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Author: Abelina
Title: A Splash of Orange, A Thread of Gold
Chapter: Part I
Fandom/Pairing: Doctor Who, Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler (Ten x Rose, Ten/Rose)
Summary: ‘Run’ was a beginning.  This is where we stop running. Rose and the Doctor in the aftermath of Krop Tor.
Setting: S2 – Post-The Satan Pit. Spoilers up to and including that episode.
Rating/Warnings: Adult/NC-17. Explicit sex.
Word Count: 5,921
Disclaimer: I don’t own ‘em, I’m just borrowing them for a while, without even a whiff of profit.
Banner: made by me
Beta: Thanks to yumimum for the eyeballs.
Notes: I am SO nervous about posting new fic after so long away.  Also, this is my first venture into this fandom.  I never write in present tense, except that this is how this story demanded to be told, so I gave in to those weird and demanding muses.

A Splash of Orange, A Thread of Gold photo ASplashofOrangeAThreadofGold_zps92139b7b.png
A Splash of Orange, A Thread of Gold
The moment comes with a splash of orange against blue and gold.  Rose runs to the Doctor and he to her, and as he pulls her up into his arms, she feels it pulsing soul-deep, a perpetual thrum in the fabric of time travelling between them.  It curls endlessly warm around her, singing through every fibre of her being, and something inside her beats an answering rhythm, ancient and new and everything in between.  She knows.

She has always known it, or at least, her heart has, or her soul, if not her brain.  It’s immense and terrifying and so much more than could ever be confined to the word her human mind clings to. Here in his arms, swinging side to side, she understands why she couldn’t see it before, not fully anyway.  All she had to compare to was a word, a single word that is only a shadow, a ghost of what this is, of the magnitude of what they are.  She doesn’t know why she sees it now, she’s only grateful that she does.

He knows.  His two hearts pound an answer against her one, and she can almost see the golden threads weaving between them, around them, through from him and into her, out from her and into him.  He holds her close and laughs the way he only ever does when they’ve found each other after being kept apart.  She doesn’t believe in fate, or destiny, or the idea that everything was somehow decided for her before she took her first breath.  He may have had her at run but their actions, their thoughts and feelings are their own.  She believes in him, and in them, and knows without doubt that they are because they have made themselves so.

When he sets her down his eyes are bright, shining, overflowing with emotions too epic, too extraordinary to name.  He probably could, in the language of Gallifrey, elegant words more complex and mysterious than the Doctor himself.  Or maybe he can’t.  There’s a thought in her head, a weightless tingle in her chest that suggests maybe, maybe, this is something even he can’t put into words.


Her name rolls from his lips, warm as tea, thick as honey, deeper than any pit with any beast could ever be.   And maybe that’s enough, her name as only he can say it no matter which face he wears, expressing more with those four simple letters than he can with even his most impressive speechifying.

“Doctor,” she answers, with more breath than sound. 

His cool palm cradles her cheek, and she leans into his touch, willing her eyes to stay open, locked on his, when all they want to do is flutter shut.  She reaches for the zip of the space suit instead, not really knowing why except that she needs him out of it, wants the reminder of almost losing him out of sight.  She doesn’t think she’ll want to take her eyes off him for the foreseeable future.  He helps, tossing the orange thing away in a corner when the job’s finished, then taking her hand and leading her toward the console.

There’s still work to be done.  The adventure’s not over until they’re safely inside the vortex.  She can’t quite let go of the worry gnawing in her gut over the words of the beast, but he’s so desperate in his reassurance—his own brand of desperate, when seriousness wins out over the hiding of a thing behind a joke—that she lets herself believe it in the moment, even though it’ll linger there in the dark corners of her mind for a long time to come.

They speak with the three on the spaceship, and when he answers Ida’s question, Rose can’t help but agree.  The stuff of legend.  Her smile is mirrored on his face.  Soft, subtle, understated and everything that they are not on the surface, but it’s fitting, too, and she knows he thinks the same.  He throws the lever with emphasis.  Grins widen as the time rotor flares to life, and they are away.

