It’s been a month since getting dumped on Dårlig Ulv Stranden and Rose and TenII still haven’t done teh sexxin. Why? What’s holding them back? 5,517 w.
From the evil minds of thenakedcupcake and psyfi_geekgirl !
The soft, absorbent, double twisted fibers of the navy blue Egyptian cotton towel dig into his hips as he stands over the counter, tweezers in hand, and studies the contours of his face.
Check out this bone structure Doctor, because one day, you're going to be shaving it.
And apparently he is going to be shaving it for the rest of his natural life. Still, not all bad. Pretty good face to get stuck with, he thinks, shrugging and leans closer to inspect his hairline—something he finds himself doing a bit more often now—a bit of ageing paranoia. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror—hair wildly askew, eyebrow raked halfway up his forehead, eyes bulging. He’s a bit close to the mirror, but if he’s honest it’s because he needs to be. The brainy specs might have been for show before, but now he simply needs them.
Since when had he ever needed to pluck between his eyebrows?
He sighs at the irony his life has presented. The towel slips a bit on his exhale as gravity and his sharp hip bones pull against it; the little cotton loops gently kiss its neighbors as the damp ring of fabric loosens its hug around his body.
He leans in and presses his hips against the countertop edge, glaring at each individual, offending hair that will soon be removed.
Meanwhile, the towel that seems to have a shape memory of itself as a flat entity falls away altogether, trapping itself between his hips and the countertop. He hardly gives it a second thought, as hair removal has become his number one focus.
He’s completely forgotten he’s left the door to the bathroom open.
Rose’s clacking heels and voice floats down the hall, “The car’s almost here for me. I’m sorry I’m leaving you be—“
She stops dead in her tracks in the doorway, made helpless and speechless by the sheer impossibility of the sight before her. She thinks it must be the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen, the way her heart stops and clenches when she sees it. A contoured drop, tracing his spine from one vertebral bump to the next, freckles and pale skin, down, down, down…
She starts when she realizes he’s staring, too, heat in his eyes and his mouth forming a line she’s never seen before. His fingers gripping the blue bathroom counter twitch.
Rose exhales a long string of nonsense, a flat tyre in the air, “Uhh…huh-uh-uhhh-na...” her eyes flick from a spot just left of his eyes to the biteable curve of his arse and a hint of curly hair his ensnared towel doesn’t cover. And this one moment in time—this single moment that breathes with life and complexity—a fragile, tissue-paper flower that has just come to life between them, stands on the head of a pin at the edge of oblivion.
As a half-Timelord can feel it even if he can no longer see it: The golden shimmer of the timelines and the various possibilities that fan off from this one moment and lead onto the superhighway of their intersecting lives… Which route will they choose? His breath stops in his chest.
He is too struck by his own trepidation to notice hers does the same.
As the moment lingers, it expands. It lives and breathes and it speaks with a paradoxical voice that is both mute and deafening, a mutinous roar in their ears:
WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO NOW?
“Uhh… Rose,” the Doctor stammers as he takes a tentative step towards her.
The ruffled and shirred lavender organza catches the bathroom light, shimmies and moves with her breasts each time her lungs inhale. He can almost see the tops of her stockings, and realizes he hasn’t yet touched lace in this world. Not for the first time, he wishes she wasn’t going alone.
He moves sluggishly through the air made viscous by indecision. The towel remains loosely in place in front of him, armor as much as a respectful shield; he doesn’t want to push, but it shifts while he drinks her in. Everything between them for the last month up to now has been considered and unhurried. This isn’t exactly calculated or even anticipated.
This wasn’t supposed to be how it happened.
Rose’s eyes widen as he strides closer, and his mind is a riot of interpretations. Is she frightened? Horrified? Repulsed?
Red flashes pink as she unconsciously licks her bottom lip.
He whispers her name. It drips off his lips like a silken promise, a gentle caress that sinks into her skin. It is an aroused question mark, hovering in the air…
“R o s e ?”
She swallows and takes an imperceptible half-step forward. He’s close enough to see the gooseflesh rise on her arms and the curve of her breasts cupped in her frock as they rise and fall with her shallow breathing.
He aches to be the hummingbird that dips gorgeously into the flower of her cleavage, explore every nuance of the nectar that waits.
Her voice betrays the fear of her need as his name dies in her throat, “Doc—“
The air, that was once so thick, slides across his skin, lubricated by her strangled entreaty. Timelines quiver in the breeze of his movement as the Doctor deftly covers the remaining distance between them.
