Of The Girl Painted Gold
This was a request by naty_seixas:
"So, what brought that on?" she asks later, face flushed rather thoroughly. He smiles into her hip and presses a chaste kiss (with those lips?) against the satin curve.
"Do I need a reason to make love to Rose Tyler?" There's a flash of something in his eyes, heated and almost desperate, a quivering strike of lightning against whirling clouds, something positively electric.
"No, but you've got one, so out with it."
He dreams now. When he slept before, he occasionally fell into a space between self-awareness and other shades of gray, fleeting images in gold and white winding around his consciousness. Never in detail. Never with the solid ache of those he suffered in the body of John Smith, never with the joy and passion and grief and rage that raids his mind these days.
The Doctor feels things so strongly now. Of course, he always has, but this is new. There's such throbbing impatience, birthed from the coupling of 900 years' experience and the sudden threat of human mortality.
His own deaths have always been a sort of leave-taking, but this... this knowledge that his single heart beats in tandem not with a twin but a lover, it terrifies him. Such dependency stirs in him doubt that lingers long after his eyes wrench open and his sweat chills.
But sometimes he dreams of Rose.
She's soft against him, even in his mind, lips bursting into that broad, tongue-peeking-out smile she reserves for him, eyes honeyed hazel, and he's slipping into them, gold rolling like waves over his skin, swallowing him, absolving him and burning, smoldering, melting, he succumbs to her fingers like rain, and he is clean, and he is whole--
--she fills the void, just as she always has. He yearns to gather his rosebuds while he may, so the poem goes.
Rose is his golden goddess, his salvation, and he kneels at her alter.
Sighing, she runs her fingers through his incorrigible mess of hair, swiping that spot behind his right ear, and he groans into her warmth, humming deliciously while steadying her keening hips with a callused hand. Rose hears him murmur her name, a prayer tumbling from his swollen lips, asking (begging) her for forgiveness, forgiveness for what, she's not sure, but tongue and lips and teeth are suddenly frenzied, and it's almost too much, and he meets her half-lidded gaze.
Anguish, hope. Such crushing loneliness, and then--love.
She comes as tears stain her cheeks.
"So, what brought that on?" she asks, a whisper against his neck. Her eyes are shut, but she's trailing her fingertips over his spine in a way that suggests she's not even close to sleep.
One chocolate eye opens. "Do I need a reason to make love to Rose Tyler?"
"No, but you've got one, so out with it." His clever, clever Rose.
He nuzzles her temple with his nose; she burrows into his chest, arms draping around his neck. It's so very tender, just holding her, so very home.
"I love you. I don't say it enough."
Her mouth quirks against his skin. "You say it every ten minutes."
"It's not enough."
Rose kisses that freckle on his neck of which she's so fond. "It's always enough."
As her breathing evens and slows, little puffs of warm air dancing against him, the Doctor studies his lover. Once, she burned for his sins and rose again.
Perhaps it's divinity; perhaps it's just Rose.
"So, what brought that on?" she asks later, face flushed rather thoroughly. He smiles into her hip and presses a chaste kiss (with those lips?) against the satin curve.
"Do I need a reason to make love to Rose Tyler?" There's a flash of something in his eyes, heated and almost desperate, a quivering strike of lightning against whirling clouds, something positively electric.
"No, but you've got one, so out with it."
He dreams now. When he slept before, he occasionally fell into a space between self-awareness and other shades of gray, fleeting images in gold and white winding around his consciousness. Never in detail. Never with the solid ache of those he suffered in the body of John Smith, never with the joy and passion and grief and rage that raids his mind these days.
The Doctor feels things so strongly now. Of course, he always has, but this is new. There's such throbbing impatience, birthed from the coupling of 900 years' experience and the sudden threat of human mortality.
His own deaths have always been a sort of leave-taking, but this... this knowledge that his single heart beats in tandem not with a twin but a lover, it terrifies him. Such dependency stirs in him doubt that lingers long after his eyes wrench open and his sweat chills.
But sometimes he dreams of Rose.
She's soft against him, even in his mind, lips bursting into that broad, tongue-peeking-out smile she reserves for him, eyes honeyed hazel, and he's slipping into them, gold rolling like waves over his skin, swallowing him, absolving him and burning, smoldering, melting, he succumbs to her fingers like rain, and he is clean, and he is whole--
--she fills the void, just as she always has. He yearns to gather his rosebuds while he may, so the poem goes.
Rose is his golden goddess, his salvation, and he kneels at her alter.
Sighing, she runs her fingers through his incorrigible mess of hair, swiping that spot behind his right ear, and he groans into her warmth, humming deliciously while steadying her keening hips with a callused hand. Rose hears him murmur her name, a prayer tumbling from his swollen lips, asking (begging) her for forgiveness, forgiveness for what, she's not sure, but tongue and lips and teeth are suddenly frenzied, and it's almost too much, and he meets her half-lidded gaze.
Anguish, hope. Such crushing loneliness, and then--love.
She comes as tears stain her cheeks.
"So, what brought that on?" she asks, a whisper against his neck. Her eyes are shut, but she's trailing her fingertips over his spine in a way that suggests she's not even close to sleep.
One chocolate eye opens. "Do I need a reason to make love to Rose Tyler?"
"No, but you've got one, so out with it." His clever, clever Rose.
He nuzzles her temple with his nose; she burrows into his chest, arms draping around his neck. It's so very tender, just holding her, so very home.
"I love you. I don't say it enough."
Her mouth quirks against his skin. "You say it every ten minutes."
"It's not enough."
Rose kisses that freckle on his neck of which she's so fond. "It's always enough."
As her breathing evens and slows, little puffs of warm air dancing against him, the Doctor studies his lover. Once, she burned for his sins and rose again.
Perhaps it's divinity; perhaps it's just Rose.