Falling Home
Falling Home. Ten/Rose. Cliche PWP. 1,861 words. Rated P for Pr0n.
A/N: Little editing has been done in an effort to make deadline. Apologies in advance!
"I'm going to push it," she whispers, mouth open and sucking on his shoulder through his shirt, leaving a darkened wet patch she notices with no small pride. He gulps audibly and her eyes snap to his adam's apple, new prey to follow and feast on.
"Push... ah. Push what, Rose?"
"The big. Red. Button."
"We have to go," he says. "This isn't the way."
She isn't listening. The vermillion world is cloying, overpowering, its heady air curling inside of her lungs, expanding the alveoli, the gas exchange into her blood making her heart race and her blood sing and her vision fill with him. Time Lord victorious. Indomitable. Mountainous. Towering. Flushed...
"Rose, no."
It doesn't matter. He can say no, but the rolling fields of flowers under her bare feet say otherwise. They squish wetly and she loves the coolness under the toes, cold like she envisions his lightly haired skin as she drags the arch of her foot up his calf. The backs of his knees would have freckles, she just knows it. She could nudge one with her little toe, and maybe he'd squeal, or maybe he'd be too busy with his fingers deep--
"Rose!"
"But I know this is the way, Doctor," and she steps closer to him, steps between all those little scarlet flowers that touch her like feathers, like Gallifreyan fingerprints. She maps his biology with the crush of foreign chlorophyl and an itch in her hands to cup his hipbones and see if they work for handles like she thinks they will.
She has clearly abandoned all pretense of looking for the path.
"We have to get out of here, before--"
"Before what, Doctor?" she purrs, pushed so near he can feel the air shudder in the presence of two such beings. The mist roils over the canopy so many feet above but it still seeps down, caresses her skin, makes her slick in the jungle-like humidity and rose colored light.
"Before... before you... B-before I..." Her finger is on his lips, and Rassilon but he wants to taste it.
Might do, anyway.
Her free hand is playing with his suit buttons, and the drums inside his chest are wailing out a melody he can't hear because his blood is roaring. Sound, so much sound... when did he become light-headed? When did his suit jacket fall to the scarlet floor?
Stupid. So stupid. All of this should be illegal. He'd have words...
He gulps air and whimpers, or chokes, or grips her elbow like it is the only thing keeping him alive when she pinches his nipple. Her grin is wide and lazy, small little laughs like pearls clinking on kitchen tile as she stalks him, already dizzy, flushed, panting. She is walking two fingers down his buttons without undoing them, step step, memorizing the weave of white cotton, timelines all intersecting to keep this button here and that button there, all to keep her from laving her tongue across his chest and seeing if the rest of him tastes like salt and forests, too.
A little light is blinking in her mind,
check the engine
the parking brake is on
WARNING: DO NOT PUSH.
"I'm going to push it," she whispers, mouth open and sucking on his shoulder through his shirt, leaving a darkened wet patch she notices with no small pride. He gulps audibly and her eyes snap to his adam's apple, new prey to follow and feast on.
"Push... ah. Push what, Rose?"
"The big. Red. Button." And she draws each word out like she used to draw out excuses for skipping class.
There is a banquet in front of her, and she is going to have it.
"No button here, just these bloody flowers."
Her lip curls. She likes curses as they tumble from his lips, she decides, little dancers trying to tango across her skin. She wants to hear it again, so she bites, hard.
"Fuck!"
And the dancers are whirling now, her nerves are on fire and she is not close enough. The sounds that make her shiver are not enough, little arm hairs raised in prayer and the electricity of her beloved.
"Wanna smell you," she whispers, tapping her chest. "In here, by my heart. Wanna hear the drums."
The final note of his rational mind knows the drug is curling trecherous fingers around every cell in their bodies, crumbling centuries of defenses as if they were made of a poorly prepared souffle. He feels them collapse like he feels her fingernails raising gooseflesh over his belt, walking their wicked way under the hem and discovering new and sensitive skin.
"This... very wrong, Rose," and he can barely finish sentences now, so fastly falling into this maelstrom of want that he is. Words like yes and Rose and finally juxtapose anxiously in his mind.
He slides shaking fingers into her hair and makes fists, trapping the blonde locks and making her look at him.
"Is it wrong?" she asks. Chocolate eyes are huge as they search him, and he is drowning, or dying, or both, he is already dead and thousands of years away and finally he has gotten somewhere that makes him happy.
Breathe. Think.
In.
Out.
"No," and he descends on her.
