Post Match Analysis (1/1)
Title: Post-match Analysis
Rating: M
Author: jlrpuck
Pairing: Ninth Doctor, Rose Tyler
Disclaimer: Characters from Doctor Who are the property of the BBC, and are used with the greatest of love and respect; no profit is intended from the writing or sharing of this story.
Summary: The Ninth Doctor and Rose spend a quiet evening together.
Authors Notes: Written for wiggiemomsi, who won my services through a generous donation to supportstacie as part of their Stocking Stuffer Auction. Her request can be found at the end of the story.
I truly cannot thank my betas, chicklet73 and earlgretytea68, enough: both of them have incredibly hectic lives right now, and yet they both made time to review this. They're truly wonderful people deserving of tons of hugs as well as thanks.
Post-Match Analysis
“Y’alright?” she asks softly, leaning against the door to the library. The Doctor is seated on the floor, in front of the fireplace (tonight, the fire is burning a glowing green; she wonders which planet it is from). He’s taken his jacket off-she can see it, just over there, draped across the back of what he calls a divan, but what she refers to simply as “the comfy one”- revealing his maroon jumper, and his head is bowed as he slowly leafs through an enormous book.
He looks up, surprised to see her standing there; he must have been focused indeed to not notice her arrival, as he so often does. He looks exhausted, the eerie shadows casting the already angular features of his face into sharp relief. His eyes are dark-so dark that the normally brilliant blue isn’t visible, even in the light-and she takes a step into the room.
It’s chilly, in spite of the fire; she once again wonders about the dancing green flames in the fireplace.
“’m fine,” he finally answers, his tone clipped in a ‘stay away’ tone of voice she knows so well. It’s the tone that tells her that he thinks he wants to be alone but really doesn’t; the tone she heard after the disaster in Nevada (once that git Adam was gone); the tone she’s heard him use more than once with Jack.
Jack, who’s currently off with Mickey seeing the finer sights early 21st century London has to offer. They’ll be gone for hours yet, if she knows Jack-and Mickey-and so she sidles over to settle into the squishy cushions of the comfy one. She’s closer to the Doctor now-she could touch him, if she really wanted to-but she carefully keeps her distance.
She glances at the book-she can see its writing now, and it’s the same series of loops and whorls and artistry she’s seen on the TARDIS screen; the writing of the Doctor’s dead planet-and decides not to ask him about that particular object.
“Where’s the fire from?” she instead asks, opting for what seems to be the safer option.
“Home,” he says, shortly, ducking his head as he returns his gaze to the book.
Not such a safe topic, then. She regroups, and asks, “What’ll happen? To the ficivores?”
It had been an odd adventure-harrowing, as they usually were, but odd even for a normal day traveling with the Doctor. “A species who exists simply to feed on the written word” was how he’d described them, wincing as he’d realized where they were. The Doctor and Rose had arrived in a place that needed their help, as was usually the case when they landed off course-the planet had run out of books, and somehow its inhabitants had lost the ability, if not the idea, to create new books full of stories, and so the ficivores were facing starvation. They’d shown the ficivores how to set out creating their own food supply, but during the course of events one of the odd-looking creatures had found its way into the TARDIS-had nearly made it into the library, in fact, before Jack and the Doctor had used the psychic paper to trick it back outside.
The harrowing bit was how angry the Doctor had been; furious didn’t begin to describe it. She knew he read-he had to, to be as clever as he was-but she’d no idea until that point just how much he loved the dusty old tomes stored away throughout the ship. The warning he’d issued to the leader of the group had given her a chill, and they’d been a sombre group when they left the planet behind.
Which was why Jack had chosen to go out drinking with his best mate Mickey, leaving her behind to “get the Doctor out of his funk”.
“They’ll keep creating stories, continue to devour them. It’s who they are; it’s their very nature.” He sighs heavily, his head bowing further. He looks weary, as though from bearing the weight of the world.
Or the universe.
“Did you lose anything?” she asks softly, leaning towards him.
“No.” He gives a mirthless laugh. “Just a bit of pride. You shouldn’t have let me talk to them. Not when I was so angry.”
Rose gives a genuine laugh at that. “As if I or Jack could stop you!”
He glances up, giving her a rueful smile of acknowledgement; she feels a small burst of pride, that she’s been able to get him to do that much. “I shouldn’t have been so hard on them. They were just tryin’ to eat.”