He doesn’t say a word after that.  She doesn’t, either, just squeezes his fingers when his hand finds hers again and walks alongside him into the depths of the TARDIS.  She’s glad when they reach the door to his room and he urges her inside with a hand on her lower back, fingertips just grazing her skin above her jeans.  Her muscles ache and pull from the tension, the mad crawling through ductwork, and, she suspects, from whatever drug they used to subdue her.  Sweat and grit cling to her skin and she’s certain she must smell of death.  Thoughts of a shower or a good long bath tempt her, but she needs the Doctor nearby, needs his hand in hers and his face in her field of view even more. 

She’s been here before, in his bedroom. With the lifestyle they lead, this isn’t the first time they can’t bear to be out of each other’s sight and the more dangerous and prolonged the escapade, the more likely the Doctor is to need sleep.  Those nights he doesn’t want to be alone.  He never admits it and Rose doesn’t press him.  His comfort is worth more to her than words.

Rose doesn’t remember exactly when they moved from her room to his for this, only that of late it’s his deep grey walls surrounding them the nights they spend together.  She never asks if he sought comfort from his previous companions like this, but suspects maybe not, or at least not often.  She knows by now she’s the first to travel with him since the Time War and thinks, perhaps, the sort of solace she gives him wasn’t something he needed before—or at least not with the same acuity as he does now.

He sits down at the edge of his bed and pulls off his trainers and socks, tucking the Chucks beneath the bed and tossing the socks into the laundry chute in the opposite wall.  His suit jacket follows.  Rose, more than ready to fall into the soft bed and sleep for a year or two, drops her shoes into their usual corner, and throws her socks in the direction of the chute.  They hang over the edge because her arms are aching and her aim is rubbish, but she doesn’t care.  She flops down beside him on the bed, but the Doctor bounces to his feet in a sudden burst of nervous energy.  He whirls back round to face her and holds out his hand, which she accepts eagerly.  He strokes his thumb slowly over the back of it.

Rose lets him pull her back to her feet, arranging her expression into what she hopes resembles a question.  The Doctor’s mouth is set into a firm line, his jaw tense, but it isn’t anger or fear that’s done it, it’s something else and that something is beating in her chest, quickening her pulse, and she thinks his own hearts must be dancing, too.  His eyes are shining, but darkly, deeply, open so widely his eyebrows arch and his forehead smoothes and so do the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

“Come with me?” he asks.

She will follow him wherever he leads her.  Rose blinks and whispers, “yes.”

With a gentle tug of her hand, the Doctor walks them into the bathroom.  It’s an oasis of coral in here, a mixture of orangey pink pillars and deep red walls that looks more like something one might find in a secluded grotto on an aquatic paradise than in a bathroom on a space ship.  The shower is behind a curved coral wall, through an arched doorway that looks simply like a natural whorl in the otherwise unbroken structure.  The Doctor releases her hand to touch the controls along the wall’s edge, the only hint of the technology hidden here.  He keeps his back to her as the water switches on and the bathroom fills slowly with steam.

Rose waits, knowing what’s to come but scarcely daring to believe it.  This isn’t something that’s happened before, and she wonders if it’s even happening now.  Tingly warmth spreads through her chest and her head and arms and legs are suddenly weightless.  A feeling settles in her belly, like tidal waves of a boiling ocean breaking in quick succession.  The resulting flood rushing in her veins is dampened only by the prickle in the base of her skull that worries she’s misreading the situation. When the steam wraps around her and its humidity seeps deep into her lungs, the Doctor faces her again with those wide dark eyes and she knows she isn’t.

His gaze never leaves hers as his hands reach out, and Rose reads the question there, plain as the freckles on his cheeks or the stars in the sky or every single obvious thing she can imagine.  She nods, making sure to keep her eyes focused on his.  Rarely is he so unguarded, and to look away now will risk breaking the spell they’re falling under.  Then his fingers find the zip of her jacket, sliding it slowly down, and the sound of the metal teeth parting is so loud in her ears, louder than the shower or her heartbeat or the ever-present hum of the TARDIS. 

The Doctor pushes the jacket off her shoulders and Rose lets it fall to the ground at her feet. Despite breathing so hard she thinks her chest might explode, she reaches for the Doctor’s tie, sliding her fingers along the blue silk until they reach the knot.  His eyes never leave her face as she works it free and slips the tie out of his collar. 

