Fic: Crying Over Gallifrey
I found myself almost crying yesterday as I remembered Doomsday... After all this time, as well! But this fic just made me write it - the Doctor in my head was just itching to reconcile himself with his essential alien-ness and superiority over humans, and yet, his need for Rose. Here is the result:
Title - Crying Over Gallifrey
Author - who_la_hoop
Rating - Adult
Spoilers - Doomsday
Words - A one shot with just over 3K words
Disclaimer - The Doctor and Rose are not mine. Woe.
Summary - Reunion fic set after Doomsday with a little angst, rather more smut and hopefully a lot of heart. Hope you enjoy!
Comments are love. Constructive criticism welcomed.
The Doctor
He wasn’t entirely sure how he should be reacting to the way he was feeling. Overanalysing his feelings wasn’t helping, and he was a Time Lord, damn it, and as such should be quite able to rationally explain everything and anything away. It was a strange sort of pain. He’d felt it before, of course. More than anyone else, he suspected, more than anyone or anything could bear without going crazy, but then, he’d always been a little crazy and perhaps that helped. It wasn’t helping now. Damn it! He was a Time Lord! A renegade, strange, cursed and confused version that’s for sure, with certain predilections and fondnesses for inferior species, but this. This was beginning to be more than he could bear, and time and time and time had proved that this Time Lord could bear a lot.
He’d wiped his tears (wondering, all the while, why he’d never discovered his tear ducts before, fascinating things) and gone on to his next adventure, all brides and lace and alien-santa-tinsel-death-merry-christmas. Gone on to his next adventure, hello Martha Jones, a new and fascinating female to show the world to. Human females so inferior in intellect, but so collectable, so delightfully emotional, such social creatures. Never stopping, because why would you, if you were a Time Lord with a TARDIS and the whole of Time and Space to explore, taa daa! Try not to remember the time you saw a packet of digestive biscuits on your study desk, grinned in recollection of that time with Rose, you know the one, and burst into tears. You didn’t cry over Gallifrey. Try not to remember that.
But, a bit like toothache - even Time Lords suffer, especially our one, drinking too much tea with sugar, and eating too many biscuits, just like R.O.S.E. would have (don’t say the name, don’t say the name) - some things, grinding away at your constantly, get too much to ignore for another day. The Doctor finally sat down, told the TARDIS firmly to keep Martha out of his room, and put his head in his hands.
He didn’t weep for a long time. Just sat, letting the babblebabble of his thoughts subside a little. Letting his muscles relax and mind unwind. Allowing himself to breathe. But then he cried, an image of a bright face overpowering his senses, time wavering and bending in front of his eyes, and tormenting his mind. Dispassionately observing himself, crying over a human teenager he’d never even kissed (don’t think about it too much or you might break), thinking I never felt this way oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.
After Martha, Sarah, and then Elizabeth and Grwaineth and Michael and Jean-Claude and Elevene and Xyzabell and Wesley and all tumbling down into an endless stream of oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck and Emmanuel and Priah and Kylie and oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck and finally admitting, yes, sod it, I love Rose, I fucking love her, I am the last of the Time Lords, the last, alone, and I want her back. And yes, he wept, alone again in his room, shutting out the world, head in hands and both hearts screaming for her touch.
The thing with our Doctor though, right, is that he wouldn’t be our Doctor if he wasn’t an ingenious little sod. Burning up a sun to say goodbye - that’s all in a day’s work. Of course, he never did it before Rose. Not that he was an unemotional man, of course not. He’d felt the pain of losing all his previous companions. Yes, even Mel, even Adric. Even a pain in the neck can be a much loved pain in the neck. Didn’t want to think about Ace too much. Had always felt the guilt there, the guilt of testing her too far, endangering her at every opportunity. He’d loved her for her spirit, her sense of adventure, her Nitro 9, and her tight hugs, given when no-one was looking. No, he wasn’t an unemotional man. But Rose. Well. It cost him just to think her name. And our Doctor can’t be doing with that. He needs his mind on the job. Saving the universe can be a tough gig, you know. He needs to have someone he can count on. Not that I’m saying there was anything wrong with Xyzabell as such, but a homicidal fembot who burnt out half of the TARDIS and poisoned all the bread? Maybe not the wisest of choices for a companion. Being blonde doesn’t make her… Ah. I believe our dearest Doctor is starting to catch on.
