Advent Calendar 1-12
Story: 'Advent Calendar'
Characters: Nine/Rose
Rated: Adult
Disclaimer: I resent the BBC. They own the lot.
Content: Romance; Graphic Sex; Humour; PWP.
Chapters: 1-12/24
Summary: 24 days. 24 positions. Seriously.
December 10 - 12
December 12
12.06am. 12 December. A street so disreputable, so shady looking, it had been disowned by the rest of London’s glamorous West End and left to fend for itself. A shop with blacked out windows. A door that gave a muffled moan as the Doctor entered.
12.07am. 12 December. The door swung shut on a very bad idea. Daleks and Cybermen and whatever else didn’t scare him, but he would run a mile from the sight of a man in an all in one black shiny PVC catsuit, who had to unzip his mouth before he could say good evening.
The Doctor decided to behave like any other sensible person in the twenty first century, and order what he needed online instead. With a bit of the time travel jiggery-pokery that made Christmas shopping a breeze he was standing outside the TARDIS ten minutes later when the delivery van arrived. Only when he started opening boxes did he realise how soul destroying the sentence ‘batteries not included’ could be. He’d told Rose he would try anything, but what he really meant was, he’d try anything on her. And she was about to find that out.
She was still locked in the bedroom where he’d left her, awaiting punishment with a nervous anticipation that manifested itself in a fit of the giggles when he entered the room. She was ruining the mood, particularly when the mood he was going for was sleazy. He’d never done sleazy before, but he was fairly sure it shouldn’t involve quite so much laughing. He put the brown paper bag he was carrying down on the bedside table with a thump. Deliberately, he withdrew a short, straight, black leather riding crop from it and swished it in the air a couple of times significantly. Her eyes were wide, and she wasn’t laughing.
‘Strip,’ he commanded.
She complied with shaking fingers. When she was lying on the bed, totally at his mercy, he handed her a blindfold, and told her to put it on, no trace on his face whatsoever of the smile that was desperately trying to batter its way out of his skull.
But she looked tiny and vulnerable against the covers, and for an instant all he wanted to do was take her in his arms and hold her tightly. He was ruining the mood himself. He brought the whip down on the bed with a crack, a reminder of what he was doing, and then - because he had only bought it for comedy effect - he put it away.
Removing the leather cuffs and the specially extended straps that even Google had had trouble finding he put his enormous four poster bed to the single purpose he kept it for. He had plenty of other beds for sleeping, but only this one gave him enough scope to tie Rose down securely, while still giving her enough freedom to make the movements he wanted her to. She waited expectantly, spread-eagled and lashed to the corner posts, and she smiled. He found the smiling suspicious. He was expecting excitement, protests, begging, if he was lucky, and really, really hot sex, but calm smiling just wasn’t in the sleazy game plan.
‘Don’t you even want to know what I’m going to do to you?’ he questioned, giving up at last.
Her smile grew. ‘No. I don’t care,’ she replied. ‘I trust you. You won’t hurt me. Do anything you like.’
That was just annoying. She had totally ruined the mood. It would be impossible to pull off a convincing sleazy if she was just going to be all reasonable about it. Hot sex, he reminded himself. Go for the hot sex. Or cold sex, in this case, because the first thing he did was remove an icecube from a tray in the bag and run it over one of her nipples. The tight little point came up immediately and she shivered. That was more like it.
By the time he had trailed the first chill wet shard over her stomach she was trying to close her legs together against the press of the leather straps. It took another icecube, melting in the heat between her thighs, to really get her excited. He had never seen the tiny pink ridge that he loved to touch stand up so proudly as when he teased it with a drop of frozen water. He couldn’t resist working her from side to side a couple of times with his tongue, just to see if she tasted any different when she was cold. She didn’t, but she certainly shouted louder.
Then he went in with the chocolate body paint. She didn’t seem to mind too much when he covered her breasts in sticky goo and had to spend a good ten minutes sucking her clean. In fact, her hips were thrusting upwards at regular intervals, making her restraints creak by the time he had finished. But she only started protesting when he spread her apart as far as she could go and coated her shining insides with delicate swipes of his brush. Then he spent an extremely pleasurable half an hour licking it off, his hands underneath her bottom, holding her in place, his face buried firmly between her thighs. She whimpered ‘No, no,’ whenever he came up to take a breather and thrashed her head against the pillows.
When he removed his favourite purchase from the bag she was panting heavily, her face was flushed, and she was so desperate to come that she was pulling hard against the straps and gritting out ‘please’ between her teeth every time she sensed him standing closer. He stripped off his clothes, lay down again in the open V of her legs and turned on the vibrator. He was quite embarrassed that he had even bought such a thing, even more so, because it was bright pink, had a picture of a lollipop on the end and went by the name of Mr Funboy. He was intending to lose it tomorrow accidentally on purpose. He couldn’t see why Rose would need it anyway, as long as he was around.
She heard the unfamiliar buzzing noise, and she stiffened as he circled the plastic head around her throbbing opening and gently dipped it inside. He pushed it in further, and watched her body rise off the bed, pulled it out, and saw her fall, gasping, back down against the sheets. He drove it far enough in to nearly lose his fingers inside her, and he listened to her call his name, before he whipped it back out and she started begging again. The control was addictive. He wondered how long he could keep letting her run to the brink of orgasm before hauling her back.
He fingers curled into claws. ‘Doctor,’ she choked out. ‘Doctor.’
And he realised that she was telling him exactly what he wanted to hear. She was calling for him, she wanted him, and not some poor plastic imitation. He freed her legs from the straps, kneeled up on the bed, put her ankles up on his shoulders and replaced Mr Funboy with something a lot more grown up. He could feel the flex of her stomach muscles as she pushed up against him, and the position let him penetrate deep into her core. He grabbed her calves, rocking forward on his knees, ramming himself down as far into her as he could go. Her whole body gave a convulsive shudder at the speed and strength of his thrusts, when he released inside her at last, and she shouted out her ecstasy to the walls: ‘I love you.’
He stopped abruptly, withdrew, let her down. That wasn’t just ruining the mood, that was ripping it up into tiny pieces and grinding them into the floor. He didn’t know what to say. Well, he did know what to say but he wasn’t sure he should say it. Telling her she was his was one thing, but ‘I love you’ was something else. ‘I love you’ was ‘stay with me’ and ‘take your chances’ and ‘no going back’. ‘I love you’ was selfish. ‘I love you’ was forever. He wasn’t sure he could honestly offer her forever, and if he couldn’t be honest, he wouldn’t be anything.
He unstrapped her, held her until she fell asleep. He was awake for a long time.
December 11
‘You wouldn’t really?’ asked Rose, in the early hours of the morning of December the 11th.
‘Try me,’ he challenged, putting his hands behind his head.
They were lying in bed, resting in between bouts of ferocious lovemaking, and she had taken the rare opportunity of finding her mouth not otherwise engaged to try to have a conversation.
‘Anything though? Anything at all?’
‘I’d do anything once,’ he replied. ‘Comes with the territory. Like I said - you’ve got to jump in, use the wrong verb. No point in travelling if you won’t try anything new.’
‘I’ll hold you to that then,’ she said, just before he reached out and started to show her again just how many things he had already tried.
Ten minutes before midnight on December 12th she found a way to test him out. They were standing in the middle of a tight press of men, in the middle of the dance floor, in the middle of G.A.Y., a thriving one night a week venue in the heart of London’s West End. She had been there once with Shireen when both of them were on a break from their then boyfriends and looking for a laugh. It was a great place to come if you were a straight girl. Possibly not so great if you were a straight Time Lord though, she thought, reviewing the expression on his face.
‘You said you’d try anything once,’ she shrugged. ‘Just find somebody you like and ask him back to the TARDIS. No big deal. Oh - but I want to watch.’
He glowered at her. ‘And what gives you the impression that I’d enjoy that?’ he asked.
‘Well,’ she said looking him up and down. ‘Let’s see - skin tight black jeans, nearly shaved off hair, obsession with leather jackets, obvious control freak. You fit right in.’
She was still laughing when his back disappeared up the long flights of stairs on his way out of the club. Clearly, there were some things that he wouldn’t even try once.
December 10
On the tenth of December, they saved the world, because they hadn’t done it in a week and a half and he didn’t want to get out of practice. It wasn’t a very big world, not up to his usual standards. Rose said she’d been bigger worlds given away free with magazines and he’d had to explain to her very carefully, that sometimes, size really didn’t matter. She agreed, and he felt like spanking her. Every time she opened her mouth that morning he’d felt like spanking her, as well as every time she hadn’t. He’d spent most of the day on hands and knees, crawling down tunnels too tiny to stand up straight in, watching Rose’s denim clad bottom wave around in right in front of his eyes.
The TARDIS was parked in the only cavern in this underground world big enough to accommodate it, and they’d gone off in search of the rock eating insects that were devouring the planet from the inside out. Because he said he was a gentleman, he insisted she precede him into the stony corridors, and because what he said wasn’t necessarily true he’d spent the whole morning lusting after her shamelessly. There was a lot of shameless going around.
‘So basically,’ she said, halfway into a space so narrow she had to wriggle her hips to get through. ‘We’re going to find the nest, and put down some bait, and then they’ll all die off?’
‘Sort of, yeah,’ he replied absently, watching her backside make suggestive movements in the light of the sonic screwdriver.
‘Then this doesn’t count as saving the world, does it? This is more like pest control.’
‘Sort of, yeah,’ he said, trotting out his stock answer to anything he couldn’t be bothered to think about.
She sniggered. ‘So - if this is pest control - does that make you the exterminator?’
He wasn’t even remotely amused. He stopped. ‘Did you just make a joke about the destruction of my entire race? A disaster I caused, so terrible it left me drifting through time and space, emotionally crippled, until I met some Cockney schoolgirl and totally lost my mind.’
‘Sort of, yeah,’ she shot back, giggling. ‘I bet that makes me a very naughty girl doesn’t it?’
His mouth went dry. When they went back to the TARDIS to pick up some more bait she disappeared before he had a chance to think up a suitable punishment, locking the bedroom door behind her. He waited outside the ship, tapping his foot in impatience. The tenth of December was turning into a thoroughly frustrating day. Ten was clearly his unlucky number.
When she appeared at the door he changed his mind. She was wearing knee high black leather boots, fishnet tights and a pleated grey skirt so short it would have been banned instantly at the Prydonian Academy. A white shirt several sizes too small completed the ensemble, with a red and black striped tie slung carelessly around her neck. He hated ties.
Her hair was in pigtails and he thumbed her cheek suspiciously. ‘Are those meant to be freckles?’ he asked.
‘Eyeliner,’ she replied triumphantly, withdrawing a wooden ruler from behind her back. ‘Up the apples and pears?’ she offered.
‘I thought I told you size doesn’t matter?’ he noted, nodding her back towards the tunnels.
‘Oh no,’ she answered. ‘You always make me go first. It’s your turn.’
‘That’s why I’m a gentleman,’ he retorted. ‘But you groped me enough last week so in you go, and I’ll come after you.’
‘Not if I can help it,’ she muttered to herself, and went back down on hands and knees.
He quickly learned he had been wrong about the tights. What she actually had on were stockings, and a suspender belt, and a black thong with tiny red flowers sewn on it. In red stitching. And he knew that because he had he had such a close up view of it.
At the second intersection he gave her directions. ‘Turn left,’ he said. She went right.
Something on the floor grated against his hand. He looked down. It was the ruler. He looked up. Rose’s bottom smiled at him insolently. He picked up the ruler and made her smile that little bit pinker. She squealed. But at the next junction she went wrong again and needed correcting. He was happy to oblige. By the time the world was thoroughly saved she had made enough errors to earn herself detention.
Crawling out of the tunnels she made no attempt to stand up, so he yanked off the thong, kneeled up, and prepared to teach her a lesson she wouldn’t forget. Unfortunately, she’d been paying far more attention in class than he had.
