A/N: Well. I guess this is for the few of you who told me I shouldn't worry about posting long chapters. This is long. As in, maybe-keep-a-snack-handy-if-you-get-hungry-midway-through-it long. It's also very smutty. Fair warning.
I would like to thank Laura wholeheartedly for being my personal cheerleader through the writing and painful editing of this monster. This wouldn't have been the same without her regularly sending me gifsets of the Doctor wearing his glasses or ruffling his hair to keep me inspired and motivated.
Enjoy ;-p
CALLUSES
VIII.
They nearly get kicked out of the mall, in the end.
Not for public indecency – although their frequently loud laughter earn them many disapproving glares as the evening progresses. They've simply lost track of time, so engrossed in their conversation that they've somehow failed to notice how the place has been emptying around them, until they have to be shooed out by a security guard.
By then, they've already covered a rather impressive amount of topics, him in particular, since he's quickly noticed her reticence to talk about most of what she'd lived through, these past few years.
So he talks.
He talks about Martha in length, virtually recounting the entirety of their time together, including how they'd met up with Jack, eventually retelling the not-so-funny story of 'The Year That Never Was'.
He tells her about the Oods, too, and how he helped free them from slavery.
This is the closest he comes to talking about Donna, that evening, his voice becoming brisk and his entire body tensing every time one of them almost mentions her name.
Rose eventually relaxes enough to tell him quite a bit about what she'd been up to herself. Even after recalling Tony's hectic birth story (all due to very poor timing and lack of judgment from her very stubborn mother), most of her anecdotes revolve around her family. The Doctor quickly picks up on how enamoured she is with her baby brother, in contrast to her vague answers about anything work related, subsequently quizzing her about all things Tony Tyler – which includes making all the appropriate cooing noises and high pitched comments when looking through about three thousand pictures on her phone.
The mood shifts as soon as they find themselves waiting for their taxi, outside the mall. While they've spent the past couple hours talking, he hasn't actually spent any of that time babbling.
Until now.
He barely comes up for air, even once they get inside the car, going on and on and on about some fancy old decree he once helped an entire planet overthrow, all about how no one was ever allowed to be barefoot – 'not ever, Rose!'
She eventually stops him by taking a hold of his hand, the gesture enough to interrupt him mid-sentence. He's stopped talking, but he's yet to look at her.
"Hey," she says softly, squeezing his hand, and he finally forces himself to meet her eyes. "You don't have to be this nervous."
He doesn't deny it, although she can tell he nearly does, from the way his body tenses briefly. In the end, he simply clears his throat. "You may have noticed I've been struggling a bit when it comes to controlling the 'emotional' side of my brain. As proven today in many, many embarrassing ways."
"It'll get easier," she reassures him with a small smile. "Before you know it, you'll have come up with a whole new bunch of strategies to help you cope with those primitive human emotions."
"Don't be surprised if it means I suddenly start shouting at people a lot," he responds without thinking, causing Donna's name to once again linger in the air. He shakes his head, his body tensing as he averts his eyes. "No matter."
She watches him in the dim light, sensing how taut his entire frame is, aware that this sudden silence from him doesn't mean she's helped him relax at all.
"Here's what we're gonna do," she explains quietly, the way she sometimes speaks to her brother. "Once we get to the hotel, we're going to change into our jammies, brush our teeth, and get about twelve hours of sleep. Obviously you don't have to stick to that amount, but I need at least that much." After a brief pause, she adds, somewhat more hesitantly: "But…if you'd rather be on your own tonight, that's fine, too. I'm sure they'd let us book another room. Wouldn't want you thinking I'm forcing you to cuddle with me."
He's definitely looking at her now, unblinking, and the intensity of his stare is enough to cause her heart to speed up.
When he finally moves, he leans closer to her, his free hand sinking into her hair to pull her to him. She instinctively knows he's not going for a kiss, her cheek soon leaning against his shoulder as he buries his nose into her hair, and the way he slowly breathes her in is all the answer she needs.
To her credit, things play out almost exactly the way she'd described them to him, from changing their clothes to the teeth brushing, taking it in turn in the bathroom, so that by the time he's ready to get into bed, she's turned off all the lights and made herself comfy under the covers. She snuggles up to him as soon as he joins her, using his shoulder as a pillow and resting a hand upon his chest, while his arm loosely circles her waist, soon back to breathing in the intoxicating smell of her hair.
He's relieved by the fact that this tricky body of his seems to be coping well with their closeness…for now. He's self-aware enough to know this is only because he's not entirely focused on the moment.
He's genuinely comforted by her presence, loving the wonderful pressure of her weight against him, but the way he's been keeping things from her these past few hours has created another kind of weight upon his heart and mind.
"How d'you meet her?" She eventually asks in a quiet murmur, as if carrying on a silent conversation they'd be having.
Sweet, empathetic Rose. He's never been able to hide much from her.
He almost chooses to remain silent and ignore her question altogether, finding it hard to break centuries of old habits. He speaks, in the end, aware that keeping these emotions hidden inside would only make things worse over time.
"I was orbiting the remains of that supernova I used to say goodbye to you. The gap had just closed itself. I'd lost you for good, and knew you to be quite distraught on that beach. Needless to say, I wasn't exactly doing any better myself. And there was Donna."
There is a heavy pause, both affected by the memories of that day. "What d'you mean?" Rose asks, her whispering voice not enough to conceal the thickness of it.