The tie falls from view.  The Doctor starts unbuttoning his shirt, and Rose swallows hard, grips the hem of her top, and pulls it over her head.  They undress in heated silence, shedding the layers one by one until finally, Rose steps out of her jeans and knickers.  She misses the Doctor’s reaction to her nakedness because just then he’s sliding his trousers and pants together past his narrow hips, and her gaze falls well south of his face.

He’s half hard already, and Rose looks without trying to hide it, because she’s imagined this more times than she can remember, and now’s not the time to be bashful.  He appears human and she’s not surprised about that, but she is impressed, and the little smile on his lips when she glances back to his face and finds him watching her spreads a wave of heat through her belly.
They enter the shower together.  Four showerheads rain down on them, one from each wall, and they stand in the centre beneath the spray.  The water is blessedly hot, just shy of scalding, but cleansing and vital and it reddens her skin but doesn’t burn.  They wash quickly, scouring away the sweat and grime, the fear and pain, letting it all flow down the drain in a gritty, soapy swirl.  The Doctor leans toward her, soapsuds still clinging to his shoulders, and presses his forehead to hers.  His hand comes up to cradle her cheek and she leans into his touch, this time giving in to the desire to let her eyes fall shut.  His breath flits over her face and his other hand lands on her back to pull her fully against him.  She presses her palms to his chest, one hand over each beating heart.

Once upon a time Rose equated intimacy with sex.  She knows better now.  Even with their bodies responding to one another—she’s wet and aching and he’s fully hard between them—this moment is the most intimate of her life in a way that is beyond sex, beyond the physical contact she craves like breathing.  The Doctor’s holding onto her as though she’ll fade away if he doesn’t, and he’s open and needy and vulnerable in a way he’s never been before.  Yet it takes more strength to let down the guard, to drop the shields, to tear off the armour, than it does to hide behind it.  Somehow it’s her he’s let in to see it, and she can’t begin to find the words to describe what that means to her. 

The steam of the shower is warm and heavy, but there’s a different heat here, too, a weightless sort that sets her skin alight.  The Doctor takes a step back, reaches for the shampoo and squeezes some onto his hands, the minty scent of it picked up by the steam to tickle her nostrils.  It’s her current favourite and she doesn’t mind that he knows this little detail, that he has a bottle in his shower as though it was only a matter of time before she ended up here.

“Turn around,” he says, after quickly lathering his own hair, and though he speaks quietly his voice rings loudly in her ears.

She does, and a moment later his fingers are in her hair, massaging her scalp, gently untangling each knotted strand.  She closes her eyes, breathing in the invigorating aroma of menthol.  His ministrations leave her tingling, a sensation that matches the tickle of mint in her nose and spreads down her neck and over her shoulders until she shivers despite the heat.

“…you’re not cold?”

She hears his uncertainty, the little hesitation in his voice and it’s almost laughable at this point.  Instead of laughing Rose turns to face him, wraps her arms around his neck and presses her body to his. 

“No,” she says, looking up at him. “I’m not cold at all.”

His arms go around her and he hugs her tightly, and it’s just like their other hugs, really, except they’re naked and in the shower.  As she thinks it, a soft rumbling rises up through the Doctor’s chest and passes his lips in a little humming sound.  She shivers again, his voice vibrating through her inner ear until her knees go suddenly weak and another burst of tingling heat erupts in her chest.  The Doctor’s hands move from around her shoulders and down to her hips and he pulls back just enough to see her face.  His lower lip catches in his teeth and he digs his fingertips into her flesh, tilts his hips and pushes his erection firmly, deliberately, into her stomach.

Rose’s arms are still wound around his neck and she hauls him down and presses her lips to his.  She expects slow and chaste, but his lips part immediately, sliding hotly, insistently against hers.  His tongue swipes over her lip and she answers his query by gliding her tongue alongside his.  Rose’s head spins and the heat of the shower pools in her belly, and she gasps into the Doctor’s mouth as her back meets the shower wall before she even realizes they’ve moved.

Desperate to hold onto something, Rose shoves her fingers into the Doctor’s hair.  He bites her bottom lip in response, and when she groans, a needy, desperate sound, he abandons her lips to nip at her neck, just below her ear.  She bucks her hips against him as the sensation rockets straight from her neck to clit, but the way they’re standing isn’t good for friction.  She groans again, only partly out of frustration, because the Doctor’s lips and teeth blaze a trail of fire down the column of her throat and it’s fantastic.

