Fic: The Joy of Self-Discovery
Title: The Joy of Self Discovery
Rating: M
Authors: chicklet73 and doona_rose
Summary: The Doctor has a very dirty mind. The Doctor also like to watch…himself. One Doctor + One Mirror + One New Body = Smut. Hooray!
A/N: Well, more smut, the good kind, methinks. And since I’m off overseas in a few hours, probably the last from me for a few months. Not that I’ve been very prolific lately. chicklet73 co-wrote it, hopefully you all like it and, if you’d like, please take the time to tell us what you think and how to improve, etc.
He’s new. Brand, spanking new. Skin and muscle and bone and eyes and hair, every single cell, technically is new, just formed a few days before. And he’s battled bad guys and been to Christmas dinner and grown an even newer hand since then. But it’s still new and now that Rose has trudged quietly off to her room to sleep off that rather large meal, he’s going to look.
He already knows it’s all rather good, knew it when he put on the suit and turned to the side and the back and saw long and lean and quietly strong. He likes it, likes the tingles that run through his body and make him feel more springy that last time, more reflexive, responsive.
He’s inside his room, supposedly getting a decent sleep, continuing his recovery though he feels fine. But he wants to look, just a bit. Pinstriped jacket off, hung over the back of a chair; shoes off, laces carefully undone and loosened before he toes them away, his socks following. Stopping there, he takes a minute to check out his feet, all slim and long and rather not bad as far as feet go. Distracted away from them, he tilts his head to the side and lets his gaze trace upwards, over long legs and white shirt. His hands raise and slowly pull the buttons loose, a hand running down his naked chest, letting his fingers flick over hair and nipples and feel the first faint stirs of something deep in the pit of his stomach.
Then his hands move down to his pants, clasp flicked open, another set of buttons undone, and a hand reaching inside. He’s quite glad he’s got this new quirk about underwear, about not wearing any. He doesn’t know where it comes from but when he first slipped those pinstriped trousers on, stepping out of a hot shower and then into the thin cotton, he hadn’t had anything to wear underneath and he hasn’t wanted to go looking since.
He likes that quirk right now because he's completely bare and he feels both his hand on himself and himself against his hand. And he's rather impressed with this body; he can get hard so, so fast, already growing at the subtlest brush of fingers against flesh and evidently he's going to be very physically eager this time around. He's going to love being touched, he knows, he’s going to crave it, in fact, and this new mind of his is already filled with images: Rose touching him, Rose's legs wrapped around his waist, Rose with those fuckable lips wrapped around him...
He groans softly and moves back to sit on the edge of the bed, continuing to touch, still slow and somewhat exploratory, measuring length and circumference and weight...he fits nicely in the palm of his own hand, he notes, as he wraps his fingers around and feels himself enclosed in his own warmth. And wow, his hands are hot, his last body's hands were cool, but the one wrapped tightly around his length is actually more heated than the flesh it holds, though he has a feeling that will change as time progresses.
He pulls downward, a slow, tight stroke, base to tip, good length, he thinks, wonders if Rose would be able to take all of him, and then he rubs his thumb over the head, nerve endings exploding to life and he bites his lower lip with the rush of sensation.
He freezes, taking a few deep, measured breaths. Calm, calm. He doesn't want to come, not yet.
Or maybe he does. He considers racing through, tight fist, rough, nearly painful jerks, just a couple, he knows, and he'd be done, he doesn't know how he knows, new body and all, but he knows.
He's gonna like it rough.
If he brings himself off right now, he can start all over again and really take his time.
But no, he wants to watch himself come, this time. And his hand is still down the front of his open trousers, and he's still sitting on the side of the bed, leaning back on one hand, and that's not good enough.
He needs a mirror.
He doesn’t have to look far at all, only takes a moment to think - because at some point his mind’s become a little hazy - but he’s got one on the inner door of his closet, full length, quite wide and his closet’s already facing his bed. He slips off the bed, watching the way the pale skin of his belly pulls tight as he stretches both hands above his head and raises onto his tiptoes, grinning wildly just for a second. Across the few meters to the closet and he opens the door and licks a finger to try to wipe off a smudge. Backs up to the bed until his knees hit the edge and he falls back, looks at his reflection, considers and then stands back up, readjusts the angle to make sure that when he’s watching he can see everything, close and sharp.
