Complicity - commentary
Aug. 28th, 2008 09:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kalleahFor ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
unfolded73 from the commentary meme.
This whole story came about because of a comment that the Doctor made to Rose in chapter fourteen of Voyages of Discovery. I played there with the amusing (to me) tendency of some of the male half of the species to wake up with an erection, which the Doctor doesn't. He tells Rose: "Doesn't work like that. I'm not an ape. It's a purely voluntary mechanism." Which begs the question: how voluntary is voluntary? And thus was born a naughty little story.
"The true feeling of sex is that of a deep intimacy, but above all of a deep complicity."
James Dickey
I love a good quotation, and the fact that a guy named Dickey is talking about sex cracks me up.
"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.
He'd gloat.
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.
Foreplay is one thing … but afterplay is lovely too, and often neglected.
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.
I object to tongues being rammed down anyone's throat.
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.
I blame this paragraph on a comment from my friend Amy, who was much more experienced at fifteen or sixteen than I was. She said, and good God, I remember this like it was yesterday, "there's nothing like the sensation of a guy getting hard inside you." That was one of my earlier, rather riveting, sexual discussions. And yeah. That, too.
"Ah," she said, transfixed at the sensation of him hardening within her. "You're doing that on purpose."
Not that he'd show off.
"I told you," he purred, as self-satisfied as any tomcat, "it's not a reflex."
I'm very pleased with that bit.
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.
That always struck me as a little bit … sweet?
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.
You know, I think this whole story gets a little too much into all my personal preferences for comfort. The aural thing is mine, too. And David Tennant has too nice of an Adam's apple not to deserve some attention on its own.
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.
Fishing for compliments. As if.
"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."
From, of course, one of the deleted scenes from TCI.
"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.'"
John Donne is deliciously randy, bless his soul. Emerson? Maybe not so much.
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.
I imagine they'd have fun in bed, as much as they do everything else. Why wouldn't they?
unfolded73 from the commentary meme.This whole story came about because of a comment that the Doctor made to Rose in chapter fourteen of Voyages of Discovery. I played there with the amusing (to me) tendency of some of the male half of the species to wake up with an erection, which the Doctor doesn't. He tells Rose: "Doesn't work like that. I'm not an ape. It's a purely voluntary mechanism." Which begs the question: how voluntary is voluntary? And thus was born a naughty little story.
"The true feeling of sex is that of a deep intimacy, but above all of a deep complicity."
James Dickey
I love a good quotation, and the fact that a guy named Dickey is talking about sex cracks me up.
"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.
He'd gloat.
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.
Foreplay is one thing … but afterplay is lovely too, and often neglected.
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.
I object to tongues being rammed down anyone's throat.
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.
I blame this paragraph on a comment from my friend Amy, who was much more experienced at fifteen or sixteen than I was. She said, and good God, I remember this like it was yesterday, "there's nothing like the sensation of a guy getting hard inside you." That was one of my earlier, rather riveting, sexual discussions. And yeah. That, too.
"Ah," she said, transfixed at the sensation of him hardening within her. "You're doing that on purpose."
Not that he'd show off.
"I told you," he purred, as self-satisfied as any tomcat, "it's not a reflex."
I'm very pleased with that bit.
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.
That always struck me as a little bit … sweet?
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.
You know, I think this whole story gets a little too much into all my personal preferences for comfort. The aural thing is mine, too. And David Tennant has too nice of an Adam's apple not to deserve some attention on its own.
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.
Fishing for compliments. As if.
"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."
From, of course, one of the deleted scenes from TCI.
"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.'"
John Donne is deliciously randy, bless his soul. Emerson? Maybe not so much.
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.
I imagine they'd have fun in bed, as much as they do everything else. Why wouldn't they?