He shifts, nudging his right leg in between hers, almost lifting her up into the wall.  The coral behind her is forgiving, supportive but pliable and not at all scratchy, pulsing with the life of the TARDIS, and she feels she’s almost melting into it.  Then the Doctor’s thigh presses harder, right where she needs it, and Rose could be standing in a pit of fire or lying flat on her back on a rocky beach and it wouldn’t matter at all.

She moans loudly and the Doctor chants her name into her flesh and rocks against her.  Rose rolls her hips over his thigh and gasps his name.  The Doctor’s lips cease their motions against her neck and he cradles her face with his hands, his brown eyes hooded but intense as he pulls back to look at her.

“Oh, Rose,” he says. “I thought I’d lost you.”

She shakes her head, trying to swallow the sudden lump in her throat.  Tears prick at her eyes and she shuts them tight.  “I’ll always find you.”

It doesn’t matter which of them was lost and found the other, just that they have and they’re together now.  The Doctor presses light kisses to her eyelids, to her cheeks where her tears have spilled despite her best efforts, and the tip of her nose, which elicits a soft sigh. 

His lips ghost over hers and he whispers, “Not if I find you first.”

It’s her words from his mouth, and she smiles against his lips but doesn’t speak.  His hips haven’t stilled and neither have hers, and the way they move together, a gentle, rocking preview of where the night is undoubtedly going, sends delicious voice-stealing frissons through her.  So she nibbles instead on his bottom lip, imagining its plump temptation clearly in her mind, drawing him back into a kiss.  His hands wander as he angles his head to deepen it.  The moment his tongue swipes across her lip is the same moment his finger circles the swell of her breast.

Rose moans into his mouth, arching her back.  He cups her breast in his hand, rolling her nipple between his fingers in time to the strokes of his tongue along hers. Rose drags her hand down, over his shoulder and the lean sculpture of his bicep.  He’s got his hand buried in her hair, so she leaves his arm to graze his side with her fingernails, practically growling into his mouth when he shudders in response.  She works her hand between them and wraps her fingers around his cock, and he shudders even harder, pulling away from her mouth and gasping.

“Rose,” he groans, as she slowly strokes him.  “Keep that up and there’s no going back.”

She squeezes and he bites his lip to suppress a raspy moan.  “Doctor,” she says, caressing his cheek with her free hand. “We both know going back’s not an option.”

A small smile plays at his lips but it’s softened by the way his mouth falls open with each downward stroke of her hand.  On the upstroke he moans a breathy little noise that’s hotter than anything she’s ever heard.  Rose swipes her thumb through the little drop of pre-come at his tip, but he stops her hand with his before she can complete the motion.

She lets him, because his eyes are blazing and she has her suspicions about the tenuous nature of his self-control.  The grin that lights her face is automatic, she can’t help it, and it turns into a laugh when the Doctor’s nostrils flare and he lifts her up and presses her back firmly against the shower wall.

“You, Rose Tyler,” he says, taking both her hands and pinning them to the wall above her head, “are the most brilliant woman across all the universes.  About bring this old Time Lord to an embarrassing end.”

His face hovers close to hers, but not close enough that Rose misses the way his eyes follow the motion of her tongue across her bottom lip. 

“You don’t fool me, Doctor,” Rose whispers, belly fluttering at the possessive way he’s holding her against the wall.  “You just want to prove you still remember how it’s done.”

Slowly, his lips descend to place feather-light kisses along her jaw line. “As if I’d forget,” he says, biting softly at the pulse point of her throat.  “Really, Rose.”

He bites a little harder and Rose doesn’t even try to hide her groan of pleasure.  The only movement she can make is to wrap her legs around his hips, so she does.  They shudder together when his cock slides wetly along her slick labia.

Suddenly breathless, Rose still manages to speak. “Gonna show me?”

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Oh, yes.”

He releases her hands, and she drops them automatically to his shoulders.  One of his settles at her hip and the other draws patterns on the skin of her neck, over her chest where he paints invisible circles around the curve of each breast, and down.  His light strokes tickle, and she quivers when he writes across her belly.  She doesn’t know what the symbols mean, but she recognizes Gallifreyan writing and imagines he’s drawing upon her all the words he cannot say.

