A/N: a short one-shot that might evolve into several drabble sort thingies if given enough prompts. Wanna help? Head over to my tumblr and drop me a prompt, or drop me one here :) In case you wanna drop by and say hi on tumblr, my name on there is BadW0lfBlue.

Also, this was based off of a pic I saw on there. I can't get the link (even if I try to click on the pic), so just go on there to see it. :P Basically it's a shot focused on a model's hand wearing this cute little fishnet/lace glove and her arm is next to her side so you see this white sorta dress thing or whatever beside it. And me being me, I had to turn it into a Tentoo/Rose thing because reasons.

No own, no sue.

It's a vitex party once again.

He's bored out of his mind already, the majestic grandfather clock in the corner ticking away the minutes as he shifts his weight from one leg to the other and frowns into his flute of champagne.

Play nice, Rose had said, and so he finds that playing nice means staying in the corner until she returns from her Torchwood mission.

There's shmoozing. There's money and power and so many high rolling stakes being thrown around between sips of alcohol and fake laughter that it stifles him, his retreat into the empty area of open lounge/main entrance (one can never be too close to an escape route) not quite as private as he wishes as he grimaces his way through a polite conversation and tries to find a form of escape.

And at first he truly is desperate, at least until he finds a scientist from the medical defense department of Torchwood and eases back into the scientific with great enthusiasm.

He's just getting into the technicalities of effects of time vortex energy on human genes when his brown eyes latch onto the vision currently standing at the top of the grand staircase and his words get stuck in his throat.

He can't breathe.

The whole room has gone quiet at her entrance and frankly the Doctor can't blame them.

The blonde cascade of hair he's used to seeing in a quick ponytail or bun is mussed just so, tresses framing her heart-shaped face in such a way that makes his fingers itch to run through them. To him, they look as if someone has already done so, the smirk playing on red-tinted lips certainly not helping that image.

He can't help but remember those lips wide open, breathy gasps escaping as he-

Play nice, he recalls her saying, and now as she begins to come down into the crowd, he can't help the images that dance behind his eyes as her small, soft hand lightly caresses the bannister of the stairs and gives him a view of the delicate fishnet lace hugging the blood red nails that scratch down his back whenever he hits that one little spot she loves so much.

Play nice, her hazel eyes say from beneath lowered lashes that he's seen fully closed in desperation for release.

But that white figure hugging number doesn't lend itself to that.

She knows this.

Rose sees it in the way his eyes darken into molten pools as they unabashedly follow the curves of her figure. She feels it in the running of his fingertips over the lace of her glove when he takes her hand, full of promise for later even as he returns to his scientific conversation with barely a hitch.

Play nice, she says later that night as he sits at the edge of their bed disheveled, watching, entranced as her still-gloved hands undo the zip of the dress. It pools to the floor at her feet as he smirks.

Because of course, ever her Doctor, he proves to her just how much more fun it is when he doesn't.