Had this planet not thoroughly ambushed them with its atmosphere, making them mad things slippery with their own lust, he'd have thought to warn her about the mind link. His open mouth crashes to hers and they come together in a surge of hormones and slick tongues and doors holding memories shut on rusty hinges. It is not long before the Oncoming Storm is weaving its wicked wind into every crevass of her body, surging through her like she has a sign up advertising vacancy and he has the most irrefutable bid.
He bites her lower lip, sucking it into his mouth to soothe it, sweeps inside her with his tongue while her mind shows him everything hiding behind those glittering time eyes. He feels the Bad Wolf's love and it fuels him farther, makes him harder as he grinds against the clasp and zipper of her jeans, crushing her to him so hard her breasts are more of an obstacle than any space physics could put between them.
They don't lay on their vermillion bed of flowers as much as they collapse on it, a force of nature made of tongues and teeth. Their bones ache to collide with each other, hearts hammering as if to rupture the instrinsic structure of their chests, and without warning or invitation he walks his conscious thought into her mind and marks her.
She gasps so fast and deeply her vocal chords constrict, biting down around syllables she doesn't know how to make but hears from him. He responds to the strangled sound with his teeth at the apex of her shoulder, mouth suckling along her clavicle, fingertips worshipping her jaw as she pants and whimpers.
The music carried in his blood ascends to a full orchestra, a deep and shuddering bolero as he grips her breasts and tears her jeans open, any gentleness gone with the breeze that tugs pollen from the very flowers that got them here in the first place.
The world is roaring.
Maybe, he reckons as his name spills from her lips like life-giving water, the drug wasn't the only thing; surely, as his hand dips inside the denim, the jumble of nerves inside his belly resembles something like love.
She is burning, soaking, scorching his fingers as he pushes as deeply as the angle will allow. Frustrated, he growls and adds a third finger, and she gasps yes and god and please while he shoves the restricting denim down with his other hand. It makes it to her knees before she impatiently wriggles and spreads her knees wide, still trapped at the ankles by jeans and socks and trainers.
She holds his face in her hands and whispers breathlessly against his mouth, "Fuck me."
And then he is inside.
In a still moment of clarity, their eyes meet, and the world quiets. The rustling of the scarlet forest calms in reverence, the time traces glittering across the expanse of their bodies hush, and he is a man before a map of a world he has never seen.
He explores.
His body is stuck somewhat awkwardly between her jeans and his trousers and her wide-spread knees and oh, but still he searches. An expanse of freckles tumbling down her shoulders like stars catches his mouth as he grunts and breathes onto them, mapping out the constellations as she squeals when he hits her deep. The coupling is rough and wild, unplanned on this crimson expanse, and the moment she comes his vision goes dark and he sees only the scarlet grasses of Wild Endeavor.
Home, she--
is home.
But he won't stop, can't stop, keeps driving his cock hard and fast and she's making these little mewling noises, over and over his helpless Rose is under him and she loves it and if he died a thousand deaths and saw a thousand heavens it would never be enough because he had been buried inside this goddess and burned at her alter.
He's stretching her wide and a litany of filth is falling from their mouths, tumbling across them in erotic waves and he can't tell who is talking but he thinks it must be him.
Fuck and yes and oh oh oh and there, that's Gallifreyan, that has to be him but with her swirling in his mind he isn't sure anymore, just knows that's she tight and wet and scorching and there her body is locking up around his, squeezing his cock from the inside and he can't seem to push deep enough, she can't stop begging, yes please oh god there there there.
And then he comes, and she fists one hand into his hair and the other into the treacherous flowers under their wet naked bodies, clenching into the petals until her skin is streaked a sugary pink and she is sighing into the air that brought them together.
In his afterglow haze, still buried inside his companion that was so not his companion any longer, he is stunned as she plucks one of the little flowers and brings its scarlet petals to her lips, kissing it. He hears her 'thank you' in his mind, feels love running thicker than blood through her body, and clutches her to him.
Naked and shining in an ungainly tangle of limbs and half-off clothes, they hold each other and tremble, both wondering if this is going to be okay. The aphrodesiac has burned through their system, but until they get to the TARDIS they both know it won't be long before they fall on each other again.
Shyly, he runs his finger down her sternum, trying to capture the desperate wingbeat of her heart. His Rose is smirking at him, finding confidence from somewhere in herself he always knew she had. They are both shy, and nervous, but they're also best mates, and Rose will not be afraid of being his lover.
Besides, there is a wickedness dancing in her eyes and he leans in close, brushes her lips with no drug in his blood except dopamine and oxytocin and that bloody delicious shampoo she uses.
They laugh breathlessly, high on the space between their mouths and the beating of their hearts.
