a/n: Angst, angst, angst. And the rating is for a reason.

Dreaming in Color

Part 1

Breathing heavily, the Doctor stared as Rose reached down between his legs and cupped his balls in her left hand, lightly squeezing and stroking. At the same time, the fingers of her other hand gently grasped his shaft and slowly stroked him tip to base and back again, taking care to flick the head with her thumb with a feather-light touch every time her hand moved back up. It was exquisite torture, her touching him this way, almost but not quite what he wanted, no, needed her to do.

He was reclining on the bed, propped up by pillows against the headboard, legs spread wide with her kneeling between his thighs. She was naked, magnificently naked, perfection itself in her nudity, a goddess with golden hair. He had always known she was lovely, and he had realized how truly beautiful she was on that first trip to Cardiff, but that was nothing compared to how exquisite she was in all of her glory.

Lifting his hips off the bed, he pressed himself into her hand in an effort to increase the pressure of her touch, but instead of grasping more firmly, she loosened her grip even further and gently traced patterns on him with the tip of her finger. He groaned in protest.

"Rose, please…" He realized he was begging, but he couldn't bring himself to care. With a wicked grin, she returned to stroking him, and he sighed in relief.

Before he could ask for more from her, harder, faster, something, she bent down and slowly traced his length with her tongue. She pressed her lips to him in a gentle kiss and followed it with touching the slit with the tip of her tongue. He couldn't suppress a moan.

"Oh, Rose," he whimpered. And then she took him in her mouth.

She swirled her tongue around the head, paying special attention to his frenulum because she knew what effect it had on him. His eyes involuntarily rolled back in his head and his hips jerked in a thrust he couldn't quite stop.

Her hair fell forward and lightly, teasingly brushed against his bare skin as she took him deeper. Her mouth was so marvelously hot, so brilliantly wet, he thought. She began to move, and for a moment he was overwhelmed with the feel of her mouth gently sucking as her hands massaged and stroked him. His head fell back against the pillows and he closed his eyes for a moment, giving himself over to the sensations of tongue and fingers and lips.

It was so good. So incredibly good. If he had been able to think, he wouldn't have thought it possible, but he hardened even further with her every touch. He knew he was getting close, but he tried to hold himself back, in part because he didn't want it to be over so soon, and in part because he knew from experience the longer he could hold off, the more powerful the end would be.

He lifted his head and forced his eyes open. It was the most erotic thing he had ever seen, her hair framing her face as she kissed up his length. Then she glanced up and met his eyes, and he changed his mind. No, seeing her look at him with love and desire, his shaft disappearing between her lips, that was the most erotic thing he had ever seen.

She began to move faster. She knew him so well; it was exactly the way he liked, kneading and stroking, sucking and licking, her hands moving to enhance the feel of her mouth, and he could no longer hold back.

Muttering an oath, his balls drew up and his stomach muscles tightened. Wave upon wave of pleasure overtook him as he began to pulse into her mouth. Finally when he was finished she released him and crawled up his body. She kissed him, and he opened his mouth, tasting himself on her.

"Rose Tyler, I love you," he whispered against her lips.

And then forced himself out of his telepathic trance.

He came back to himself, lying alone in bed, his hand still around his softening shaft and his stomach and chest covered in his come. And he felt vaguely disgusted with himself, having again telepathically watched as his duplicate self had sex with Rose. And more than watched. Through the telepathic link, he could see everything his other self could see, feel everything he could feel.

The first time had been unintentional. He had been unbearably lonely one night and in his sleep had reached out telepathically, accidentally touching the other's mind in the parallel universe without realizing it.

He awoke and found himself sticky from what he had initially thought was just a wet dream. Then he felt deeply ashamed as he realized the truth. He had intruded on and interjected himself into a profoundly private moment, albeit unintentionally.

The second time it had happened, he knew exactly what was going on. He knew he should break the telepathic bond, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He could feel Rose make love to his other self, and it felt like she was making love to him. It had been everything he had longed for since before his regeneration years earlier.

While they had been traveling together, despite the hand holding, despite the hugs, despite even the occasional chaste kiss, they had never been intimate. He wasn't so clueless that he didn't realize she wanted them to be truly together, but he had never allowed himself to take that next step no matter how much they both wanted to. And they both wanted to. The longer they traveled together, though, the more he had felt that crossing that threshold in their relationship was inevitable. So many times he had almost crossed that step: while comforting her after Mickey left, while she had comforted him after he had almost lost her at Queen Elizabeth's inauguration, as they held one another in the aftermath of Krop Tor. But despite the prophesy of the Beast, despite the feeling that a storm was coming, he had wanted to believe that he could protect her, that they had time.

But then he had lost her at Canary Wharf.

Years later, when he had realized she was coming back, he knew he wouldn't be able to hold himself back anymore. If by some miracle they survived the Daleks, he told himself, the first thing he would do was tell her he loved her. And the second thing he would do was show her he loved her.

But then the meta-crisis had happened, and he knew that for her sake he needed to give her up.

He had never stopped loving Rose, though, never stopped longing for her touch, and so that first time he wasn't surprised to dream about her. That first year after Canary Wharf he had dreamed about her every time he slept. Martha had never known that he was going to bed far more often than he needed, to pretend that she wasn't gone and to imagine the hand urgently stroking his cock was really hers. And afterwards to fall into a deep sleep, dreaming that she was beside him in bed and not a universe away.

After losing her the second time, he had found that the only thing better than dreaming about her was feeling her through the telepathic link. It was like dreaming in color, vivid and intense and beautiful. But it was better than a dream. While linked to his other self, he could see her again, feel her in his arms, feel her lips on his. Feel her surround him as he penetrated her. Hear her voice as she came. And when she called his name, he could imagine it was him that she meant. It was absolutely intoxicating. But he knew it was wrong, and after intruding on them the second time, he told himself he was never going to do it again.

But the ecstasy he had felt, with the accompanying rush of the Time Lord equivalent of dopamine, testosterone, norepinephrine, oxytocin, and serotonin, was truly addicting in the literal sense of the word.

In an effort to fight the addiction, he forced himself to stay awake for weeks on end. He went to dangerous planets and put himself in dangerous situations merely as a distraction. But when he finally had to succumb to the need for sleep, his resistance was lowered and he reached out mentally to his other self in hopes of repeating the experience.

It was being a voyeur in the worst possible way.

He repeated it again and again, with closer and closer intervals between each time, a drug addict looking for a hit. He began consciously craving the high of orgasm in a way he had never done before. But only with Rose. He longed to feel Rose's touch and hear her voice cry out as she came undone.

He knew it was counterproductive, seeking out this contact. He reminded himself time and again that he needed to stop. He needed to get on with his life and allow them to get on with theirs. He needed to let her go. But instead, unable and unwilling to stop himself, he did it again and again and again.