Her hand flutters to his abdomen and he watches as she touches his skin there for the first time and grazes through the wiry hairs that disappear into the towel. When he turns his eyes to hers he can feel her hot breath on his cheek. He is dizzy with her fingertips leaving nimble prints on the way to his defiant hipbones, and he imperceptivity leans forward in challenge. The craving to touch her is a physical ache, but still, he is tentative; her curious fingers may be curling under the towel and searching, but they still haven’t kissed again, or talked, only collided together like burning stars in need and this tumbling, haphazard life.
His head is cloudy, but he can still see her through the haze.
He sees his own anticipation mirrored in her eyes and she jerks forward impetuously, haltingly. Noses collide rather than caress to seduce mouths open, but lips find each other anyway, come together, slick and warm and finally. And in his mind the timelines stretch and bend and wrap around them, a warm and golden nimbus—their fates intertwined—glittering and powerful. She opens her mouth to let him in, mewling into his mouth and he instinctively pushes into her hips.
There’s nothing left to question about what he wants next, and her hand is there to meet him.
The feeling of newness is still burning inside her, uncertain and heavy like a peach pit. Panting she pulls away. “Doctor. This can’t—we can’t—“
Somewhere, out in reality, the phone rings shrilly. Rose looks at the Doctor, helplessly. “That’ll be the car… I’m--I have to go…”
When she is gone, he can still smell her in the air, breathing deep and fingers twitching. He’s still never touched lace, and is left half-naked and wanting in the bathroom, an ineffable expanse still between them and uncertainty seeping in to fill the gap.
He throws the tweezers onto the counter, pulls on some clothes, and heads down to their pub for some air, alone.
Somehow, Rose had negotiated the red carpet gauntlet to the Vitex fundraiser gala without screaming obscenities at the crush of photographers outside. They’d stood, packed together, locusts whirring, as camera apertures shattered her nerves. They fired round after round of pictures into Rose, and left her feeling riddled with their pop-culture bullets.
Now she stands alone, hiding like an anti-social coward in a corner of the party and swears at herself for being a frigid, dick-scared teenager. Laughter and the light, crisp sounds of happily tinkling glasses push in contrast against the darker fears in her mind. She watches men in miserable seersucker suits clutching “business sensible” martinis and inwardly rolls her eyes. However, men in suits always bring her back to the Doctor, and her vision clouds with a decidedly new—and totally unexpected image of him…sans suit…
Her brain slides the zipper-teeth of memories from this evening with the Doctor all the way through their last month together—sharp tines meeting to form a chain of missed kisses and frequently hesitant breakfast conversations.
And soft, sapphire blue towels that shifted more than was strictly decent.
Why the hell had she run from him tonight?
The limo had only been an excuse, and now she was here, at some stuffy society party for Pete, sipping champagne and Vitex mixers with a bunch of wheezy old duffers she didn’t give a toss about. But maybe he’d used an excuse, too. The love of her life was left at home, their home, tinkering or blowing up meal attempts and steadfastly escaping the strangulation of high society parties and, quite possibly, escaping her.
She sighs in frustration at herself for having been so childish with the Doctor—it’s what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? The truth is, maybe he’s a little different, but maybe the same, but she still sings for him, just like she always has, blue eyes or brown suit or a little bit of Donna. Her blood roars and her brain short circuits when he’s near, there’s a burn between her legs and she’s always aching to see how much friction she can get without him noticing. There’s touch, hugs and hand holding and the one time she brushed his hand over a jar of marmalade and the motion was so electric she thought she could die with the energy of it all.
She’d waited all month since Dårlig Ulv Stranden for him to make a move. She’d been so bloody careful, not wanting to rush him. He’d taken a bit of time to settle in, so she’d given him the space he needed to find himself. She was just waiting for him to take control like he always did and initiate. But he never had. She began to fear maybe he had changed his mind.
But she had also wanted him to really get the message that she was choosing him, not ending up with him as some weak consolation prize. Sure she was hesitant at first—she thought he was a stranger—but that had quickly proven to be a ridiculous fear.
He is the Doctor, and she loves him.
Had she not made that clear enough?
Perhaps it’s time to fix that.
The bourbon and soda doesn’t taste right in his mouth anymore.
He sits in their favourite corner booth and stares at his small collection of drinks left on the table, their water rings catching the dying sunlight, and he replays their earlier episode in the bathroom like some sadistic game of Cause and Effect.