She waited until he penetrated her, and then, before she could get comfortable, she took a deep breath and squeezed her muscles around him, gripping him in a hot, wet embrace so tight it made him gasp. He tugged himself back out a bit against the pressure, all his hidden nerve endings posting him little messages about friction, and rubbing. He pushed back in again, felt his legs go weak at the resistance, the stranglehold of her warmth around him. This was the woman whose pelvic floor could wake him up all on its own, after all. He sent a silent prayer of thanks to anything that might be listening for the wonderful sport of gymnastics.
So he surrendered, and he rode her as hard as she would let him, his hands on her hips, his arms around her waist, his nails on her back. He threw himself into her until the sweat was trickling down his face, pumping as fast as he could, banging and slapping against her as finally, with a shout that could be heard on the other side of the world, he shot into her and collapsed.
She rolled from underneath him, snatched up the ruler from the floor and kneeled up, looking down at his firm, white, naked, vulnerable, and entirely unprotected behind. She shook her head. ‘I don’t mind it not being ladies first,’ she said. ‘As long as it’s ladies second. Someone should teach you better manners.’ She raised her arm.
December 7-9
December 9th
They lasted until December 9th before having an argument. Snuggled up to him later, she was grateful to have got it over with. He wouldn’t be her Doctor without a bit of angst after all. In fact, that faraway look had been missing from his eyes since the beginning of the month, and he had stopped wandering off into his strange sad silences. The haunting air of loneliness he dragged around like a ball and chain had almost completely disappeared. And she had certainly been able to put a smile on his face more than a few times. She shifted more closely against his chest.
He felt her move, and tightened his arm around her, planting a kiss on the top of her head. Resuming his study of the canopy above he tried to remember how many, many nights he had spent, lying alone in this bed, while all around him the ship dozed in silent emptiness, teeming with the ghosts of his past. But now, he was sleeping again, whenever Rose let him, and the nightmares scarcely bothered him. He could count every single hour he had spent with her over the last nine days, replay every second of her company. And he knew it was never going to be enough. He could live years with her, and it would never be enough. That was why they had argued.
The evening started off well. They agreed to go dancing again. She put on a dress so stunning he wanted to take it off immediately. Preferably with his teeth. Modesty forbade him from saying so.
‘What do you think?’ she asked, twirling for him in the console room with a dazzling smile that made him blink. He hadn’t been able to answer, couldn’t find words to tell her how she lit up the darkness. They left the TARDIS with his arm around her waist, her body filling a Rose-shaped hole against his side that he hadn’t even realised was there. Walking through the high flowerbeds that flanked the country house they were approaching, he could hear the strains of music lilting through the air and his heart lifted, just with the sound of it. They went into the house, thronged with gaily dressed revellers and the first group of people who welcomed them asked for an introduction.
He smiled brightly. ‘I’m the Doctor, and this is Rose, my…’ One very small word. Two letters. A thousand unanswered questions. Even with nine hundred years of experience, sometimes he had less sense than the smallest amoeba writhing around in the primordial slime. A ring of expectant faces surrounded him, but that was nothing to the one, far more important expression that looked up at him from his side. His mind raced, too late to beat his mouth into second place, but struggling to find a word for what she meant to him. They were sleeping together, but sex was only the beginning. There was so much else he wanted to do with her, so much else that he wanted them to be, apart from just lovers. He still hadn’t found the courage to tell her how he felt.
But complicated was his middle name. Probably. ‘Companion,’ he settled for finally, falling back on an old favourite.
She was ice against him, her body chilling. She turned stiffly on her heel and strode back through the open doors, away into the evening.
She was still crying when he caught up with her, and her tears held him silent for a while. He would do anything to make her smile. Anything except tell her the truth. ’Where’re you going? he asked finally, knowing the answer.
‘Home’ she confirmed. She didn’t mean the TARDIS either.
‘I’m sorry,’ he tried.
She stopped. ‘Sorry for the last nine days? Sorry because you’re ashamed of me? Sorry because you’re actually going to have to talk to me about this whatever-it-is we’re having? What sort of sorry are you?’
He tried again. ‘I’m not sorry then. And I’m not ashamed of you. I don’t want you to go.’
She looked at him. ‘Companion,’ she said, and started back up the path.
He knew he was losing her. It might even be the right thing to do. He was too old, too dangerous, too long lived, too much of too many things that made him entirely wrong for her. Sadly, she was entirely right for him. He had known it for months, but he had only acted one hundred and ninety one hours, thirty three minutes and twelve seconds ago. As she walked away, he knew it wasn’t enough. Ignoring his conscience, his instinct for self sacrifice and the monstrous inability of the Time Lords to seize the day, he listened to his heart, and raced after her. She was as light as a feather as he swung her into his arms, carried her through the door, back into the house and right into the middle of the dancefloor. There was only one way to show her that he wasn’t ashamed of her, or sorry for anything.
He let go of her only when he was sure that they had the undivided attention of the assembled masses. The dancers stopped turning, the music ground to a halt. And then, he kissed her. He didn’t stop kissing her until she relaxed against him at last and kissed him back.
‘Companion?’ she asked, pulling away, one eyebrow raised.
‘Mine,’ he answered.
And just so everyone in the room, including her, would know it, he started taking off her dress. He was so far from feeling any shame that he would have had her right there on the floor if they hadn’t been asked to leave. As it was, the dress only made it as far as the flowerbeds outside, ripped from hem to bodice in his haste to get it off. He picked her up and set her on one of the waist high walls just outside the door, pushed her back so she was lying flat on a carpet of flowers. He spread her legs, and, still standing, bent low, licking her from the cleft between her thighs, all the way up her body, over her breasts to her mouth, and back down again, until she was slick with the wet trails of his tongue and her own moist readiness. Standing, and taking hold of her hips, he loosened his trousers, completely oblivious to the horrified stares of the occasional guest hurrying past, and set about making her his in the only way he knew how. She crossed her legs around his waist, but he had to put one hand on her stomach to keep her flat, wanting to see her face twist in pleasure, smile when she came. It didn’t take long.
And then he put his coat around her and carried her back to their home, and back to their bed, just to lie still together for a while.
She shifted more closely against his chest. He wouldn’t be her Doctor without a bit of angst. Although he had said ‘Mine’, she was thinking the same thing.
December 8
On December the eighth Rose Tyler wore a skirt. A short one. The Doctor had a thing for skirts. With possessive eyes he watched the skirt all day. He watched it walk down the ramp and leave the TARDIS. He watched it stand beside him, get introduced, get nosy, get into trouble and run away home.
Later, he discovered that the skirt wasn’t hiding much underneath. Knelt on the floor, head cradled between a pair of willing thighs, his tongue spent over an hour teaching the owner of the skirt to be very, very grateful that skirts were ever invented.
December 7
The seventh of December was a day of rest. It was a day of enforced rest because the TARDIS was broken. Rose was actually amazed that the ship had managed to go for a whole week without needing to be fixed or accidentally crash-landing somewhere nasty. The TARDIS never, ever accidentally crash-landed somewhere nice, somewhere with beaches, or chocolate, or friendly aliens bearing gifts. Besides, this particular meltdown was just a little too convenient.
She had decided to take the Doctor at his word. And the word she had chosen was ‘anything’. He’d said he’d give her anything she wanted, as long as it made her happy. Anything she wanted included shopping again, and he had already proved that he didn’t mind trailing round after her for hours at a time, considerately not disturbing her by speaking. He was also willing to carry far more than any of her other boyfriends ever had.
That was a very strange thought. She looked at the Doctor, and she thought ‘boyfriend’ in her head and the two images jumped apart immediately. He wasn’t boyfriend material. She wasn’t sure what he was. She wasn’t sure whether this would even count as a relationship or not. She was determined to find out. But first - shopping.
His eyes had become very fixed, glassy almost, when she suggested it.
‘Fantastic,’ he agreed. ‘Had a great day last time,’ but the smile he gave her was unnatural. Men didn’t generally smile when she said ‘shopping’ to them.
Then the TARDIS had suddenly, and unaccountably broken and he said it would take all day to fix. She noted suspiciously that there was almost a spring in his step as he rifled through the cabinets hidden in the walls and got out his toolkit. And he was humming. Which was how she came to be standing at the bottom of a ladder watching his firm backside wiggling around in front of her face. Beaches had nothing on this view.
His trousers were lovely and tight, the material outlining the nicely curved cheeks inside, strong and toned with running. She couldn’t tell if he was wearing any underwear today. He usually did, but she was ever hopeful that he might forget. She had a great desire to give his bottom a squeeze. She wasn’t entirely sure she had the right to touch him at all, outside the bedroom, if he didn’t start first. That was another thing she needed to find out.
So she gave him a little press, more of a pinch really, before she snatched her hand back, flushing with her own temerity. His humming stopped. And then started again, a bit louder. She didn’t dare look up at him. She reached up again, and had another go, a bit harder this time. He still did nothing. So she let both hands explore him for as long as they wanted. He was whistling a little song when she finally stopped, and she wasn’t sure she had ever seen him so happy, perched on a ladder with that stupid light on his head, up to his elbows in wires and circuits. She thought about December the third, and the mammoth shopping trip he had endured without complaint, and the very nice dream she had had in the bathroom later. A dream that was so real she woke up smelling of flowers. She decided that today, she would try and make him happy.
So she moved around the other side of the ladder, but she didn’t look up again as she undid the button on his jeans. His whistling stopped. The noise his zip made as she lowered it was very loud in the silence. She had to pull his trousers down a bit to get a better look. The underwear question was resolved. He had definitely forgotten. She was smiling as she took him in her mouth.
Although she could nearly fit him all in at first, he hardened almost immediately, and she had to pull back a bit to keep from being choked. She set her lips to the top of his erection and slowly pushed down until she had the whole head in her mouth. She had great fun with the popping sound she discovered when she pulled back and sucked him in again ever so slowly, over and over. Then, she tried to see how much of him she could get in her mouth all at one go from different angles, and when she had worked that out she found she could definitely taste him. He had a strange taste too, salty, not unpleasant but unusual. She couldn’t quite decide what he tasted of so she sucked him as hard as she could to see if she could get a bit more. He liked that, and she had more than enough opportunity roll his flavour over her tastebuds, although she still couldn’t find a name for it.
She decided to stop playing. She circled her tongue down the whole length of his arousal, licking every scrap of skin and nerve ending she could find. Returning to the tip, she raised her hands, briskly rubbing backwards and forwards as she used her teeth on his head, and light flicks of her tongue over the tiny slit at the top. Her hands stroked up as her mouth came down, meeting in the middle. She had no idea what he was doing, or whether he was watching her. She could only feel him shaking as he pushed himself more urgently into her mouth. She encouraged him again with another determined suck and she heard him cry out her name, her mouth flooded with his taste, trickling down her throat.
She smiled, packed him away again and went out to make them both a cup of tea. It seemed she was allowed to touch him any way she wanted, anywhere and at any time. And that made her happier than she could believe.
December 4-6
December 6
On December 6th the Doctor had a lie in. It was at least 6am and he hadn’t woken up, so Rose decided to spend a nice long time in the shower, without worrying that he’d be tapping his foot impatiently somewhere, waiting for her to get dressed.
She had just got up a good lather on her hair and she was belting out some terrible song or other when he stumbled round the screen and barged her out of the way, standing right under the single jet of water. Soap poured into her eyes and she spluttered, poked him in the ribs.
‘Out,’ she ordered. ‘Now.’
He still looked exhausted from the previous evening, but that was no excuse for poor bathroom etiquette.
He frowned at her through the battering noise of the water, shrugged, and meddled with some sort of control that shifted the overhead pour into steaming rivers that leaped out of the sides of the enclosure. Then he picked her up, pushed her back against the wall with his hands behind her, spread her legs apart and shoved himself inside her. He had his usual morning rush on, but it was only the fact that they were both covered in water and soapsuds that stopped him hurting her at all.
