(no subject)
lover, lover, lover. TenII/Rose PG-13
He touches her side, feather light. She moves beneath his hand, blinks blearily up at him. He kisses her shoulder, murmurs lightly how much he loves her breasts. ‘I’d write them sonnets, but it’d probably take me too long. A haiku then. I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for that.’ 972
A/N: I've no clue where this came from. Which, you know, is weird since I wrote it. Also, I think I may have quoted "Boys of Summer." Odd. Also, am I allowed to have the word 'breasts' in my preview?
lover, lover, lover.
In the country of lovers and legends she repeats the sentiment for the second time. A whispered ‘I love you’ to his sleeping form. Her own body is loose and sated, pressed beneath the weight of his. But this is after.
The part - dear reader - you should be concerned with is the before. Before he kisses the skin of her back, before he confesses his love, before he enters the room. It’s important you know. Understand. Before the zeppelin ride to Greece, where his hand held tight to hers.
Where you should begin, is a street. Watch him turn, the smile on his face when he spots her. (Reader, heed this, don’t look back. You can never look back. Not where your lover is concerned.)
And then this happens, Norway. Close you eyes, imagine the scene. A cold beach, the wind in her hair. Two men standing on either side of her, desperate to spit the words out. Only one of them manages, the confession spoken to no one but her. This is both a beginning and an end.
Squint, look close. This is his hand in hers, his blood beating a plea between her fingers. This is what heartache looks like, what love looks like. Loss and hope. Cheers to new beginnings. Cheers to the closing of books and holes in universes. Cheers to you if you’ve never felt your heart simultaneously expand and contract.
Now, we’ve gotten the before bit out of the way. You can skim the middle, it’s quite alright. It’s nothing but dull things, human things. In short, it is this: he makes tea just the way she likes, she holds him when the night terrors become too much, he yells and rages because this new body of his is weak, she yells and rages because he’s changed (and, reader, to be fair she’s changed too), they keeps secrets buried deep in their chests until it becomes too much and it all comes tumbling out. With the blood of an innocent on his hands he says ‘When I was born I was warned of this; feeling too much.’ This is what a turning point looks like.
We’re nearly caught up, now. But first, a fact.
He has trouble sleeping - half alien, it happens. She suggests reading a book, watching late night television until his eyes droop. The idea of a good read is quickly tossed when he rearranges Pete’s library (first by subgenre, then by color, and lastly - because Pete threatens to have him thrown out if he ever sets foot in the space again - by the author’s species). Television also fails, as he orders nearly every advertised products - that, really reader, has no need to exist. So, he runs. In the span of time between night and morning he pushes his legs until they tremble beneath him.
There, that wasn’t so bad. We’re at the right spot now.
See him on the sidewalk, watch him pass. See how his brow is furrowed, how sweat clings to his skin? He has been thinking. Now, quick, before he gets away. Follow his path. Around a corner, through the doors of a decadent hotel. Watch the tilt of his head as he slides the keycard into the door.
The objects of the room are unimportant. Pay them no attention. Focus on him. On her. You’ll want to see this play out.
He toes off his shoes, peels his socks from his feet. His shirt lands upon the floor. And his heart, his single human heart, stops at the sight of her. This is reverence. This is devotion and love and sorrow, right there in the dark of his eyes. Watch him take her in.
She is lying in nothing but knickers, stomach pressed fully upon white sheets. He can see the sides of her breasts, her skin changing color in the light of the television. And she can sleep through anything, he remembers this. (This is long before where we started, when he was someone else and she was younger.) With a tired sigh, he collapses onto the bed beside her. She doesn’t stir.
He’s always found it odd that loud noises and jostling does not wake her, if you must know.
He touches her side, feather light. She moves beneath his hand, blinks blearily up at him. He kisses her shoulder, murmurs lightly how much he loves her breasts. ‘I’d write them sonnets, but it’d probably take me too long. A haiku then. I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for that.’
‘Mm. I don’ mind.’
He grins into her neck. ‘Oh globes of pert flesh, I long to hold you gently, as one holds a hand.’
Look, look! See how her laughter tints his cheeks. This is number seventy-eight on a list of reasons why he loves Rose Tyler. Wedged just before That noise she makes right before she comes and after Freckle, on the inside of her left knee.
Oh, here it is. The moment he confesses his love.
Her fingers splay across the small of his back, trails upward. There. Now the pad of her forefinger is resting on his mole - right between his shoulder blades, eleventh vertebrae down. Thoracic his mind supplies at the exact moment his chest fills with heat and an unbearable weight. In a rush, the words tumbling out is a slur, the sentiment so strong it blinds him, he says ‘I love you.’
The next part, where his lips skim her back and she fulfils reason seventy-nine of why he loves her, well, I’m sure you can figure it out.
So, I suppose this is the end. We’ve circled back, haven’t we? Just look:
In the country of lovers and legends, Rose Tyler utters 'I love you, you daft fool' to a sleeping man.