Had he misread her? Had he pushed her too far?
He ruffles a distressed, sluggish hand through his hair, catching errant locks and tugging, and tries to look soberly at the facts again for the billionth time in under three drinks while he shifts uncomfortably in the scarlet booth.
Fact one: They loved each other and they’d both confessed this, whether with words or with lips and tongue and teeth, a month ago on that godforsaken beach.
Fact two: He’d given her some time, despite her declaration of love for him, because she’d been put through hell in being abandoned by his Other self in Pete’s World, yet again. Plus, there was the whole question about did she really want this him now? There was less he could give her, now: No new stars, timey-wimey adventures or intergalactic revolutions. But there was more to it, too—he had lost a heart, but gained one in Rose’s. He was made in her image; just like the perfection of their hands, the mirror was complete. She had to know that. And as much as it tore him up inside to see her grapple with that basic question—who is this guy and is he enough—he didn’t want to push her.
He would never pressure her.
Which lead to Fact three: If she wanted him, then he was willing to wait for her. Because they could do friends—had done for years—and while there had been a lot of hand holding and slight, tentative, half-finished benefits, what would it mean for their friendship if they’d taken things to the next level too soon?
He doesn’t even want to think about what life would be like in this place without her.
So instead he waits, and sips another bourbon.
And instead of moving forward, there’s this maddening game where she comes close, and then flutters away—and the longing feeds this wild thing inside him, a beast he used to be able to control that now frays and worries away along the edges of him.
He takes a gulp of his drink and realizes that despite his clever list of facts, he is now back to his original question: Had he misread her and gone too far?
But he remembers that tongue, darting out to wet her lips while she watched him half- naked! She had touched him, wicked little fingers making his blood roar! How could he have gotten that wrong?
His maddening thoughts tumble in a dryer of a hell of his own making, and he struggles to separate logical speculation from his own base fears of rejection.
He shakes his head. In all nine hundred and odd years of life he had never completely managed to be confident in human signals; intentions layered like a tangled skein—and he never knows precisely which thread he is looking at.
He wonders—he hopes—that Rose can tell, and guide him home.
Then he hits on something, a resounding ping in his mind, or maybe that was the ice chinking in his glass.
What if she is simply just as scared as him?
Funny. He hadn’t even thought of that before.
The concept is ludicrous. How could it be possible that his Rose—the Valiant Child who destroyed the Daleks by absorbing the Time Vortex and who strapped a Dimension Cannon to her back to rip defiantly through the fabric of the Void, striding across universes with tiny and determined feet to find him again—be scared of anything?
He tries not to feel too hopeful when his breath catches in his throat: There is a woman with her back to him sitting at the bar, her bouncing blonde waves finding their home on her shoulders. Dust glitters in the dying light, and he can’t stop looking at her hands carving their way through the world, sending little particles skittering away as she chats with someone next to her.
He feels like that, sometimes. Like the world moved and now he’s tumbling away into the dark, where everything is harder to see and air simply looks like air. And Rose. She’s a little tumbling thing alongside him, shaken this way and that by a universe that’s tinted just differently, like so.
She reminds him of Rose and how he wishes he knew how to touch her.
He bunches his fists into his pockets and flinches at the sudden, annoying buzzing in his jacket. It’s the only domesticated leash he has ever accepted. He yanks the infernal thing out of his pocket and musters a semi-inebriated frown.
One missed call.
He missed a call from Rose.
He stares at the kaleidoscope of lights from the traffic outside as they slice into the pub through the leaded glass windows and dance on the ancient walnut beams. He wonders about her call. He takes one last swig from his third glass of liquid courage, mostly alcoholic ice at this point, and gathers his house keys from the table in front of him.
He feels a bit out of control, and a little creaky in his knees, and his blood is flooded with testosterone, but Rose isn’t home tonight.
It isn’t until he looks up and sees the woman’s tongue poking out between her teeth that heat comes rushing in, into his world-weary fingers that just want an adventure, into his trousers because she looks so much like Rose.
A warmth fills him that he knows doesn’t have anything to do with his drinks, and he wants.
And she’s still there, coyly chatting and raising her voice in a light, lilting laughter, but he can’t hear her because he’s replaying the moment with Rose earlier over and over in his mind, the little sounds while he was against her mouth, the rustle of her dress as he backed her into the counter.
