Author's Notes: This is an AU where the Doctor is a high end gigolo and Rose is his client. No, really. Told as a series of 26 x 100 word drabbles. The specific dw100 prompts used are listed in bold before their respective drabbles.

Sponge

Prior to meeting the client, I soap away traces of the day and begin the transformation into 'the Doctor'. I shrug on that persona readily – a thousand guises in one; a willing chameleon. I'm paid to be a blank canvass on which they impose their own wants and expectations. The real me remains a mystery.

I'm told, though, this new client's asked for bloke next door meets bad boy. Jeans, leather jacket, jumper – nothing wrong with a good jumper – it's what I wear when not on the job.

I wonder if this one actually wants me to act like myself.

Apogee

Nothing usually matches the thrill of anticipation that peaks before meeting new clients.

Tonight, though...

Blonde, beautiful, chattering to the bartender personably (if nervously, her eyes flicking about expectantly, giving her away). Too young for a career woman. A casual observer might expect her to be the one making a living off her body, really.

I've been at this a while. I've seen all sorts. But while her type sometimes wants the boyfriend experience, it's harder to imagine why she'd pay my exorbitant rates for sex alone.

Even now I've seen her, she's still an unknown element.

I like surprises.

Haughty

She doesn't put on airs when I approach, as some of my female clients do, playing hard to get, or even pretending they're above the likes of me (some of them actually believe they are, of course; wealthy society wives who look down on me for having to work to support myself even while they're happily enjoying the fruits of my labours).

Nor does she try to pretend she's here for anything other than the obvious.

For all that she's difficult to read, she somehow still projects a kind of refreshing openness.

"Rose?" I greet.

Her answering smile is stunning.

Reflection

She's looking everywhere but at me. At first I suspect the agency might have done a poor job of matching us. Women like her – at least the ones willing to pay my price – generally prefer 'pretty boys'.

Then I spy her reflection in the lift's mirrored wall. She's clearly trying to restrain the blush currently tickling at her cheekbones.

I'm unexpectedly charmed. Oh, I frequently see first-timers who faff around beforehand, but this isn't the usual kind of I-can't-believe-I'm-doing-this embarrassment.

If I had to guess, I'd say it's that she enjoys the look of me more than she'd perhaps expected.

Storey

She doesn't even glance out the ninth-storey window across the view of London, though she does linger over the room's grand interior. Her expression suggests she hasn't often seen anything quite this lavishly posh.

I caught an East End accent earlier. She might be new to having money. Not that I don't like how her jeans and T-shirt make her look natural, like I've just run into her on her way to a uni class, but it's hardly an expensive wardrobe. Yet she's splurging on a few hours in a hotel room with a stranger.

There's definitely a story there.

Delusion

I'm under no delusions that this is anything other than Rose's first time paying for companionship. She didn't spare the time to hand over the cash up front or to go freshen up in the ensuite first; definitely green. Of course, I should rightly have insisted on both. I usually would have.

But somehow I can't be bothered pausing for the usual niceties. Not when her intimate touches are setting my skin on fire. She's certainly not inexperienced at that part of this.

I don't think it's just the little blue pills that already have me so ready and eager.

Pounce

Usually when someone just pounces on me, especially a new client, I feel like they do it because they don't know how else to go about things, and they're just trying to get past that awkward 'should I undress you, touch you, suck you now?' stage. Being a gigolo isn't any different than being on a first date, in some ways.

Not so with Rose. When she suddenly ambushes me in a forceful kiss, it feels more like a rubber band, pulled too taut for too long, finally snapping back into place. It's like a relief, for me as well.

Oblique

I expect her to go straight for the inviting bed. It's not a matter of inexperience so much as comfort for most; sex up against the wall or on the carpet or bent over the arm of the couch might seem more risqué in theory, but nothing really beats a nice soft mattress.

Rose doesn't make a beeline for it, though it does seem that's our eventual destination. I let her direct us around the circuitous way, shoving me and letting herself be handled in turn, briefly making noteworthy uses of the walls and furniture.

We never once stop touching.

