Jack Harkness was absolutely the last person that the Doctor wanted on the TARDIS, but this new body seemed to have masochistic traits. He'd been arguing with Rose, irritated and sexually frustrated, as always, when he turned around and realized Jack was still there, and was apparently staying, and since he'd angered Rose enough lately, he resigned himself to the fact. He closed and opened his fists a few times, trying to steady himself, resist the urge to bend Rose over his knee and smack that arse for being such a frustration. All day she teased him, implied he was incapable of the things that this Harkness fellow was obviously capable of, and then she brings him aboard. It wasn't enough that he'd been spending far too many hours creating elaborate fantasies about Rose that could never come true, but now he was going to have to watch her flirt and flounce with another man.
"Ready, Doctor?" Her singsong voice grated his nerves. While her voice was usually a nice and pleasant thing, he was far too tense. Instead of answering, he ran to the console and set about piloting, trying to think of a place where they were likely to lose Jack. Maybe a casino or a brothel.
The real trouble was that Rose kept touching Jack. She laughed with him and let her arm brush against his, and the Doctor noticed. He noticed the way her eyes dilated a bit while she chatted with him, noticed the subtle lick of her lips before she spoke, noticed the way she had adjusted her blouse, pulled it down just a tad when she thought no one was looking. She was interested in Jack, and the Doctor was filled with even more rage than normal at the idea. She was his, even if she didn't know it, and he really did not agree with the idea of sharing. At least not women. At least not pink women with yellow hair and supple breasts. At least not women that he had very much claimed as his own when he brought her aboard his spaceship and wanked off to thoughts of her every day.
The Doctor tried to put his urges away. This body was so new, still so raw, and he needed to get it under control. He needed to be able to hug his companion without wanting to jam his tongue down her throat. He needed to grab her hand and run for safety without having to remind himself not to throw her up against a wall and thrust his hand down her jeans. It was a constant struggle to get the urges under control. He tried ignoring them, didn't let himself relieve his tension for a full days days before he collapsed on his bed and took care of things.
He remembered days when it was easier. When his life was full of adventure, sure, but his hearts didn't feel torn apart, when his mind didn't carry so much guilt. But he wasn't that man anymore, any of them, and he also felt mourning for that. The Doctor felt grief over what he had lost in himself as Time Lord. His innate kindness was shattered, and it took Rose's coaxing to bring it back out. His sense of vengeance was high, and he spent more time than he should trying to squash that need for revenge. His ability to love without any kind of pretense seemed to be broken, as he found that no matter much he tried, he couldn't move his feelings for Rose out of the defiling and wretched place that he harbored them.
Filled with disgust, he shoved off the console, too irritated to think of anywhere decent to take them. Not that they minded. He watched from the corner of his eye as Rose leaned over the railing, giggled, while Jack stood on the other side smiling. This was not a damn amusement part, those rails were not meant for hanging about and chatting on. They were important structural components and the only fraternizing on them that he wanted happening was if he were to ever bend Rose over one and pound into her from behind. Not that it was a very likely possibility, but he despised watching them anyway.
"What's his problem?" The Doctor heard them muttering as he stormed out of the room, and he didn't care. Let them wonder which of their disgusting exchanges had driven him from the room, his room, on his TARDIS. Rationally, he knew he had no right to be jealous. He'd made no declarations to Rose, had never asked her for anything other than friendship, and logically knew that she had no idea how he felt. She made that clear every day: the Doctor doesn't dance, the Doctor doesn't snog, the Doctor doesn't date, as if she were trying her best to record and log every abnormality she thought she'd found in him to further justify why they could never be together. And he didn't care. Not really. He didn't care what Rose thought of any of it because he had no intention of ever acting on any of his lewd ideas, but he did resent the idea that she found Jack more appealing than him.
Alone in his room, he clicked the lock and made the familiar trip to his bed, loosening his belt and trousers as he went, resigned to the fact that he needed to release the tension from the day or he'd only grow more angry, more dark. Falling backwards on the bed, he took himself in his hand and began his ritual. He stroked, squeezed...but his body was tense. The Doctor was stressed, agitated, and if there was ever a night that he wished he could actually use Rose for the dark intentions he carried around, it was tonight.
He clenched his eyes closed and tried again, rubbed his thumb along the head of his cock, trying to distract himself, but his mind was flooded with Rose and Jack. And usually just the idea of Rose was enough, but Jack was an intruder in his mind. The Doctor reached down and lazily grabbed his own balls, growing more annoyed with his own pathetic movements. Rose would do it better, he thought. Rose would shimmy around a bit first, taking her clothes off slowly. She'd tease him, the way she always did without knowing it, and then she'd drop to her knees in front of him. His erection grew and he continued his fantasy. Imagined her tongue licking him up and down like a treat, imagined her eyes closed while he gently bumped her cheek with his length. Reaching out to his side drawer, he felt around for the little bottle. Poured some out, groaned as the liquid helped his hand slip up and down himself, imagined it was Rose's saliva wetting his cock.
Somehow it's not quite enough. He's bothered and uneasy and aroused and he just...needs more. Sitting up, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, rifled around the drawer some more. Found the photo, set it on the little table and then resumed his motions, his eyes glued to that smile. That mouth. The Doctor had a problem with her mouth, always in his mind, this idea of jamming his cock into that mouth, so far down her throat that her eyes would water. This idea of tangling her hair in his fingers as he pumped into her, his knees over her shoulders, pulling her in. He pumped faster, his body tightening in that wonderful way it did. No matter how tense he was, how high strung his body felt, that moment before climax always made it worse, so much worse, and then he'd come, and it'd be better, so much better.
When he came, he let out a loud sigh and fell backwards on the bed, disgusted. Rose Tyler was an innocent Earth girl that helped him save the universe here and there, and she did not deserve the horrific things he did did while he thought of her, or that he thought of her in general. The Doctor wiped himself down, cleaned himself up, and stared in the mirror, tried to wipe his face clean of the filth he was perpetuating. Tried to look himself in the eye, failed.
A/N: I love reading your reactions, please let me know what you're thinking so far!
More soon. xox Emmy