She opened her mouth with shock, crossing her legs over his hips to stop herself slipping down the tiles, her arms slung desperately about his neck for support. Eyes closed, water streaming down his face he backed out, took her again, and again, the breath rushing out of her body every time they crashed together.
It didn’t hurt, but it was fierce, and hard, and very, very deep, impossibly deep. So deep, in fact, that she felt parts of her opening fully to let him in, her body splitting wider as he seemed to start hitting some buried, hidden spot that hadn’t been touched before. Friction mounted in the blink of an eye; he shifted roughly between her legs and she found herself panting for air. She could feel every inch of him rubbing inside her, thick and hot.
She came. Without transition, like a switch had been thrown, electricity jolted through her and she came, came fast and strong, clawing into his shoulders with her head lolling back against the wall. She came with an abandon so complete a shout ripped from her throat and she didn’t hear it. She came so intensely that her legs straightened out involuntarily, the tips of her toes pointing as all her muscles quivered in the headlong dash to ecstasy. The dizziness of orgasm overwhelmed her and she had to close her eyes, impaling herself on his body in wild, uncontrollable spasms. He kept moving inside her, forcing her to more and more violent contractions, an eruption of pleasure slamming into her that lasted so long it was almost painful. Her climax seemed to start in the centre of her chest and spill outwards, harbingers of joy rushing past on heady wings. She felt warm all over, the feeling concentrated around her heart, far more widespread and lasting than the usual tingling aftermath she felt after he took his fingers away. At length, the desperate clench of her thighs around his hips eased.
He grunted, dropped out of her and set her down on her feet. Then he went back to bed.
When she regained enough control to walk, she marched after him, demanding explanations. ‘What the hell was that about?’ she threw at his somnolent form.
‘Heard you in trouble. Thought you said ‘now’,’ he mumbled. That wasn’t a very good answer.
‘That was singing. And I didn’t mean your sort of ‘now’, she retorted. ‘Since when do you do anything I want anyway?’
He responded indistinctly, turning over. ‘Love your smile. Give you anything. Go anywhere. To make you happy.’ That was a very good answer indeed.
December 5th
By the fifth of December the Doctor knew he had made a terrible mistake. A horrible, awful, dreadful miscalculation of the worst kind that he was going to be paying for all evening. The feral shine in Rose’s eyes told him so. She was not pleased. Not pleased at all.
He thought that brown wool shift she had on was quite becoming, in an I-hope-she’s-not-wearing-anything-underneath-it kind of a way. He liked a woman in a skirt. The redness of her cheeks and the way she kept scratching her neck significantly at him against the high collar suggested it was not all that pleasant to wear though. The fact that he was sitting on a cart with the other men and watching the women grub up potatoes in the field must have added insult to injury. He watched her bend over with appreciation, shifting slightly to get a better view. She strained to heave another bagload of dirt and roots out of the ground.
Technically, potatoes were chips. At least, that was going to be his excuse for dumping them in some backwards agricultural community at the tag end of nowhere. Even he had been slightly surprised to find that instead of salt and vinegar and chipforks, they had found unwashed yokels, dirt, and forks of the pitch variety.
He hadn’t really had a lot of choice when they had asked him what he was doing either. ‘We’re,’ he started, until, looking round at the exclusively bearded faces around him he realised what a patriarchal society this must be.
‘I’ve come to join the village,’ he began again, ignoring Rose and earning himself a dig in the ribs.
‘She a good worker?’ asked one.
The Doctor shrugged. ‘She tries hard. She’s not very skilled.’
She stood on his foot.
‘You’ve got a day,’ replied the lead bumpkin. ‘If she proves herself, you can stay.’
And so Rose had spent all day up to her pretty little backside in mud, digging up the potatoes he had promised she’d be eating. He was, without doubt, going to pay later. But in the meantime, he pulled his jacket closer around him in the chill, called out to her across the field.
‘You missed one,’ and watched her bend over for him again.
The dress hit the floor the minute she stamped her way back through the TARDIS doors, having managed to slip away at dusk. He was waiting for her, a steaming cup of tea in his hands, his feet up on the console. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her so angry.
She marched over, prodded his shoulder as he gave her his biggest, most loveable smile. ‘You. Bedroom. Now,’ she grated, slamming out of the room.
He was waiting on the four poster when she got out of the shower, a towel wrapped around her. He had dimmed the lights and tried his best to find a scented candle or something in the cupboards to calm her down. He opened his mouth to try his explanation, found her kissing him hard instead. She backed away quickly though, climbed on the bed beside him, yanked off his coat.
‘Chips,’ she muttered, ripping off his jumper. ‘You said chips. Not pre-chips. Not almost chips. Not round, covered in muck that I have to dig out of the ground myself, chips.’
His shoes were off by now, and she had pushed him back prone against the sheets, working on his belt. He was too scared to stop her, didn’t really want to try. His belt hit the floor, jeans were unfastened and she braced herself off the end of the bed, tugging off his trousers, one leg, and then the other.
She stared at him in his underwear, hands on her hips. ‘She tries hard,’ she mimicked, putting on a passable impression of his accent. She dropped the towel. ‘But she’s not very skilled. I’ll show you just how skilled I am, shall I?’
His body answered for him, rising in response. His underwear went the same way as his jeans and without pausing, she straddled him, her hands on his chest. As her tightness covered the tip of his arousal he started to drive upwards into her warmth, earning himself a slap on the arm. She raised up off him again until he lay still. Then gently, fractionally, slowly, she lowered herself down. But when she had got past the sensitive head of his skin again, she pulled up, backed off, before lowering down again, taking a bit more of him in and then letting him go. Every time he moved, she got off him. If he lay quiet, passive, he was rewarded with a little bit more of her hot warmth.
By the time he was buried completely inside her more than an hour had passed and he had apologised so many times that he had run out of words. The only one he could remember was ‘please’. She took pity on him at last, seeing in the sweat stained hardness of his chest, the trembling of his stomach muscles as he held himself back, his gritted teeth, that he had paid enough. She rode him, sliding herself up and down against him only a couple of times before he released inside her with a frantic, long silenced cry. She was far too tired to do any more than fall limply against his chest.
When she woke, several hours later, disturbed by the weight of him getting back into bed, and the feel of his arm around her shoulders , lifting her up, she found that he really was sorry, and that he did know how to make up for his mistakes.
There was an enormous bag of chips on a tray in front of her, and a tiny rose lying next to it. It was possibly the most romantic meal she’d ever seen.
December 4
The fourth of December was a Monday and when Rose Tyler woke up she was in a Very Bad Mood. There wasn’t any reason to be. It wasn’t as if she had to go to work anymore, but she thought that hating Mondays was genetically wired into her psyche, as it was for most of the inhabitants of twenty first century Earth. Plus, she was lying in a four poster bed all on her own, which, as far as she was concerned, was a complete waste of time.
The Doctor had leaped out of the covers at about four in the morning, crying ‘Fantastic’ loudly enough to wake the dead and then gone off singing into the ensuite bathroom. His cheerfulness made her more annoyed. She dragged her way out of bed annoyed, had an annoyed shower, got dressed in an outfit that annoyed her least, and went off to pick a fight.
The bags and parcels of her Christmas shopping dumped in the corridor stopped her, and she took them all back to the bedroom again, sorting out the various presents and storing them away. She had agonised long and hard over what to buy the Doctor. What did you get for the man who had nothing, except about sixteen square feet of blue box and endless possibilities? Her first choice, she thought, rubbing her chin ruefully, would have been a slightly more effective razor. The stubble burn was starting to become an issue.
In her underwear drawer she stashed what she had bought him in the minute she’d been able to slip away. Then she realised she had an underwear drawer. And a sock drawer. And a cupboard full of t-shirts. And a wardrobe with all her jeans hung up neatly. Someone, or something, had whisked all of her belongings into his room without being asked. And hung them up. That was just plain rude. Only her mother was allowed to do that. She stormed into the console room, tugging her temper behind her like an invisible cloud.
The Doctor looked up, started to smile and then frowned. She threw herself onto the jumpseat, crossed her arms.
‘How long?’ he asked.
‘How long what?’ she snapped back. She was hoping to get in a few good insults before he realised she was in a bad mood and left her alone. It was the common male reaction. The Doctor wasn’t a common male.
‘How long till you smile again?’ he repeated levelly.
‘Dunno - how long you got? A day? Six months? Ten years? Longer if you keep asking stupid questions.’
He checked his watch. ‘Ten minutes.’
‘What?’
‘You’ll be smiling in ten minutes,’ he promised, walking over towards her and plonking himself on the seat. He kicked off his shoes, chucked his coat over the railing, patted his lap. ‘Climb on,’ he said.
She gaped. Gave a horrified look around the console room, which was resolutely refusing to turn into anywhere a bit more private. ‘But we can’t. It’s…Its Monday morning.’
‘There’s no one else here,’ he replied. ‘And besides - in space, no one can hear you scream.’
Her lips twitched. She climbed on, sitting on his lap facing him, one leg on either side. He had that cocksure expression floating around the corners of his eyes again, and her bad mood returned with a vengeance.
But it was very hard not to smile when you were being kissed, she found. Particularly when the man doing the kissing seemed to know exactly how and where to kiss you to make you go weak at the knees. The Doctor buried his hands in her hair, let go of her mouth, brought his lips around in a brushing whisper to her ear, breathing into it gently, making her shiver. His hands were rubbing up and down her back, digging the catch of her bra into her spine before he flicked open the fastening. She felt her breasts hanging free underneath her t-shirt, and the spider-light touch of his cool fingers up her stomach as he crawled over her body.
He pulled back, looking her square in the eye as she sat, unmoving, on top of him, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders. She kept her face very, very blank and still as possible when his stretching hands reached her nipples, giving both a hard tweak. She bit her lip. He cupped the sides of her breasts, running his thumbs frenetically over her skin, bringing her flesh up into hard little balls of pleasure. Her body was betraying her. There was dampness already between her legs.
He gazed right at her, one eyebrow raised, deliberately turned his arm, checked his watch. She stayed silent, steady, staring back at him, although she was whimpering inside. She couldn’t help making the tiniest of tiny movements to press his body more tightly against the right spot between her thighs. He was sickeningly perceptive. He stripped off her t-shirt, leaving her chest exposed to the empty eyes of the console room. He didn’t touch her, didn’t take her nipples into his mouth to warm them up like she wanted him to.
Instead, and very deliberately, he undid the button of her jeans, inched down the zip and smoothed his fingers between her thighs. Her bad mood had completely evaporated. All that was left was the soft wet noise as the Doctor moved his hand forwards and backwards within her jeans in the echoing silence of the room. She could feel him watching her, the burn of his stare. She had to close her eyes. The speed of his hand continued, stroking her faster and faster, and she tried so hard not to move, not to cry out, that her fists gripped his shoulders like a band of iron.
And then he stopped. She was right on the edge and he stopped. ‘Nine minutes,’ he said. ‘Give up?’
Hot tendrils of fire were still shooting through her stomach, she could feel her own wetness on her legs and she wanted nothing more than for his hand to start moving again. Hanging her head at last, she nodded.
He bodily lifted her up and off him, removing her trousers in a matter of seconds, fiddling with his own. Then she was sitting back on top of him again, and he was inside her, filling her, as his fingers continued their dark magic and she cried out his name. He grabbed her to him as she came, the sharp moans forcing out of her lips stretching her mouth wide, a rictus smile. Finishing off with a few jabbing drives upwards, his own climax was the final edge on her contentment.
She smiled at him at last, and he looked a little relieved. ‘That’s the best Monday morning I ever had’ she said.
December 1-3
December 1st
On the first of December, the Doctor took Rose up the aisle. He was well aware of all the implications that usually accompanied that comment, both the romantic and the nudge-nudge wink-wink variety, but he decided to ignore them. They were in a church, after all, and there was technically, an aisle, even if most of the pews had gone missing and the others were leaning on each other for support. Rain slanted in through the broken windows.