After far too long crying, the Doctor, his eyes puffy with salt (see, he is human in all sorts of unexpected ways), took his head out of hands and lay back on the bed. He’d always loved his room, and yet he’d never invited Rose into it. It was, perhaps, even more so than the control room, the heart of the TARDIS. His previous incarnations had made a mess of it, of course, making it alternately stark and comfortless, to filled with books and paperwork. Now in his tenth incarnation, the room was clean and bare. A bed, a thick carpet, and the sky. The roof transparent, a portal to the world beyond. Somewhere, the Doctor thought with longing, is Rose. And not being human, being something else entirely, all he could do was wish for fulfilment of that sort (strictly hush hush amongst Time Lords, who are nothing if not prudish and reticent).
But after a certain amount of physical attention that we won’t dwell on here, the Doctor felt refreshed. He’d met many challenges in his life, and always won, even against other Time Lords, and good lord they could be a challenge. And after a certain amount of tweaking and wrestling and praying with and to and from the TARDIS, he slipped through the walls of the dimensions and stood outside Rose’s bedroom.
It was night, and the Doctor had no reason to expect that she was there, rather than curled up in Mickey’s arms, but he could not bring himself to open the door. Regular as clockwork, the tears came. He was old and he was worn out and he was in love. He leant on Rose’s door and sobbed like a tired child.
Rose
It had been just sixteen months for Rose. Although when I say just sixteen months, it doesn’t quite cover the pain and grief she felt, she still feels. She got a job at Torchwood, easy enough. A girl who knew what she was talking about wasn’t one to be ignored, and Rose sure as hell wasn’t ignored. No more shop girl for her, that’s for sure. She wears a suit to work, and no-one dares to push her around or try to take advantage. Hard as nails, she is. The money helps. Mickey tried to help, until she pushed him so hard that he fell and broke his arm. Still comes around, he does, but she can’t bear to look at him, all puppy dog eyes and forgiveness. She doesn’t want to be pitied. She just wants - well. People don’t get what they want, and life isn’t a fairytale. There is no happy ever after.
Rose used to be able to sleep. On board the TARDIS, if she couldn’t sleep, it wasn’t because of insomnia, it was because of sexual frustration, no other way to put it. Sleeping aboard the TARDIS - big as it was inside - she was still too close to the Doctor for comfort. Any close was too close, except for skin on skin which she knew she’d never get. Knew she’d never get, until he said goodbye on that beach, and she knew she could have had it any time, if she’d only sodding asked. They’d had to drag her away, kicking and screaming, crying so much that she was sick for days.
Now our Rose can’t sleep. She tosses and turns, but the dark is never dark enough, and every sound reminds her that she’s stuck. Suicide is a coward’s way out, and she was never a coward, but sometimes she wishes that she were. Surely things would be easier. She thought she knew pain when he changed, ripping her feet out from under her. Turns out, not so much. Not so much at all.
The Night
It’s quiet in the Tyler household. Jackie and Pete have shagged themselves to sleep, and they’re tired anyway, the little ‘un taking up too much of their time. They’re older and not much wiser. Rose is awake as usual, the bags under her eyes getting deeper each night. She may only be, well, twenty now, she thinks is her official age, but she feels so much older, so much older. The room is cool and dark. Outside her door, the Doctor stands, holding his breath, for a time. But crying requires air and effort, and he can’t help it. He’s so sure, so sure that she’s not there, that he’s left it too late. He collapses against the door with a soft thud, and weeps for everything he’s never done and never will.
Rose starts, and rises from her bed. She can hear someone outside. She wonders if it’s the fucking dog, the dog called Rose, the dog that her father keeps and her mother loves, even though it’s creepy and sick and wrong. She opens the door.
“Rose.”
“Doctor?”
“There’s something I meant to tell you.” His voice breaks off for a moment, and for a moment she wonders if it’s all a nightmare. She’s had dreams like this. Good dreams where he’s back, and then she wakes and it was a nightmare after all. In her nightmares she can smell him, she can feel his skin on hers.
“Yes?”
“Rose Tyler, I…”
She waits.
“I love you.”
She waits.
“I love you. I’ve waited nine hundred years for you, I’ve lost you once…” He wants to tell her that he’ll never let her go, but he’s afraid. Afraid that if he speaks his need she’ll tell him she doesn’t want him back. He’s never been afraid before, not really. It’s new and terrifying and wonderful all at once.
Rose takes his hand and leads him to her bed. They lie there together, skin barely touching. It feels too intimate to bear.
