in aching gold sunlight; ten/rose, adult
In Aching Gold Sunlight, ten/rose, adult
She thinks of him in sand. On beaches where they said good-bye, and the cold of the world seeps through to her bones but he can't feel it because he's standing on another plane..., 475 words
author's note: my first challenge-fic here! I hope you all enjoy this smattering of something.
She thinks of him in aching gold sunlight when everything was bright and the joy in his eyes was as real and palpable as the clothes on his back. She thinks of him, stretched out on grassy fields with laughter in his heart and his mouth full of good and happy things. She remembers rolling about like children with all of their innocence - hers real, his borrowed, and she curses him for not reminding her more often, for letting her get so close.
Then she thinks of him in smoke. In hazy bars and under-lit dives where they serve vodka on ice and add a twist of lemon and the music pumps - hip-hop, jazz, strange forms of other-world dance - from speakers hidden from the crowd, which gyrates and bumps and thrusts. Music is always on some level about sex - about creation. The Doctor couldn't afford, then or, she imagines, now, to lose himself in it, but oh God - she could. And the rush of the alcohol through her body, that clouded her mind and lowered her inhibition until she was kissing him - that was a prelude to more. To the symphony that was them.
She thinks of him in cotton. Cool cotton sheets that rustle under bodies that move in the rhythm of ages - that push-pull that's echoed in so many planets by the rising and the fall of the sea, of the days and the nights. Something penetrates; something gives. And gives. And gives. Rolling, again, but this time with no innocence. Whispered words of urgency, whispered words of affection. No words of love.
She thinks of him in marble - hard under her naked feet while water sprayed down and around her, soaking her through, washing the remnants of them away, until he came back, as if to remind her that she was always, irrevocably his. And his mouth marked her on her breast and on her hip, and her fingers ran through his hair, and he took her against the wall because he knew they had no more time.
She thinks of him in sand. On beaches where they said good-bye, and the cold of the world seeps through to her bones but he can't feel it because he's standing on another plane, and she thinks if maybe all of the textures of her life have passed him by - if he has skimmed across the surface of her life, unthinking, like a child that ripples a pond without realizing he has disturbed the tadpoles. He cannot know how broken she is inside, how dull everything feels without him.
Still, she thinks of him. Cool, warm, soft, silky, hard... every texture, every taste - somehow the memory of him and his body and his mouth and his hearts. She always thinks of him.
She thinks of him in sand. On beaches where they said good-bye, and the cold of the world seeps through to her bones but he can't feel it because he's standing on another plane..., 475 words
author's note: my first challenge-fic here! I hope you all enjoy this smattering of something.
She thinks of him in aching gold sunlight when everything was bright and the joy in his eyes was as real and palpable as the clothes on his back. She thinks of him, stretched out on grassy fields with laughter in his heart and his mouth full of good and happy things. She remembers rolling about like children with all of their innocence - hers real, his borrowed, and she curses him for not reminding her more often, for letting her get so close.
Then she thinks of him in smoke. In hazy bars and under-lit dives where they serve vodka on ice and add a twist of lemon and the music pumps - hip-hop, jazz, strange forms of other-world dance - from speakers hidden from the crowd, which gyrates and bumps and thrusts. Music is always on some level about sex - about creation. The Doctor couldn't afford, then or, she imagines, now, to lose himself in it, but oh God - she could. And the rush of the alcohol through her body, that clouded her mind and lowered her inhibition until she was kissing him - that was a prelude to more. To the symphony that was them.
She thinks of him in cotton. Cool cotton sheets that rustle under bodies that move in the rhythm of ages - that push-pull that's echoed in so many planets by the rising and the fall of the sea, of the days and the nights. Something penetrates; something gives. And gives. And gives. Rolling, again, but this time with no innocence. Whispered words of urgency, whispered words of affection. No words of love.
She thinks of him in marble - hard under her naked feet while water sprayed down and around her, soaking her through, washing the remnants of them away, until he came back, as if to remind her that she was always, irrevocably his. And his mouth marked her on her breast and on her hip, and her fingers ran through his hair, and he took her against the wall because he knew they had no more time.
She thinks of him in sand. On beaches where they said good-bye, and the cold of the world seeps through to her bones but he can't feel it because he's standing on another plane, and she thinks if maybe all of the textures of her life have passed him by - if he has skimmed across the surface of her life, unthinking, like a child that ripples a pond without realizing he has disturbed the tadpoles. He cannot know how broken she is inside, how dull everything feels without him.
Still, she thinks of him. Cool, warm, soft, silky, hard... every texture, every taste - somehow the memory of him and his body and his mouth and his hearts. She always thinks of him.