The TARDIS can wait.
A/N: Little editing has been done in an effort to make deadline. Apologies in advance!
"I'm going to push it," she whispers, mouth open and sucking on his shoulder through his shirt, leaving a darkened wet patch she notices with no small pride. He gulps audibly and her eyes snap to his adam's apple, new prey to follow and feast on.
"Push... ah. Push what, Rose?"
"The big. Red. Button."
"We have to go," he says. "This isn't the way."
She isn't listening. The vermillion world is cloying, overpowering, its heady air curling inside of her lungs, expanding the alveoli, the gas exchange into her blood making her heart race and her blood sing and her vision fill with him. Time Lord victorious. Indomitable. Mountainous. Towering. Flushed...
"Rose, no."
It doesn't matter. He can say no, but the rolling fields of flowers under her bare feet say otherwise. They squish wetly and she loves the coolness under the toes, cold like she envisions his lightly haired skin as she drags the arch of her foot up his calf. The backs of his knees would have freckles, she just knows it. She could nudge one with her little toe, and maybe he'd squeal, or maybe he'd be too busy with his fingers deep--
"Rose!"
"But I know this is the way, Doctor," and she steps closer to him, steps between all those little scarlet flowers that touch her like feathers, like Gallifreyan fingerprints. She maps his biology with the crush of foreign chlorophyl and an itch in her hands to cup his hipbones and see if they work for handles like she thinks they will.
She has clearly abandoned all pretense of looking for the path.
"We have to get out of here, before--"
"Before what, Doctor?" she purrs, pushed so near he can feel the air shudder in the presence of two such beings. The mist roils over the canopy so many feet above but it still seeps down, caresses her skin, makes her slick in the jungle-like humidity and rose colored light.
"Before... before you... B-before I..." Her finger is on his lips, and Rassilon but he wants to taste it.
Might do, anyway.
Her free hand is playing with his suit buttons, and the drums inside his chest are wailing out a melody he can't hear because his blood is roaring. Sound, so much sound... when did he become light-headed? When did his suit jacket fall to the scarlet floor?
Stupid. So stupid. All of this should be illegal. He'd have words...
He gulps air and whimpers, or chokes, or grips her elbow like it is the only thing keeping him alive when she pinches his nipple. Her grin is wide and lazy, small little laughs like pearls clinking on kitchen tile as she stalks him, already dizzy, flushed, panting. She is walking two fingers down his buttons without undoing them, step step, memorizing the weave of white cotton, timelines all intersecting to keep this button here and that button there, all to keep her from laving her tongue across his chest and seeing if the rest of him tastes like salt and forests, too.
A little light is blinking in her mind,
check the engine
the parking brake is on
WARNING: DO NOT PUSH.
"I'm going to push it," she whispers, mouth open and sucking on his shoulder through his shirt, leaving a darkened wet patch she notices with no small pride. He gulps audibly and her eyes snap to his adam's apple, new prey to follow and feast on.
"Push... ah. Push what, Rose?"
"The big. Red. Button." And she draws each word out like she used to draw out excuses for skipping class.
There is a banquet in front of her, and she is going to have it.
"No button here, just these bloody flowers."
Her lip curls. She likes curses as they tumble from his lips, she decides, little dancers trying to tango across her skin. She wants to hear it again, so she bites, hard.
"Fuck!"
And the dancers are whirling now, her nerves are on fire and she is not close enough. The sounds that make her shiver are not enough, little arm hairs raised in prayer and the electricity of her beloved.
"Wanna smell you," she whispers, tapping her chest. "In here, by my heart. Wanna hear the drums."
The final note of his rational mind knows the drug is curling trecherous fingers around every cell in their bodies, crumbling centuries of defenses as if they were made of a poorly prepared souffle. He feels them collapse like he feels her fingernails raising gooseflesh over his belt, walking their wicked way under the hem and discovering new and sensitive skin.
"This... very wrong, Rose," and he can barely finish sentences now, so fastly falling into this maelstrom of want that he is. Words like yes and Rose and finally juxtapose anxiously in his mind.
He slides shaking fingers into her hair and makes fists, trapping the blonde locks and making her look at him.
"Is it wrong?" she asks. Chocolate eyes are huge as they search him, and he is drowning, or dying, or both, he is already dead and thousands of years away and finally he has gotten somewhere that makes him happy.
Breathe. Think.
In.
Out.
"No," and he descends on her.
