Fic: Girls Can Wear Ties Too
Title: Girls Can Wear Ties Too
Author: redknightalex
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: Mature/Adults Only
Pairing/Characters: Nine/Rose, bit of Ten/Rose
Word Count: 1,920
Setting: Series 1 and a bit of Series 2
Genre: Such a PWP. It really, really is.
Warnings: Um...no beta? Is that a warning?
Disclaimer: Just borrowing from the BBC. I hope they never find this or they'd probably be mortified that I put their creations in such compromising positions. *cough cough*
Summary: Prompt response for never_ever_will: mirror, strawberries, and necktie. Basically, Rose and the Doctor have some fun in the wardrobe room.
There were always these signs that made the Doctor look at her twice.
First, Rose insisted, every month, to stop back on Earth for a quick trip to the clinic for an item she called, after much teasing from him, “birth control.” At first he was confused - was she still seeing Mickey each time they landed? - but she assured him it wasn't for Mickey. Not anymore. She never did say why.
Second, she had confessed to trying on her father's old neckties once, when she was a little girl, before her mother had taken them away in a fit of anger and despair. With shy eyes and red cheeks, she whispered over the humming of the TARDIS that she even liked having them hang loosely from her neck. After that awkward confession, she had run from the console room and left an interested Doctor in her wake.
Third, he found that she had a liking for the wardrobe room, way up the stairs and to the left (no, right; no, both), and whenever he couldn't find her, he made his way up and found her wrapped up in silly scarfs and large top hats. The sight always made him smile no matter what had previously been on his mind.
It was late at night and the Doctor was brooding. His mind was stuck, forever twisting away at the events of his past, never moving forward but always moving back, until he heard a small giggle make his way into his consciousness. He thought it was nothing at first - perhaps the TARDIS was creaking again - yet it came again, and once more, before he decided to investigate. It was coming from above; from the wardrobe.
As he climbed up the stairs, throwing off his jacket as he did so, he never expected to see what he did.
The Doctor found Rose stark naked but for a single, brown stripped necktie. It was worn loosely, as if for show, twirling it around her neck as she glanced at herself in the full-length mirror. From his vantage point, just to the right of the mirror, he could see her, all of her, and just her with that simple necktie on. He could see the breasts that swayed slightly as she almost danced before the mirror, the legs that shined golden in the bright lights, and the small patch of hair where the two met that made the blood pour out of every circuit in his brain to focus on someplace very similar to hers.
For the first time in this body, in what felt like centuries, he was aroused and it was the most wonderful feeling in the world. It was almost too much to figure out, to remember what it was, to rationalize it, that he gasped before he could stop himself and, just as quickly, he found himself looking directly at that naked Rose from the mirror, and she was more beautiful than her reflection had ever hinted at.
At first, he saw the embarrassment, the confusion, and the surprise at being caught unaware flash across her face, her red mouth opening, as if to form words, yet leaving nothing but empty air that passed between them. Then, when that had all passed, he saw her eyes quickly glance over him, stopping briefly at his straining erection, before looking him straight in the eye. It was at that moment, that precise moment, that the desire they both had held in for so long, that lust and heart-ache, the passion and love, spilled over onto the floor and flooded into each other's veins.
With two quick strides, soaking up all of the fantasies he could see written across her face, the Doctor came to stand before Rose. He grabbed the necktie, clenching it between his fingers, and pulled her forward for a bruising kiss. The sound she made in the back of her throat caused him to press her harder against him, her breasts touching his chest, and the heat of her legs seeped through his trousers. Their lips danced against each other, firm and moist, and he felt his hearts hammering against his chest when her hands slowly made their way up to his hair and soothed across it like she was petting a small cat. It was lazy, it was simple, it was distracted, until she trailed her nails down the back of his neck, over his shoulders, and landed just above his arse. He growled into her throat, clenched the necktie harder, and shoved her against the long mirror. Her body, slick with sweat, made a sliding noise against the tall mirror until he pressed against her once more.
Their lips found each other again and the Doctor thought that this, this melding of lips and tongue and soul, was truly the most wonderful feeling. How had he been so wrong before when it wasn't just the physical reactions but the emotional, the deeper than flesh and blood reaction that made him feel ethereal.
And then, when he pushed a hard leg between her own, opening them up for him, and him alone, she slid up along it and he could smell her intoxicating arousal flowing out of her. His nostrils flared, his mouth opened, and a quivering tongue slipped into her mouth quickly and easily. He knew at this point, with her hands clutching at his jumper, seemingly wishing to tear it off of him, that they were both lost and gone, perhaps forever, down this rabbit hole.
