its near scalding slickness stinging the bites and scratches peppering her back, chest, legs. She'd never been fucked so hard in her life, never fucked so hard. She knew she wouldn't have any gigs anytime soon; she'd have to pick up more hours at the shop for the next couple of weeks to make rent. She couldn't do any photo shoots like this.
Unless they were with him.
Her breath hitched at the thought, the dark man and his camera, and she languidly pulled a finger into her mouth, remembering when he had made her suck his finger, telling her to make him wet, only to remove it and swirl it teasingly around her ass.
Did all lonely men make love like that? She knew without asking how special he was.
She also knew she would be content to never leave, and she smiled softly. Maybe this warmth was real love, not Jimmy Stone or Mickey Smith but so tangible, so very kind, and his loo would be the only thing to witness it.
The bathroom door clicked open, and despite her sudden flinch at being caught, she didn't stop. Refused to. After everything, she wouldn't be ashamed; she would be fearless. She was Rose Tyler, and she was a goddess to this man. She thought he may have been a terribly lonely god, but as long as he was near her, that was okay. The sadness he cloaked around himself couldn't fight her. Neither of them wanted it to.
There was time to learn his past. But in this second, her amber eyes met his sable ones, and she spread her legs wider in his bathtub. She rubbed his soap over her breasts, and pulled her finger from herself and sucked his come and her juice from it, slowly, the salty remnants briefly making her close her eyes and turn her attention away from him. She spread the soap down her abdomen, her legs, wiggled it between her toes.
He crossed his arms and leaned naked against the door frame, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and his cock already hardening again. He watched.
She shaved her legs with his razor, the foam of his soap disappearing line by line as she drifted between not cutting herself and his dark, endless eyes. Of everyone in the world, she found the one man who contained an entire abyss.
Of everyone in the world, he found the one that filled it.
Another line disappeared, and she lathered her other leg, curling his razor along her inner thigh and so, so close. More skin clear and exposed. More bubbles in the bath. More breaths to fill this steaming room, more blood to gather in his erection and make every fiber of his being yearn to go to her. He vibrated with energy, a thin wire pulled taut onto the brink of snapping.
Still, he watched.
When she finished, she turned completely sideways in the tub, opening her legs as widely as the porcelain would allow. She reached her left hand back and gripped the bath's safety bar, taking her right and unceremoniously plunging a full three fingers into her folds. She couldn't have stopped her gasp even if she wanted to, and she whimpered when he gasped with her.
He vanished suddenly and returned not fifteen seconds later, having commandeered a small digital camera from wherever his coat had been flung in the lounge. Her eyes widened, and it beeped merrily as he turned it on. She nodded, thrust faster as permission.
He watched.
"I want you to stay with me," he said, snapping a photo of her body (click, beep, the camera noted approvingly) arching towards him, a slippery, shining thing, a wild goddess of the kingdom of his bathtub. Of him. He smiled, warm and lopsided and sincere, and there was raw truth in his words.
"Forever?" she asked. And he knew, yes, forever.
He came forward and cupped her face, so tenderly after how roughly they had found each other's bodies. He had been afraid his whole life, his heart far more fragile than his mind. But he knew this woman belonged right where she was, in his home and in him, wet in his bathtub with her clothes all over his flat after they had chips. Their war of tongues and nails and mixed humid breaths into the night air, murmurs of adoration and whispered nothings: this love was the stuff of legend.
Amidst water splashing and her contented giggle, he pulled her flush against his chest and kissed her.
Click, beep, said the camera.