Had this planet not thoroughly ambushed them with its atmosphere, making them mad things slippery with their own lust, he'd have thought to warn her about the mind link. His open mouth crashes to hers and they come together in a surge of hormones and slick tongues and doors holding memories shut on rusty hinges. It is not long before the Oncoming Storm is weaving its wicked wind into every crevass of her body, surging through her like she has a sign up advertising vacancy and he has the most irrefutable bid.
He bites her lower lip, sucking it into his mouth to soothe it, sweeps inside her with his tongue while her mind shows him everything hiding behind those glittering time eyes. He feels the Bad Wolf's love and it fuels him farther, makes him harder as he grinds against the clasp and zipper of her jeans, crushing her to him so hard her breasts are more of an obstacle than any space physics could put between them.
They don't lay on their vermillion bed of flowers as much as they collapse on it, a force of nature made of tongues and teeth. Their bones ache to collide with each other, hearts hammering as if to rupture the instrinsic structure of their chests, and without warning or invitation he walks his conscious thought into her mind and marks her.
She gasps so fast and deeply her vocal chords constrict, biting down around syllables she doesn't know how to make but hears from him. He responds to the strangled sound with his teeth at the apex of her shoulder, mouth suckling along her clavicle, fingertips worshipping her jaw as she pants and whimpers.
The music carried in his blood ascends to a full orchestra, a deep and shuddering bolero as he grips her breasts and tears her jeans open, any gentleness gone with the breeze that tugs pollen from the very flowers that got them here in the first place.
The world is roaring.
Maybe, he reckons as his name spills from her lips like life-giving water, the drug wasn't the only thing; surely, as his hand dips inside the denim, the jumble of nerves inside his belly resembles something like love.
She is burning, soaking, scorching his fingers as he pushes as deeply as the angle will allow. Frustrated, he growls and adds a third finger, and she gasps yes and god and please while he shoves the restricting denim down with his other hand. It makes it to her knees before she impatiently wriggles and spreads her knees wide, still trapped at the ankles by jeans and socks and trainers.
She holds his face in her hands and whispers breathlessly against his mouth, "Fuck me."
And then he is inside.
In a still moment of clarity, their eyes meet, and the world quiets. The rustling of the scarlet forest calms in reverence, the time traces glittering across the expanse of their bodies hush, and he is a man before a map of a world he has never seen.
He explores.
His body is stuck somewhat awkwardly between her jeans and his trousers and her wide-spread knees and oh, but still he searches. An expanse of freckles tumbling down her shoulders like stars catches his mouth as he grunts and breathes onto them, mapping out the constellations as she squeals when he hits her deep. The coupling is rough and wild, unplanned on this crimson expanse, and the moment she comes his vision goes dark and he sees only the scarlet grasses of Wild Endeavor.
Home, she--
is home.
But he won't stop, can't stop, keeps driving his cock hard and fast and she's making these little mewling noises, over and over his helpless Rose is under him and she loves it and if he died a thousand deaths and saw a thousand heavens it would never be enough because he had been buried inside this goddess and burned at her alter.
He's stretching her wide and a litany of filth is falling from their mouths, tumbling across them in erotic waves and he can't tell who is talking but he thinks it must be him.
Fuck and yes and oh oh oh and there, that's Gallifreyan, that has to be him but with her swirling in his mind he isn't sure anymore, just knows that's she tight and wet and scorching and there her body is locking up around his, squeezing his cock from the inside and he can't seem to push deep enough, she can't stop begging, yes please oh god there there there.
And then he comes, and she fists one hand into his hair and the other into the treacherous flowers under their wet naked bodies, clenching into the petals until her skin is streaked a sugary pink and she is sighing into the air that brought them together.
In his afterglow haze, still buried inside his companion that was so not his companion any longer, he is stunned as she plucks one of the little flowers and brings its scarlet petals to her lips, kissing it. He hears her 'thank you' in his mind, feels love running thicker than blood through her body, and clutches her to him.
Naked and shining in an ungainly tangle of limbs and half-off clothes, they hold each other and tremble, both wondering if this is going to be okay. The aphrodesiac has burned through their system, but until they get to the TARDIS they both know it won't be long before they fall on each other again.
Shyly, he runs his finger down her sternum, trying to capture the desperate wingbeat of her heart. His Rose is smirking at him, finding confidence from somewhere in herself he always knew she had. They are both shy, and nervous, but they're also best mates, and Rose will not be afraid of being his lover.
Besides, there is a wickedness dancing in her eyes and he leans in close, brushes her lips with no drug in his blood except dopamine and oxytocin and that bloody delicious shampoo she uses.
They laugh breathlessly, high on the space between their mouths and the beating of their hearts.
The TARDIS can wait.