"I mean, 'there was Donna'," he repeats, a small, melancholy smile tugging at his lips despite it all. "She literally materialised into my TARDIS maybe…seventy seconds after that last crack closed between our worlds. Shouting at me, the way Donna does. She'd been in the middle of getting married when she was pulled into my ship, so she wasn't in the best of mood." He shakes his head against hers. "I'm now quite convinced the universe knew I needed a distraction. Especially since it turned out to be Christmas day on Earth."
Her body tenses against him, her breathing briefly halting, causing him to frown in concern.
"Rose?"
She takes a wobbly breath. "When I was…back when I was…jumping," she whispers. "I ended up in this…this bleak, alternate reality. Donna'd never made it to you." After a pause, she adds: "You died destroying the Racnoss on Christmas day."
Another silence settles between them, anything but comfortable now, the air heavy with the echoing pain from all these things that were, and all these things that weren't.
"Yes, well," he tries, his voice constricted. "Can't say I'm overly surprised this happened. If I hadn't had Donna with me to stop me that night…well," he repeats. "I was having a hard time coping with losing you, let's just leave it at that."
Rose's body shifts, moving closer to him, her hand leaving his chest to curl her fingers in his hair as she brings herself higher, using her hold on him to bring his face to hers. They don't kiss, simply pressing their foreheads and noses together, eyes closed, needing to feel the other.
They let the seconds then minutes pass, comforted by this proximity alone.
"Tell me about Donna," Rose eventually speaks again, so close to his lips, her fingers moving gently through his hair.
And he does.
…
There is a wave coming.
She cannot turn her head, something blocking her muscles every time she tries looking out at the shore, but she feels it, hears it, senses it in the receding sea. Her eyes remain on him, standing so far from her in the distance, his face turned away.
Too far.
She tries calling his name, but her voice, just like her neck, refuses to obey. She barely manages to move her feet, sucked in by the sand, all the way to her ankles, it feels. Each step she takes brings pain, as if something within the ground had wrapped their fingers around her feet and were pulling her down. But she fights against their weight and the pull, fights to come closer, because the wave is getting closer, too, and can't he see it, coming right for him?
Doctor, she tries, but no sound comes out.
And still she fights, even as the rumbles of the wave becomes louder and louder, even as she feels the tremors through this shifting ground. She comes closer and closer, not once taking her eyes off his frame, as he remains resolutely turned away from her.
And just as her hands grab at his arm and pull, the roar of the wave right next and above them, he turns at last, and with a horrified shudder at the sight before her, she jolts herself awake.
Rose fights for air, the terror still gripping her for a few, long moments. She eventually becomes aware of his hand in her hair, of his face only inches from hers. They've moved slightly as she slept, their legs still entangled, both their heads on a pillow. From how alert he seems, she doubts he's slept at all, unable to recall when she succumbed to slumber herself.
Only when she relaxes her fingers does she realise she'd been clinging to his shirt. Unable not to, she brings her hand up to his face, their slight tremors visible even in the darkness. Her fingertips brush the thin hair of his eyebrow first, and she closes her eyes as she does so, not yet able to hold his gaze, not with her heart hammering the way it is.
She doesn't need a psychiatrist to tell her what this particularly dreary nightmare meant, from the beach, to the wave, to the man she loves losing his face. In her head, the faceless figure that had greeted her when he'd turned begins to regain some of its features as she rediscovers them.
She traces his skin, noting how smooth it is, still so new. And yet, even with her eyes closed, she recognises every inch of it, fingers gliding across his forehead, trailing down his thin nose, imagining the scatter of freckles under her fingertips as she follows the curve of his cheekbone. Soon, she's scratching the length of his sideburn, her nails catching on his stubble as she draws the line of his jaw and chin.
When her fingertips find the soft flesh of his lips, she pauses her movements, almost surprised by the feel of his warm breath upon her fingers when he exhales, as if only now remembering that on the other side of her exploration, there is a breathing part-human. Just like on the other side of the Void, there will always be a Time Lord she cannot reach anymore.
But right here, right now, she's got him.
He needs you, the Doctor had told her. That's very me.
In that moment, she needs him, too, any him, with such intensity that her insides hurt.
His hand has moved, too, just enough for his thumb to brush the side of her nose, where wetness has gathered. Rose reopens her eyes, and lets herself be pulled by his gravity.
The Doctor seeks her with a need that surpasses everything he's felt today, his lips finding hers as he rolls them over and presses her into the mattress, feeling her wrapping her legs around his lower back. One of his hands has completely sunk into her hair, feeling her fingers tugging at his as their kiss deepens, unable to keep himself from rolling into her at the sensation, overtaken by the sheer taste of her.
He's too low over her for his hips to match hers, the now tight wrap of her legs around his back keeping him from moving further up. He fleetingly realises how ridiculous this is, him, essentially grinding the mattress, but he can't say he's too bothered by it, the pressure of his body upon hers enough to make her shudder and gasp into his mouth, which only coaxes him on.
Even through the heavy haze created by their proximity, Rose has noticed this slight discrepancy between their bodies, caused by nothing other than their height difference. And she wants more, needs more, unwrapping her legs. One stays loose, while the other comes lower, her foot slipping between his legs, encasing his hip.