Catching his own eyes, he smiles something wicked and mischievous before stepping back and sliding his hands beneath the waistband of his trousers, moving them down and off his legs, slowly pushing them all the way to the floor and then stepping out, shifting them to the side with a nudge of his toe.
Sitting back down, he bounces on the bed a little and lets his legs spread to what usually feels comfortable. He finds that every part of him is alive with anticipation, that everything is so conscious, there is no relaxing into normal posture, but he guesses and does his best to imitate what he usually does, all the while watching with his head tilted to see the curve and dip of flesh, see what he likes, what he doesn’t.
Happy with the view, happy with the feel, he lets a hand rest against his diaphragm, feeling his breath coming slow and even and then he lets his hand move down, dips and curves, soft and hard, rubbing his own skin, feeling muscle and hair and then getting impatient and just letting finger after finger wrap around still hardened flesh, looking in the mirror and further admiring the fit of his hand, the length and heat and strength and again, he thinks of Rose. Thinks of finding her in a hallway and shocking her as he pushes her into a wall, hard length pressed against her leg, hot and ready and exactly what she wants.
But for now, he wants to see himself come. He’s waited long enough, positioned and planned and watched and now he wants release, wants to feel what’s coiling tighter inside him breaking open.
So he begins to stroke, tight hand, no tentativeness because he can feel what’s best, what feels perfectly all encompassing and tight and hot and again it leads to Rose. The thought of her makes his hips arch up and the flesh beneath his hand pulse.
Too easy to give himself exactly what he wants, how he wants it. And he wants it now. Wants to come and, oh yes, he’s meant to be watching. He forces his eyes open, away from the fantasies of Rose and onto the mirror in front of him, looking at himself, looking to his hand moving so swiftly, so roughly he’s surprised for a second that he could be so unforgiving, that something so harsh could feel quite so perfectly good.
And seeing it makes it that little bit better, adds a dimension to the feel of hot, heavy flesh under his fingers, to the feel of his hand and friction, back and forth, harder. He feels it rising within him, feels muscles knot further and his can feel his right thigh begin to cramp, just a niggling, annoying feeling that’s going to hurt so he curls his toes and flexes the muscle, watching in the mirror and concentrating, strangely entranced and then his eyes move back up his reflected self, watching the slowed down movement of his hand, watching the symmetry, the repetition, the constraint, lets it slip, moves faster and the way he can almost see his skin tightening is too much. His head falls back, his eyes fall shut and an extravagant sound escapes.
He swallows, finding his mouth going dry and his breath coming quick, he coerces his neck straight, forces his eyes to recapture the image in front of him. To watch, to see the sweat breaking out on his forehead, to feel it at the same time, evaporation off his skin making it cooler and hotter all at once. Watches his own lips thin and draw back as he hisses air in through his new teeth - though they can hardly be classified ‘weird’ anymore, not with what he’s doing now. Oh yes, what he’s doing now has gone way beyond "weird" but bollocks to that, he's naturally curious, that's all, and-
His brain-chatter stops as his hand freezes. A drop of moisture has appeared just there, just beyond where his thumb rests. He watches it grow and swell and begin sliding down, over the curve of skin, and he sweeps his thumb downwards, collecting it. It’s warm and it’s slippery and he draws a circle around the tip with it. It feels fantastic. Too fantastic. He doesn’t remember things ever feeling this fantastic.
With a sound that comes somewhere approximating his gut, he begins again, knowing it won't be long now, feeling his muscles tightening, working his hand in a squeezing twisting motion, more irregular as raw instinct takes over. Everything is getting slicker and he loves how productive this new body is, how quick and responsive and how everything feels so goddamn good.
Losing friction so he grips harder, forcing flesh to rub against flesh, unable to keep quiet as his eyes take in the sight of himself, taut and ready and flexing, and now his hips are moving, he watches them come up off the bed, muscles straining in his legs, shadowed stark lines of thighs and calves as everything works together to get more contact more heat more closer more. More and faster and hips jerking up and towards and back now, thrusting himself through the circle of his fist, lacking the control for measured strokes, for keeping his hips tamed, unable, unwilling to slow his body down and he angles himself upwards. Better angle, different angle, he can see more now, can watch the underside, appear and disappear in his hand, through and out the other side as he squeezes the base.
Oh god here it came, hot and thick rising inside him and he grasps wildly with his other hand, pushes down and pulls up at the same time, freezes for a second, hovering, trembling on the edge, seeing himself sprawled and sexual and his eyes lock with his own eyes and
FUCK YES
He’s coming.