Rose is surprised at this; he never goes back, never does post-match analysis-and certainly never admits to doing something wrong. She scoots from the sofa, settling next to him on the rug in front of the fireplace. He hurriedly reaches for the book, closing it, moving it away from her; before she can think, she says softly, “Don’ worry-I won’t ask about that.”
He blinks, surprised at her calling him out so blatantly, and then focuses his gaze on her. His eyes are still dark, the firelight flickering in them, but she can see a hint of the blue of his irises. She is reminded once again of how compelling he is; he’s always been attractive to her, just the type of bloke she’d go for back home, and it’s always a struggle to remember that her relationship with him is one of friendship only.
She blushes, and turns her gaze to the shelves of books rising around them. “How many books d’you have?” Her voice is high, to her ears, and she hopes he attributes it to being close to the still-cool fire.
He follows her gaze, looking around the room. “I lost count. Couple of thousand, at least in here?”
She’s surprised, and returns to looking at him. He’s still gazing around the room, in profile to her, and she allows herself to admire how handsome he is-alien or no. He jokes about his ears, about his hair; makes self-deprecating remarks about everything about himself, really. But the sum of those parts is beautiful, and suddenly she can’t stop staring at him.
He turns, catching her out, and suddenly looks self-conscious. “What? Ink on my nose?” He swipes at his nose, crossing his eyes, and she laughs.
“How many other rooms full of books are there?” she asks, changing the topic away from why she was staring at him.
“Depends on the mood of the TARDIS. Some days, I’ll find books in the kitchen; some days, they’re in the garden.” His lips, which had curved in a fond smile for his ship, become a hard line. “Today, I could only find them in here.”
“They from all over then?”
His mouth relaxes. “In here? No.” His voice softens, and he adds, “The ones in here are ones I can never find again.”
She takes a chance. “Like that one?” She points to the large-closed-book, sitting on the other side of him.
He glances over at the dark leather-bound book, then slides his eyes up to hers. “I thought you weren’t going to ask about that one.”
Another chance. “I lied.” She gives him a grin, her tongue poking from the corner of her mouth; she’s learned that he’s particularly vulnerable to that expression.
He sighs, and she knows she’s won. Won what, though, is another question.
He pulls the book towards him, sliding it so it sits in front of both of them. “This is from home,” he says, his voice full of reverence. His fingers-battered, calloused, the fingers of a manual labourer-ghost across the cover with infinite gentleness. He pauses, then opens the cover, revealing a frontspiece of vivid colour and swirling, sweeping lines.
It’s an awesome work of art-even her untrained eye can see that.
“’s nothin’ like on the console,” she says, careful to keep her voice soft. She glances up from the page, over to the Doctor. “’s beautiful.”
A sad quirk of his lips is the only reply she receives; he’s still looking at the book, his expression almost pensive.
“What…what’s it say?” She’s really pressing now; his barriers are back up, all the “keep away!” signs which mean he really and truly wants to be left alone are present in full force.
And yet it’s the pensiveness which makes her think that perhaps he’s willing to talk about it. Just this once.
He purses his lips again, his face tightening; she braces for some casually cutting remark, letting her know that she’s crossed a line and he’s not willing to let her do that. Instead, he suddenly relaxes, his fingers tracing one of the circles on the page. “’s a stereo instruction.”
She’s too surprised by his actually telling her what it is to comprehend the words. At her silence he glances up, mirth in his expression. “Rose?”
She shakes her head. “Stereo instructions? ‘sn’t that a bit beneath your lot?” She’s smiling at the words, teasing him; his eyes light up, and he relaxes a touch more.
“Designed the stereo, we did. Why d’you think the instructions are so hard? Impossible to translate them into earth language-takes fifteen of your words to make up a quarter of one of ours.”
She leans over, bumping his shoulder. “Shoulda known,” she laughs. She feels bold, and reaches forward to touch the magical script in front of her. She hesitates, ever so briefly, worried again that he’ll tell her not to; he instead removes his hand from the page, making room for her.
She’s entranced by what she sees as she leans forward, her fingers following the myriad colours marking out each shape, each symbol. It reminds her of music, somehow, and she suspects that it must sound a bit like Gaelic.
The Doctor says something-something guttural, and completely unintelligible-and she returns her attention to him. He’s blushing as she meets his eye, and he stammers out, “’s what it says.” He points, unnecessarily, to the book.