He touches her side, feather light. She moves beneath his hand, blinks blearily up at him. He kisses her shoulder, murmurs lightly how much he loves her breasts. ‘I’d write them sonnets, but it’d probably take me too long. A haiku then. I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for that.’ 972
A/N: I've no clue where this came from. Which, you know, is weird since I wrote it. Also, I think I may have quoted "Boys of Summer." Odd. Also, am I allowed to have the word 'breasts' in my preview?
lover, lover, lover.
In the country of lovers and legends she repeats the sentiment for the second time. A whispered ‘I love you’ to his sleeping form. Her own body is loose and sated, pressed beneath the weight of his. But this is after.
The part - dear reader - you should be concerned with is the before. Before he kisses the skin of her back, before he confesses his love, before he enters the room. It’s important you know. Understand. Before the zeppelin ride to Greece, where his hand held tight to hers.
Where you should begin, is a street. Watch him turn, the smile on his face when he spots her. (Reader, heed this, don’t look back. You can never look back. Not where your lover is concerned.)
And then this happens, Norway. Close you eyes, imagine the scene. A cold beach, the wind in her hair. Two men standing on either side of her, desperate to spit the words out. Only one of them manages, the confession spoken to no one but her. This is both a beginning and an end.
Squint, look close. This is his hand in hers, his blood beating a plea between her fingers. This is what heartache looks like, what love looks like. Loss and hope. Cheers to new beginnings. Cheers to the closing of books and holes in universes. Cheers to you if you’ve never felt your heart simultaneously expand and contract.
Now, we’ve gotten the before bit out of the way. You can skim the middle, it’s quite alright. It’s nothing but dull things, human things. In short, it is this: he makes tea just the way she likes, she holds him when the night terrors become too much, he yells and rages because this new body of his is weak, she yells and rages because he’s changed (and, reader, to be fair she’s changed too), they keeps secrets buried deep in their chests until it becomes too much and it all comes tumbling out. With the blood of an innocent on his hands he says ‘When I was born I was warned of this; feeling too much.’ This is what a turning point looks like.
We’re nearly caught up, now. But first, a fact.
He has trouble sleeping - half alien, it happens. She suggests reading a book, watching late night television until his eyes droop. The idea of a good read is quickly tossed when he rearranges Pete’s library (first by subgenre, then by color, and lastly - because Pete threatens to have him thrown out if he ever sets foot in the space again - by the author’s species). Television also fails, as he orders nearly every advertised products - that, really reader, has no need to exist. So, he runs. In the span of time between night and morning he pushes his legs until they tremble beneath him.
There, that wasn’t so bad. We’re at the right spot now.
See him on the sidewalk, watch him pass. See how his brow is furrowed, how sweat clings to his skin? He has been thinking. Now, quick, before he gets away. Follow his path. Around a corner, through the doors of a decadent hotel. Watch the tilt of his head as he slides the keycard into the door.
The objects of the room are unimportant. Pay them no attention. Focus on him. On her. You’ll want to see this play out.
He toes off his shoes, peels his socks from his feet. His shirt lands upon the floor. And his heart, his single human heart, stops at the sight of her. This is reverence. This is devotion and love and sorrow, right there in the dark of his eyes. Watch him take her in.
She is lying in nothing but knickers, stomach pressed fully upon white sheets. He can see the sides of her breasts, her skin changing color in the light of the television. And she can sleep through anything, he remembers this. (This is long before where we started, when he was someone else and she was younger.) With a tired sigh, he collapses onto the bed beside her. She doesn’t stir.
He’s always found it odd that loud noises and jostling does not wake her, if you must know.
He touches her side, feather light. She moves beneath his hand, blinks blearily up at him. He kisses her shoulder, murmurs lightly how much he loves her breasts. ‘I’d write them sonnets, but it’d probably take me too long. A haiku then. I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for that.’
‘Mm. I don’ mind.’
He grins into her neck. ‘Oh globes of pert flesh, I long to hold you gently, as one holds a hand.’
Look, look! See how her laughter tints his cheeks. This is number seventy-eight on a list of reasons why he loves Rose Tyler. Wedged just before That noise she makes right before she comes and after Freckle, on the inside of her left knee.
Oh, here it is. The moment he confesses his love.
Her fingers splay across the small of his back, trails upward. There. Now the pad of her forefinger is resting on his mole - right between his shoulder blades, eleventh vertebrae down. Thoracic his mind supplies at the exact moment his chest fills with heat and an unbearable weight. In a rush, the words tumbling out is a slur, the sentiment so strong it blinds him, he says ‘I love you.’
The next part, where his lips skim her back and she fulfils reason seventy-nine of why he loves her, well, I’m sure you can figure it out.
So, I suppose this is the end. We’ve circled back, haven’t we? Just look:
In the country of lovers and legends, Rose Tyler utters 'I love you, you daft fool' to a sleeping man.