When his next sway comes, she pushes him upward, his momentum enough to dislodge his lips from hers with a similar gasp, having succeeded in bringing him flush against her, the thin fabric of their clothes doing nothing to hide how much he's reacted to her already. He takes the change in stride as his forehead drops upon hers, rolling into her, and her hips rise to meet him, her legs pinning him harder against her, increasing the pressure, shudders soon wracking the entire length of his body.
If he felt like he was drowning before, this is like being pulled so deep underwater, crushed under the weight of his longing, quickly becoming slave to those prickly tendrils of pleasure spreading fast throughout his nervous system. He cannot do anything but chase more of it, more friction, more sensations, more of her, her touch and her smell and the sounds she's making, the heat building up and growing so tight in his lower belly, tighter and tighter and tighter with their every sway.
The Doctor experiences an odd moment of clarity, as his nine-hundred-years old consciousness suddenly peeks its nose out from where all things not-Rose have been buried. It shakes its head at him, unimpressed by the way he's letting himself be overtaken by this new body, also informing him that he's about…eight seconds away from making a literal mess of himself like an inexperienced teenage boy.
He rolls off her so quickly that she could as well have punched him in the nose, escaping her tight, tight embrace, out of that heat that had quickly gathered up beneath the covers as well. He finds himself sitting at the edge of the bed, both palms pressed hard against his eyes as he attempts to catch his breath, the colder air of the room helping him calm down. Somewhat.
Rose is motionless for a few moments, taken aback by his sudden escape, when she'd been so lost in the feel of him and her awareness of how affected he was by her – which had been affecting her just as much.
She sits up, watching his shivering figure, bent over the edge of the bed with his hands on his face, obviously trying to calm down.
"You all right?" She asks quietly, although she already knows what lies he's going to say.
It's fine, I'm fine. I'm always fine.
But he shakes his head a little instead, his hands dropping from his face, already closed into fist when they come to rest on his thighs. "Bit of a headrush," he admits, his voice breathless, his pitch almost an octave lower than usual, and the sound of it makes her insides clench.
Maybe she ought to ask him if he wants to stop. She doesn't, afraid that he'll say yes.
And yet, she really doesn't want to force him into anything he's not ready for.
Rose moves slowly, coming to kneel behind him, slipping both her knees on each side of his hips, leaning forward until most of her upper body is resting against his, pressing her chin lightly on his shoulder blade; the position – and overall situation – is immediately reminiscent of their brief moment on that bench, earlier today, that realisation enough to warm her up even more.
This is the closest she dares to come, while still giving him space and room to breathe.
"Is that okay?" She asks near his ear, inducing shivers that feel almost familiar, now.
"Oh yes," he breathes out with a quick nod. "I got a tad overwhelmed, that's all. Not that I've never, you know. Danced." She smiles against his shoulder blade, unable not to roll her eyes a little. "But it's been…a while. Quite a very long while, to be perfectly honest. And you feel so bloody good. And this body, it keeps coming up with…weird sensations. Well, maybe not weird. Just…different, and new. "
Rose has slowly brought her arms around him as he rambled, both her hands having found his upon his lap, now covering his closed fists, her ear pressed to his back.
"Is it 'good new' or 'bad new'?" She asks.
She can't see her own movement from this position, but sight is one sense she doesn't really need right now, her thumbs tracing small circles upon the smooth skin of his hands.
She hears him swallowing hard. "Am I allowed to say both?"
She almost stops, then, feeling how tight his body is, worried that she's being too pushy. But there is tension in his voice, too, the kind of tension that encourages her to continue.
"'course you're allowed," she says, keeping her voice purposefully low, her fingers now trailing back the length of his arms, inducing more shivers in their wake, feeling the goose bump that has raised every single hair off his skin. "But if it feels mostly bad than you need to tell me, so I can stop."
"Nope. Nope nope nope," he says, the last 'nope' particularly popping. "It's definitely not mostly bad. I'd put it more in the range of…seventy-five percent good, twenty-five percent bad."
"Yeah?" She asks, one of her hands now slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, slowly making its way upward, making the muscles of his chest twitch, and he lets out a shuddering breath.
"Ah, slight correction. Eighty twenty, then." She presses her palm onto his chest, raking her nails across his skin, before using her thumb to flick at his nipple. "Eighty-seven thirteen." Her other hand now wrapped around his thigh, she slowly moves it back towards him. "N-n-ninety ten."
His pitch rose along with his percentages, feeling how wound up he's become against her, continuously shivering now, his various responses making that place between her legs throb with need. She ignores her own lust, entirely focused on him, although there is something definitely selfish in this, in knowing herself to be the one making him lose control.
She moves her head, bringing her mouth as close to his ear as she can in their current position. "Just say 'stop' if it becomes too much, yeah?" She whispers, and all he can do is nod once, sloppily, his breath coming out in tight, little exhales.
Keeping him close to her with her palm splayed upon his thumping heart, her other hand sneaks inside his sweatpants, taking a hold of him, finding him as tensed as the rest of his body. He arches into her touch with a deep moan that reverberate through her, pinned as she is to him; she uses her arm across his chest to keep him from moving away as much as possible, giving him time to get used to this new sensation before her hand begins to move.
He instinctively reaches out for her, his choices limited in their current position. For lack of better options, he slips both his hands between the mattress and her knees, getting a tight hold of her calves. He's leaning back into the sensation, while she leans forward to try and counterbalance his weight, aware that it won't be long, now.
