Dimly-Lit by DearDiary
Rose jerks upon hearing the Doctor's voice resonating loudly in the claustrophobically small dungeon cell. They've both been quiet for some time now. Him, brooding, fuming and glaring at any passing guard. Her, silent, because, despite the guards providing water and sustenance, the provisions are meager even if the Doctor gives her 80% of his meals. Rose doesn't feel like she is on the verge of death, oh no, the Doctor does everything within his power to make the forced 'experience' as pleasant and tolerable for Rose as possible. Still, she dreams a lot about swimming in a cold, refreshing lake, drinking water while diving; she fantasizes about washing hair with her favourite strawberry shampoo; she daydreams about cocooning in the Doctor's leather jacket, pressed protectively to his side when they will be finally released.
Most importantly, however, Rose has been dreaming about caressing the scruff that has started to appear on the Doctor's chiselled face. She wonders how scratchy it would feel under her trembling fingers, what sounds the Doctor would make while suffering through her delirious affections. Rose ponders if he would be a feisty, in-control, domineering lover or if there is something sweet brimming in his veins that would make him a gentle, considerate, careful partner. It isn't entirely impossible, Rose knows for sure how tender and soothing the Doctor can be first-handedly. Maybe, the Doctor would be of both natures? God knew the Time Lord's moods were mercurial, so, it wasn't unsafe to assume that some days he'd be an affectionate lover, whispering soft confessions into the valley between her breasts, and some days he could do to her as he pleased and whenever he pleased, loudly, roughly, passionately - Rose certainly wouldn't mind.
Just as Rose doesn't mind the fact that the guards had confiscated the Doctor's leather jacket upon pushing them two into the stupid barely-lit cell without enough food and drink for anyone to survive. For all those inconveniences, the hard angles of the Doctor's silhouette are visible to Rose now without his ever-present leather armour. He's tall, wiry, all sharp angles and dramatic lines, and the midnight blue of his jumper and the three days' worth of scruff make the Doctor's eyes flame electric blue at anyone who dares to come close their cell.
He's dangerous. Angry. Still as a panther hiding in the tropical shadows, ready to protect, ready to attack, to break out and inhale revenge and freedom...
And Rose is so ready to pounce on the Doctor now, too. She groans miserably, thudding the back of her head into the wall she's leaning on, and closes her face with her dry palms. Stupid, idiotic hormones! She's right on the cusp of her menstrual cycle, and she is confined in a teeny-tiny poorly-lit cell with the main character of her wildest dreams. Rose wonders how she is even able to feel anything sexually-oriented now, being thirsty, hungry, unwashed for several nights. Yet the feeling is still here, sitting heavily in-between her ribs, buzzing through her veins.
Stupid ruggedly attractive Doctor! Stupid him and his Northern accent and wide palms!
Rose blinks to find the Doctor near her pathetic, traitorous body before he speaks.
"Rose, one more night. I promise, Rose, tomorrow morning at 11:35 Istrian time, the guards are changing, and the whole surveillance systems are shortening out for thirty-eight seconds precisely, and the sonic's fully re-charged now, look!" the man shoves the long silvery object into her now-opened palms, smiling reassuringly. Surprisingly, the pleasant weight of the sonic screwdriver outpowers the gravity settled between her ribs, and Rose smiles watery at the impossible warm colour of her Doctor's eyes. Bless him. For all his bluster at living nearly a millenia, he can be so innocent sometimes when it comes to her 'I want you!' signals.
The Doctor settles awkwardly by her side, offering comfort while clearly being out of his depth. Rose isn't fussy, though, and she gladly cuddles into his side, hugging his left forearm close to her chest.
She instantly feels much, much better when the Doctor's posture relaxes imperceptibly and he covers her hand in the crook of his shoulder.
Rose drifts off to the dreamland, surrounded by the Doctor's warm aura, feeling calm and protected even while huddling on the rocky floor of the dim cell. The smell of man's body, all-empowering, tangy, attractive, fills Rose's nostrils as she snuggles into the Doctor's woollen jumper.
The world is silent around them.
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