Rose shuffled her feet through the piles of shifting leaves on the floor. She wasn’t even wearing a dress, and the closest to white she came was the overly blonde brightness of her hair, the result of a dyeing accident with some sort of alien product that did not do exactly what it said on the tin.
‘Why’re we here?’ she asked plaintively.
He shrugged. ‘Mistake,’ he admitted, not for the first time. ‘But I’m only a couple of hundred years out. This used to be a great place for dancing. All those people singing, all the plate smashing, the cake, the sound of laughter everywhere you went.’
She looked around at the moss covered walls dubiously. ‘Dancing?’
She never got sick of dancing. He had taken her halfway round the universe in search of the best places to dance, and he still wasn’t tired of the excuse to take her in his arms and spend a couple of hours just looking at her.
He crossed to where she stood, bowed formally, extended his hand. ‘Shall we?’ he asked, having lost count of the number of times he had said the same thing over the last couple of months.
She frowned. ‘But there’s no music, or lights, or people or anything. And I haven’t got a dress on.’ She had noticed that too.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said, sweeping her into the familiar position they always took. ‘You’re beautiful as you are.’
His arm was on her waist, her fingers clasped in his, her eyes searching his face. ‘Really?’ she questioned, biting her lip. ‘Not ‘for a human’, or ‘in the dark’, or ‘from behind’, or any of the other things you usually say?’
He wished he’d had the guts to just tell her how he felt about her without constantly needing to qualify it. He did the next best thing. Slowly, carefully, and giving her every single possible chance to see what he was planning and pull away he inched his mouth closer and closer towards hers. She didn’t pull away. She did anything but pull away. With a graceful, smooth glide she took half a step forward, ending up pressed firmly against him, he face tilted upwards, looking into his eyes as his lips came further and further down. He could feel her breath in his open mouth.
Their lips touched. She took a deep breath, held it, poised on the edge of a plunge, and dived in. She kissed him back.
He kissed her like a dam had broken inside him and all the passion and desire he had felt for months was coming flooding out at once. He kissed her and he held her to him as her hands came up, under his leather coat, feeling their way beneath his jumper to his skin. He kissed her, one of his hands running upwards from her waist on its own, over the toned muscles in her left arm, around the front of her top to caress her breast.
He felt her shiver as he cupped her softness, learning the weight and the roundness of her. She pushed off his coat. He unzipped her top, snapped open her bra without looking, letting both hands play across her chest. His fingers circled her breasts in concentric rings, spiralling closer to the hard nipples waiting at their centre. He heard her moan softly into his mouth, felt her shiver, and stopped kissing her just long enough to shift his jumper off.
She arched her neck as the coolness of his fingers found her taut, hot skin, flicking and pulling at the darker flesh, teasing her, tormenting her, making her open her legs, just a little as the pleasure gathered. He felt the movement, swung one hand downwards, his fingers reaching for the warmth at the top of her thighs. He pressed his hand to her through her jeans, hearing her moan again, watching as her head jerked backwards, away from his kiss.
He lifted her easily, kicked open his discarded coat amidst the fallen leaves, laid her down on her back on the floor. He joined her there, shoes off, bending his head to take one of her breasts into his mouth as his hand popped the button on her jeans, pushed further into the dark, unseen space beneath, began to stroke her through the tight material of her knickers.
Her hips raised up to meet the pressure of his fingers, one arm wrapped around his head, refusing to let him stop the sucking, biting intensity he was giving her. Her other hand struggled to push off her trousers. He helped her without being asked, getting rid of her underwear at the same time, and burying his fingers into the mound of her hair.
She was making strangled moaning noises that grew louder as he found the right place to touch her, setting up a fast-slow rhythm that was matched by her breathing. He shifted position, entering her with one finger, with his thumb pressing against her, quickening his pace. As he pushed in another finger her legs came together, raising her off the floor. She was panting heavily. Hs own breathing was none too steady as he peeled off his own jeans with his free hand, gently nudging her legs apart as he moved on top of her.
He waited there, close, but not inside her, watching the pounding of her heart under her skin, the red flush on her face. Her eyes flickered open and the way she was looking at him left him in no doubt about what she wanted.
He thrust forward, feeling her moist slickness enclose him, driving as far into her as he could go before pulling out, rushing back inside her again and again. Her nails bit into his back. Her body curved upwards against him and he could feel the shudders of her climax thundering through her before he let himself come at last.
As he collapsed on top of her he could nearly hear the echoes of happiness reverberating down the years, captured inside the walls of this church.
There was a reason that was called the missionary position, he thought, sending up a silent prayer of thanks to anything that might be listening.
Rolling off her, he scooped up her and his jacket together headed off back to the TARDIS.
December 2nd
On the second of December Rose Tyler woke to find herself in the Doctor’s bed for the first time. It came as quite a shock. She remembered the church, and she remembered the dancing, but the rest of it had been a bit of a surprise to say the least. After so many months of waiting for him to make a move, the Doctor had finally decided to kiss her, and then do more than kiss her. And on the floor of a church as well. Her grandparents would have been horrified, although her mother was hardly a nun.
The room was dark, but she was warm, naked under a heap of sheets and covers, the unmistakeable canopy of a four poster bed above her. But more than that the Doctor was wrapped round her like a second skin, sleeping peacefully.
She could feel the double beat-beat of his hearts against her back, his arm around her waist and lower, and slightly more uncomfortably, the hard heat of his arousal pressing into her bottom. It must be morning, she thought, and she had her own personal alarm clock.
She was so happy she wanted to spring out of bed and shake the TARDIS with the force of her laughter. There was a delicious sliding smoothness between her legs this morning, the remembrance of the previous day and it gave her a wicked idea.
He had surprised her yesterday hadn’t he? And it really was time he woke up. Moving carefully, so as not to rouse him - yet - she rotated her hips slightly, tilted backwards, pushed herself down gently, but firmly onto the erection prodding into her from below. When he was fully inside her she closed her eyes, squeezed every muscle she had as tightly together as possible.
She felt him wake up with a start, pushing forward into her, making her gasp at how deeply he was touching her, before he realised where -exactly -he was. His arm tightened around her waist as he yanked her back against him, skin to skin along the whole length of her body.
He breathed into her ear, nibbled an earlobe. ‘Good morning,’ he said.
‘Hope so,’ she replied, as he took the hint and ground his hips into her.
Rocking back against him, moving in time with the unhurried vigour of his strokes she felt his hand over her hip, trailing downwards, finding her warm and waiting, his fingers pressing her flesh in time with the push-pull motion inside her. Her orgasm built slowly this time, the throbbing between her legs getting more and more insistent.
‘Now,’ she gasped. ‘Now.’
But he didn’t vary his pattern and continued the slow crescendo inside her, as she grabbed hold of the pillows, clawed the edge of the bed, stretching towards release. It occurred to her, between the cries that the burning heat drew from her lips, that this was probably his revenge.
When she finally came, it was a longer and more thorough climax than she had ever felt, lacing through her body, soothing all her muscles, calling her into sleep again. Se felt him try to hold himself steady as the buried part of him shuddered inside her, and his slow exhalation told her how totally he had let go.
‘Up you get then,’ he said, but she was already asleep.
December 3rd
On the third of December he took her Christmas shopping. He was sure it was too early, and in any case, he had no intention of being anywhere near anything her mother had cooked in twenty two days time. They stepped out of the TARDIS and into the bustling square of a market, the sky bright blue overhead, the cobbles frosted beneath their feet.
He didn’t know whether to hold her hand or not.
Usually, he wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but this time, after the last two days, he wanted to hold her hand properly, with everything that meant. She looked at him out of the comer of her eye. Nervously, he stretched out and he knew he had done the right thing when she beamed at him, grabbed his hand and hauled him off through the crowd.
It took him nearly twenty minutes to regret his decision and another forty before he wished she would let go and stop asking his opinion on useless trinkets. After two hours he was sorry he'd ever met her, after four, sorry he’d ever been born. Or grown. Or loomed. Or whatever. He couldn’t remember anymore. After six hours he was so pleased to see the TARDIS that he even ran over to hug it, promising never, ever to leave it alone again. He was carrying so many bags and parcels, he could hardly get through the doors, turned into Rose’s personal packhorse and chauffeur. It was at times like this, he thought to himself grimly, that he was actually glad he was the last of the Time Lords. He could practically hear them laughing at him from beyond the grave, particularly when one of the biggest boxes he was carrying slipped and hit him on the foot. He swore, and oncoming-stormed his way off to the library.
When he had calmed down enough to worry where she’d got to the shop was cold and dark. He’d forgotten to leave the corridor lights on again, having cannibalised the automatic circuit for parts some time ago. He looked in all her usual haunts, the kitchen, the cinema, the pool, the kitchen again, before tracking her down to the big white bathroom on the second floor.
She was dressed only in a fluffy white towelling dressing gown, and she was asleep, lying on her front on a chaise longue, a bath filled and gone cold by her side. Her hair was spread in a halo around her face. She murmured as she heard the door close behind him, but he shushed her back to sleep, sliding out of his clothes and into the companion robe hanging on the wall. It was a very long time since this room had been used, but he still remembered where to find the right shelves.
Carrying a stack of sweet smelling bottles he crossed to the daybed, gently stripped off her robe and rubbed his hands to warm them up a bit. He knew he was always colder than she was, and usually, it didn’t matter, especially since the heat of his blood tended to raise his temperature when he was aroused. But he didn’t want to wake her up with his best snowman impression so he blew on his fingers before pouring out some of the purple oil onto her shoulders.
He took off his own robe and straddled her, his hips resting just above the smooth curve of her bottom. The smell of lavender filled his senses and he began to rub the mixture into her skin with sure, practiced strokes. She was only half asleep now, barely conscious, and she gave a long drawn out sigh of contentment at the pressure of his hands as they smoothed out the knots in her shoulders.
With the red oil and the smell of roses he worked his way down her spine, getting into his stride, knowing just how to touch her to loosen her tension. Her bones felt amazingly fragile, almost as if he held the thread of her life in his hands. He didn’t want to think about what might happen if it snapped.
His oily fingers massaged relaxation into the small of her back, went lower, changing to the white bottle, perfumed with lilies. He spent longer than was really necessary kneading her bottom, watching fascinated as it flexed and sprang back into place under the squeeze of his hands. His forearms were slick as he spread her legs apart slightly, taking even longer over her thighs, lingering on the smooth silk of the skin between them, just in case that part of her was particularly exhausted. She gave a heavy, sleep filled sigh and shifted herself open a bit wider as his fingers measured a travelling line between her knee and the join of her legs.
Orange was for calves and feet and the oriental tang of the flowers made him dizzy, although there wasn’t a lot left. By the time he had finished with her legs he had run out. Her feet stared at him reproachfully, the only part of her body that wasn’t satin and shining. So he lifted up her foot, and because he wasn’t sure she would like it, put her big toe in his mouth, sucking on it with an infinitesimal pressure. He watched her hips raise up off the daybed at him as he drew another toe into his mouth, licking both with a slightly harder rasp.
She stretched her arms above her head, her legs parting and another weighty sigh escaped her lips. From this angle, he could see almost right up inside her and he was sure that the wetness that rested there had nothing to do with the contents of his bottles. She murmured something that he couldn’t hear, but the slight lift of her hips again told him a tale he didn’t miss.
He reached for the last container, smaller than the rest, shook out the viscous fluid it held and rubbed it into himself. Then, he climbed up her body gently, laid down on top of her, supporting his weight on his hands. And because he had wanted her as soon as he entered the room, helped by the oil he glided inside her with the blissful ease of a summer day, mild and calm. He hung over her while time turned on outside, hardly stirring as he guided himself inside and back out again, taking care not to disturb her dreamy slumbers. He could see the ripples of pleasure that spread through her like a stone thrown into a pool and he waited until she subsided before pulling out, covering her up and walking away.
He had spent the whole of the third of December just trying to make her happy, and that was satisfaction enough.