"Rose," he half-chokes, half-moans. "I'm…"
"Shhh…" She soothes him in a whisper, her cheek pressed into the dampening fabric of his shirt. "'s alright, I've got you."
It isn't long at all, after that, and the sound and feel of him coming against her is enough to cause her entire body to flush bright and hot, her own pleasure just out of reach. Not that it matters much, feeling the oddest, warmest kind of satisfaction at the way he slumps back against her, all tension gone, replaced by sheer relaxation.
Her hand leaves his sweatpants, back to his thigh, the other one coming out from under his shirt, briefly pressing her palm to the flushed skin of his forehead, before curling her fingers in his damp hair.
"Made it all the way to a hundred, then?" She asks with a smile in her voice, caressing his scalp, even as her upper body begins to ache with the effort of supporting most of his weight.
"Well," he says, sounding almost like himself again. "In term of sensations, I'd give it a decent one hundred and twenty-five percent. At least. I'm afraid the overall experience is a bit ruined by how embarrassingly…ah, 'swift' that was on my part."
Just when she's about to ask him to move, unable to hold him up anymore, he straightens up on his own, enough for her to be able to lean against him again, unwilling to let any kind of distance grow between them.
"Give yourself some credit," she reassures him, resting her chin on his shoulder. "This body's all new. I've been with experienced men who've not lasted that long."
Distant memories of a previous life with Jimmy Stone briefly cross her mind; needless to say, her first sexual experiences weren't exactly fulfilling.
Nor were the subsequent ones, come to think of it.
"Let's not go into details, shall we?" The Doctor says briskly, having no desire whatsoever to hear about any of her ex-lovers and their sexual performances, even if it's to soothe his ego; he squirms a bit awkwardly at the edge of the bed, now, becoming increasingly aware of the state of his trousers.
Blimey, he's gone and made quite a mess of himself, hasn't he?
She notices it, of course, the way Rose Tyler notices everything. "Just take them off," she says, tugging lightly at his sweatpants. "You'll be more comfortable."
He's in no state to argue, his entire body still more akin to some kind of floppy, invertebrate creature he should really be able to remember the name of – maybe in ten minutes or so. He moves and wriggles in an attempt at freeing himself from his ruined trousers. Having failed to take into account how boneless most of his limbs are, he successfully manages to fail at it, quickly losing balance from his sitting position, soon falling off altogether, landing right on his naked arse with a rather loud noise.
Rose is hovering at the edge of the bed within seconds, a hand clasped to her mouth, which is not enough to muffle her raising laughter. He peers up at her from his new low point, attempting to make himself look at least slightly irritated.
"Sorry," she says, and even with the limited lighting in the room, all coming from the moonlight streaming through the window, her cheeks are beautifully flushed. "'m sorry, 's not funny at all."
And then, she bites on her lip, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear.
She did not expect for him to push himself up on his knees and reach up for her face, that much he can tell, her surprised, little gasp muffled against his mouth. She quickly gets over her shock, responding to him at once as she moves, until she's the one sitting at the edge of the bed. Before long, she's forcing him to let go of her face as she wraps her arms around his neck while her legs loosely circle his back.
Somehow, she feels even better than before; it's as if he can now fully appreciate her, instead of being constantly distracted by his aching need – although it's quickly becoming obvious that this will soon be a problem again.
Her body is deliciously supple against him, thrilled by the shivers that run through her when one of his hands slips under her shirt to press upon her lower back, bringing her closer. The taste of her remains intoxicating, her smell just as enticing. He yearns to find the source of it, now. He wants to catalogue every single thing about her, everything he's learned in both his previous bodies, and everything none of these bodies ever got to know.
He lets go of her mouth, trailing his nose down the curve of her chin, briefly pressing his face into the crook of her neck as he inhales deeply, tightening his hold on her. He comes down to a lower kneeling position as he descends along her upper body, the smell of her becoming more heady as he does so. Unwrapping his arms from around her, both his hands follow along, not intent on touching her much – yet, eventually resting them upon her thighs, his gaze having found the place that is in great need of his care and attention.
With her fingers in his hair, she tugs at it gently, until he reluctantly drags his gaze back up to hers. He's fairly certain her cheeks have darkened even more since the last time he looked at her face.
"You don't have to do anything," she whispers, her soft tone not enough to conceal the note of uncertainty in her voice. "What I did, it wasn't…I mean, you shouldn't feel like you have to…you know. Do anything," she repeats, her voice faltering.
He looks up at her in genuine surprise and a tiny bit of awe, stirred so deeply by this beautiful human, the rush of emotion causing his throat to tighten. "I don't have to…'do anything'?" He repeats in a thick voice, and she must not have heard his confusion, because she shakes her head a little.
He half-raises himself again, enough to wrap her in his arms, pulling her to him until he's pressing his forehead and most of his face into her chest, breathing her deep, and slow, almost certain that he can feel her heart thumping against his head, pinned so tightly to that place between her breasts. "Please…" He whispers into her shirt, tightening his hold on her, until his fingers are digging in her flesh through the fabric of her clothes. "Would you…let me?"
Rose is unable to speak, overwhelmed by the raw emotion emanating from him, from the way he clings to her, to his constricted whisper when he speaks his request. No one has ever needed her like this.
Not trusting her voice, all she can do is nod her consent, aware that he is close enough to feel it. She's barely done nodding that he's moving again, grabbing at the hems of her pyjama bottoms, tugging in another silent request. She helps him out, their combined, slower movements making this a lot more successful than his own, clumsy attempt.