In hot, surging splashes, on himself, on his hands, chest and belly and his mind goes someplace dark and primal and flickers to an image of Rose, of him marking her that way, branding her as his. His eyes slam shut and he swears he can feel another climax building a burning wave rolling up and through him before the first had even died and every muscle in his new body clamps tight, resisting.
Only for a second, then he lets the thoughts flood his mind, images of Rose, sprawled beneath him; of her back, arched and glistening; of his hand, wrapped deep in her hair, fingers so tightly entwined, it has to hurt. The smell of his room after sex, the taste of his sweat on her tongue, the feel of her hips under his, bucking up, out of control and then back to that image of her, marked as his own, sticky and sated and grinning, minx-like, because of it. Grinning and licking come from her chin and that’s what he wants.
And now time he shouts out loud because everything in him is being twisted so tight he feels like he's going to snap and it's all completely out of his control, tension and electricity racing through him wildly and he's just hanging on for dear life. Desperate to get more: more contact, more friction, more arching, more bucking and his hand still jerking fast and rough and everything stretched beyond limit and it's like an explosion tearing through his mind and his body, better than last time.
The image returns, triggers all his synapses to fire at the same time and he catches a glimpse, sees it out of the corner of his eye in the mirror and looks down, watches everything about him tighten, watches himself coming. And she’s there before him, he’s kneeling, she’s leaning on the bed and it’s her hand stroking, not his, hers and her lips, beckoning, begging the first drop from him, trying to catch and just ending up in a messy, sticky, satisfied mess.
He’s coming harder than before, grits his teeth and moans - half with the pleasure of it and half with the tension racking his body. Lets his head fall forward, hand fall away because now it’s over, most certainly finished and he just stares at himself, chasing away the last fleeting images of thoughts he really shouldn’t think and noticing the mess he’s in. Damned if he wasn’t going to be quite prolific this time around.
He cocks an eyebrow at that, then catches sight of his reflected face making the expression back at him. Aha, didn’t know he could do that. (Another talent of this new body.) He tries it again. Yes. He decides it looks good on him, and grins.
The End
Well??? What do you think?
Rating: M
Authors: chicklet73 and doona_rose
Summary: The Doctor has a very dirty mind. The Doctor also like to watch…himself. One Doctor + One Mirror + One New Body = Smut. Hooray!
A/N: Well, more smut, the good kind, methinks. And since I’m off overseas in a few hours, probably the last from me for a few months. Not that I’ve been very prolific lately. chicklet73 co-wrote it, hopefully you all like it and, if you’d like, please take the time to tell us what you think and how to improve, etc.
He’s new. Brand, spanking new. Skin and muscle and bone and eyes and hair, every single cell, technically is new, just formed a few days before. And he’s battled bad guys and been to Christmas dinner and grown an even newer hand since then. But it’s still new and now that Rose has trudged quietly off to her room to sleep off that rather large meal, he’s going to look.
He already knows it’s all rather good, knew it when he put on the suit and turned to the side and the back and saw long and lean and quietly strong. He likes it, likes the tingles that run through his body and make him feel more springy that last time, more reflexive, responsive.
He’s inside his room, supposedly getting a decent sleep, continuing his recovery though he feels fine. But he wants to look, just a bit. Pinstriped jacket off, hung over the back of a chair; shoes off, laces carefully undone and loosened before he toes them away, his socks following. Stopping there, he takes a minute to check out his feet, all slim and long and rather not bad as far as feet go. Distracted away from them, he tilts his head to the side and lets his gaze trace upwards, over long legs and white shirt. His hands raise and slowly pull the buttons loose, a hand running down his naked chest, letting his fingers flick over hair and nipples and feel the first faint stirs of something deep in the pit of his stomach.
Then his hands move down to his pants, clasp flicked open, another set of buttons undone, and a hand reaching inside. He’s quite glad he’s got this new quirk about underwear, about not wearing any. He doesn’t know where it comes from but when he first slipped those pinstriped trousers on, stepping out of a hot shower and then into the thin cotton, he hadn’t had anything to wear underneath and he hasn’t wanted to go looking since.