He knows five billion languages, but all he needs to hear is “yes…”
An idea grows in his head that may have more to do with a precarious mixture of booze and human longing than sober, detached and contemplative Timelord consciousness…
But sod it!
Abruptly he stands, thighs colliding with the table, sending him a little off balance. He snatches up his mobile to join his keys and heads back up to his flat to call Rose with a determination to fix this whole thing tonight. His newfound resolve twists his stomach with a mischievous thrill that he has come to associate with new forays into unrestrained human declarations and vulnerability.
He’s a block from the flat when the heat becomes a dull roar, and he’s dialing her number before he’s even inside.
Rose lifts her phone to call him, cacophony of the gala be damned, when it starts to ring in her palm. Her heart speeds up and her breath catches when she sees his name, clear and bright, on the caller ID screen: Doctor Calling…
“You know, Rose,” he begins without waiting for a hello. His voice is deep, and husky, and she’s trying to picture what he’s wearing, alone in their flat. “I’ve been thinking.”
That makes two of us, she thinks.
He continues, rolling his vowels like burled oak, “I know you’ve been afraid, and so have I, but I need to hear you say it—that you want me—even half as much as I want you. Because this is us, Rose, and we’re amazing, incredible, legendary, and even though all of this is new, it’s us. And I would very much like to take your stockings off with my teeth right now… Among other things.”
“You what?” and she almost laughs, but the heat in her face stops her. She snatches another glass of champagne from a traveling waiter instead, swallowing the effervescence in three swigs while his words keep floating over her, slowly. She tries to picture his face as these foreign things come out of his mouth, but she can’t imagine it. Her face flushes.
She likes this New New New Doctor…
His confession comes out in a rush of air: “There’s so much I want to do to you. I’ve never touched lace in this body, you know. Lots of secret places I’ve never dared touch… Before now. Tell me. Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me.”
“Doctor…” she breathes. She isn’t sure why all this time she felt like she was lost without him, because the truth was they were adrift, both looking for each other. “Yes, please. Yes!”
“Rose,” and she’s sure she’s never heard her name spoken with such reverence. “There are so many things I want to do to you I don’t know where to start…”
“Just pick one or two,” she says, dumbfounded to be in this conversation at all.
He laughs softly. “That’s my Rose, always up for an adventure…”
“I’ll go anywhere with you, Doctor. You should know that by now.”
“Then come with me on this adventure, Rose: I want you to watch me as I trace my fingers over the isosceles triangle of your knickers and take those stockings off. One. At a time.”
She inwardly rolls her eyes at his flawless geometry terminology during sex talk—this is more like what she imagined…
His breathing is rougher than normal, voice low and soft, swirling inside her like she so suddenly wants him to be.
She presses the phone up against her cheek and hisses, “Who says I’m wearing knickers?”
She thinks she hears his breath hitch. Maybe it was just a clink of glasses behind her.
“Then I’d just slide right in, wouldn’t I?” She can hear his smirk over the line as she gasps.
The way Rose is keeping her hand close to her face to hide her flush and how desperately she’s clutching her phone might have caught some stray glances at the gala, but she’s having difficulty planning what to say that won’t get her arrested.
“How many fingers?” she challenges.
“Two,” he says without hesitation. “Unless you make that noise and whimper like you did when I was kissing you today. Then three, maybe.”
She whimpers anyway.
“Three it is…” he growls.
She staggers back a bit, the potted palm righting her. She can feel his voice skimming, sliding, dipping, stirring her. “I want to see your face,” she gasps, voice rippling with more emotion that she meant for such a moment.
“Oh, Rose,” he whispers, and there’s a rustle, like he’s curling around her. “Say it again.”
“Yes! Yes, please, Doctor! I want you to touch me.”
“Where? Tell me where.” His voice sounds a little strangled, and she imagines him twined in their bed sheets, already warm with his trousers open, hand fisting into the mattress where she normally sleeps beside him, careful distance kept.
Not after tonight. Not ever again.
“Everywhere. God. Wanted you so long. But…” and a lilt of humor coils into her voice as she snatches her third glass of champagne, “…let’s talk about those stockings.”
“They should be illegal,” he says flatly.
“We’ve been arrested for less.”
“And worse,” and now she knows she can hear his smirk.
“Remember that cell on what was it, Antl… Arkle… Anti…”
“And you wonder why I never remember planet names.”
“I remember the cell, Rose. They gave us a single bed with an enormous duvet.”
“Which you insisted I take!”