Maybe he is, but she forgets all about circles and Gallifrey when his fingers travel lower, through the curls she hasn’t got round to trimming recently, dampened not by the shower but by her own body’s moisture.  His touch is light but not shy as he deliberately avoids her clit, instead tracing along the outside of her labia before finally parting her, dipping his fingers into her folds and teasing her entrance with a series of feather-light circles.  He draws his fingers back up, eyes never straying from her face, tracing her contours slowly, coating himself with her wetness and biting his lip as she shakes a little bit more each time he applies just a hint of pressure to the underside of her clit. 

“Rose, you are so wet,” he says, as though it’s the revelation of the century, and maybe it is. 

He finally strokes the pad of his thumb over her swollen clit, sucking in a deep breath when the resulting zing of pleasure has her bucking her hips into his hand.

“Mmm,” he murmurs, experimenting with different strokes, different amounts of pressure, until whatever he’s done makes her inner muscles clench hard and brings a whimper to her lips. 
He repeats the motion and Rose’s head falls back against the wall as a jolt of sensation spreads through her and she can’t even breathe.  She arches against him and he slips two fingers inside her, never ceasing the motion of his thumb.  It’s been years for her and his fingers aren’t small, but she’s so wet they slide right in anyway, filling her up like a tease of what’s to come.  It’s almost too much, though, and she closes her eyes, growing rapidly lightheaded as he withdraws before plunging in again, curling the digits just so at the end of his thrust
She cries out, grinding into his hand, clutching at his shoulders with wild fingers.


Her name is a breath that flutters over her face while his fingers pump into her.  Their first time and he’s already managed to find just the right spot inside her, hitting it each time with those long fingers.  His thumb circles her clit and his other fingers—she thinks they must have doubled in number—tease her with light, fluttery touches, stealing what little breath she manages to take and turning her knees to jelly.  It’s a good thing the wall’s holding her up because she’s not sure her legs can do the job as ecstasy surges electric through her belly, icy hot and beautifully too much.  She squeezes around his fingers when he plunges in, strangles them when he slides them out, tosses her head from side to side and moans like she’s dying and almost believes she might be.

“Rose.  My beautiful Rose.”  The Doctor’s lips speak his words into her neck and the shivers of pleasure there echo those caused by his fingers below.  “You’re so close, aren’t you?”

She squeaks a reply, but there’s no air left in her lungs for more than that.

He grazes her neck with his teeth and slips a third finger inside her with his next thrust.  “You always come back to me, Rose.”

Rose’s heart thunders in her chest and her muscles flutter in warning.  Her toes curl around the little ripples of pleasure and she grips his shoulders, fingernails digging into his skin. 


“Rose,” he whispers.  “Come for me.”

Each slippery decent into her, every powerful stroke over her clit brings another moan, louder, closer together, until it’s one long string of incoherent noise.  Rose rolls her hips desperately, wildly, too far gone to match the rhythm he’s set but it doesn’t matter, because it’s wonderful, so much more than wonderful because it’s the Doctor, and he’s touching her—loving her—and she’s so lightheaded she thinks she might pass out if she doesn’t come first.

“Come, Rose. Please.”

One more thrust of his fingers, one more turn of his thumb, and Rose crashes.  Her orgasm tears through her, the tsunami breaking, rocking her back against the wall as the Doctor continues to work his fingers inside her.  She clenches around him, cursing into the steamy air, tightening her arms around his neck and completely forgetting to breathe. 

His strokes slow as she comes down, until he slides his fingers free of her heat.  She sags into him and he buries his face in her neck, whispering words she can’t hear, can only feel the vibrations of them on her skin.

When she finally finds the strength to look up, he immediately steals a kiss, a slow and tender meeting of lips that stretches on and on until he eventually breaks it.  Fingers stroke her half-dried hair, tucking a strand behind her ear, and he seems to be searching in her eyes for something.  Rose thinks she knows what he seeks, and hopes that he finds it there because it’s always been his.

“Hello,” he says, finally, with a small smile.

That’s perfect, Rose thinks, and she grins right back.  “Hello.”