He takes his time, as she suspected he would.
He starts with her foot, bringing all ten of his fingers to it, his thumbs pressing into the arch of it; while she startles a little at the sensation, almost expecting herself to feel tickled, his touch turns out to be not ticklish at all. He massages the underside of her foot, apparently familiar enough with human anatomy to know exactly where and how to press. When he's done with that foot, he moves on to the other, and she's enjoying the feel of his hands way too much to ask him to pick up the pace. He's just as slow with her ankles and calves, thumbs and fingertips pressing down in places she didn't know she had so many nerves, while his warm palms run over sensitive skin.
A laughter unexpectedly bubbles out of her when his fingers brush the underside of her knee, making her jerk slightly, having found a particularly ticklish spot. Evidently, he immediately repeats the gesture under her other knee, testing for symmetry, eliciting a similar reaction. He leaves both areas alone after that, having now breached the 'thighs' territory, which instantly causes his touch to shift from something sensual yet mostly relaxing, to something that makes her entire body flush in anticipation. Both his hands work together, now, caressing what feels like every single inch of skin available to him.
She's remained seated through it all so far, as mesmerised by the intense, focused look on his face as she is by the feel of his hands on her, his eyes never once drifting from what he's doing ; she has to lean back as he comes closer and closer, though, supporting her weight on shaky lower arms. That doesn't last long, falling back fully upon the bed when she feels his breath upon her inner thigh, bringing both her hands to her feverish face.
The breath goes away…and does not come back.
"Are you all right?" He asks then, and she dares to lift up her head to glance at him, meeting his eyes for the first time in what feels like hours.
The sight of him between her legs is absolutely ludicrous…and ludicrously erotic.
She lets her head fall back, sinking her hands into her hair, biting down on her lip as she blushes in both lust and embarrassment, warmth spreading through her entire body again, gathering low, so close to where he is.
"Rose?" There is a note of concern in his tone, now.
"Please…" she whispers, her husked voice perfectly mirroring the one he'd used earlier.
She needn't say more.
Moments pass – seconds, minutes…she wouldn't be able to tell, as time is swallowed up by the feel of his hands and his breath and his lips, until she feels like she's left her body altogether. The first touch of his tongue where she's been aching for him is enough to yank her right back within her own, prickly skin, both his hands coming to grab at her hips, pinning her firmly to the mattress as she instinctively tries rising off the bed. Before long, she is nothing but trembling flesh and quaking bones, pleasure swelling deep and trickling out through every inch of her, her chest heaving as she draws in raspy breaths, and exhales quivering moans, holding on so tight to his wrists as if to keep herself from drowning.
The Doctor is a quick learner.
He enjoys a good experiment as any respectful Time Lord should, yet he realises that now is not the time to be experimenting – nothing beyond sheer necessity, obviously, some adjustments inevitable as he begins cataloguing her every responses, from her breathing to the sounds she's making, or how she sometimes tries to arch off the whole bloody bed, her short nails digging into the skin of his wrists.
As it turns out, Rose is not hard to please – quite literally. From her various reactions thus far, he suspects she hasn't done this often, if at all, and he wants to shame all these 'blokes' who have quite frankly done both her and themselves a disservice.
Well decided to make it up to her for at least some of these inexcusable oversights, he keenly listens to her and her body, revising his touch accordingly, adjusting both pace and pressure. When one of her hands suddenly springs from his wrist and sinks into his hair, twisting and pulling and pressing and blimey that is one loud moan, he knows this is it. And sure enough, he barely manages to repeat that exact pattern twice more that she's breaking in shuddering waves against him.
For a little – or long – while after that, Rose simply…floats.
The first tangible sensation she becomes aware of is…nibbling?
Both her hands have fallen limply to her sides as she came down from some impressive heights, which has caused the tip of her fingers to dangle off the bed; an irresistible temptation for a part-Time Lord, part-human who's always enjoyed putting things in his mouth a little bit too much.
(Not that she should complain about that. Jesus.)
Eyes still closed, she retrieves her fingertips from between his teeth, playfully shoving his cheek away, not putting much force into it. By the time she has regained enough control of her limbs to be able to push herself up on her elbows to look at him, he's propped his chin onto his palm, looking preposterous with his tousled hair and what very much resembles a smug smile.
"Ever heard of a word called 'humility'?" She can't help but ask.
"I don't trust any word that sounds too much like 'humidity'," he answers at once. "Or any word that has a similar meaning, for that matter. I mean really, is there anything less appealing than words such a 'dank'? Or 'damp'? And 'clammy'? Have you ever held someone's hand when they're clammy, Rose? Do not even get me started on 'moist'. That word should be banned from the English language. It actually gives me this weird feeling inside, almost like a gag reflex. And I've got similar issues with 'drippy', 'moggy' and 'soggy'. Ah! Don't you think that sounds a bit like the Seven Dwarfs? Naaah. Can you imagine? You'd have to feel very sorry for Snow Wh– "
Rose took the decision to put an end to his babbling right about the time he mentioned gag reflex and proceeded to actually mime gagging for a moment, which, considering where he was still positioned at the time was not particularly thoughtful.
Given the current state of her muscles, he's already moved on to the Seven Dwarfs by the time she manages to sit back up and clasp a hand to his mouth, muffling the last of his words.
He eyes her innocently, raising both eyebrows.