Characters: Nine/Rose
Rated: Adult
Disclaimer: I resent the BBC. They own the lot.
Content: Romance; Graphic Sex; Humour; PWP.
Chapters: 1-12/24
Summary: 24 days. 24 positions. Seriously.
December 10 - 12
December 12
12.06am. 12 December. A street so disreputable, so shady looking, it had been disowned by the rest of London’s glamorous West End and left to fend for itself. A shop with blacked out windows. A door that gave a muffled moan as the Doctor entered.
12.07am. 12 December. The door swung shut on a very bad idea. Daleks and Cybermen and whatever else didn’t scare him, but he would run a mile from the sight of a man in an all in one black shiny PVC catsuit, who had to unzip his mouth before he could say good evening.
The Doctor decided to behave like any other sensible person in the twenty first century, and order what he needed online instead. With a bit of the time travel jiggery-pokery that made Christmas shopping a breeze he was standing outside the TARDIS ten minutes later when the delivery van arrived. Only when he started opening boxes did he realise how soul destroying the sentence ‘batteries not included’ could be. He’d told Rose he would try anything, but what he really meant was, he’d try anything on her. And she was about to find that out.
She was still locked in the bedroom where he’d left her, awaiting punishment with a nervous anticipation that manifested itself in a fit of the giggles when he entered the room. She was ruining the mood, particularly when the mood he was going for was sleazy. He’d never done sleazy before, but he was fairly sure it shouldn’t involve quite so much laughing. He put the brown paper bag he was carrying down on the bedside table with a thump. Deliberately, he withdrew a short, straight, black leather riding crop from it and swished it in the air a couple of times significantly. Her eyes were wide, and she wasn’t laughing.
‘Strip,’ he commanded.
She complied with shaking fingers. When she was lying on the bed, totally at his mercy, he handed her a blindfold, and told her to put it on, no trace on his face whatsoever of the smile that was desperately trying to batter its way out of his skull.
But she looked tiny and vulnerable against the covers, and for an instant all he wanted to do was take her in his arms and hold her tightly. He was ruining the mood himself. He brought the whip down on the bed with a crack, a reminder of what he was doing, and then - because he had only bought it for comedy effect - he put it away.
Removing the leather cuffs and the specially extended straps that even Google had had trouble finding he put his enormous four poster bed to the single purpose he kept it for. He had plenty of other beds for sleeping, but only this one gave him enough scope to tie Rose down securely, while still giving her enough freedom to make the movements he wanted her to. She waited expectantly, spread-eagled and lashed to the corner posts, and she smiled. He found the smiling suspicious. He was expecting excitement, protests, begging, if he was lucky, and really, really hot sex, but calm smiling just wasn’t in the sleazy game plan.
‘Don’t you even want to know what I’m going to do to you?’ he questioned, giving up at last.
Her smile grew. ‘No. I don’t care,’ she replied. ‘I trust you. You won’t hurt me. Do anything you like.’
That was just annoying. She had totally ruined the mood. It would be impossible to pull off a convincing sleazy if she was just going to be all reasonable about it. Hot sex, he reminded himself. Go for the hot sex. Or cold sex, in this case, because the first thing he did was remove an icecube from a tray in the bag and run it over one of her nipples. The tight little point came up immediately and she shivered. That was more like it.
By the time he had trailed the first chill wet shard over her stomach she was trying to close her legs together against the press of the leather straps. It took another icecube, melting in the heat between her thighs, to really get her excited. He had never seen the tiny pink ridge that he loved to touch stand up so proudly as when he teased it with a drop of frozen water. He couldn’t resist working her from side to side a couple of times with his tongue, just to see if she tasted any different when she was cold. She didn’t, but she certainly shouted louder.
Then he went in with the chocolate body paint. She didn’t seem to mind too much when he covered her breasts in sticky goo and had to spend a good ten minutes sucking her clean. In fact, her hips were thrusting upwards at regular intervals, making her restraints creak by the time he had finished. But she only started protesting when he spread her apart as far as she could go and coated her shining insides with delicate swipes of his brush. Then he spent an extremely pleasurable half an hour licking it off, his hands underneath her bottom, holding her in place, his face buried firmly between her thighs. She whimpered ‘No, no,’ whenever he came up to take a breather and thrashed her head against the pillows.
When he removed his favourite purchase from the bag she was panting heavily, her face was flushed, and she was so desperate to come that she was pulling hard against the straps and gritting out ‘please’ between her teeth every time she sensed him standing closer. He stripped off his clothes, lay down again in the open V of her legs and turned on the vibrator. He was quite embarrassed that he had even bought such a thing, even more so, because it was bright pink, had a picture of a lollipop on the end and went by the name of Mr Funboy. He was intending to lose it tomorrow accidentally on purpose. He couldn’t see why Rose would need it anyway, as long as he was around.
She heard the unfamiliar buzzing noise, and she stiffened as he circled the plastic head around her throbbing opening and gently dipped it inside. He pushed it in further, and watched her body rise off the bed, pulled it out, and saw her fall, gasping, back down against the sheets. He drove it far enough in to nearly lose his fingers inside her, and he listened to her call his name, before he whipped it back out and she started begging again. The control was addictive. He wondered how long he could keep letting her run to the brink of orgasm before hauling her back.
He fingers curled into claws. ‘Doctor,’ she choked out. ‘Doctor.’
And he realised that she was telling him exactly what he wanted to hear. She was calling for him, she wanted him, and not some poor plastic imitation. He freed her legs from the straps, kneeled up on the bed, put her ankles up on his shoulders and replaced Mr Funboy with something a lot more grown up. He could feel the flex of her stomach muscles as she pushed up against him, and the position let him penetrate deep into her core. He grabbed her calves, rocking forward on his knees, ramming himself down as far into her as he could go. Her whole body gave a convulsive shudder at the speed and strength of his thrusts, when he released inside her at last, and she shouted out her ecstasy to the walls: ‘I love you.’
He stopped abruptly, withdrew, let her down. That wasn’t just ruining the mood, that was ripping it up into tiny pieces and grinding them into the floor. He didn’t know what to say. Well, he did know what to say but he wasn’t sure he should say it. Telling her she was his was one thing, but ‘I love you’ was something else. ‘I love you’ was ‘stay with me’ and ‘take your chances’ and ‘no going back’. ‘I love you’ was selfish. ‘I love you’ was forever. He wasn’t sure he could honestly offer her forever, and if he couldn’t be honest, he wouldn’t be anything.
He unstrapped her, held her until she fell asleep. He was awake for a long time.
December 11
‘You wouldn’t really?’ asked Rose, in the early hours of the morning of December the 11th.
‘Try me,’ he challenged, putting his hands behind his head.
They were lying in bed, resting in between bouts of ferocious lovemaking, and she had taken the rare opportunity of finding her mouth not otherwise engaged to try to have a conversation.
‘Anything though? Anything at all?’
‘I’d do anything once,’ he replied. ‘Comes with the territory. Like I said - you’ve got to jump in, use the wrong verb. No point in travelling if you won’t try anything new.’
‘I’ll hold you to that then,’ she said, just before he reached out and started to show her again just how many things he had already tried.
Ten minutes before midnight on December 12th she found a way to test him out. They were standing in the middle of a tight press of men, in the middle of the dance floor, in the middle of G.A.Y., a thriving one night a week venue in the heart of London’s West End. She had been there once with Shireen when both of them were on a break from their then boyfriends and looking for a laugh. It was a great place to come if you were a straight girl. Possibly not so great if you were a straight Time Lord though, she thought, reviewing the expression on his face.
‘You said you’d try anything once,’ she shrugged. ‘Just find somebody you like and ask him back to the TARDIS. No big deal. Oh - but I want to watch.’
He glowered at her. ‘And what gives you the impression that I’d enjoy that?’ he asked.
‘Well,’ she said looking him up and down. ‘Let’s see - skin tight black jeans, nearly shaved off hair, obsession with leather jackets, obvious control freak. You fit right in.’
She was still laughing when his back disappeared up the long flights of stairs on his way out of the club. Clearly, there were some things that he wouldn’t even try once.
December 10
On the tenth of December, they saved the world, because they hadn’t done it in a week and a half and he didn’t want to get out of practice. It wasn’t a very big world, not up to his usual standards. Rose said she’d been bigger worlds given away free with magazines and he’d had to explain to her very carefully, that sometimes, size really didn’t matter. She agreed, and he felt like spanking her. Every time she opened her mouth that morning he’d felt like spanking her, as well as every time she hadn’t. He’d spent most of the day on hands and knees, crawling down tunnels too tiny to stand up straight in, watching Rose’s denim clad bottom wave around in right in front of his eyes.
The TARDIS was parked in the only cavern in this underground world big enough to accommodate it, and they’d gone off in search of the rock eating insects that were devouring the planet from the inside out. Because he said he was a gentleman, he insisted she precede him into the stony corridors, and because what he said wasn’t necessarily true he’d spent the whole morning lusting after her shamelessly. There was a lot of shameless going around.
‘So basically,’ she said, halfway into a space so narrow she had to wriggle her hips to get through. ‘We’re going to find the nest, and put down some bait, and then they’ll all die off?’
‘Sort of, yeah,’ he replied absently, watching her backside make suggestive movements in the light of the sonic screwdriver.
‘Then this doesn’t count as saving the world, does it? This is more like pest control.’
‘Sort of, yeah,’ he said, trotting out his stock answer to anything he couldn’t be bothered to think about.
She sniggered. ‘So - if this is pest control - does that make you the exterminator?’
He wasn’t even remotely amused. He stopped. ‘Did you just make a joke about the destruction of my entire race? A disaster I caused, so terrible it left me drifting through time and space, emotionally crippled, until I met some Cockney schoolgirl and totally lost my mind.’
‘Sort of, yeah,’ she shot back, giggling. ‘I bet that makes me a very naughty girl doesn’t it?’
His mouth went dry. When they went back to the TARDIS to pick up some more bait she disappeared before he had a chance to think up a suitable punishment, locking the bedroom door behind her. He waited outside the ship, tapping his foot in impatience. The tenth of December was turning into a thoroughly frustrating day. Ten was clearly his unlucky number.
When she appeared at the door he changed his mind. She was wearing knee high black leather boots, fishnet tights and a pleated grey skirt so short it would have been banned instantly at the Prydonian Academy. A white shirt several sizes too small completed the ensemble, with a red and black striped tie slung carelessly around her neck. He hated ties.
Her hair was in pigtails and he thumbed her cheek suspiciously. ‘Are those meant to be freckles?’ he asked.
‘Eyeliner,’ she replied triumphantly, withdrawing a wooden ruler from behind her back. ‘Up the apples and pears?’ she offered.
‘I thought I told you size doesn’t matter?’ he noted, nodding her back towards the tunnels.
‘Oh no,’ she answered. ‘You always make me go first. It’s your turn.’
‘That’s why I’m a gentleman,’ he retorted. ‘But you groped me enough last week so in you go, and I’ll come after you.’
‘Not if I can help it,’ she muttered to herself, and went back down on hands and knees.
He quickly learned he had been wrong about the tights. What she actually had on were stockings, and a suspender belt, and a black thong with tiny red flowers sewn on it. In red stitching. And he knew that because he had he had such a close up view of it.
At the second intersection he gave her directions. ‘Turn left,’ he said. She went right.
Something on the floor grated against his hand. He looked down. It was the ruler. He looked up. Rose’s bottom smiled at him insolently. He picked up the ruler and made her smile that little bit pinker. She squealed. But at the next junction she went wrong again and needed correcting. He was happy to oblige. By the time the world was thoroughly saved she had made enough errors to earn herself detention.
Crawling out of the tunnels she made no attempt to stand up, so he yanked off the thong, kneeled up, and prepared to teach her a lesson she wouldn’t forget. Unfortunately, she’d been paying far more attention in class than he had.