She’s flustered by the simple intimacy of him saying something to her in his native tongue, and once again searches for equilibrium. “Which one?” she prompts. “Which symbol?”
He reaches down, pointing, his hand brushing hers; she gasps reflexively at the sensation, then chides herself as silly for it. They hold hands all of the time-it’s practically like breathing, at least for her. And besides, they're friends.
Just friends.
He seems not to notice. “That one.” He repeats the word-or is it words?-more confidently, turning to watch her as he speaks.
She’s completely unable to tear her eyes away from him to look at the book. He gives her a small smile-a smirk, almost-and turns back to the book. She dazedly follows his lead, glancing down to where her hand is limply pointing towards nothing in particular.
He gently takes her hand in his, lifting it before reaching with his other to turn the page. An image, more brilliant even than the writing on the frontspiece, is revealed, and she is once more pulled towards the artistry of it.
“You put pictures like this in your stereo instructions?” she asks, leaning forward for a closer look. Her fingers trace over what she sees, a picture of sharp, dramatic mountains in front of a sky of orange; of red grass, with what must be flowers growing in clumps.
She’s aware of his body language changing, and her attention reverts to the man next to her. He looks…sheepish.
“These aren’t stereo instructions, are they,” she says with amusement, the words a statement rather than a question.
The Doctor, she can tell, is embarrassed.
“This your kama sutra, then?” she asks, feeling cheeky. She has no idea why she chose that book, instead of something more prosaic-like a romance novel. Or a book on knitting.
He gapes, briefly, before rejoining smugly, “Didn’t need that. Superior Time Lord physiology.” He winks-winks!-at her, before replying slightly more seriously, “Literature book, this. A primer. Never had one as a child-I nicked it from the back of beyond years and years ago.”
“This is a schoolbook?” She can’t hide the astonishment from her voice.
“Schoolbook.” He says the word with derision, and she suddenly feels defensive.
“Well, why not? You had to go to school, didn’t you? Or were you excused on accounta your superior Time Lord brain?”
“We all had to go to school, Rose.” He says the words with surprising sadness, and she’s suddenly reminded of that first day with him; of ‘There was a war-we lost.’ He’s thinking of friends forever gone, of family he’ll never see again.
As quickly as it appeared, her anger passes. Her heart aches for the man next to her; the man who’d have the world believe to be flip and completely unflappable. The man she knows to be anything but.
“But you wouldn’t have used this there.”
“No. A book like this would’ve been an heirloom, even for Gallifrey.”
She holds her breath as he says the new word. Gallifrey. A planet? she wonders, or a person? She’s certainly not going to interrupt the Doctor to find out.
She remains silent, and he continues, “Contains most of the works of the great writers. Not that there were a lot of ‘em-too busy planning how to run the universe, that lot. But there were some. And this is all that’s left of ‘em.”
The book suddenly looks surprisingly thin to her eyes, and she reaches forward. “May I?” Her hand hovers over the page, waiting for his permission to turn it; he gives her an almost imperceptible nod.
The next page is another mass of swirling script-circles interlocking, all in a riot of colour. The Doctor reaches over, turning the page again, his hand brushing hers once more.
As before, her breath hitches; this time, heat washes through her. She jerks her hand back, self-consciously reaching up to touch the loose braid her hair is still in after their adventure. Jack has told her she looks “cute” with her hair like that; it’s been so rare to hear praise from a male on the TARDIS, she’s adopted the braids as her new look.
“Index. Boring, even if ‘s a bit prettier than you’ll find in any of your books,” the Doctor says, oblivious to the turmoil she’s experiencing.
What has got into her? It’s hardly the first time she’s been in close proximity to him; they’ve spent countless hours lounging together in various rooms of the TARDIS, relaxing on days ‘off’, watching movies, teasing Mickey or Jack.
She shakes her head, trying to focus-to put up barriers of her own. The page the Doctor has turned to-further back in the book, now-contains a small drawing of a tree, the leaves almond-shaped, dangling from branches stemming from a lithe trunk. It’s rendered in black and white, which seems to be an anomaly in the book in front of her.
“Why’s this not in colour?” She points to the picture, her hand so near to the Doctor’s she can feel the heat of his skin.
He jerks, surprised; she wonders what startled him. He doesn’t move, simply turns to her; she’s surprised to notice how close to each other they are. How did that happen?
