Doctor Who: The Bright Asylum

By bowtiedbunny

Adventure / Scifi

Like a Seahorse in Reverse

Flashback.

The Doctor blinks.

His Flesh body is bared... in all its lines and space... to the glass of the dressing room mirror. Outside, he can hear the sounds of swimming in the pool- River, also wearing a Flesh, splashing softly as she waits for him.

Splursh.

Plish-plop.

He finds his naked feet tingling with the need to join her now.

So he lets them, tromping back out of the little powder cubby into the main swimming pool room.

A towel covers him below the waist, just a fluffy white thing of little import.

He discards it to the floor, shoving its softness aside with his foot.

He feels River staring, like a crawling of lilies up over the tips of his spinal column.

Without the towel, the girth added to his middle by Flamina’s weight is a visible effigy in skin and sinew, a hard half-ball of undercooked baby-flavored gelatin sticking out ever so slightly from under his navel.

He walks; the cement of the pool surround floor is rough on his softened feet.

The first of his toes dip under the cold blue surface of the pool.

He goes to her, and her blue green grey eyes watch him descend the hard stairs into the water, transfixed by the sway of his sturdy hips, the pale peridot of his own eyes braying a donkey’s hair-curling cry of indignation. How dare she look like that heavenly!

The form of him fords the liquid around and behind himself, nearing her.

River.

She is standing there, her hair flowing o’er, cascading down the skin of her back. It covers her shoulders like bits of ripe pollen, waving in wheat-streams.

“Fort Knox called, all the way from America,” he murmurs, flattening a hand across his belly as he laughs in her face, then pulls her hand around his waist, ‘... they want their gold back.”

She giggles at him, snuffling as his hair sweeps her face like a floppy brown mouse. He smells like hot sawdust, like cinnamon. Like a good clean rain. There are, however, spikes of rose water, small touches of elephant dung... spices. And.

Their arms reach, fingers grasping hair and shoulders and muscle and bone as they wrap together.

White melts into white.

The water churns in a swirl of thin fluid, forming mountains, becoming alive with their scratch-mannequin thrashing, their throes.

They meld like two singularities, black into white, white into black, the cliché of yin and yang as their bodies twist together, weaving themselves like a living Chinese finger puzzle.

Lips of wild water cast themselves onto the edges of the pool floor in hot waves that touch the walls in places.

Are they smoking, he wonders, as his womb tears open and connects with hers, forming a second short, tight tube of molded Flesh. He feels a hard tug, a burning rent, then the vicious shredding certainty of conduit as his womb shoves its contents into River’s grasping receptacle. Something connects across the Pond, as River shudders briefly. It is done.

The conjoinment soon withdraws like a splitting cell and dissipates. Then they both close off their wounds, recalling their material with a snapping slap of flapping body against choppy water.

“Don’t fall asleep in the pool, honey,” she murmurs, smacking him gently and grabbing his arm when he starts to totter backward, away from her, “... you’ll drown.”

Then she pulls him toward her bosom, laying his head against her naked breasts.

“We should probably get out now...” he murmurs from the relative safety of his twin cushions... they afford him such a lovely bird’s eye view of her pretty new belly.

She just smiles, and wraps her arms around his shoulders, helping him stand upright.

“Eventually, eventually...” she says as she closes her eyes and lowers her chin into his brown hair, “... please, my love... let’s stay like this... for just a little longer.”


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