Quickly, the Doctor let her go, tore of his clothes (albeit with some trouble with his trousers and he heard Rose stifle a laugh at him hoping around with one leg still trapped), and pressed her back tight against the mirror. It creaked against the weight of the both of them as he had her climb up onto his lap, legs wrapping around his waist, and his erection, now hard with blood and suppressed feeling, was trapped neatly between her thighs. He was never more grateful for a mirror etched into a wall before in his life.
He could feel her against him, wet and hot, warm and slick, and his Adam's Apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed, hard, against the emotions that were running through his body. He kissed her gently this time, trying to slow his breathing, to slow his hearts as they pounded out of control, and looked at her, straight into her eyes, so young and yet so very wise and knowing at the same time.
The Doctor opened his mouth to say something, to ask for permission, to ask her what she wanted, how she wanted it, if she wanted it, when Rose abruptly nodded. She reached between them, found him stiff and wanting, and smiled with eyes half-closed.
Everything after that was an increasing blur to him. Bits and pieces he could remember, but only just, except the feelings, the emotions, the warmth - oh, he remember all of that. He remembered her warm hands stroking him gently and the ragged breathing it generated in him. He remembered his hands reaching first for the necktie and then for her breast, using both calloused fingers and silken texture to bring her nipples to firm tips. He remembered ducking his head to take one in his mouth and suck hungrily on it, rolling his tongue across it after biting it quickly with his teeth. He remembered doing the same to her other aching breast in the beat of the same encouragements he had heard before. He remembered when his fingers dipped carefully into her slit, swirling around her like he had found a new playground, and the way she had bucked her hips to meet his fingers. And he could even remember the sounds she made each time he did that, each pause of her breathing, each gasp, moan, or pleading of her hips. He remembered all of that.
But when she lifted herself up a bit, her head crashing against the mirror, to take him inside her, he felt the peace of oblivion wash over him. The warmth of her, the wetness, and the clenching muscles cleared his head, finally, of all the horrors he remembered every moment of every day that he lived and, for a glorious, wonderful, ever-lasting place in time, he had found his peace.
It was then, at that moment of complete oblivion, that the blur came back, stronger than before. He barely remembers pushing up and into her, one hand against the mirror behind her as he kept her from sliding with the force of his thrusts, while the other clutched at her hip to keep her still as he withdrew just enough to tease them. He remembers taking the tie into his mouth, tasting the salt of her body on it, before moving to nip at her lips again, tasting her mouth like an alien delicacy.
But the last thing he truly remembers, as blurry as the images were in his head, was the movement of her hand down to her clit, and the whispered admission of Rose's own fingers touching herself that finally set him off.
The Doctor groaned as he came, biting down hard on Rose's shoulder as the tears seeped out from behind clenched eyes, and when he felt her muscles contract around him, he knew that he was sobbing.
They leaned against the mirror, their breaths coming out hard and satisfied against sweat-lined shoulders, and, for a while, they stayed motionless, trying to savor this moment for as long as they could. It was blissful, it was perfect, it was everything that was good and wonderful in that world or the next, and loosing the connection could only end in disaster - or so their foggy brains could coherently deduce.
“Strawberries,” Rose whispered into his neck, taking a moment to nip at the skin she found there. He hissed in response before turning his head a little to glance at her.
“Strawberries?”
“Mmm,” she moaned out, nodding her head, “and bananas.”
Eventually they removed themselves from each other, dressed, and headed for the kitchen. Strawberries and bananas it would be. Perhaps in liquid form.
But she never removed the tie.
Months after a Christmas Day with attacking trees and new faces, she found the Doctor in the TARDIS, all by himself, his Converse trainers lazily placed upon the top of the console as he laid back against the bench. When he saw her coming, he hurriedly placed his feet back on the floor and watched her approach.
She could tell he was watching her hips; she was swaying them just for him. Then, without preamble, she placed one knee on the bench, swung the other over his prone form, and sank down onto his lap. The Doctor's eyes widened with shock but she could tell he wasn't overly concerned as she felt something hard and warm grow underneath her.
“I remember this tie,” Rose said with a knowing smile, taking it in her hands and pulled it out from underneath his suit, rubbing it up and down, smoothing over the wrinkles he had already made.
Her smiling widening with each increasingly shallow breath he took, Rose used the tie to inch the Doctor closer to her face until their own noises were touching and she could look into the strange yet still oddly familiar dark eyes of his. Then, when a flicker of desire crossed his eyes, she knew that he was ready for the kill.