She waited until he penetrated her, and then, before she could get comfortable, she took a deep breath and squeezed her muscles around him, gripping him in a hot, wet embrace so tight it made him gasp. He tugged himself back out a bit against the pressure, all his hidden nerve endings posting him little messages about friction, and rubbing. He pushed back in again, felt his legs go weak at the resistance, the stranglehold of her warmth around him. This was the woman whose pelvic floor could wake him up all on its own, after all. He sent a silent prayer of thanks to anything that might be listening for the wonderful sport of gymnastics.
So he surrendered, and he rode her as hard as she would let him, his hands on her hips, his arms around her waist, his nails on her back. He threw himself into her until the sweat was trickling down his face, pumping as fast as he could, banging and slapping against her as finally, with a shout that could be heard on the other side of the world, he shot into her and collapsed.
She rolled from underneath him, snatched up the ruler from the floor and kneeled up, looking down at his firm, white, naked, vulnerable, and entirely unprotected behind. She shook her head. ‘I don’t mind it not being ladies first,’ she said. ‘As long as it’s ladies second. Someone should teach you better manners.’ She raised her arm.
December 7-9
December 9th
They lasted until December 9th before having an argument. Snuggled up to him later, she was grateful to have got it over with. He wouldn’t be her Doctor without a bit of angst after all. In fact, that faraway look had been missing from his eyes since the beginning of the month, and he had stopped wandering off into his strange sad silences. The haunting air of loneliness he dragged around like a ball and chain had almost completely disappeared. And she had certainly been able to put a smile on his face more than a few times. She shifted more closely against his chest.
He felt her move, and tightened his arm around her, planting a kiss on the top of her head. Resuming his study of the canopy above he tried to remember how many, many nights he had spent, lying alone in this bed, while all around him the ship dozed in silent emptiness, teeming with the ghosts of his past. But now, he was sleeping again, whenever Rose let him, and the nightmares scarcely bothered him. He could count every single hour he had spent with her over the last nine days, replay every second of her company. And he knew it was never going to be enough. He could live years with her, and it would never be enough. That was why they had argued.
The evening started off well. They agreed to go dancing again. She put on a dress so stunning he wanted to take it off immediately. Preferably with his teeth. Modesty forbade him from saying so.
‘What do you think?’ she asked, twirling for him in the console room with a dazzling smile that made him blink. He hadn’t been able to answer, couldn’t find words to tell her how she lit up the darkness. They left the TARDIS with his arm around her waist, her body filling a Rose-shaped hole against his side that he hadn’t even realised was there. Walking through the high flowerbeds that flanked the country house they were approaching, he could hear the strains of music lilting through the air and his heart lifted, just with the sound of it. They went into the house, thronged with gaily dressed revellers and the first group of people who welcomed them asked for an introduction.
He smiled brightly. ‘I’m the Doctor, and this is Rose, my…’ One very small word. Two letters. A thousand unanswered questions. Even with nine hundred years of experience, sometimes he had less sense than the smallest amoeba writhing around in the primordial slime. A ring of expectant faces surrounded him, but that was nothing to the one, far more important expression that looked up at him from his side. His mind raced, too late to beat his mouth into second place, but struggling to find a word for what she meant to him. They were sleeping together, but sex was only the beginning. There was so much else he wanted to do with her, so much else that he wanted them to be, apart from just lovers. He still hadn’t found the courage to tell her how he felt.
But complicated was his middle name. Probably. ‘Companion,’ he settled for finally, falling back on an old favourite.
She was ice against him, her body chilling. She turned stiffly on her heel and strode back through the open doors, away into the evening.
She was still crying when he caught up with her, and her tears held him silent for a while. He would do anything to make her smile. Anything except tell her the truth. ’Where’re you going? he asked finally, knowing the answer.
‘Home’ she confirmed. She didn’t mean the TARDIS either.
‘I’m sorry,’ he tried.
She stopped. ‘Sorry for the last nine days? Sorry because you’re ashamed of me? Sorry because you’re actually going to have to talk to me about this whatever-it-is we’re having? What sort of sorry are you?’
He tried again. ‘I’m not sorry then. And I’m not ashamed of you. I don’t want you to go.’
She looked at him. ‘Companion,’ she said, and started back up the path.
He knew he was losing her. It might even be the right thing to do. He was too old, too dangerous, too long lived, too much of too many things that made him entirely wrong for her. Sadly, she was entirely right for him. He had known it for months, but he had only acted one hundred and ninety one hours, thirty three minutes and twelve seconds ago. As she walked away, he knew it wasn’t enough. Ignoring his conscience, his instinct for self sacrifice and the monstrous inability of the Time Lords to seize the day, he listened to his heart, and raced after her. She was as light as a feather as he swung her into his arms, carried her through the door, back into the house and right into the middle of the dancefloor. There was only one way to show her that he wasn’t ashamed of her, or sorry for anything.
He let go of her only when he was sure that they had the undivided attention of the assembled masses. The dancers stopped turning, the music ground to a halt. And then, he kissed her. He didn’t stop kissing her until she relaxed against him at last and kissed him back.
‘Companion?’ she asked, pulling away, one eyebrow raised.
‘Mine,’ he answered.
And just so everyone in the room, including her, would know it, he started taking off her dress. He was so far from feeling any shame that he would have had her right there on the floor if they hadn’t been asked to leave. As it was, the dress only made it as far as the flowerbeds outside, ripped from hem to bodice in his haste to get it off. He picked her up and set her on one of the waist high walls just outside the door, pushed her back so she was lying flat on a carpet of flowers. He spread her legs, and, still standing, bent low, licking her from the cleft between her thighs, all the way up her body, over her breasts to her mouth, and back down again, until she was slick with the wet trails of his tongue and her own moist readiness. Standing, and taking hold of her hips, he loosened his trousers, completely oblivious to the horrified stares of the occasional guest hurrying past, and set about making her his in the only way he knew how. She crossed her legs around his waist, but he had to put one hand on her stomach to keep her flat, wanting to see her face twist in pleasure, smile when she came. It didn’t take long.
And then he put his coat around her and carried her back to their home, and back to their bed, just to lie still together for a while.
She shifted more closely against his chest. He wouldn’t be her Doctor without a bit of angst. Although he had said ‘Mine’, she was thinking the same thing.
December 8
On December the eighth Rose Tyler wore a skirt. A short one. The Doctor had a thing for skirts. With possessive eyes he watched the skirt all day. He watched it walk down the ramp and leave the TARDIS. He watched it stand beside him, get introduced, get nosy, get into trouble and run away home.
Later, he discovered that the skirt wasn’t hiding much underneath. Knelt on the floor, head cradled between a pair of willing thighs, his tongue spent over an hour teaching the owner of the skirt to be very, very grateful that skirts were ever invented.
December 7
The seventh of December was a day of rest. It was a day of enforced rest because the TARDIS was broken. Rose was actually amazed that the ship had managed to go for a whole week without needing to be fixed or accidentally crash-landing somewhere nasty. The TARDIS never, ever accidentally crash-landed somewhere nice, somewhere with beaches, or chocolate, or friendly aliens bearing gifts. Besides, this particular meltdown was just a little too convenient.
She had decided to take the Doctor at his word. And the word she had chosen was ‘anything’. He’d said he’d give her anything she wanted, as long as it made her happy. Anything she wanted included shopping again, and he had already proved that he didn’t mind trailing round after her for hours at a time, considerately not disturbing her by speaking. He was also willing to carry far more than any of her other boyfriends ever had.
That was a very strange thought. She looked at the Doctor, and she thought ‘boyfriend’ in her head and the two images jumped apart immediately. He wasn’t boyfriend material. She wasn’t sure what he was. She wasn’t sure whether this would even count as a relationship or not. She was determined to find out. But first - shopping.
His eyes had become very fixed, glassy almost, when she suggested it.
‘Fantastic,’ he agreed. ‘Had a great day last time,’ but the smile he gave her was unnatural. Men didn’t generally smile when she said ‘shopping’ to them.
Then the TARDIS had suddenly, and unaccountably broken and he said it would take all day to fix. She noted suspiciously that there was almost a spring in his step as he rifled through the cabinets hidden in the walls and got out his toolkit. And he was humming. Which was how she came to be standing at the bottom of a ladder watching his firm backside wiggling around in front of her face. Beaches had nothing on this view.
His trousers were lovely and tight, the material outlining the nicely curved cheeks inside, strong and toned with running. She couldn’t tell if he was wearing any underwear today. He usually did, but she was ever hopeful that he might forget. She had a great desire to give his bottom a squeeze. She wasn’t entirely sure she had the right to touch him at all, outside the bedroom, if he didn’t start first. That was another thing she needed to find out.
So she gave him a little press, more of a pinch really, before she snatched her hand back, flushing with her own temerity. His humming stopped. And then started again, a bit louder. She didn’t dare look up at him. She reached up again, and had another go, a bit harder this time. He still did nothing. So she let both hands explore him for as long as they wanted. He was whistling a little song when she finally stopped, and she wasn’t sure she had ever seen him so happy, perched on a ladder with that stupid light on his head, up to his elbows in wires and circuits. She thought about December the third, and the mammoth shopping trip he had endured without complaint, and the very nice dream she had had in the bathroom later. A dream that was so real she woke up smelling of flowers. She decided that today, she would try and make him happy.
So she moved around the other side of the ladder, but she didn’t look up again as she undid the button on his jeans. His whistling stopped. The noise his zip made as she lowered it was very loud in the silence. She had to pull his trousers down a bit to get a better look. The underwear question was resolved. He had definitely forgotten. She was smiling as she took him in her mouth.
Although she could nearly fit him all in at first, he hardened almost immediately, and she had to pull back a bit to keep from being choked. She set her lips to the top of his erection and slowly pushed down until she had the whole head in her mouth. She had great fun with the popping sound she discovered when she pulled back and sucked him in again ever so slowly, over and over. Then, she tried to see how much of him she could get in her mouth all at one go from different angles, and when she had worked that out she found she could definitely taste him. He had a strange taste too, salty, not unpleasant but unusual. She couldn’t quite decide what he tasted of so she sucked him as hard as she could to see if she could get a bit more. He liked that, and she had more than enough opportunity roll his flavour over her tastebuds, although she still couldn’t find a name for it.
She decided to stop playing. She circled her tongue down the whole length of his arousal, licking every scrap of skin and nerve ending she could find. Returning to the tip, she raised her hands, briskly rubbing backwards and forwards as she used her teeth on his head, and light flicks of her tongue over the tiny slit at the top. Her hands stroked up as her mouth came down, meeting in the middle. She had no idea what he was doing, or whether he was watching her. She could only feel him shaking as he pushed himself more urgently into her mouth. She encouraged him again with another determined suck and she heard him cry out her name, her mouth flooded with his taste, trickling down her throat.
She smiled, packed him away again and went out to make them both a cup of tea. It seemed she was allowed to touch him any way she wanted, anywhere and at any time. And that made her happier than she could believe.
December 4-6
December 6
On December 6th the Doctor had a lie in. It was at least 6am and he hadn’t woken up, so Rose decided to spend a nice long time in the shower, without worrying that he’d be tapping his foot impatiently somewhere, waiting for her to get dressed.
She had just got up a good lather on her hair and she was belting out some terrible song or other when he stumbled round the screen and barged her out of the way, standing right under the single jet of water. Soap poured into her eyes and she spluttered, poked him in the ribs.
‘Out,’ she ordered. ‘Now.’
He still looked exhausted from the previous evening, but that was no excuse for poor bathroom etiquette.
He frowned at her through the battering noise of the water, shrugged, and meddled with some sort of control that shifted the overhead pour into steaming rivers that leaped out of the sides of the enclosure. Then he picked her up, pushed her back against the wall with his hands behind her, spread her legs apart and shoved himself inside her. He had his usual morning rush on, but it was only the fact that they were both covered in water and soapsuds that stopped him hurting her at all.