“Oi! Of course! Gentleman!” he huffed with pride, as if it were obvious. “You snuck in with me anyway. Time Lords don’t sleep, Rose.”
“You sleep sometimes.”
“Not when I have you next to me.”
Her heart flipped.
“Doctor… We left off with the stockings…”
He chuckles, a purely pleased and low masculine sound. It sends a shiver through her bones. “Riiight, the stockings… Which one are you going to take off first?”
“Doctor,” and she’s laughing a little nervously now, “I’m in the middle of Dad’s Vitex party. And I’m wearing Dior! You come take them off me, if you want me so badly.”
“No. I’m not waiting anymore,” he says firmly, and she gets a thrill past her belly at the command in his voice. “If you figured out how to build a Dimension Cannon then you can figure out where to go to talk to me. You’re going to take them off, and touch that freckle I can’t stop thinking about. Then you’re going to get yourself off while I listen, and you’re going to tell me what you taste like.”
Rose chokes on her champagne, and dizzily returns the glass to a passing tray.
So. That’s how he’s going to play it.
“Yes, Doctor,” she says, making her voice deliberately demure, and she can swear she hears him groan. With long, determined strides, her legs carry her to the loo, but even the swishing contact of her dress is setting her nerves on fire as if it was his long, beautiful fingers. She can’t stop wondering if he’s touching himself while he talks to her.
Rose pushes into the ladies lavatory. The countertops are an emerald marble, the faucets gilded and gleaming, yet she can only focus on herself in the mirror: flushed, disheveled, knuckles white on the phone while she listens to the Doctor breathe.
“There’s a mirror in here, Doctor,” she whispers. “You should see me.”
She titters breathlessly at his command. “I’m flushed right down into my bodice, and my skin is so hot. I’m a bit sweaty and breathing hard.” She laughs softly. “God, I’m a right mess.”
“No you’re not,” the Doctor whispers. “I bet you look beautiful.”
“Oh. God, Doctor—want you.” Her dress whispers aside as she trails a finger up underneath past the inside of her stocking, and sliding it right up against her sex.
She imagines his hand there instead.
The pressure is glorious.
“Stockings off first,” he says firmly, “No cheating.”
“Yes, sir,” she returns obediently.
“Ohh,” he almost groans, “I think I like that.”
She slips a finger under the form fitting fastenings and deftly unhooks the garters.
“I’m taking my stockings off now—“
“Roll them off, one by one,” he directs, “and then hike up your dress.”
Dutifully she rolls one stocking off, then the other, raising her hand to the cold marble wall for balance each time as she slides each foot out of her heels and then glides her bare feet back in. “I can smell myself on my stockings,” she offers.
“What do you smell like, Rose?”
“Would Sir like a report on the vintage?” she purrs and he can hear the silky rustling of her dress as she raises it up around her hips. “You told me to taste myself.”
She hears his breath catch somewhere between a gasp and a moan. “Yes. Two fingers, Rose. Don’t be shy.”
“No. I won’t be around you. Not anymore.”
She shuts her eyes and licks her lips as her fingers disappear two knuckles deep with a wet sloosh.
“Are you wet, Rose? I want to hear how wet you are.”
Rose grins wryly and struggles with her balance a bit to get the angle just right. She holds the phone to her wet pussy as she drags her fingers out and pushes them back into herself, achingly slowly, over and over again. Breathlessly she pulls the phone back up to her ear. “Could you hear that Doctor? How wet I am for you? How ready I am for you? Wish this was you, Doctor. I want you to spread my legs and have your dick buried inside me. I want you so bad I want to fuck myself with this phone.”
“I want you so much. I don’t think I can hold back,” he whispers raggedly, and she’s sure he’s jerking off, now.
“Time for nice and gentle later, yeah?”
“We have time for everything, my Rose,” and his voice—warm and tender—drizzles over her and saturates her with love.
“Are you masturbating, Doctor?” Rose asks saucily.
“This isn’t about me, Rose. Now be a good girl and let me listen to you fuck yourself.”
She groans and relaxes into it until her veins spike with adrenaline. “Someone’s coming!” she whispers quickly, hearing voices outside, getting closer. Rose darts into a stall and slams the bolt in place with a satisfying chink.
