Complicity
I really do have a lot I ought to be working on, but what do I end up writing? Smut. Okay, maybe I won't apologize too much for that.
PWP, very adult, no spoilers, but there is a vague reference to a naughty conversation in chapter fourteen of Voyages of Discovery. Frankly, if you haven't read that, it won't make much of a difference. Did I mention it's a PWP? Right.
Thanks to
platypus and
ivydoor for beta work (a.k.a. egging me on).
"The true feeling of sex is that of a deep intimacy, but above all of a deep complicity."
James Dickey
"That's quite a smirk," Rose observed.
The Doctor continued to smirk, although perhaps, she mused, he was rather entitled to a little gloating at the moment. The room still fairly echoed with her vocal appreciation of what he had just been doing to her, and her body hummed with the energy of her orgasm.
She carefully relaxed her fingers, which had pressed nails into the skin of his shoulders, and traced them down his spine. His smirk wobbled, just a touch. He moved as if to withdraw from her and she wrapped a leg over his in protest. She could feel him still inside her, now soft and warm, his weight on her hips, his skin velvet and damp. Her hands came to rest in the small of his back and she smiled as alluringly as she could up at him.
"Don't have to go anywhere, do you?" she said, in a low, throaty tone.
"Perhaps not right at the moment," he agreed easily, and settled himself further down on top of her, shifting his weight to his forearms. She sighed contentedly and nuzzled his neck and jaw, her eyes drifting shut.
He returned the caresses with delicate attention. For a few moments, they didn't kiss, only made the languorous, graceful movements of nose and mouth against neck, ear, breath against skin, hair against forehead. He trailed his tongue along her earlobe with intentional slowness, taking it into his mouth and pulling once, twice, then moving on with the same care to the line of her jaw.
Her hands lifted from his back to his head, her fingers skimming through his hair. His mouth came up to meet hers, and she concentrated on nothing more than the feel of his lips against hers. His lower, fuller lip pressed outward and his upper lip lifted, encouraging her to open for him, then the faint movement of his tongue against hers encouraged further.
As her warm afterglow begin to shift into renewed desire, she felt a stirring, a lengthening fullness, between her legs again. He met her wide-eyed surprise with a drowsy, mischievous grin - almost another smirk - and moved his body in a long, rippling wave against her. Now, she had no doubt.
"Ah," she said, transfixed at the sensation of him hardening within her. "You're doing that on purpose."
"I told you," he purred, as self-satisfied as any tomcat, "it's not a reflex." He brushed his lips against hers and rolled his hips forward again, sliding in and out. She inhaled, finding she was ready for him all over again, and as she sucked in her breath, he kissed her in earnest. No gentle, dancing caresses this time; his mouth claimed hers with heat and pressure and deep questing of tongue. She lifted her hips up against him, once, twice, and heard his breath catch in his throat.
This was not a game, but they played at times as if it were. Who would give in to the other first? Whose name would be whispered or cried out in pleasure? Who would lose control and give in to the sensations of the flesh?
She didn't care. She gasped his name and they rocked together, his hips into hers, cheeks pressed together, her legs drawn up to allow him deeper, deeper into her and they were both then oblivious to any game being played.
"Rose," he said, not trying to hold it in, only moving quicker into her and reaching to push one of her knees up into a deep bend. She saw his lovely face, shining with renewed exertion, his mouth hanging open. Those dilated, dangerous eyes radiated lust and passion and darkness, but it was all right because the darkness was familiar, was his.
She could hear a rhythmic, wet sound, steadily increasing in tempo, along with the breaths he puffed out, the moans both of them made. They could make all the noise they liked; there was no one else to hear. He threw his head back and his lips pulled back from his teeth, a gleaming, glorious almost-snarl. For once, he allowed himself the luxury of sound; she felt his moans through her lips on his Adam's apple.
It was those unexpected, escalating sounds, almost more than the sliding and pushing within and against her or the weight of his body atop her that sent her again into spasms of pleasure. He let out a long, glorious groan and thrust into her as she tightened and gripped him, then a sustained shudder from his head to the tips of his toes as he, too, came.
This time, when his weight shifted, she didn't resist, and he rolled to one side and pulled her up against him. She released all the air from her lungs in a great, sighing breath of relief and heard his chuckle, but didn't rise to the bait.
After a few moments his usual urge to talk overwhelmed the silence between them. "Nice?" he said.
"You're just asking so I can flatter you," she teased him.
He leaned back and raised an eyebrow at her. "That such a bad thing? A little flattery?"
"You're a bloody fantastic shag," she said. "Enough flattery?"
"Well," he said, smiling, "you're bloody fantastic, too." He grimaced and shook his head. "That word still doesn't feel right."
"Use another," she prompted, smoothing down a particularly wayward tuft of his hair. "You've got quite the vocabulary."
"Shall I quote poetry to you?" he mused, contemplating. "Donne perhaps? Always the randy sort, he was." She tilted her head sideway, curved her lips up, and waited. "No? All right then, Emerson. 'Thou art to me a delicious torment.'"
He looked at her expectantly. Her eyes crinkled up while one side of her mouth lifted higher than the other and her cheeks rounded.