He likes that quirk right now because he's completely bare and he feels both his hand on himself and himself against his hand. And he's rather impressed with this body; he can get hard so, so fast, already growing at the subtlest brush of fingers against flesh and evidently he's going to be very physically eager this time around. He's going to love being touched, he knows, he’s going to crave it, in fact, and this new mind of his is already filled with images: Rose touching him, Rose's legs wrapped around his waist, Rose with those fuckable lips wrapped around him...
He groans softly and moves back to sit on the edge of the bed, continuing to touch, still slow and somewhat exploratory, measuring length and circumference and weight...he fits nicely in the palm of his own hand, he notes, as he wraps his fingers around and feels himself enclosed in his own warmth. And wow, his hands are hot, his last body's hands were cool, but the one wrapped tightly around his length is actually more heated than the flesh it holds, though he has a feeling that will change as time progresses.
He pulls downward, a slow, tight stroke, base to tip, good length, he thinks, wonders if Rose would be able to take all of him, and then he rubs his thumb over the head, nerve endings exploding to life and he bites his lower lip with the rush of sensation.
He freezes, taking a few deep, measured breaths. Calm, calm. He doesn't want to come, not yet.
Or maybe he does. He considers racing through, tight fist, rough, nearly painful jerks, just a couple, he knows, and he'd be done, he doesn't know how he knows, new body and all, but he knows.
He's gonna like it rough.
If he brings himself off right now, he can start all over again and really take his time.
But no, he wants to watch himself come, this time. And his hand is still down the front of his open trousers, and he's still sitting on the side of the bed, leaning back on one hand, and that's not good enough.
He needs a mirror.
He doesn’t have to look far at all, only takes a moment to think - because at some point his mind’s become a little hazy - but he’s got one on the inner door of his closet, full length, quite wide and his closet’s already facing his bed. He slips off the bed, watching the way the pale skin of his belly pulls tight as he stretches both hands above his head and raises onto his tiptoes, grinning wildly just for a second. Across the few meters to the closet and he opens the door and licks a finger to try to wipe off a smudge. Backs up to the bed until his knees hit the edge and he falls back, looks at his reflection, considers and then stands back up, readjusts the angle to make sure that when he’s watching he can see everything, close and sharp.
Catching his own eyes, he smiles something wicked and mischievous before stepping back and sliding his hands beneath the waistband of his trousers, moving them down and off his legs, slowly pushing them all the way to the floor and then stepping out, shifting them to the side with a nudge of his toe.
Sitting back down, he bounces on the bed a little and lets his legs spread to what usually feels comfortable. He finds that every part of him is alive with anticipation, that everything is so conscious, there is no relaxing into normal posture, but he guesses and does his best to imitate what he usually does, all the while watching with his head tilted to see the curve and dip of flesh, see what he likes, what he doesn’t.
Happy with the view, happy with the feel, he lets a hand rest against his diaphragm, feeling his breath coming slow and even and then he lets his hand move down, dips and curves, soft and hard, rubbing his own skin, feeling muscle and hair and then getting impatient and just letting finger after finger wrap around still hardened flesh, looking in the mirror and further admiring the fit of his hand, the length and heat and strength and again, he thinks of Rose. Thinks of finding her in a hallway and shocking her as he pushes her into a wall, hard length pressed against her leg, hot and ready and exactly what she wants.
But for now, he wants to see himself come. He’s waited long enough, positioned and planned and watched and now he wants release, wants to feel what’s coiling tighter inside him breaking open.
So he begins to stroke, tight hand, no tentativeness because he can feel what’s best, what feels perfectly all encompassing and tight and hot and again it leads to Rose. The thought of her makes his hips arch up and the flesh beneath his hand pulse.
Too easy to give himself exactly what he wants, how he wants it. And he wants it now. Wants to come and, oh yes, he’s meant to be watching. He forces his eyes open, away from the fantasies of Rose and onto the mirror in front of him, looking at himself, looking to his hand moving so swiftly, so roughly he’s surprised for a second that he could be so unforgiving, that something so harsh could feel quite so perfectly good.
And seeing it makes it that little bit better, adds a dimension to the feel of hot, heavy flesh under his fingers, to the feel of his hand and friction, back and forth, harder. He feels it rising within him, feels muscles knot further and his can feel his right thigh begin to cramp, just a niggling, annoying feeling that’s going to hurt so he curls his toes and flexes the muscle, watching in the mirror and concentrating, strangely entranced and then his eyes move back up his reflected self, watching the slowed down movement of his hand, watching the symmetry, the repetition, the constraint, lets it slip, moves faster and the way he can almost see his skin tightening is too much. His head falls back, his eyes fall shut and an extravagant sound escapes.