“I remember wearing it.”
Author: redknightalex
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: Mature/Adults Only
Pairing/Characters: Nine/Rose, bit of Ten/Rose
Word Count: 1,920
Setting: Series 1 and a bit of Series 2
Genre: Such a PWP. It really, really is.
Warnings: Um...no beta? Is that a warning?
Disclaimer: Just borrowing from the BBC. I hope they never find this or they'd probably be mortified that I put their creations in such compromising positions. *cough cough*
Summary: Prompt response for never_ever_will: mirror, strawberries, and necktie. Basically, Rose and the Doctor have some fun in the wardrobe room.
There were always these signs that made the Doctor look at her twice.
First, Rose insisted, every month, to stop back on Earth for a quick trip to the clinic for an item she called, after much teasing from him, “birth control.” At first he was confused - was she still seeing Mickey each time they landed? - but she assured him it wasn't for Mickey. Not anymore. She never did say why.
Second, she had confessed to trying on her father's old neckties once, when she was a little girl, before her mother had taken them away in a fit of anger and despair. With shy eyes and red cheeks, she whispered over the humming of the TARDIS that she even liked having them hang loosely from her neck. After that awkward confession, she had run from the console room and left an interested Doctor in her wake.
Third, he found that she had a liking for the wardrobe room, way up the stairs and to the left (no, right; no, both), and whenever he couldn't find her, he made his way up and found her wrapped up in silly scarfs and large top hats. The sight always made him smile no matter what had previously been on his mind.
It was late at night and the Doctor was brooding. His mind was stuck, forever twisting away at the events of his past, never moving forward but always moving back, until he heard a small giggle make his way into his consciousness. He thought it was nothing at first - perhaps the TARDIS was creaking again - yet it came again, and once more, before he decided to investigate. It was coming from above; from the wardrobe.
As he climbed up the stairs, throwing off his jacket as he did so, he never expected to see what he did.
The Doctor found Rose stark naked but for a single, brown stripped necktie. It was worn loosely, as if for show, twirling it around her neck as she glanced at herself in the full-length mirror. From his vantage point, just to the right of the mirror, he could see her, all of her, and just her with that simple necktie on. He could see the breasts that swayed slightly as she almost danced before the mirror, the legs that shined golden in the bright lights, and the small patch of hair where the two met that made the blood pour out of every circuit in his brain to focus on someplace very similar to hers.
For the first time in this body, in what felt like centuries, he was aroused and it was the most wonderful feeling in the world. It was almost too much to figure out, to remember what it was, to rationalize it, that he gasped before he could stop himself and, just as quickly, he found himself looking directly at that naked Rose from the mirror, and she was more beautiful than her reflection had ever hinted at.
At first, he saw the embarrassment, the confusion, and the surprise at being caught unaware flash across her face, her red mouth opening, as if to form words, yet leaving nothing but empty air that passed between them. Then, when that had all passed, he saw her eyes quickly glance over him, stopping briefly at his straining erection, before looking him straight in the eye. It was at that moment, that precise moment, that the desire they both had held in for so long, that lust and heart-ache, the passion and love, spilled over onto the floor and flooded into each other's veins.
With two quick strides, soaking up all of the fantasies he could see written across her face, the Doctor came to stand before Rose. He grabbed the necktie, clenching it between his fingers, and pulled her forward for a bruising kiss. The sound she made in the back of her throat caused him to press her harder against him, her breasts touching his chest, and the heat of her legs seeped through his trousers. Their lips danced against each other, firm and moist, and he felt his hearts hammering against his chest when her hands slowly made their way up to his hair and soothed across it like she was petting a small cat. It was lazy, it was simple, it was distracted, until she trailed her nails down the back of his neck, over his shoulders, and landed just above his arse. He growled into her throat, clenched the necktie harder, and shoved her against the long mirror. Her body, slick with sweat, made a sliding noise against the tall mirror until he pressed against her once more.
Their lips found each other again and the Doctor thought that this, this melding of lips and tongue and soul, was truly the most wonderful feeling. How had he been so wrong before when it wasn't just the physical reactions but the emotional, the deeper than flesh and blood reaction that made him feel ethereal.
And then, when he pushed a hard leg between her own, opening them up for him, and him alone, she slid up along it and he could smell her intoxicating arousal flowing out of her. His nostrils flared, his mouth opened, and a quivering tongue slipped into her mouth quickly and easily. He knew at this point, with her hands clutching at his jumper, seemingly wishing to tear it off of him, that they were both lost and gone, perhaps forever, down this rabbit hole.
