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[personal profile] greenapple
Doctor Who
650 words
February 2009
Adult content: explicit sex, concepts
Note: for the prompt "Rose/alt!Pete"
Summary: it's freezing on the observation deck of the Frederikshavn-Gothenburg ferry

It's freezing on the observation deck of the Frederikshavn-Gothenburg ferry, but she doesn't feel it. She wants to feel it, wants to feel something, anything, even the bite of wind on her lips and the steel bone ache in her fingers; but after Dårlig Ulv Stranden it's like she's turned to ice, inside and out. Dårlig Ulv Stranden. It means Bad Wolf Bay, but it sounds like stranded.

The men in her life are always leaving her, or she's leaving them. First her father, then The Doctor (her first one), and him again and again, and she figures the third time's likely the charm. She wants to cry about it, but after the scene on the beach with her mum and Pete and Mickey looking on she promised herself she was through crying for him, and she means to keep that promise.

"Come inside, Rose."

She doesn't turn, doesn't acknowledge him. He leans on the railing and looks out over the water, the gray wake of the ship, and she thinks he's searching for the right words of comfort, and she wants to tell him there's nothing he can say so he may as well leave off. He brushes her elbow with his. She tells herself it's comfortable, that they have a comfortable relationship, and that this is a comfortable silence. Not what it really is, not what it always has been: a dance, a dangerous pull and push, a fight.

"Come inside, Rose," he says, his shoulder turned to shelter her from the wind, his voice in her ear, words meant for only her to hear.

He walks behind her, a hand on her shoulder. Through crowds of people, and all she can feel is him, his unseen body like a weight on her back. He flexes his fingers to dig deeper into her shoulder, and she wants to run away; her chest feels too tight, and she's flooding wet, and she's afraid.

The heavy stairwell doors close behind them, and there's only a weak yellow glow from a single light above, and the ship moves beneath her like a living thing.

He bites her lips and she feels herself melting; she guides his hand and she's a furnace, she's a fire.

She urges him down on his knees. The soft rub of his hair under her hand, and then on her belly when he pushes her skirt up so she can't see his face. Clothing tugged roughly aside and then his too-hot, too-soft mouth on her; tongue darting out to touch her hole, but knowing better than to lick her. Instead using his parted lips to bring her, too quickly, to almost-there. To shiver and fever and the violence of sex, to where she just doesn't care, about him or herself or anything. She only needs the feel of his lips, his tongue. His fingers, knuckles raw inside her. He sucks her clit, pushing down on her and pulling her apart.

She yanks at her skirt, wanting to see his face, wanting to see him do this to her. Under blur of half-closed eyes, the short hair and the shape of his face, it could be him. But that's wrong, she feels instantly that it's wrong, that it was always this face, this man she'd wanted to see on his knees. Always, always, and forever.

"So pretty," he says, watching her grip his fingers as she comes, her cunt slick and flushed rose.

He breathes ragged over her thigh, wiping his chin, wet with her. Says, "He can't say it, but I can, love." And it feels wrong, it feels like a betrayal, and there's a clock in her head that's ticking backwards and forwards and sideways with a confusion of versions and realities and origins; but she strokes his cheek and he leans into it, and he mouths the words silently into the cup of her hand.

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