She reaches between them and encircles his cock with her fingers.  He’s hot in her hand, harder even than before, and he gasps and shudders when she strokes him slowly and guides him between her legs, rubbing his erection along her folds until he’s slick with her juices.  The wide-eyed look is back, even as Rose releases him to drape her arms over his shoulders.  The Doctor’s hands grip her waist and he makes gentle thrusts against her, finding the right angle, nudging at her entrance without sliding in.  Rose rolls her hips in the same subtle motion, watching his face as his eyes dart over her features, gaze flicking down between them and back up again.

“Here? Really?” he says, in a high-pitched sort of whisper.  “I thought…”

Rose moves her hips with a bit more conviction, drawing just the tip of his cock inside and locking her ankles behind him to keep him there.  A tremor rolls through his entire body, and he stills his hips but she keeps moving, teasing his sensitive head until he shudders again and lets his eyes fall shut.

“You thought what, Doctor?” Rose asks.

He swallows hard and forces his eyes back open.  “Later.  In bed?”

Rose’s heart flutters at his words, and she smiles, poking her tongue out the corner of her mouth because she knows how much he likes it.  She links her hands behind his neck and pulls forward—drawing him just a little further inside—to kiss the water droplets along the line of his jaw.

“Yes, here.  Right here.  Up against the wall.”  She speaks the words into his skin, feels the hint of stubble against her lips as she kisses a trail to his ear.  She nibbles the lobe and feels him shiver, then whispers, “And later.  In bed.  Whichever way you like.”

“Oh…” He draws the word out longer than its two simple letters can convey on their own.  “Oh!”

“Yes, oh,” says Rose, leaning back to watch his face as his eyebrows arch high on his forehead.  The Doctor grins, a smile that’s wide and full of teeth and impossibly adorable, and Rose digs her heels into his bum.  “Now make love to me already, you daft alien.”

He buries his cock inside her in one smooth, hard thrust that rocks her back into the coral wall.  The shock of pleasure bursts inside and travels up her spine until her head spins, and she lets out a groan which matches his.  Rose’s eyes open wide but the Doctor’s are wider, and he’s gaping at her, lips moving as though he wants to say something but can’t find the words.  Rose wishes she were telepathic because now more than ever she would truly love to read his thoughts.

For a moment they don’t move, Rose pinned to the wall by his hips, their gazes locked on each other.  Rose’s inner muscles tighten around him, quite without her permission, and the Doctor takes a deep, shuddery breath, his lips parted, his tongue just grazing the plump bottom one.   He withdraws a little and presses back in, a tentative motion which she responds to by pushing her hips away from the wall.  He’s not small and she’s stretched so full that even this gentle slide of their flesh together produces delicious shivers of pleasure.

“Oh, Rose,” he says, and though he’s said it a lot tonight it’s perfection each time, and he starts to move in earnest, plunging deep inside her with each thrust of his hips. 

She feels every inch of him and revels in the way he stretches her.  She’s so wet there’s no pain, only sensation, and when she joins him in motion the feeling blooms, spreads, lights her up from her core all the way down to her toes and up to her swimming head.   Rose doesn’t try to hold back the noises, moans and sighs and other unnameable sounds of pleasure that punctuate the slap of flesh as their bodies come together.  

On his next descent the Doctor adds an extra little twist to his hips at the end of his stroke, and Rose cries out when his cock strikes her just there, as his fingers had done.
“Oh, fuck,” she moans, when he does it again. 

“Language, Miss Tyler,” he says breathlessly.

The third time, she lets out a moan that’s almost a scream and swears again.  The Time Lord smirks, a smug grin that stretches across his lips, echoed by the arc of that damned eyebrow, which would be infuriating in most other circumstances but is undeniably sexy now.  Yes, yes, he does remember how this is done, and when Rose tells him so he laughs and thrusts harder, presses even deeper than before, until her own giggle dies in a breathless gasp.

It makes him gasp, too, and the teasing grin melts away, replaced by hooded eyes and parted lips.  Rose tightens her muscles around him, using her grip on his shoulders and her heels on his bum to pull him in hard.  It becomes a contest of who can push the hardest, and before long he’s slamming into her and she’s driving onto him, and the force of them coming together sends blazes of light shooting behind her eyes and she can no longer keep them open.  She’s panting for breath, and he’s whispering hoarsely into her neck, words falling from his lips too quickly for Rose follow, but maybe it’s just that her own cries are drowning him out.