“Hmm,” the Doctor muses after a moment, almost casually. “I suppose it would put you in a difficult spot if I told you about all the things I want to do to you. All the things I’ve dreamed of doing to you for so many years. Things I’ve fantasized about doing to you while you slept down the hall in the TARDIS… I’m going to worship you, Rose…”
Her jaw is slack and without thinking, she leans against the side of the stall and replaces the two fingers, burying them as deeply as she can, and chokes down a whimper. The main door opens, and two chatting ladies Rose doesn’t recognize come in, making a high pitched cacophony of: Can you believe she wore that and I heard her husband told that slapper…
“I want to feel your legs wrapping around me. Do you hear me, Rose? Sliding into you for the first time, you’re soaking, it’s so easy, you’re so wet for me. I slide right into you and it feels like drowning. You’d make noise, but louder… doesn’t matter who’s around, I want to hear you scream for me. Push deep, hold you by your ass and fuck you till you scream for me.”
She gasps—she can’t help it—and adds a third finger, as she puts a designer pump on the toilet seat, pressing her back and hot face into the cool metal of the wall and is glad those women are further along the bank of stalls. These things he’s saying to her—these things she’s always wanted to hear from him, are filling her up—and she squirms against her fingers, grinding her palm into her pubic bone as she rocks her hips and prays for release.
“I want to hear my name on your luscious lips as I stretch you open to take the length of me in… ‘Cause you’re gonna be surprised, Rose—how well I fit you.”
Holding the phone with her shoulder, she slithers her free hand into her dress to tug roughly at a nipple. Pinching it sends an electric shock down to her core. She bites her lip to keep from keening.
“I wonder, what else would you like, you minx? If I buried my face in your muff and sucked the juice out of your cunt would that do it for you? If I fucked you from behind with my finger in your ass, would you like that?”
“Yes,” she breathes. And she’s close. So close.
“Tell me,” he demands evilly.
“Fill me up,” begs Rose.
“Agh…” She gasps, “I do… I want… your finger in my ass while you fuck me," she hisses to him down the phone lines as she hears the women laughing and flushing.
"What about your clit, Rose?"
"Uh, I'll rub my clit while you fuck me--"
"No, Rose, I'll do that--you just tell me how you want it…"
“Oh, God, Doctor!” Rose hisses again through clenched teeth. She can’t help it. She struggles to keep her voice as low as she can. “Rub it, tease it—“
“Clockwise or anti-clockwise?”
“Touch your clit, now Rose. Just like you said you like it.”
“Unn. Yessss,” and she’s panting unabashedly now, the water running elsewhere in the lavatory from the other ladies covering the hush of her voice and the slick wet sounds as she fucks herself with her fingers faster, harder, desperate.
“Feel me, Rose. That’s me rubbing your clit. Do you feel me touching you?”
“Feels… so… good… Doctor…”
“Oh, Rose. I want to come in you. I want to feel you squeeze me off—“
“Oh, fuck me, Doctor!”
“Can you feel me pounding my cock into you? My hand’s over your mouth to keep you quiet, but you’re a wild thing. You buck into me to take me deeper and bite and suck my fingers just like you’d suck my cock. I keep riding you, harder and faster. I go so deep—so deep into you—and you’re screaming… Oh, Rose you’re screaming…”
“God, Doctor! Fuck me! Fuck me harder!”
“I wanna hear you scream even as I hold you down…”
“Uhhh, YES! Doctor, Doctor, Doc-tor…”
And she’s holding out just long enough to hear the women as they leave her nosily behind. And she crests the wake.
“Come for me, Rose. Come for me.”
And his name is her litany. It tumbles out like a prayer, and she explodes into a million tiny lights. “Come with me!” she hisses into the phone, and she can tell he is, because he’s gasping and groaning incoherently and there’s rustling as he buries his face into the pillow.
Her body buzzes it’s so alive.
They both laugh, soft and low.
True to her orders, Rose sucks her fingers clean, and tells him as much. He groans.
“Leave the party, now. Get a room in the hotel… I’m coming to shag you senseless, Rose Tyler,” he says, feverishly. “Leave the stockings off... and the knickers. I don’t want anything in my way.”
Hours later, they are sweaty, tangled, sticky with each other, and completely beautiful.
“I want to know everything about you, New New New Doctor,” she murmurs into his chest. “Your secrets. Favorite jelly belly? What makes you weak…”
“Marmalade,” he says, and she can feel the thrum of his chuckle and the lift of his smirk. Low and serious, he speaks again: “You.”
She leans in and kisses his palm. “What makes you strong?”
He touches her pulse, beating a brilliant staccato with his own, and is finally home.
ETA: Read the sequel: Vacancy Filled!!