Point

Even though I enjoy the way she takes charge, I can spare a few brain cells (just a few, mind) to ponder how determined she seems that all this should progress a certain way. Her way. There's a reason she's here, I think, and it's not simply sex.

Whether there's something she means to forget, to remember, or something else, there's a specific point to the way she's gone about this.

I just hope that doesn't suggest it's a one-off to exorcise some unspoken need. I find I already feel a desire to ask her to come a second time.

Near Miss

Though no one is under the impression that love's actually somehow involved (well, not usually, though sometimes clients get too attached), a lot of women pay me to 'make love' to them, soft and sweet.

I don't mind. I like taking my time, drawing out foreplay so that it's practically the main event, all smooth touches unhindered by the usual fumbling of a less practiced or more selfish partner.

Maybe I'll do that with Rose next time, if she returns.

Right now, there's something exciting about being so frantically caught up in each other that we nearly miss the bed.

Period

There's a stretch of many minutes on end when she traps my hands, entwining them firmly with hers. I'm forced to rely only on lips against skin and the sinuous sliding of limbs to give pleasure.

She seems to enjoy it, though I doubt she intends to conclude with us just frotting against each other like teenagers; she's paid for much more than that.

Personally, though, I could happily continue to hold her hands, just keeping on doing whatever feels good with no other expectations. It's like a dance, casual in a way sex hasn't in years, and strangely perfect.

Break

I circle my lips around her breast, eventually closing my mouth around her areola and sucking before going back to tweaking the hardened peak with the tip of my tongue and playfully nipping at it with gentle teeth.

Eventually, enough is enough. She breaks my hands free from hers and urges me to put them to proper use.

I'm not quite done teasing, though.

I paint a thousand invisible languages over her skin with fingertips and mouth, until she sounds like she's starting to speak gibberish herself.

Only then do I let her guide me where she wants me most.

Storm

She's like something possessed when teasing finally morphs into single-mindedly striving towards our mutual goal.

I used to be like that. Like a barely-contained storm, I was told.

That similarity between us touches me. I want her to want to return, giving me the chance to make her lose her control as I once could, to form cracks in the veneer she's hiding behind.

I know what that's like, after all. Whatever she thinks she has to conceal, I probably have worse.

The knowledge that she might be as damaged as I am shouldn't make me hot, but it does.

Fracture

I can tell she doesn't want to draw it out too much longer.

Spurred by my own desire and her calls of, "Harder, oh god, yeah, harder, like that," I increase my thrusts, pushing myself deeply and firmly into her. With one hand I trap her arms above her head, pretending I've made her surrender, while with the other hand I try to make that a reality, playing her expertly until her composure starts to finally fracture slightly.

She's getting closer.

And, seeing the look on her face and feeling how it affects me, I find I am as well.

Fingernails

Her fingernails scrape at my back eagerly when she gets close to climax.

Some distant part of my brain – the professionalism in me, I suppose – reminds me about my other appointment tonight. She's leaving marks that will be difficult to cover up.

The rest of my brain tells it to go hang, thanks very much. I can hardly complain when my own fingers are probably leaving bruises on her hips as I plunge into her. A few scratches seem a small price, though I'm the one supposedly being paid here.

She's not the only one getting carried away, it seems.

Exclamation

When I come, I yell out, voice deep and throaty.

She follows me over the edge bare moments later – I've always managed to have fantastic timing, if I do say so myself; one of many reasons I cost so much. She, however, does so silently.

There's no time to worry that she mightn't have enjoyed it as much as she should have (as much as I did). She's claiming a kiss from me well before I've recovered enough for that.

The tiny breathless pants she presses almost desperately into my mouth feel just as well-earned as any number of moans.

Porter

She's paid for the room and tells me I can stay if I like, not realising I have somewhere else I have to go; someone else to see.

I could certainly make use of the wonderfully inviting shower I spied earlier. Perhaps I would if I thought she would join me.

In the end, though, I choose to wear her scent for a little longer, walking her down. The concierge orders her cab without bestowing any badly-concealed knowing looks; this hotel's far too upper-crust for that.

Her smile as I wave her off makes me believe I'll see her again.

Adrenaline

I never invite clients into my home, my personal space. It's a hard-and-fast rule. Not only do I like my privacy, but every knick-knack is flavoured by my true personality, which would clash with the illusion many of them want.

