Title: Romance in Books
Author: azriona
Characters: Rose, Ten
Rating: R for implied sexual situations
Summary: Romance as shown in books is highly overrated. Post-porn.
A/N: My response to the_tenzo's latest porn-prompt meme. Yes, I'm late. No, there's no actual porn here. Life is very hard. I'd like to state for the record that as far as my addled brain can recall, this is the first fiction I've written since my son Andrew appeared. (Anything I've posted since December was written before his arrival.) My prompt is at the end of the story. Beta'ed by LJ's earlgreytea68.
Romance in Books
In books, the moments after having experienced a mind-blowing, TARDIS-shattering orgasm were always described as peaceful. Either one was meant to be floating in space, just sort of drifting, or maybe one's entire body relaxed as though having finished running a marathon, every nerve snapping, elastic and electric all at once.
Either way, Rose figured it was supposed to be serene and lovely, a time to cherish and remember fondly in the moments where her life was flashing before her eyes as she was about to be killed by another of the Doctor's "beautiful creatures".
Funny, they never actually made the highlight reels.
"So I was thinking," said the Doctor, just as if he wasn't perched on top of and inside her, as if they were continuing a conversation which had momentarily stalled for some other, less sweaty reason. Like one of them had sneezed. "You know that planet, Delrinium, the one that had the infestation of gnome rats?"
Rose stared at him. It wasn't hard; he hadn't moved a muscle since he'd last moved a muscle, so to speak. "Gnome rats? You were thinking of gnome rats?"
"Well, not the gnome rats, of course not," said the Doctor, highly affronted. "But did you notice behind the greenhouses, there was this fantastic field of poppies? Not red ones, purple ones, great lovely purple poppies, and I don't think I have any of those in the TARDIS garden, and really, they'd be a nice addition, don't you think?"
"Poppies," repeated Rose. The Doctor settled his arms on either side of her, and she wondered if he planned to take root right there, in between her legs, like he was planning to let the poppies take root in the TARDIS garden.
"You like poppies, don't you?" he asked. If there was any worry in his tone, it was because Rose imagined it there.
"Oh, I like poppies just fine," said Rose.
"Good! So we'll nip back to Delrinium and plunder some poppies. And if we're going to do a spat of gardening, perhaps we should stop and pick up some fertilizer on Poosh – excellent fertilizer there – and...goodness. You'll need some gardening gear, won't you? Maybe there's something in the wardrobe."
"Oh, I'm sure," said Rose dryly. It was the only thing dry about her, she thought, as she became aware of the damp sheet wedged just under the small of her back.
"Amazing what's in that wardrobe. Do you know, I found a coat in there the other day—"
"A coat? In the wardrobe?" asked Rose, wondering if sarcasm worked the same way when naked.
"Look at the cheek on you," chided the Doctor.
"You did that already. Is this new coat better than the one from Janis Joplin?"
"Oi!" said the Doctor, highly affronted. "Don't malign my Janis coat."
"I wasn't maligning your coat. I'm just trying to find a basis for comparison."
"It's nothing like my Janis coat," said the Doctor, still mildly upset at the imagined insult to his beloved coat. "This coat is velvet. And purple. And has ruffles."
Rose shifted, just a little, hoping it might dislodge him. No luck. "It sounds awful," she said.
"I loved that coat once," said the Doctor wistfully. "Don't suppose you think I could pull off a velvet coat these days?"
"Why don't you go get it and let me judge?" said Rose slyly.
It didn't work. "Probably smells of mothballs," he said glumly. "I haven't seen that coat in...oh, centuries. Maybe less. You, now—"
"I'm not wearing a moth-eaten velvet coat, no matter how many ruffles it has."
"No, of course not. But if you wanted to see me in one, we could find another. Lovely velvet coats in the 17th century. We could pop back to the 17th century, Rose, wouldn't you like that?"
"Excellent – let's go now?"
"Only," mused the Doctor, oblivious to Rose's sigh, "I still have to fix the transduction relays before we can run through the Vortex. The cross-couplers are still misaligned – wouldn't do to try for 1659 France and end in up 1748 Germany. Completely wrong for velvet coats."
"You should go do that, then," said Rose. Her legs were beginning to go numb.
"Although...1748 France wouldn't be so bad. You and Reinette got on, didn't you?"
"Doctor," said Rose.
"Hmm?"
"Off."
"Off what?"
"Off me."
The Doctor made a face. "What did you do to make Reinette go off you?"
Time Lords and Humans had one thing in common: where their men kept their brains. Rose put her hands on his shoulders, and pushed. The Doctor rolled over to the side with a "pop", as certain appendages released themselves and flopped damply to the bed sheets.
"Thank you," said Rose sweetly, and reached for her bathrobe. "You have relays or whatsits to fix, don't you?"
"Er," said the Doctor.
"Off you go then," said Rose, and headed into the lavatory. At least the TARDIS understood. The water in the shower was exactly the right temperature, and pounded on her back almost as if she were having a massage.
In books, Rose thought as she stood under the spray, the man would have followed her into the shower to apologize, and he'd lean in for a tender kiss, which would quickly become un-tender but still extremely wonderful, particularly under the hot spray of water.
Instead, the Doctor stuck his head through the doorway.
"Rose?" he called over the spray. "Forget Delrinium. The world's best chips are on Pashencitkangout. Not quite potatoes, but they're seasoned so well you'd never notice. They both crunch and melt in your mouth. What do you think?"
Rose grinned through the steamed-up glass. Some things were better than romance found in books.
"Fantastic," she said.
Prompt: Every visitor feels compelled to linger, and is loath to go.