“It’s a poem about winter,” he says softly, his eyes flicking-ever so briefly-to her lips. She’s suddenly parched, and licks her lips.
“What’s it say?” she asks, her voice as quiet as his.
He doesn’t glance down at the page, simply begins to speak in what she assumes to be his native tongue. His eyes are darting across her face, from her eyes, to her hair, to her eyes again, to her cheek, to her lips, all while he’s speaking, the language dark and guttural and somehow completely perfect.
His gaze returns to hers, his eyes once more almost black; she finds herself unable to breathe, unable to tear her eyes away from his as he finishes the poem.
Time seems to freeze as the library falls into silence; even the flickering of the flames seems to have stopped.
Rose feels a sense of unreality as the Doctor leans towards her, as he closes the almost non-existent distance between them; her eyes flutter shut as she realizes he’s not teasing, that he really is going to kiss her.
And then he does, his lips soft against hers, his skin far warmer than she’s used to. She sighs gently against him, simply savouring the feeling, enjoying the moment even as she waits for him to pull back, to lash out to hide his embarrassment.
He does pull back, and she blinks open her eyes slowly-wary that he’ll say something to ruin the moment. He doesn’t; instead, he gives her a small smile, his eyes warm, and moves his hand to cup her jaw. “This alright?” he asks, even as he leans forward.
“Yes,” she whispers, just before another soft kiss is pressed against her lips.
It’s impossible to keep her thoughts in check as the Doctor gives her an undemanding, incredibly sweet kiss. By crossing the line-because friends don’t kiss each other, not like this-he’s suddenly set her deepest wishes and dreams free. Thoughts that she’s had about him in the dark of her room, away from his too-perceptive eyes, are suddenly rioting through her mind, questions about what he looks like under that jumper, or even out of his jeans, pulsing at the forefront of everything else.
She lets out a soft moan as her body twinges, imagining what it would be like to have her body covered by the Doctor; he shifts, bringing his other hand to cup her jaw, the kiss suddenly shifting from gentle to something more.
It is she who deepens it, all rational thought given over to sheer instinct. He doesn’t fight it, parts his lips willingly for her, and she does moan-a proper moan, embarrassing in any other context-as she tastes him for the first time.
They kiss for what could be seconds, or minutes, or hours; time has lost all meaning, and truly has become relative. All she knows is that at some point, she has to pull back, has to suck down a great lungful of air to keep from losing consciousness. The Doctor, his eyes full of warmth, is watching her carefully as she catches her breath.
“’m not goin’ t’go runnin’ off,” she says once she feels a little less woozy, humour suffusing her voice.
“Good,” he says, leaning forward to kiss her again.
She begins to feel adventurous, moving her hands from where they rest on his shoulders. One hand slides upwards, across his close-cropped hair, pulling him to her as they kiss; the other finds its way down, across his chest, around his ribs. His back is muscular under her hand, and she is delighted when he sighs against her as she drifts her fingers along his lats.
He, in turn, slides his hands from where they still cup her jaw, threading his fingers through her hair. He pulls back; she opens her eyes to find him wearing a look of consternation which would be funny if it wasn’t keeping him from kissing her.
“What?” she asks, her voice gravelly.
“This,” he says in a low voice, both hands reaching towards her left shoulder. She feels a gentle tug, then is aware of his fingers combing through her hair, unweaving the braid. He is watching his progress intently, and she simply enjoys being allowed to openly gaze at him, especially with him so close to her.
He catches her eye when he is done combing out both braids; she feels her womb tighten at the intense look he gives her, and is unable to resist leaning forward, to demand another of his kisses.
Both of her hands are now splayed across his back, holding him to her; she breaks the kiss, and begins to drift her lips across his skin. He tilts his head back as she reaches the angle of his jaw and, smiling, she slowly drags her tongue along his neck, finding the dip where his collarbones meet. She swirls her tongue across his skin, enjoying the new tastes it offers, and is surprised when he suddenly pulls her up to him for what can only be described as a punishing kiss.
He shifts, guiding her to lay down on the rug in front of the fire, never breaking the kiss; her hands find their way up to his hair again, the feel of it against her skin only adding to the feeling of him kissing her senseless again.
“Been wantin’ to do this for ages,” he says softly once she’s lying down, his wonderful mouth now placing delicate kisses across her jaw, down her neck.
“Why didn’t you?” she asks, barely whispering. He’s doing something utterly delightful with his tongue, right at the curve of her neck, and she’s not sure she’ll be able to think rationally for much longer.