She opened her mouth with shock, crossing her legs over his hips to stop herself slipping down the tiles, her arms slung desperately about his neck for support. Eyes closed, water streaming down his face he backed out, took her again, and again, the breath rushing out of her body every time they crashed together.
It didn’t hurt, but it was fierce, and hard, and very, very deep, impossibly deep. So deep, in fact, that she felt parts of her opening fully to let him in, her body splitting wider as he seemed to start hitting some buried, hidden spot that hadn’t been touched before. Friction mounted in the blink of an eye; he shifted roughly between her legs and she found herself panting for air. She could feel every inch of him rubbing inside her, thick and hot.
She came. Without transition, like a switch had been thrown, electricity jolted through her and she came, came fast and strong, clawing into his shoulders with her head lolling back against the wall. She came with an abandon so complete a shout ripped from her throat and she didn’t hear it. She came so intensely that her legs straightened out involuntarily, the tips of her toes pointing as all her muscles quivered in the headlong dash to ecstasy. The dizziness of orgasm overwhelmed her and she had to close her eyes, impaling herself on his body in wild, uncontrollable spasms. He kept moving inside her, forcing her to more and more violent contractions, an eruption of pleasure slamming into her that lasted so long it was almost painful. Her climax seemed to start in the centre of her chest and spill outwards, harbingers of joy rushing past on heady wings. She felt warm all over, the feeling concentrated around her heart, far more widespread and lasting than the usual tingling aftermath she felt after he took his fingers away. At length, the desperate clench of her thighs around his hips eased.
He grunted, dropped out of her and set her down on her feet. Then he went back to bed.
When she regained enough control to walk, she marched after him, demanding explanations. ‘What the hell was that about?’ she threw at his somnolent form.
‘Heard you in trouble. Thought you said ‘now’,’ he mumbled. That wasn’t a very good answer.
‘That was singing. And I didn’t mean your sort of ‘now’, she retorted. ‘Since when do you do anything I want anyway?’
He responded indistinctly, turning over. ‘Love your smile. Give you anything. Go anywhere. To make you happy.’ That was a very good answer indeed.
December 5th
By the fifth of December the Doctor knew he had made a terrible mistake. A horrible, awful, dreadful miscalculation of the worst kind that he was going to be paying for all evening. The feral shine in Rose’s eyes told him so. She was not pleased. Not pleased at all.
He thought that brown wool shift she had on was quite becoming, in an I-hope-she’s-not-wearing-anything-underneath-it kind of a way. He liked a woman in a skirt. The redness of her cheeks and the way she kept scratching her neck significantly at him against the high collar suggested it was not all that pleasant to wear though. The fact that he was sitting on a cart with the other men and watching the women grub up potatoes in the field must have added insult to injury. He watched her bend over with appreciation, shifting slightly to get a better view. She strained to heave another bagload of dirt and roots out of the ground.
Technically, potatoes were chips. At least, that was going to be his excuse for dumping them in some backwards agricultural community at the tag end of nowhere. Even he had been slightly surprised to find that instead of salt and vinegar and chipforks, they had found unwashed yokels, dirt, and forks of the pitch variety.
He hadn’t really had a lot of choice when they had asked him what he was doing either. ‘We’re,’ he started, until, looking round at the exclusively bearded faces around him he realised what a patriarchal society this must be.
‘I’ve come to join the village,’ he began again, ignoring Rose and earning himself a dig in the ribs.
‘She a good worker?’ asked one.
The Doctor shrugged. ‘She tries hard. She’s not very skilled.’
She stood on his foot.
‘You’ve got a day,’ replied the lead bumpkin. ‘If she proves herself, you can stay.’
And so Rose had spent all day up to her pretty little backside in mud, digging up the potatoes he had promised she’d be eating. He was, without doubt, going to pay later. But in the meantime, he pulled his jacket closer around him in the chill, called out to her across the field.
‘You missed one,’ and watched her bend over for him again.
The dress hit the floor the minute she stamped her way back through the TARDIS doors, having managed to slip away at dusk. He was waiting for her, a steaming cup of tea in his hands, his feet up on the console. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her so angry.
She marched over, prodded his shoulder as he gave her his biggest, most loveable smile. ‘You. Bedroom. Now,’ she grated, slamming out of the room.
He was waiting on the four poster when she got out of the shower, a towel wrapped around her. He had dimmed the lights and tried his best to find a scented candle or something in the cupboards to calm her down. He opened his mouth to try his explanation, found her kissing him hard instead. She backed away quickly though, climbed on the bed beside him, yanked off his coat.
‘Chips,’ she muttered, ripping off his jumper. ‘You said chips. Not pre-chips. Not almost chips. Not round, covered in muck that I have to dig out of the ground myself, chips.’
His shoes were off by now, and she had pushed him back prone against the sheets, working on his belt. He was too scared to stop her, didn’t really want to try. His belt hit the floor, jeans were unfastened and she braced herself off the end of the bed, tugging off his trousers, one leg, and then the other.
She stared at him in his underwear, hands on her hips. ‘She tries hard,’ she mimicked, putting on a passable impression of his accent. She dropped the towel. ‘But she’s not very skilled. I’ll show you just how skilled I am, shall I?’
His body answered for him, rising in response. His underwear went the same way as his jeans and without pausing, she straddled him, her hands on his chest. As her tightness covered the tip of his arousal he started to drive upwards into her warmth, earning himself a slap on the arm. She raised up off him again until he lay still. Then gently, fractionally, slowly, she lowered herself down. But when she had got past the sensitive head of his skin again, she pulled up, backed off, before lowering down again, taking a bit more of him in and then letting him go. Every time he moved, she got off him. If he lay quiet, passive, he was rewarded with a little bit more of her hot warmth.
By the time he was buried completely inside her more than an hour had passed and he had apologised so many times that he had run out of words. The only one he could remember was ‘please’. She took pity on him at last, seeing in the sweat stained hardness of his chest, the trembling of his stomach muscles as he held himself back, his gritted teeth, that he had paid enough. She rode him, sliding herself up and down against him only a couple of times before he released inside her with a frantic, long silenced cry. She was far too tired to do any more than fall limply against his chest.
When she woke, several hours later, disturbed by the weight of him getting back into bed, and the feel of his arm around her shoulders , lifting her up, she found that he really was sorry, and that he did know how to make up for his mistakes.
There was an enormous bag of chips on a tray in front of her, and a tiny rose lying next to it. It was possibly the most romantic meal she’d ever seen.
December 4
The fourth of December was a Monday and when Rose Tyler woke up she was in a Very Bad Mood. There wasn’t any reason to be. It wasn’t as if she had to go to work anymore, but she thought that hating Mondays was genetically wired into her psyche, as it was for most of the inhabitants of twenty first century Earth. Plus, she was lying in a four poster bed all on her own, which, as far as she was concerned, was a complete waste of time.
The Doctor had leaped out of the covers at about four in the morning, crying ‘Fantastic’ loudly enough to wake the dead and then gone off singing into the ensuite bathroom. His cheerfulness made her more annoyed. She dragged her way out of bed annoyed, had an annoyed shower, got dressed in an outfit that annoyed her least, and went off to pick a fight.
The bags and parcels of her Christmas shopping dumped in the corridor stopped her, and she took them all back to the bedroom again, sorting out the various presents and storing them away. She had agonised long and hard over what to buy the Doctor. What did you get for the man who had nothing, except about sixteen square feet of blue box and endless possibilities? Her first choice, she thought, rubbing her chin ruefully, would have been a slightly more effective razor. The stubble burn was starting to become an issue.
In her underwear drawer she stashed what she had bought him in the minute she’d been able to slip away. Then she realised she had an underwear drawer. And a sock drawer. And a cupboard full of t-shirts. And a wardrobe with all her jeans hung up neatly. Someone, or something, had whisked all of her belongings into his room without being asked. And hung them up. That was just plain rude. Only her mother was allowed to do that. She stormed into the console room, tugging her temper behind her like an invisible cloud.
The Doctor looked up, started to smile and then frowned. She threw herself onto the jumpseat, crossed her arms.
‘How long?’ he asked.
‘How long what?’ she snapped back. She was hoping to get in a few good insults before he realised she was in a bad mood and left her alone. It was the common male reaction. The Doctor wasn’t a common male.
‘How long till you smile again?’ he repeated levelly.
‘Dunno - how long you got? A day? Six months? Ten years? Longer if you keep asking stupid questions.’
He checked his watch. ‘Ten minutes.’
‘What?’
‘You’ll be smiling in ten minutes,’ he promised, walking over towards her and plonking himself on the seat. He kicked off his shoes, chucked his coat over the railing, patted his lap. ‘Climb on,’ he said.
She gaped. Gave a horrified look around the console room, which was resolutely refusing to turn into anywhere a bit more private. ‘But we can’t. It’s…Its Monday morning.’
‘There’s no one else here,’ he replied. ‘And besides - in space, no one can hear you scream.’
Her lips twitched. She climbed on, sitting on his lap facing him, one leg on either side. He had that cocksure expression floating around the corners of his eyes again, and her bad mood returned with a vengeance.
But it was very hard not to smile when you were being kissed, she found. Particularly when the man doing the kissing seemed to know exactly how and where to kiss you to make you go weak at the knees. The Doctor buried his hands in her hair, let go of her mouth, brought his lips around in a brushing whisper to her ear, breathing into it gently, making her shiver. His hands were rubbing up and down her back, digging the catch of her bra into her spine before he flicked open the fastening. She felt her breasts hanging free underneath her t-shirt, and the spider-light touch of his cool fingers up her stomach as he crawled over her body.
He pulled back, looking her square in the eye as she sat, unmoving, on top of him, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders. She kept her face very, very blank and still as possible when his stretching hands reached her nipples, giving both a hard tweak. She bit her lip. He cupped the sides of her breasts, running his thumbs frenetically over her skin, bringing her flesh up into hard little balls of pleasure. Her body was betraying her. There was dampness already between her legs.
He gazed right at her, one eyebrow raised, deliberately turned his arm, checked his watch. She stayed silent, steady, staring back at him, although she was whimpering inside. She couldn’t help making the tiniest of tiny movements to press his body more tightly against the right spot between her thighs. He was sickeningly perceptive. He stripped off her t-shirt, leaving her chest exposed to the empty eyes of the console room. He didn’t touch her, didn’t take her nipples into his mouth to warm them up like she wanted him to.
Instead, and very deliberately, he undid the button of her jeans, inched down the zip and smoothed his fingers between her thighs. Her bad mood had completely evaporated. All that was left was the soft wet noise as the Doctor moved his hand forwards and backwards within her jeans in the echoing silence of the room. She could feel him watching her, the burn of his stare. She had to close her eyes. The speed of his hand continued, stroking her faster and faster, and she tried so hard not to move, not to cry out, that her fists gripped his shoulders like a band of iron.
And then he stopped. She was right on the edge and he stopped. ‘Nine minutes,’ he said. ‘Give up?’
Hot tendrils of fire were still shooting through her stomach, she could feel her own wetness on her legs and she wanted nothing more than for his hand to start moving again. Hanging her head at last, she nodded.
He bodily lifted her up and off him, removing her trousers in a matter of seconds, fiddling with his own. Then she was sitting back on top of him again, and he was inside her, filling her, as his fingers continued their dark magic and she cried out his name. He grabbed her to him as she came, the sharp moans forcing out of her lips stretching her mouth wide, a rictus smile. Finishing off with a few jabbing drives upwards, his own climax was the final edge on her contentment.
She smiled at him at last, and he looked a little relieved. ‘That’s the best Monday morning I ever had’ she said.
December 1-3
December 1st
On the first of December, the Doctor took Rose up the aisle. He was well aware of all the implications that usually accompanied that comment, both the romantic and the nudge-nudge wink-wink variety, but he decided to ignore them. They were in a church, after all, and there was technically, an aisle, even if most of the pews had gone missing and the others were leaning on each other for support. Rain slanted in through the broken windows.