Rose seems to like the real me, though.

I've broken my rule for her.

That's probably why I'm nervous, even though the exhilaration should have subsided by my eighth time seeing her. The pounding in my chest right now seems hard and fast enough for two hearts put together.

There's a knock at the door. The adrenaline surges.

She's here.

Busy

She cancels an appointment, claiming something's come up.

Strangely, it bothers me not to know why.

Being highly intuitive is why I'm so good at the job. Yet I still know little about her life, nor have I sussed exactly what inspires her to book my time and skills.

I'm used to keeping my own life a secret. Most of my clients don't even ask; they either want to believe in the mask I present, or else don't want the mystique to vanish.

But I don't like being the one in the dark as much as I thought I might.

Stitches

As I'm trailing fingers through the ends of her hair, Rose asks, "Why d'you call yourself 'the Doctor', anyway?"

For a brief time I think almost resentfully about remaining silent. It's a rather personal question, actually, and it's far more information than she's ever offered me.

I can tell, though, this isn't idle pillow talk. She's genuinely interested in the answer.

"I like to think I can help people," I say hesitantly, half-expecting her to laugh.

She just smiles and says, "I think you do."

Well. She's voluntarily revealed something about herself after all.

Or, at least, something about us.

Resolution

Sometimes Rose is completely in charge, sometimes she submits more fully and beautifully than most who frequent that scene, and everything in between.

Perhaps her many facets are why I can't figure her out. It's frustrating.

But I eventually have to resolve to be satisfied with what I can get. At least I feel I know who she is at heart, which is what really matters.

Though it shouldn't. I should only care what she is: a client.

She keeps her secrets, and I keep having sex with other people for money.

Neither of us are offering everything.

Even if...

Weakness

There have always been clients I prefer. Some of the women (or, occasionally, men) who pull me down onto the bed are inventive and enthusiastic enough for countless hours of fun. Some who smile at me across the dinner table while their fingers curl elegantly around champagne flutes are genuinely fascinating to spend time with. It's not a crime to want that, or even to actively look forward to it.

But this? This is beyond that. It's a weakness.

I don't want to let Rose leave at the end of the two hours she's paid for.

What am I doing?

Hypocrisy

It's not love; it's sex. An enjoyable trick. Nothing more.

I forcefully repeat that to myself again and again, though it's hypocritical of me to lie about it when I've spent years being annoyed by those who don't know the difference, and so can't begin to understand my profession.

It's been ages since I've really felt connected to anyone. I didn't think I'd ever let myself again.

But if Rose stops seeking out my services, it won't be my wallet feeling the disappointment. I'd happily see her without any money.

So whatever this is, it's definitely something.

And that's terrifying.

Rank

Cash changes hands, but then I ask her to do what I want, knowing it runs counter to what she'd have asked for. It's an underhanded thing for a man in my position to do – I'll definitely never tell the agency I'm sullying the business name like that.

I simply hold her, her head resting against my shoulder, as we lounge against each other and watch telly for hours.

We don't have sex.

Though she doesn't object, I fear this step I've taken will probably drive her away.

But before she leaves, the kiss she gives me tastes of satisfaction.

Perennial

And she comes and comes again.

I don't cease seeing other clients, or taking on new ones (though that excitement continues to pale comparatively).

She might have a boyfriend on the side herself, though no, I'd be the one on the side, wouldn't I?

Though it's a strange relationship, it's still far more than I thought I'd ever have again after... before. But then, Rose Tyler (I've finally learned her surname, though little else) is a peculiar woman, somehow peculiarly suited to me.

I start taking someone's presence in my life for granted again, even knowing it's probably a mistake.

Forever

One night at a time. That's all we have.

Physically, at least. I'm a fool for thinking I could maintain emotional distance the rest of the time.

Falling in love with a client is a terrible idea, I know. Then again, I've always had to remind myself that's what she is. I only take her money now so the implication that I want something else from her doesn't scare her off.

But maybe tonight I'll tell her to keep it, and ask her to stay.

If I don't try, I'll never know whether I can finally hope for a future.