“I have no idea,” he says, glancing up to her with a glint of laughter in his eyes. She rubs her palm across his head, then slides her hand around to cup his jaw.
“’m glad you are,” she whispers, holding his eye. She wants this; wants to let him know that she wants it. “Please don’ stop.”
The humour vanishes, replaced by the intense glint she’d seen earlier. She suspects it means he’s going to shag her rotten, and she feels a frisson of excitement at the thought.
He feels it too, she realizes as the last of the blue in his eyes is replaced by black. He leans forward, blowing gently against her ear, his lips hovering mere millimeters from her skin. She arches against him, wanting to feel his body against hers, and she can feel him smile. “I’m going to make love to you, Rose.”
The way he says her name…he could most likely make her orgasm simply by kissing her and saying her name in that special way he does when he’s particularly delighted by something she’s done. She could listen to him say it that way, forever.
“Please,” she finds herself whispering. She’ll no doubt be mortified by the begging later, after, but at the moment it’s the only thing she can think to say.
“Please what, Rose?” He growls the question, nipping at her neck, pulling the collar of her shirt aside so he can access her shoulder.
“Make love to me,” she whispers. It’s most likely another statement she’ll be embarrassed by later, but by this point she quite frankly doesn’t give a damn what she says-just so long as he keeps kissing her, so long as he makes good on his promise to make love to her.
“Not here,” he says, glancing up. He slides his hands under her, lifting her as he stands, then gently setting her on her feet; she’s dizzy-from the kisses, from the promise of what’s to come-and he wraps an arm around her waist. “Don’t faint on me, Rose.”
The humour is back, and it helps to clear her head enough to stand straight, to stop wobbling like some heroine out of Mills and Boone.
“No way. ‘m not missin’ this for the world.” She glances up at him, a slow smile pulling at her lips.
“Good.” He takes her hand-an action he’s done so many times, but which now feels startlingly new-and gently leads her towards the hall.
She’s surprised when he leads her to her room; perceptive man that he is, he is able to register her reaction. “No bedroom, me. Don’t need to sleep often enough.” He leans down, kissing her at her door, removing any thought of a reply.
He’s still kissing her as he opens the door, as he walks her backwards into the small room she’s adopted during her travels. It’s a mess, true, but nowhere near the tip her room in the Powell Estates was, and the floor is clear enough that the slow walk to the edge of her bed is unmarred by any tripping or breaking of bones.
And still, he kisses her, his tongue dancing along hers, teasing her, making her think she’d be happy to do this for the foreseeable future. As they come to a stop, he brings his hands to her hips, pulling her against him; she gasps at the feel of his erection pressing against her, and it occurs to her she never really thought he’d be anything but like a human male under all of his clothes.
Her hands find their way to his hips, to where the soft wool of his jumper rests against the rough denim of his jeans; the jumper is untucked, and she dares to slip her fingers under the wool, to feel the skin which has always been hidden away.
He growls something-possibly a word in his native tongue, possibly nothing at all-at the contact, and jerks roughly upwards on her shirt. It comes free from her jeans, and suddenly his hand is against the bare skin of her back, the sensation erotic in the extreme.
Her nipples have hardened by now, her body desperate to feel his against hers, in hers; she wants this to be fast, and hard, and exciting, and she decides the Doctor is being excruciatingly slow in moving things forward.
Leaving a hand along his back, she slides her other one forward, drifting it down. The Doctor pauses in kissing her, pulling back; she opens her eyes to find his are still closed, his entire body coiled in anticipation. She finally cups him, gently, through his jeans, and his jaw drops open slightly.
She squeezes, feeling the line of hardness; then both hands are at the waist of his jeans, working the button, sliding the zip down.
And still the Doctor is standing stock-still, his head dropped back slightly, his mouth just open.
She can’t get him out of his clothing quickly enough; she wants him, now, wants him to make love to her on her bed in his ship. Her hands dip below the now-loose denim, find their way under the dull white cotton of his briefs, slide down across the soft warm skin of his lower belly…
“Rose,” he growls as she finds his erection, her fingertips brushing against the head of his penis. He rocks into her, driving his hips upwards so he brushes against her hand; she’s able to wrap her hand around him now, and she slowly begins to stroke him.