"Oh," he said, catching on to her expression. "Now, you're smirking."
And then they both began to laugh.
PWP, very adult, no spoilers, but there is a vague reference to a naughty conversation in chapter fourteen of Voyages of Discovery. Frankly, if you haven't read that, it won't make much of a difference. Did I mention it's a PWP? Right.
Thanks to
platypus and
ivydoor for beta work (a.k.a. egging me on).
"The true feeling of sex is that of a deep intimacy, but above all of a deep complicity."
James Dickey
"That's quite a smirk," Rose observed.
The Doctor continued to smirk, although perhaps, she mused, he was rather entitled to a little gloating at the moment. The room still fairly echoed with her vocal appreciation of what he had just been doing to her, and her body hummed with the energy of her orgasm.
She carefully relaxed her fingers, which had pressed nails into the skin of his shoulders, and traced them down his spine. His smirk wobbled, just a touch. He moved as if to withdraw from her and she wrapped a leg over his in protest. She could feel him still inside her, now soft and warm, his weight on her hips, his skin velvet and damp. Her hands came to rest in the small of his back and she smiled as alluringly as she could up at him.
"Don't have to go anywhere, do you?" she said, in a low, throaty tone.
"Perhaps not right at the moment," he agreed easily, and settled himself further down on top of her, shifting his weight to his forearms. She sighed contentedly and nuzzled his neck and jaw, her eyes drifting shut.
He returned the caresses with delicate attention. For a few moments, they didn't kiss, only made the languorous, graceful movements of nose and mouth against neck, ear, breath against skin, hair against forehead. He trailed his tongue along her earlobe with intentional slowness, taking it into his mouth and pulling once, twice, then moving on with the same care to the line of her jaw.
Her hands lifted from his back to his head, her fingers skimming through his hair. His mouth came up to meet hers, and she concentrated on nothing more than the feel of his lips against hers. His lower, fuller lip pressed outward and his upper lip lifted, encouraging her to open for him, then the faint movement of his tongue against hers encouraged further.
As her warm afterglow begin to shift into renewed desire, she felt a stirring, a lengthening fullness, between her legs again. He met her wide-eyed surprise with a drowsy, mischievous grin - almost another smirk - and moved his body in a long, rippling wave against her. Now, she had no doubt.
"Ah," she said, transfixed at the sensation of him hardening within her. "You're doing that on purpose."
"I told you," he purred, as self-satisfied as any tomcat, "it's not a reflex." He brushed his lips against hers and rolled his hips forward again, sliding in and out. She inhaled, finding she was ready for him all over again, and as she sucked in her breath, he kissed her in earnest. No gentle, dancing caresses this time; his mouth claimed hers with heat and pressure and deep questing of tongue. She lifted her hips up against him, once, twice, and heard his breath catch in his throat.
This was not a game, but they played at times as if it were. Who would give in to the other first? Whose name would be whispered or cried out in pleasure? Who would lose control and give in to the sensations of the flesh?
She didn't care. She gasped his name and they rocked together, his hips into hers, cheeks pressed together, her legs drawn up to allow him deeper, deeper into her and they were both then oblivious to any game being played.
"Rose," he said, not trying to hold it in, only moving quicker into her and reaching to push one of her knees up into a deep bend. She saw his lovely face, shining with renewed exertion, his mouth hanging open. Those dilated, dangerous eyes radiated lust and passion and darkness, but it was all right because the darkness was familiar, was his.
She could hear a rhythmic, wet sound, steadily increasing in tempo, along with the breaths he puffed out, the moans both of them made. They could make all the noise they liked; there was no one else to hear. He threw his head back and his lips pulled back from his teeth, a gleaming, glorious almost-snarl. For once, he allowed himself the luxury of sound; she felt his moans through her lips on his Adam's apple.
It was those unexpected, escalating sounds, almost more than the sliding and pushing within and against her or the weight of his body atop her that sent her again into spasms of pleasure. He let out a long, glorious groan and thrust into her as she tightened and gripped him, then a sustained shudder from his head to the tips of his toes as he, too, came.
This time, when his weight shifted, she didn't resist, and he rolled to one side and pulled her up against him. She released all the air from her lungs in a great, sighing breath of relief and heard his chuckle, but didn't rise to the bait.
After a few moments his usual urge to talk overwhelmed the silence between them. "Nice?" he said.
"You're just asking so I can flatter you," she teased him.
He leaned back and raised an eyebrow at her. "That such a bad thing? A little flattery?"
"You're a bloody fantastic shag," she said. "Enough flattery?"
"Well," he said, smiling, "you're bloody fantastic, too." He grimaced and shook his head. "That word still doesn't feel right."
"Use another," she prompted, smoothing down a particularly wayward tuft of his hair. "You've got quite the vocabulary."
"Shall I quote poetry to you?" he mused, contemplating. "Donne perhaps? Always the randy sort, he was." She tilted her head sideway, curved her lips up, and waited. "No? All right then, Emerson. 'Thou art to me a delicious torment.'"
He looked at her expectantly. Her eyes crinkled up while one side of her mouth lifted higher than the other and her cheeks rounded.
"Oh," he said, catching on to her expression. "Now, you're smirking."
And then they both began to laugh.