He swallows, finding his mouth going dry and his breath coming quick, he coerces his neck straight, forces his eyes to recapture the image in front of him. To watch, to see the sweat breaking out on his forehead, to feel it at the same time, evaporation off his skin making it cooler and hotter all at once. Watches his own lips thin and draw back as he hisses air in through his new teeth - though they can hardly be classified ‘weird’ anymore, not with what he’s doing now. Oh yes, what he’s doing now has gone way beyond "weird" but bollocks to that, he's naturally curious, that's all, and-
His brain-chatter stops as his hand freezes. A drop of moisture has appeared just there, just beyond where his thumb rests. He watches it grow and swell and begin sliding down, over the curve of skin, and he sweeps his thumb downwards, collecting it. It’s warm and it’s slippery and he draws a circle around the tip with it. It feels fantastic. Too fantastic. He doesn’t remember things ever feeling this fantastic.
With a sound that comes somewhere approximating his gut, he begins again, knowing it won't be long now, feeling his muscles tightening, working his hand in a squeezing twisting motion, more irregular as raw instinct takes over. Everything is getting slicker and he loves how productive this new body is, how quick and responsive and how everything feels so goddamn good.
Losing friction so he grips harder, forcing flesh to rub against flesh, unable to keep quiet as his eyes take in the sight of himself, taut and ready and flexing, and now his hips are moving, he watches them come up off the bed, muscles straining in his legs, shadowed stark lines of thighs and calves as everything works together to get more contact more heat more closer more. More and faster and hips jerking up and towards and back now, thrusting himself through the circle of his fist, lacking the control for measured strokes, for keeping his hips tamed, unable, unwilling to slow his body down and he angles himself upwards. Better angle, different angle, he can see more now, can watch the underside, appear and disappear in his hand, through and out the other side as he squeezes the base.
Oh god here it came, hot and thick rising inside him and he grasps wildly with his other hand, pushes down and pulls up at the same time, freezes for a second, hovering, trembling on the edge, seeing himself sprawled and sexual and his eyes lock with his own eyes and
FUCK YES
He’s coming.
In hot, surging splashes, on himself, on his hands, chest and belly and his mind goes someplace dark and primal and flickers to an image of Rose, of him marking her that way, branding her as his. His eyes slam shut and he swears he can feel another climax building a burning wave rolling up and through him before the first had even died and every muscle in his new body clamps tight, resisting.
Only for a second, then he lets the thoughts flood his mind, images of Rose, sprawled beneath him; of her back, arched and glistening; of his hand, wrapped deep in her hair, fingers so tightly entwined, it has to hurt. The smell of his room after sex, the taste of his sweat on her tongue, the feel of her hips under his, bucking up, out of control and then back to that image of her, marked as his own, sticky and sated and grinning, minx-like, because of it. Grinning and licking come from her chin and that’s what he wants.
And now time he shouts out loud because everything in him is being twisted so tight he feels like he's going to snap and it's all completely out of his control, tension and electricity racing through him wildly and he's just hanging on for dear life. Desperate to get more: more contact, more friction, more arching, more bucking and his hand still jerking fast and rough and everything stretched beyond limit and it's like an explosion tearing through his mind and his body, better than last time.
The image returns, triggers all his synapses to fire at the same time and he catches a glimpse, sees it out of the corner of his eye in the mirror and looks down, watches everything about him tighten, watches himself coming. And she’s there before him, he’s kneeling, she’s leaning on the bed and it’s her hand stroking, not his, hers and her lips, beckoning, begging the first drop from him, trying to catch and just ending up in a messy, sticky, satisfied mess.
He’s coming harder than before, grits his teeth and moans - half with the pleasure of it and half with the tension racking his body. Lets his head fall forward, hand fall away because now it’s over, most certainly finished and he just stares at himself, chasing away the last fleeting images of thoughts he really shouldn’t think and noticing the mess he’s in. Damned if he wasn’t going to be quite prolific this time around.
He cocks an eyebrow at that, then catches sight of his reflected face making the expression back at him. Aha, didn’t know he could do that. (Another talent of this new body.) He tries it again. Yes. He decides it looks good on him, and grins.
The End
Well??? What do you think?