He opens his eyes, tilts his head forward; he holds her gaze as his hands find the edge of her shirt and slowly lift it up, over her head. She has to pull her hand away from him so the shirt can come off, and she feels the loss of the intimate touch. Her shirt is tossed aside, into the shadows-thank goodness she’d left at least the small side lamp on before she’d wandered to the library-and the Doctor leans forward, kissing her shoulders before slowly making his way towards her breasts. She can’t reach his erection, not with the way he’s standing, and so she moves her hands to his hair, gently stroking it as he moves the lace of her bra aside and brushes his tongue over a nipple.
“God,” she gasps at the sensation, arching as she pulls his head towards her breast.
“Been called that before,” he says, smiling against her skin. His cockiness, she finds, is dead sexy in the bedroom.
He returns to lavishing attention on her breast, his tongue and teeth teasing her, making her moan more than once. Her knickers are damp against her skin as he transfers his attention to her other breast, treating it to the same care, and she thinks she may go mad. He slides his hands behind her, unhooks her bra and slides it off her shoulders; and all the while he’s continuing to drive her mad by teasing her with his tongue.
“Y’gonna make love to me, or my chest?” she finally asks, after he takes too long paying attention to things a good foot above where she’d like him to be.
The question energizes him, and she suddenly finds herself pulled flush against him, being kissed, his hands drifting down to her jeans and deftly working to unfasten them. Her hands, in turn, have slipped under his pants again, and she focuses on moving the fabric down, on exposing his skin, his erection-any and all of him.
“Take ‘em off,” he says, pulling back from the kiss, gesturing to her now-unzipped jeans. She glances down, surprised that he’s not taking them off of her, then realizes she’s still wearing shoes-and so is he. She hastily kicks her shoes off, hopping briefly, then wiggles her hips as she slides the denim down, as she kicks it off. The Doctor, in turn, has stripped off his jumper; has shed his shoes, and is kicking his jeans and pants to the side as she finishes.
“Oh!” She glances up at him, confused. “Was I meant to…” She glances down at her knickers-if she’d known tonight would be the night she finally had sex with the Doctor, she’d have found something a little less utilitarian than cotton, and a lot more colourful. She loops her thumbs under the elastic waist, preparing to shed the garment, when the Doctor grabs her wrists.
“No.” He pulls her hands towards him, bringing them around his now-naked hips. “I want to.”
She’s too distracted by the feel of him pressed against her, by the fact that he is completely naked, and every bit as beautiful as she’d thought he would be. She takes a step back, wanting to look at him, to take him in before he makes love to her; he lets her, standing patiently as she lets her eyes roam, taking in his lithe body, his toned legs, his erection.
“You’re gorgeous,” she breathes, looking up at him.
He blushes at the simple statement of approval; she finds it endears him to her even more than she’d thought possible. She steps towards him, slowly sliding her hands up, across his chest, over his shoulders, pulling him down to her for a kiss; as he leans down, his hands move to rest at her waist, and he parts his lips immediately to return the kiss.
They stay like that for several moments.
He brings his arms around her, his hands warmer than normal but still cool against her skin, and then he slowly lowers her onto her bed. He breaks the kiss, makes sure she’s comfortably on the bed before he crawls onto it to join her. She’s on her back, her head resting on a pillow; he’s on his side, head propped on one hand, the other now drifting slowly down her sternum, across her stomach. He draws a lazy circle around her belly button, and she feels anticipation coil within her.
He slides his hand under the edge of her knickers, and holds her gaze as his fingers dip further down, finding first the coarse hair, then the dampness, then…“Oh,” she sighs, his fingers dancing through the slickness between her legs. She is surprised by how quickly he pushes her to the edge of orgasm, and she wants to sob as he withdraws his hand from her knickers, leaving her soclose to release.
“Not just yet,” he whispers as she mutters a curse or, maybe, a sob. She’s been watching him the entire time, just as he’s been watching her, and she decides she’s tired of being passive.
He’s drifted his fingers back to her breast, trailing the damp digit across the flesh; she wiggles, arching just so, and is able to wrap her hand around his erection. She wastes no time on further foreplay, wrapping her hand around him and rubbing her thumb over his tip; she finds that, just like any other bloke she’s been with, there’s a bead of moisture there, and she uses it to tease him before gently stroking upwards.
He leans forward, takes her nipple in his mouth, his tongue brushing against the sensitive skin in time to her strokes; and then suddenly he pulls back, jerking away from her. “Stop,” he gasps, actually short of breath.