Quickly, the Doctor let her go, tore of his clothes (albeit with some trouble with his trousers and he heard Rose stifle a laugh at him hoping around with one leg still trapped), and pressed her back tight against the mirror. It creaked against the weight of the both of them as he had her climb up onto his lap, legs wrapping around his waist, and his erection, now hard with blood and suppressed feeling, was trapped neatly between her thighs. He was never more grateful for a mirror etched into a wall before in his life.
He could feel her against him, wet and hot, warm and slick, and his Adam's Apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed, hard, against the emotions that were running through his body. He kissed her gently this time, trying to slow his breathing, to slow his hearts as they pounded out of control, and looked at her, straight into her eyes, so young and yet so very wise and knowing at the same time.
The Doctor opened his mouth to say something, to ask for permission, to ask her what she wanted, how she wanted it, if she wanted it, when Rose abruptly nodded. She reached between them, found him stiff and wanting, and smiled with eyes half-closed.
Everything after that was an increasing blur to him. Bits and pieces he could remember, but only just, except the feelings, the emotions, the warmth - oh, he remember all of that. He remembered her warm hands stroking him gently and the ragged breathing it generated in him. He remembered his hands reaching first for the necktie and then for her breast, using both calloused fingers and silken texture to bring her nipples to firm tips. He remembered ducking his head to take one in his mouth and suck hungrily on it, rolling his tongue across it after biting it quickly with his teeth. He remembered doing the same to her other aching breast in the beat of the same encouragements he had heard before. He remembered when his fingers dipped carefully into her slit, swirling around her like he had found a new playground, and the way she had bucked her hips to meet his fingers. And he could even remember the sounds she made each time he did that, each pause of her breathing, each gasp, moan, or pleading of her hips. He remembered all of that.
But when she lifted herself up a bit, her head crashing against the mirror, to take him inside her, he felt the peace of oblivion wash over him. The warmth of her, the wetness, and the clenching muscles cleared his head, finally, of all the horrors he remembered every moment of every day that he lived and, for a glorious, wonderful, ever-lasting place in time, he had found his peace.
It was then, at that moment of complete oblivion, that the blur came back, stronger than before. He barely remembers pushing up and into her, one hand against the mirror behind her as he kept her from sliding with the force of his thrusts, while the other clutched at her hip to keep her still as he withdrew just enough to tease them. He remembers taking the tie into his mouth, tasting the salt of her body on it, before moving to nip at her lips again, tasting her mouth like an alien delicacy.
But the last thing he truly remembers, as blurry as the images were in his head, was the movement of her hand down to her clit, and the whispered admission of Rose's own fingers touching herself that finally set him off.
The Doctor groaned as he came, biting down hard on Rose's shoulder as the tears seeped out from behind clenched eyes, and when he felt her muscles contract around him, he knew that he was sobbing.
They leaned against the mirror, their breaths coming out hard and satisfied against sweat-lined shoulders, and, for a while, they stayed motionless, trying to savor this moment for as long as they could. It was blissful, it was perfect, it was everything that was good and wonderful in that world or the next, and loosing the connection could only end in disaster - or so their foggy brains could coherently deduce.
“Strawberries,” Rose whispered into his neck, taking a moment to nip at the skin she found there. He hissed in response before turning his head a little to glance at her.
“Strawberries?”
“Mmm,” she moaned out, nodding her head, “and bananas.”
Eventually they removed themselves from each other, dressed, and headed for the kitchen. Strawberries and bananas it would be. Perhaps in liquid form.
But she never removed the tie.
Months after a Christmas Day with attacking trees and new faces, she found the Doctor in the TARDIS, all by himself, his Converse trainers lazily placed upon the top of the console as he laid back against the bench. When he saw her coming, he hurriedly placed his feet back on the floor and watched her approach.
She could tell he was watching her hips; she was swaying them just for him. Then, without preamble, she placed one knee on the bench, swung the other over his prone form, and sank down onto his lap. The Doctor's eyes widened with shock but she could tell he wasn't overly concerned as she felt something hard and warm grow underneath her.
“I remember this tie,” Rose said with a knowing smile, taking it in her hands and pulled it out from underneath his suit, rubbing it up and down, smoothing over the wrinkles he had already made.
Her smiling widening with each increasingly shallow breath he took, Rose used the tie to inch the Doctor closer to her face until their own noises were touching and she could look into the strange yet still oddly familiar dark eyes of his. Then, when a flicker of desire crossed his eyes, she knew that he was ready for the kill.
“I remember wearing it.”