(no subject)
almost enough, Ten/Rose, R
They lie tangled together, afterwards, heat from their bodies conspiring with heat from the sun overhead to make them sleepy and sticky and slow, 593
The TARDIS door creaks shut behind him and he stops short, nearly drops the sandwiches he'd gone inside to retrieve. Just a moment ago, he was thinking about peanut butter, was quite absorbed by jam choices. Now... there's only her. Long bare legs, creamy white thighs. His eyes follow them up to where they disappear under the rumpled hem of her cotton sun dress. Her book is abandoned by her side, her chest gently rising and falling. She's asleep. He immediately decides she won't be for long.
~.~.~.~
It's staggering, still, the way he wants her. Wants her even more now that she's Back, now that he knows he can have her, knows that with a sidelong glance, the whisper of a touch, he can have her flushed and naked beneath him, gasping his name.
It's almost enough.
Trembling, their fingers fumble buttons and zips.
It's unnerving sometimes. One moment they're going about their day, eating chips or running for their lives, the next he's winded, incapacitated by the sight of white teeth pressed into a soft lip, the curve of a hip under denim. It's alarming, the way his focus narrows, how everything else becomes irrelevant. His very impressive brain has become completely single-minded, and his body is in enthusiastic agreement. He's learned to be very grateful for that long brown overcoat.
He tries to convince his mind to be reasonable about this. It's not as if he'd never noticed the shape of her before, but was it really always so... obvious?
He clutches at her, her hot hands wrapped around him, her whispered words hot in his ear.
He tries to avoid it, sometimes. Sometimes it works. Sometimes he can keep his eyes from wandering, can keep his hands to himself (her hands are another story). But she floods his senses, and even if he doesn't look, doesn't touch, his mind nudges him with memories of the night before, teases him with breathless pleas and soft flesh bruising under frantic fingertips.
It's always such sweet relief, being inside her.
He knows she won't refuse him, wherewhenever they are. Knows this baffling, overwhelming hunger at least isn't his to bear alone. It hits at the most inopportune times (not that they have a lot of opportune ones) and more than once he's woken her from a sound sleep, hard and aching and unable to think of anything but burying himself between her thighs. She lets him.
It's so very nearly enough.
Urgent words are gasped against sweat-dampened skin, "please" and "yes" and "more".
The time apart left its scars on both of them, no matter how much he'd like to deny it. Now it's always possibly the last time ever. This dark thought seeps ruthlessly into his mind, leaving him raw and defenseless. Too often they fall upon each other with a desperation that leaves marks, both of them trying to get enough (and it's never enough) before it finally really is the last time.
This need is far beyond physical, but this is how they attempt to sate it, with the heat of their bodies pressed together.
The smell of her on his fingers, the taste of her still on the back of his tongue, the ghost of her fingernails on his back.
~.~.~.~
They lie tangled together, afterwards, heat from their bodies conspiring with heat from the sun overhead to make them sleepy and sticky and slow. He tells her now: whispers the words in her ear while she sleeps, traces them on her skin. I love you, I love you, I love you.
Sometimes, in this moment, it's almost enough.
They lie tangled together, afterwards, heat from their bodies conspiring with heat from the sun overhead to make them sleepy and sticky and slow, 593
The TARDIS door creaks shut behind him and he stops short, nearly drops the sandwiches he'd gone inside to retrieve. Just a moment ago, he was thinking about peanut butter, was quite absorbed by jam choices. Now... there's only her. Long bare legs, creamy white thighs. His eyes follow them up to where they disappear under the rumpled hem of her cotton sun dress. Her book is abandoned by her side, her chest gently rising and falling. She's asleep. He immediately decides she won't be for long.
~.~.~.~
It's staggering, still, the way he wants her. Wants her even more now that she's Back, now that he knows he can have her, knows that with a sidelong glance, the whisper of a touch, he can have her flushed and naked beneath him, gasping his name.
It's almost enough.
Trembling, their fingers fumble buttons and zips.
It's unnerving sometimes. One moment they're going about their day, eating chips or running for their lives, the next he's winded, incapacitated by the sight of white teeth pressed into a soft lip, the curve of a hip under denim. It's alarming, the way his focus narrows, how everything else becomes irrelevant. His very impressive brain has become completely single-minded, and his body is in enthusiastic agreement. He's learned to be very grateful for that long brown overcoat.
He tries to convince his mind to be reasonable about this. It's not as if he'd never noticed the shape of her before, but was it really always so... obvious?
He clutches at her, her hot hands wrapped around him, her whispered words hot in his ear.
He tries to avoid it, sometimes. Sometimes it works. Sometimes he can keep his eyes from wandering, can keep his hands to himself (her hands are another story). But she floods his senses, and even if he doesn't look, doesn't touch, his mind nudges him with memories of the night before, teases him with breathless pleas and soft flesh bruising under frantic fingertips.
It's always such sweet relief, being inside her.
He knows she won't refuse him, wherewhenever they are. Knows this baffling, overwhelming hunger at least isn't his to bear alone. It hits at the most inopportune times (not that they have a lot of opportune ones) and more than once he's woken her from a sound sleep, hard and aching and unable to think of anything but burying himself between her thighs. She lets him.
It's so very nearly enough.
Urgent words are gasped against sweat-dampened skin, "please" and "yes" and "more".
The time apart left its scars on both of them, no matter how much he'd like to deny it. Now it's always possibly the last time ever. This dark thought seeps ruthlessly into his mind, leaving him raw and defenseless. Too often they fall upon each other with a desperation that leaves marks, both of them trying to get enough (and it's never enough) before it finally really is the last time.
This need is far beyond physical, but this is how they attempt to sate it, with the heat of their bodies pressed together.
The smell of her on his fingers, the taste of her still on the back of his tongue, the ghost of her fingernails on his back.
~.~.~.~
They lie tangled together, afterwards, heat from their bodies conspiring with heat from the sun overhead to make them sleepy and sticky and slow. He tells her now: whispers the words in her ear while she sleeps, traces them on her skin. I love you, I love you, I love you.
Sometimes, in this moment, it's almost enough.