“What’s wrong?” She sits up, immediately worried she’s done something wrong; he pounces, his lips hard against hers, his hands somehow managing to not only find her knickers but work them down over her hips.
She kicks them aside, is ready to lay back and open for him, when she pulls back, one final question needing to be answered. “D’we need protection?” she whispers, dodging his kisses.
“No. Can’t happen.” He opens his eyes, holds her gaze as he says it; she nods, and leans towards him, pulling him so he rolls over her.
There’s no ceremony, no pause or declaration; she parts her legs for him, he moves between them, and then he thrusts into her in a smooth movement. She arches, taking him in; he pushes as far as he can, then withdraws.
He sets a rhythm quickly, watching her as he slides into her, as he pulls out; she is watching him, too, her hands drifting across the angles of his face, along his neck, pulling him down for a kiss every now and again. The motions are the same as with any human bloke, but there’s something different…something she can’t quite put her finger to, and isn’t really concerned about defining. It feels heavenly, having him do this to her, and she thinks that having him simply move in and out of her might be enough to make her orgasm.
“Rose.” He says her name in that voice again, pulling her attention to him; once he has it, he slides a hand between them, slips his fingers into her slickness, changes from a gentle rocking to a far more aggressive movement.
And then the wave of orgasm washes through her, pulling his name from her lips, causing her to arch her back, to buck into him. He rolls them, somehow manages to guide her onto her hands and knees in front of him as he now drives into her from behind; only it’s not so much driving into her, as pressing into her as far as he can, shifting his hips in some motion she’s never experienced but which feels amazing, and then she feels his fingers press against her waist, holding her to him as he groans her name.
He leans forward, presses a soft kiss against her shoulder blade before withdrawing; and then he’s lying down next to her, pulling her down to lay with him.
She’s knackered-it’s been a very long day-but she doesn’t want to fall asleep on the Doctor. Not without first saying something. “’s amazin’,” she mumbles against his chest.
“No regrets about shaggin’ an old alien?” The question is asked lightly, but she can feel how tense he is.
She pulls back, looks up at him. “None. Not a single one. I’d do it again ‘n a heartbeat.”
He smiles at that, a genuine grin of delight, and she can’t help but smile in return.
“We’ll have to,” he says decisively, the grin fading. “But first, you really ought to get some kip.”
“’k.” The words are whispered, and she leans up to brush her lips against his before settling against him and drifting off to sleep.
~ - ~
When she wakes up the next morning, she’s tucked under her duvet, and alone. No surprise, really-the Doctor never sleeps-but she’d hoped he might perhaps have stayed…
No, that’s silly. She feels like she’s slept for years, and there’s simply no way he’d have stayed still for that long. He’s no doubt tinkering, he and Jack working on the console, or the rotor, or some obscure bit which she thinks might be made up. Besides, he doesn’t do domestic-and sleeping together (or laying next to your sleeping bedmate) strikes her as just about as domestic as things get.
So she’s surprised when, a few minutes after fully coming awake, the Doctor walks into her room carrying coffee and toast. He’s beaming, and-sadly-fully dressed, and she wonders how quickly she can get him out of his clothes and into bed for another shag.
“Jack sees you smilin’ like that, he’s bound to ask what happened,” she says, smiling, pushing herself up onto her elbows.
“Let him ask.” The coffee and toast are set on the bedside table, and the Doctor leans down to give her a kiss. “He didn’t come back until this morning anyway, so I hardly think he’s in a position to criticize.”
She leans up into the kiss, eager, wanting more already; the Doctor chuckles against her, and breaks the kiss. “Not just yet, Rose.” Her face falls, and he adds, “We’re flyin’ somewhere. When we’re done, though…” He leans in for another kiss, this one full of promise, and she sighs happily against him.
The coffee has cooled by the time she turns her attention to it; the Doctor stands, making his way to the door to leave her to finish waking up, and to see to her morning ablutions. “Don’t take too long,” he chides, smiling, as he reaches the door.
“I won’t. Where we goin’, anyway?” She takes a bit of toast, and washes it down with the coffee.
“Ancient Japan. How do you feel about Kyoto?”
~ - ~
Fin
Prompt: Fic: Rose/Doctor (prefer 9th, but 10th is fine, too!) Sweet, romantic, and/or hot; maybe slightly angsty, but with a happy &/or hopeful ending. "XXX" rating good, too!