Rose shuffled her feet through the piles of shifting leaves on the floor. She wasn’t even wearing a dress, and the closest to white she came was the overly blonde brightness of her hair, the result of a dyeing accident with some sort of alien product that did not do exactly what it said on the tin.
‘Why’re we here?’ she asked plaintively.
He shrugged. ‘Mistake,’ he admitted, not for the first time. ‘But I’m only a couple of hundred years out. This used to be a great place for dancing. All those people singing, all the plate smashing, the cake, the sound of laughter everywhere you went.’
She looked around at the moss covered walls dubiously. ‘Dancing?’
She never got sick of dancing. He had taken her halfway round the universe in search of the best places to dance, and he still wasn’t tired of the excuse to take her in his arms and spend a couple of hours just looking at her.
He crossed to where she stood, bowed formally, extended his hand. ‘Shall we?’ he asked, having lost count of the number of times he had said the same thing over the last couple of months.
She frowned. ‘But there’s no music, or lights, or people or anything. And I haven’t got a dress on.’ She had noticed that too.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said, sweeping her into the familiar position they always took. ‘You’re beautiful as you are.’
His arm was on her waist, her fingers clasped in his, her eyes searching his face. ‘Really?’ she questioned, biting her lip. ‘Not ‘for a human’, or ‘in the dark’, or ‘from behind’, or any of the other things you usually say?’
He wished he’d had the guts to just tell her how he felt about her without constantly needing to qualify it. He did the next best thing. Slowly, carefully, and giving her every single possible chance to see what he was planning and pull away he inched his mouth closer and closer towards hers. She didn’t pull away. She did anything but pull away. With a graceful, smooth glide she took half a step forward, ending up pressed firmly against him, he face tilted upwards, looking into his eyes as his lips came further and further down. He could feel her breath in his open mouth.
Their lips touched. She took a deep breath, held it, poised on the edge of a plunge, and dived in. She kissed him back.
He kissed her like a dam had broken inside him and all the passion and desire he had felt for months was coming flooding out at once. He kissed her and he held her to him as her hands came up, under his leather coat, feeling their way beneath his jumper to his skin. He kissed her, one of his hands running upwards from her waist on its own, over the toned muscles in her left arm, around the front of her top to caress her breast.
He felt her shiver as he cupped her softness, learning the weight and the roundness of her. She pushed off his coat. He unzipped her top, snapped open her bra without looking, letting both hands play across her chest. His fingers circled her breasts in concentric rings, spiralling closer to the hard nipples waiting at their centre. He heard her moan softly into his mouth, felt her shiver, and stopped kissing her just long enough to shift his jumper off.
She arched her neck as the coolness of his fingers found her taut, hot skin, flicking and pulling at the darker flesh, teasing her, tormenting her, making her open her legs, just a little as the pleasure gathered. He felt the movement, swung one hand downwards, his fingers reaching for the warmth at the top of her thighs. He pressed his hand to her through her jeans, hearing her moan again, watching as her head jerked backwards, away from his kiss.
He lifted her easily, kicked open his discarded coat amidst the fallen leaves, laid her down on her back on the floor. He joined her there, shoes off, bending his head to take one of her breasts into his mouth as his hand popped the button on her jeans, pushed further into the dark, unseen space beneath, began to stroke her through the tight material of her knickers.
Her hips raised up to meet the pressure of his fingers, one arm wrapped around his head, refusing to let him stop the sucking, biting intensity he was giving her. Her other hand struggled to push off her trousers. He helped her without being asked, getting rid of her underwear at the same time, and burying his fingers into the mound of her hair.
She was making strangled moaning noises that grew louder as he found the right place to touch her, setting up a fast-slow rhythm that was matched by her breathing. He shifted position, entering her with one finger, with his thumb pressing against her, quickening his pace. As he pushed in another finger her legs came together, raising her off the floor. She was panting heavily. Hs own breathing was none too steady as he peeled off his own jeans with his free hand, gently nudging her legs apart as he moved on top of her.
He waited there, close, but not inside her, watching the pounding of her heart under her skin, the red flush on her face. Her eyes flickered open and the way she was looking at him left him in no doubt about what she wanted.
He thrust forward, feeling her moist slickness enclose him, driving as far into her as he could go before pulling out, rushing back inside her again and again. Her nails bit into his back. Her body curved upwards against him and he could feel the shudders of her climax thundering through her before he let himself come at last.
As he collapsed on top of her he could nearly hear the echoes of happiness reverberating down the years, captured inside the walls of this church.
There was a reason that was called the missionary position, he thought, sending up a silent prayer of thanks to anything that might be listening.
Rolling off her, he scooped up her and his jacket together headed off back to the TARDIS.
December 2nd
On the second of December Rose Tyler woke to find herself in the Doctor’s bed for the first time. It came as quite a shock. She remembered the church, and she remembered the dancing, but the rest of it had been a bit of a surprise to say the least. After so many months of waiting for him to make a move, the Doctor had finally decided to kiss her, and then do more than kiss her. And on the floor of a church as well. Her grandparents would have been horrified, although her mother was hardly a nun.
The room was dark, but she was warm, naked under a heap of sheets and covers, the unmistakeable canopy of a four poster bed above her. But more than that the Doctor was wrapped round her like a second skin, sleeping peacefully.
She could feel the double beat-beat of his hearts against her back, his arm around her waist and lower, and slightly more uncomfortably, the hard heat of his arousal pressing into her bottom. It must be morning, she thought, and she had her own personal alarm clock.
She was so happy she wanted to spring out of bed and shake the TARDIS with the force of her laughter. There was a delicious sliding smoothness between her legs this morning, the remembrance of the previous day and it gave her a wicked idea.
He had surprised her yesterday hadn’t he? And it really was time he woke up. Moving carefully, so as not to rouse him - yet - she rotated her hips slightly, tilted backwards, pushed herself down gently, but firmly onto the erection prodding into her from below. When he was fully inside her she closed her eyes, squeezed every muscle she had as tightly together as possible.
She felt him wake up with a start, pushing forward into her, making her gasp at how deeply he was touching her, before he realised where -exactly -he was. His arm tightened around her waist as he yanked her back against him, skin to skin along the whole length of her body.
He breathed into her ear, nibbled an earlobe. ‘Good morning,’ he said.
‘Hope so,’ she replied, as he took the hint and ground his hips into her.
Rocking back against him, moving in time with the unhurried vigour of his strokes she felt his hand over her hip, trailing downwards, finding her warm and waiting, his fingers pressing her flesh in time with the push-pull motion inside her. Her orgasm built slowly this time, the throbbing between her legs getting more and more insistent.
‘Now,’ she gasped. ‘Now.’
But he didn’t vary his pattern and continued the slow crescendo inside her, as she grabbed hold of the pillows, clawed the edge of the bed, stretching towards release. It occurred to her, between the cries that the burning heat drew from her lips, that this was probably his revenge.
When she finally came, it was a longer and more thorough climax than she had ever felt, lacing through her body, soothing all her muscles, calling her into sleep again. Se felt him try to hold himself steady as the buried part of him shuddered inside her, and his slow exhalation told her how totally he had let go.
‘Up you get then,’ he said, but she was already asleep.
December 3rd
On the third of December he took her Christmas shopping. He was sure it was too early, and in any case, he had no intention of being anywhere near anything her mother had cooked in twenty two days time. They stepped out of the TARDIS and into the bustling square of a market, the sky bright blue overhead, the cobbles frosted beneath their feet.
He didn’t know whether to hold her hand or not.
Usually, he wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but this time, after the last two days, he wanted to hold her hand properly, with everything that meant. She looked at him out of the comer of her eye. Nervously, he stretched out and he knew he had done the right thing when she beamed at him, grabbed his hand and hauled him off through the crowd.
It took him nearly twenty minutes to regret his decision and another forty before he wished she would let go and stop asking his opinion on useless trinkets. After two hours he was sorry he'd ever met her, after four, sorry he’d ever been born. Or grown. Or loomed. Or whatever. He couldn’t remember anymore. After six hours he was so pleased to see the TARDIS that he even ran over to hug it, promising never, ever to leave it alone again. He was carrying so many bags and parcels, he could hardly get through the doors, turned into Rose’s personal packhorse and chauffeur. It was at times like this, he thought to himself grimly, that he was actually glad he was the last of the Time Lords. He could practically hear them laughing at him from beyond the grave, particularly when one of the biggest boxes he was carrying slipped and hit him on the foot. He swore, and oncoming-stormed his way off to the library.
When he had calmed down enough to worry where she’d got to the shop was cold and dark. He’d forgotten to leave the corridor lights on again, having cannibalised the automatic circuit for parts some time ago. He looked in all her usual haunts, the kitchen, the cinema, the pool, the kitchen again, before tracking her down to the big white bathroom on the second floor.
She was dressed only in a fluffy white towelling dressing gown, and she was asleep, lying on her front on a chaise longue, a bath filled and gone cold by her side. Her hair was spread in a halo around her face. She murmured as she heard the door close behind him, but he shushed her back to sleep, sliding out of his clothes and into the companion robe hanging on the wall. It was a very long time since this room had been used, but he still remembered where to find the right shelves.
Carrying a stack of sweet smelling bottles he crossed to the daybed, gently stripped off her robe and rubbed his hands to warm them up a bit. He knew he was always colder than she was, and usually, it didn’t matter, especially since the heat of his blood tended to raise his temperature when he was aroused. But he didn’t want to wake her up with his best snowman impression so he blew on his fingers before pouring out some of the purple oil onto her shoulders.
He took off his own robe and straddled her, his hips resting just above the smooth curve of her bottom. The smell of lavender filled his senses and he began to rub the mixture into her skin with sure, practiced strokes. She was only half asleep now, barely conscious, and she gave a long drawn out sigh of contentment at the pressure of his hands as they smoothed out the knots in her shoulders.
With the red oil and the smell of roses he worked his way down her spine, getting into his stride, knowing just how to touch her to loosen her tension. Her bones felt amazingly fragile, almost as if he held the thread of her life in his hands. He didn’t want to think about what might happen if it snapped.
His oily fingers massaged relaxation into the small of her back, went lower, changing to the white bottle, perfumed with lilies. He spent longer than was really necessary kneading her bottom, watching fascinated as it flexed and sprang back into place under the squeeze of his hands. His forearms were slick as he spread her legs apart slightly, taking even longer over her thighs, lingering on the smooth silk of the skin between them, just in case that part of her was particularly exhausted. She gave a heavy, sleep filled sigh and shifted herself open a bit wider as his fingers measured a travelling line between her knee and the join of her legs.
Orange was for calves and feet and the oriental tang of the flowers made him dizzy, although there wasn’t a lot left. By the time he had finished with her legs he had run out. Her feet stared at him reproachfully, the only part of her body that wasn’t satin and shining. So he lifted up her foot, and because he wasn’t sure she would like it, put her big toe in his mouth, sucking on it with an infinitesimal pressure. He watched her hips raise up off the daybed at him as he drew another toe into his mouth, licking both with a slightly harder rasp.
She stretched her arms above her head, her legs parting and another weighty sigh escaped her lips. From this angle, he could see almost right up inside her and he was sure that the wetness that rested there had nothing to do with the contents of his bottles. She murmured something that he couldn’t hear, but the slight lift of her hips again told him a tale he didn’t miss.
He reached for the last container, smaller than the rest, shook out the viscous fluid it held and rubbed it into himself. Then, he climbed up her body gently, laid down on top of her, supporting his weight on his hands. And because he had wanted her as soon as he entered the room, helped by the oil he glided inside her with the blissful ease of a summer day, mild and calm. He hung over her while time turned on outside, hardly stirring as he guided himself inside and back out again, taking care not to disturb her dreamy slumbers. He could see the ripples of pleasure that spread through her like a stone thrown into a pool and he waited until she subsided before pulling out, covering her up and walking away.
He had spent the whole of the third of December just trying to make her happy, and that was satisfaction enough.