"You're gonna be quiet now?"
There's a pause, before he shrugs his shoulders with what looks like a dubious pout; in all fairness, expecting him to remain quiet for long would be slightly unrealistic.
She has noticed that he has gone quieter on several occasions today, though, when effectively distracted…a side-effect she's confident she can achieve again.
With her hand still pressed to his mouth, she pushes forward, nothing short of slithering down the bed and the length of his body. He instinctively responds to her, shifting their position until he's leaning against the bed as she comes to straddle him. Although she's left some distance between them, this new proximity and increased contact between their bare skin cause him to inhale sharply through his nose.
Hoping she might have distracted him enough for the time being, Rose drops her hand.
"Back on the floor, really?" Are the first words out of his mouth. "Do you realise we're establishing some kind of pattern, here? Don't I at least get a vote?"
She brings herself closer, close enough to know he's had time to recover fully. "You're the one who keeps on falling," she reminds him huskily, her lips inches from his, before she slowly starts rolling her hips into him, not applying enough pressure to bring them completely into contact yet.
It's enough to draw a choked up noise out of him, though, his head falling back against the bed as his eyes roll back, exposing the entire length of his neck. Rose barely hesitates before leaning forward, her tongue soon tracing a wet trail along his pulsing point as she sways a bit harder into him…and a bit harder…until she feels the unmistakable tug and twist of his fingers in her hair, his moan reverberating through his tense neck.
She stills her movements briefly, bringing her lips closer to his ear, nibbling lightly at his earlobe, making him shudder against her. "I take it the floor's alright for now, then?"
"Oh yes," he breathes out at once, before using his grip on her hair to pull her to him.
This kiss is somehow messier, and hungrier, with squishy noses and bumpy teeth and messy tongues, both trying to rid the other of their shirt while their lower halves have an agenda of their own. He inwardly prides himself for managing to pull off her shirt first, bypassing her lips altogether after that, unable to resist the call of new things needing to be tasted.
The way he dotes on her breasts is enough to elicit more humming moans from her, having abandoned her attempts at taking off his shirt to get a firmer hold of his head instead, keeping his lips and tongue where they're much appreciated. Despite the tight lock of their bodies, she manages to grind herself into him, and there is no more distance at all now, feeling her wet heat pressing against his throbbing length; he lets go of her nipple with a groan, burying his face into her neck as both his hands come to clasps her hips.
And he helps her at first, as she raises herself up, having a similar goal in mind. But when she brings a hand down between them, he clumsily grabs at her wrist.
"Wait, wait, wait," he breathes out against her chin. "What about babies?"
Rose pants a little, having a hard time refocusing enough to actually form words. "Babies?"
"Mini version of people," he says, and she pulls away to look at him, his gaze as blurry as hers must be, yet there is an unmistakable glimpse of rationality in his eyes and tone. "More specifically, mini version of people I hope would inherit most of your genes, although I've had worse ears," he continues. "Without conducting any testing, I can't say for sure that my genotype is even compatible enough with yours for procreation to be a possibility, but can you imagine your mother's wrath if I accidently impregnated you?" He actually shudders at the thought.
Rose shakes her head, neither ready nor able to have this particular conversation right about now, although she appreciates the fact that he brought it up. "'t's fine. I've got an implant."
"Subcutaneous?" He asks, and she nods her answer. "Brilliant." And then he frowns. "Wait, does that mean…"
"No, it doesn't mean," she says with a hint of exasperation. She knows he won't be able to drop this topic until she's explained herself thoroughly. Good thing she's never been one to care much about romantic notions, because what she's about to say is not exactly conductive to romance. "My cycle got all…wonky when I first got trapped here," she explains. "Kind of painful, too, to tell you the truth. I was told that 'regulating my hormones' would hopefully take care of it. Hence the implant."
"Brilliant," he repeats, sounding genuinely satisfied to have been given this piece of information. And then: "What about STDs?"
"STDs?"
"Sexually transmi – "
"I know what it means," Rose cuts him off, deciding here and there that he's done enough talking for tonight, and possibly the next three weeks. "I'm clean," she states firmly. "And it's safe to assume this body of yours doesn't have syphilis either."
"Well, no, it wouldn't, syphilis would be particularly unlikely as I would haaaa – "
One of her hands have come to grab him, squeezing just firmly enough as she leans forward again. "Time to shut up, yeah?" She whispers against his parted lips, and he nods with a bit of a whimper.
She uses her free hand to get a hold of the mattress behind him, pulling herself up, helped by his own hands, back upon her hips. All it takes are a few shifts of her hips, and she's sinking onto him.
"Bloody hell," he chokes out as his head snaps back against the bed again, and Rose's presses her face to his neck with a defeated sigh, even as her body breaks into waves of shudders at the new sensations.
She could (and should) have taken a minute to get used to the feel of him, but unwilling to give him the opportunity to start rambling again, she quickly begins to move upon him, setting a slow rhythm.
And he tries to follow; he really, really does. Yet somehow, it becomes clear rather quickly that they're not quite…succeeding at this.
This is far from being unpleasant. He's actually instantly convinced that nothing will ever surpass this…the tight feel of her…the sensation of being so completely surrounded by her. Carnal pleasure aside, something's missing. And that something might just have everything to do with synchronicity – or lack thereof, at the moment.
They can't set a proper rhythm, never quite managing to get it right, despite the both of them using up a ridiculous amount of energy, as indicated by how sleek with perspiration their skins are getting.