The shower’s still running, covering them in its ever-hot spray, surrounding them in a thick shroud of steam.  The same heat gathers in her belly, a whirlpool that’s spreading, deepening, growing heavier and hotter.  Small tremors shimmer inside, tightening her muscles, sending them fluttering around him as she squeezes him tight, and she’s close, so close, teetering on the
edge of the precipice and she can’t see the bottom.

They come together again, and it’s her name he groans into her neck.  The Doctor drives his hand between them, fingers seeking her clit and finding it with a single stroke.  It lights the fuse and the heat in her belly ignites, flares, blazes, and with his next hard thrust she tumbles over the edge, legs drawing up, body falling back against the wall as she cries out and shakes from the force of her orgasm.  The Doctor shouts a string of nonsense and thrusts wildly into her, once, twice, before his body tenses and he comes with a throaty groan that begins in a growl and ends with Rose.

Rose collapses into his arms, boneless and dizzy as he spills inside her with a few final erratic thrusts.  When his hips still the Doctor’s arms tighten around her waist and his knees give out, dropping them to the shower floor.  He shifts his hold on her, his cock slipping free of her in the process.  She groans at the loss of him and he makes a noise that might just mean the same thing, then manoeuvres them so he’s sitting against the wall with Rose sideways on his lap.

She rests her head on his shoulder, still clinging to him and unwilling to let go.  The Doctor cradles her head with one hand while the other draws patterns on her hip, and they sit there together beneath the running water for a long time, just breathing.

Sometime later, the Doctor’s voice in Rose’s ear rouses her from the light sleep she has fallen into.  “Rose,” he says again, nose nudging her temple.  “Wake up, Rose.”

“Mmm.” She tips her head up to look at him and finds his face very close to hers.

He drifts closer, presses a gentle kiss to her lips.  “Sleepyhead.  To bed with you.”

They stand on shaky legs and linger in the shower long enough to wash up and condition Rose’s hair.  Rose sends a silent thank you to the TARDIS for the ever-lasting hot water before they leave the bathroom to emerge in the Doctor’s bedroom.   A few pairs of her pyjamas have taken up residence here, but Rose drops the fluffy towel down the laundry chute and climbs into his bed naked.  She usually sleeps against the wall because he always wakes first and doesn’t like to disturb her, and snuggles down now into her accustomed place.  The mattress cradles her perfectly and the pillow is blissfully soft and familiar beneath her head.  Rose turns onto her side facing the wall as the Doctor settles in behind her.  

Spooning isn’t quite as new as it ought to be, all things considered, but spooning naked is delightful.  His body may be cooler than hers but his naked skin flush against her feels more than warm enough. 

“Goodnight, Rose,” the Doctor whispers, throwing the blanket over them both before burrowing his bottom arm beneath her pillow and tucking his top arm around her, palm unerringly covering
her breast and squeezing lightly.

Rose folds her arm over his and sighs softly, then wiggles her bottom back until it’s cradled quite snugly by his hips.  “Good night, Doctor.”

She doesn’t add sweet dreams, because if he does dream she knows they’re usually anything but sweet.  That doesn’t stop her from hoping, though, that maybe tonight he’ll rest a bit easier.  She knows she will, with the stress of the past few days shrouded by the bliss of the past hour, and she’s already feeling the pull of sleep tugging insistently at her groggy brain.  Giving in, Rose snuggles deeper into the Doctor’s arms.  The last sound she hears before falling asleep is the Doctor’s contented sigh.

>>>To be concluded with Part 2


( 2 have spoken — take the speaking stick )
Mar. 2nd, 2014 11:12 am (UTC)
I meant to say yesterday, but hats off for managing it in present tense. You did a great job :)

And um, not that you really needed it, but here's a little visual accompaniment to shower!Ten.

 photo tumblr_lq3pu6SrGX1qld80t.gif
Mar. 2nd, 2014 07:51 pm (UTC)
Mmmm, I can never have enough soapy Ten(nant). Ever.

Thank you so very much :)
( 2 have spoken — take the speaking stick )


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