They're physically as close to the other as they can possibly get, yet they seem unable to properly connect.
"Rose?" he eventually rasps, and she hums her acknowledgment into the crook of his neck. "Can we…try this on the bed?"
She stops moving altogether, before pulling away to meet his eyes. "Oh yes," she answers in a relieved breath, her tone a spot-on imitation of…well, some version of himself.
Rose is glad he suggested the move. First times are bound to be sloppy no matter what, as nothing is never done well the first time around, but still…They can do a lot better than this, something they're apparently both agreeing on.
She forces herself to let go of him, swiftly hopping back onto the bed and rolling on her back, expecting him to follow.
He doesn't.
He does join her onto the bed, but he sits back on his knees at the edge of the mattress, watching her intently. Not gazing down at her with some sort of longing in his eyes, no.
With these small wrinkles between his eyebrows and the set look on his face, all he's missing are his spectacles, and he could as well be trying to figure out the fastest way to prevent an impending alien invasion.
She's stark naked in front of him, waiting for him to resume what they'd been doing less than a minute ago. And there he is.
Contemplating.
Unable not to, Rose presses the back of her hand to her mouth as she attempts to stifle her latest bout of laughter. His frowns deepens, as he finally shifts his gaze to meet her eyes. "Oi," he reprimands her quietly.
She rolls onto her side, propping her head up on her palm as she shivers, unfortunately from the chilly air this time. "You're gonna share what's going on in that brain of yours? Or should I just go back to sleep?"
"Just a tick, I think I've got it," he says, distractedly, already lost in his thought again. When he finally moves forward, enough to hover over her and cause her to roll onto her back again, he nothing short of ignores her completely, reaching above her to grab a pillow instead. "See the thing is, new body or not, I used to be rather good at…dancing."
"I think t's alright for us to call it sex, now, Doctor."
"And I know it's been a while for me," he continues as if she hasn't spoken at all, a hand now on her hip . "But at my age, it's safe to assume I've perfected a few things over the last four or five centuries. So I was a tad surprised by how abysmal that first attempt was," he adds, having obviously decided being tactful is overrated. "Up," he tells her then, and she obeys, letting him slide the pillow underneath her bum.
She's getting curious now; her previous lovers all came with a couple kinks of their own, but 'pillows' was never one of them.
"Angles, Rose," he tells her huskily, as if that explained everything, finally repositioning himself, pressing a knee between her legs in a wordless request for her to open up to him, which she gladly does. "Never underestimate the importance of angles. And I don't just mean when it comes to sexual intercourse either. See, I spent a rather big chunk of time on Vlanotius about two-hundred-years ago, and the thing about Vlanotius is that you mustn't, and I mean musn't…"
She doesn't really mean to stop listening to his jabbering about Vlanotius and what one mustn't do there, but as he settles upon her, she becomes more interested in the feel of him, the mere return of his body heat enough to relax her muscles, already grabbing at his shirt over his lower back and tugging at it.
His stream of words does not let up as they work together to pull that last piece of fabric over his head, the sound of his voice briefly muffled as it passes his face. He distractedly takes one of her hands in his, then, pinning it to the mattress near her head, using that arm to support most of his weight. When he lowers himself fully upon her, she sighs at the hot feel of him against her inner thigh, her nipples grazing his chest.
"…highly commendable, all things considered," she eventually hears him say. "Not a failsafe by any mean, but still a significant variable that cannot be ignored."
And then, silence.
"Is that it?" Rose inquires almost politely, her fingers stilling midway down his back, having spent the last thirty seconds tracing the bumpy curve of his spine, counting his vertebrae.
As they both refocus properly on one another, a slightly surprised look settles on his face, as if he's only now realising that while he chattered away, they'd become as intertwined as two people can be without being actually intertwined.
"Oh," he says, a bit sheepish. "I'm kinda ruining the mood, aren't I?"
She grimaces a little. "A bit," she admits, although she smiles softly; her fingers are moving upon his back again, her nails slowly raking his skin, sensing him responding in all the right ways, his eyes darkening, too. "I mean, as far as foreplay goes…there's room for improvement."
He's entirely focused on her, now; no more wandering mind, or unstoppable gob, looking right at her when he says: "Quite right, too."
It's not the first time he's done this, today, brought forth the sharp memory of what Rose had rightfully referred to as 'the worst day of her life' with a handful of words; this call-back might be the worst one yet, as nothing in their interactions these past few minutes could have prepared her for this, for the brutal return of that deep ache in the centre of her chest, causing the air to rush out of her lungs.
Her next inhale is just as loud, feeling her eyes well up in spite of herself, even as she instinctively brings her hand up to the back of his head, twisting her fingers in his hair in a tight hold, squeezing his hand just as firmly where it remains pinned to the bed. She doesn't care that her strong touch might cause him pain, a mix of sorrow, anger and relief washing through her, using her grip on his hair to bring him down to her, until his forehead is pressed against hers, too choked up to tell him what she thinks of his bloody timing; he's too clever to have said this unintentionally.
She becomes aware of his hand being on the move again, his fingers and palm slowly running down the side of her body, soothing and tender, maybe even apologetic.
Speaking those words was a low blow, and the Doctor knows it.
It did what he was hoping for, though – brought them both back into the moment, focusing less on means of contraception and suitable angles between bodies, and more upon what this means, for them to be here at all, together, something he never hoped would happen again.
He'd lost all hope the moment that last gap between their universes stitched itself close and took her away from him.
Yet here they are.
He doesn't mind the way she's pulling at his hair, as it creates a closeness between them he can't get enough of, the dull ache in his scalp or on the back of his hand where her fingers are digging all proof that they're both here, physically here. He takes comfort in everything that is Rose, from every inch of her skin currently pressed against his own, to her irregular exhales, loud, wobbly and warm upon his face.
No touch, he'd been forced to tell her, on that dreadful day.
He touches her, now, his hand moving from her side, slipping between their bodies, until he's sliding his fingers through her folds. Although his initial intent was merely to ensure she was still ready for him, he doesn't stop there, using his slick digits to arouse pleasure. A deep moan escapes her throat as her face constricts, causing a tear to roll down her temple.
He catches that salty drop on its way to her ear, before pressing his lips to her cheek; he's shifting upon her, then, stopping his caress to move her leg higher up against his side. He feels no resistance from her, following his silent cues and shifting under him, as he begins scattering a soft trail of kisses and I love yous upon her neck and collarbone, not venturing any lower, before moving upwards again. He kisses her chin, her jaw, her closed eyelids, the bridge of her nose, murmuring these same three words across her skin, over and over again, as if it could make up for lost time.
She doesn't say it back – has yet to say it back, but it doesn't matter; the way she clings to him and responds to his touch says quite enough, her hold on him loosening with every whisper from his lips, until her grip on his hair has turned into a longing caress. When he pushes into her with a roll of his hips, he swallows the moan that escapes her with a kiss, a similar sound getting caught in his throat; he doesn't move much, after that, giving her time to get used to him, equally overwhelmed by the feel of her, so tight and warm, intoxicated by her lips, and tongue, and every single atom of her body.
Rose doesn't know if it's the bloody pillow or merely this man and the myriad of emotions he creates inside of her, but this is unquestionably superior to their previous attempt, his free hand roaming every part of her that he can reach while she sinks deeper into the feel of him, at times caressing, when he's not shifting her against him, readjusting the way their bodies come together as he begins to sway.
And there is no denying the fact that this resembles a dance, especially in the early stages of their coupling, his thrusts languid yet strong, pushing and rolling into her…again and again…and again and again…a rhythm she easily adopts and soon revels in, her free arm wrapped tightly around his back, her fingernails digging into the shifting muscles of his shoulder blade. It doesn't take long for them to become too preoccupied by the pursuit of this mounting pleasure to be able to carry on kissing. Not that it lessens the aching intimacy of it, his hand regularly travelling back up to her face, fingers half-sinking into her hair, his forehead and nose pressed so tightly against hers, and he breathes in her gasps as she echoes his moans.
There is an inevitable increase in pace, their rhythm becoming exponentially more hurried and somewhat erratic, less of a dance, more of a race, which is fine, absolutely fine, the two of them quite used to the running.
The next time his hand leaves her face, it is to grab at her hip, pulling her to him as he shifts his body, in a way that changes the angle at which they meet – it turns out that angles are important, inducing an immediate increase in friction as he picks up even more speed. She yanks her fingers from his grip almost in a knee-jerk reaction, her hand coming down to grab at the firm flesh of his buttocks instead, using the momentum of his next thrust to pull him hard upon and into her, until she's throwing her head back with a cry. And he responds in kind, invigorated by her touch and her voice, drawn so deep into the depth of her, he feels he might just be reaching the centre of the universe, both precipitated towards that sweet, earthshattering release.
It comes swiftly for them (swiftly but not briefly), in a rapid succession, although neither would have been able to say in which particular order, until they're left a mess of entangled limbs, shaky, sweaty, and rather out of breath.
Oh, and deliciously, deliriously spent.
"Well," the Doctor eventually croaks, his voice once more muffled into the crook of her neck. "I've enjoyed that. Very much. Very, very, very much."
The fact that he's yet to move his weight off her causes her small chuckle to come out breathless. But to be fair, she's not exactly asking him to move either, too comforted by the solid feel of him, her arms still wrapped loosely around him.
"It did get better," she sighs contentedly, her lower body numbed all the way down to her toes, which she tries wriggling – unsuccessfully. "Didn't realise this would get so…moist, though."
The speed with which he pushes himself up to stare down at her in deep affront is rather impressive, although not unexpected. "Oi!" he protests, the interjection still slightly foreign, but the way he scrunches up his face and the high pitch tone he speaks with are all his. "Why d'you say that for?"
Rose smiles innocently, bringing a hand up to the top of his head, his thick hair as damp as the rest of their bodies, and ridiculously messy, only made worse by her current ministration. "Couldn't help myself. You're just so…clammy."
His frown turns into a full-blown, pouty scowl. "That's it," he announces. "Rose Tyler, you've officially ruined sex for us. Well done. All these things we'd yet to try. You on top, all variations of me on top, even us on the floor again. All lost. Are you proud of yourself? Was it worth it?"
Her answer is nothing but a tongue-touched smile.
As it soon turns out, she did not completely ruin sex for them.
A/N: Are you alive? Did you all make it? Just let me know in a review so I don't worry too much! :p
In all seriousness, I would love to hear from you, guys. Don't be strangers, be kind to your fic writers; we don't get much beside your appreciation ;-)
The next and last chapter will be more of an epilogue. It will come...hopefully.