“You didn’t save me,” she says, finally. She’s young, and she’s tired and she thinks it’s all a dream that will melt away and leave her lonesome once more.
He says nothing.
“You didn’t save me,” she screams, and punches him hard on the cheek, before slapping his arms, his shoulders, sitting back up to get a better purchase.
He lies still. He is old, he is tired and he deserves it. He thinks it is all a dream, and soon she will go back to Mickey and leave him lonesome once more.
Then she kisses him.
It’s real, they both think. Rose pulls away. It was such a small kiss, such a tender little thing. She switches on the light. It’s not a dream. He pulls her back towards him, and clutches her so hard she knows she’ll bruise, but she doesn’t complain. For the first time in sixteen months she can feel. Rose lowers her mouth to his. Her tears are falling and she can taste them, salty on his mouth. His lips are not how she’d imagined. They are rougher, and his kisses harsher. She knows that she will find no mercy in his arms. They have put each other through enough.
“Do you trust me?” he asks. There is fear in his voice, and she knows that he is alien, and that this will not be like anything she knows.
“Yes,” she says, in a low voice that makes his body vibrate with need.
“Shut your eyes,” he says, and presses his lips to hers. She nibbles on his bottom lip until she can taste blood, and closes her eyes. “Be strong,” he says, tightly. He knows she is human, she is weak, she is not a Time Lady. There are limits to what she can take. But he knows what he has to give, and it is marvellous. He nuzzles up to her, and opens up his defences. He hasn’t done this since he was a young man, hundreds of years ago. Then, it was an experiment. Now, it is deadly serious.
Rose gasps, as his feelings overwhelm her senses. There is pain and hurt, wrapped up in lust and desire and love, love so strong and bright it cuts. He feels her shock, and tries to keep himself in check. She is so easy to control, this human girl. He could plunder all her thoughts in an instant, and she would never feel the loss. But he is a gentleman of sorts, and though impatient, he opens himself up to her and does not impose himself in her head.
He pulls away slightly, and she writhes a little, to let him know that she is ok, she wants him back. His hands are on her pyjamas. It’s been too long, and it’s all too much, so he rips them apart with hands that are both strong and gentle, tugging at his own stupid suit until there is skin on skin and he feels like he might die with desire.
His hair has got too long again, and tickles his eyes, as he leans over her. He looks into her eyes, to distract him from looking into her soul. He shudders slightly as he feels her read his emotions. It’s all too raw, too personal, and for a moment he wants to pull away. But he doesn’t. She pulls him down and kisses him until his lips feel sore and cracked, and yet, he still wants more. Their thoughts mingling with sorrow and love and need.
He’s suddenly glad that he’s, to all intents and purposes, human shaped as Rose reaches down between his legs and the red blood thunders around his body. It feels fantastic, that tentative human hand around his penis, his mouth faltering on hers as she finds out what turns him on. She’s not to know, of course, that all this is merely fore-foreplay, Time Lords, of course, being used to purely mental stimulation and scorning such physical means to an end. His breathing quickening, he wonders if all the Time Lords were so stupid as to believe that.
Rose is, of course, excited to find out that they are quite so compatible. The mental link is odd, but not too odd, for her to find arousing. If she concentrates she can read his thoughts, which is both terrifying and wonderful. She tries not to concentrate, but instead explores, and is rewarded with the warmest feeling that has ever invaded her head. She’s aware of very little else but the sorrow and pleasure of this reunion, and the skin on skin, and the desire, oh sweet god, he wants her so much.
She can feel his tears in her head as she guides him into her. She’s wet, and he’s gentle, and she doesn’t know how to feel anymore, what to do, except lie back and try not to drown in his emotions. He barely moves, but his breathing is hot and fast, and he’s trying to close down his head to her, but he can’t. Everything is too loud and too strong, and it’s good but it hurts, but she’ll kill him if he stops.
“I’m sorry,” he gasps, and Rose looks into his eyes and sees and feels his fear that she will leave and he will be alone and lost once more.
“Shhh,” she says, and strokes his cheek, as she tries to clear her mind of his pain and show him how much she’s missed him.
Her comfort rebounds tenfold in her head, and she moans faintly as he nuzzles her neck, his breath hot against her skin. His skin is cool against hers, and she shivers, but she’s not sure she doesn’t like it. She smiles and feels slightly smug as her mind is filled with complex equations that no human could possibly comprehend. The equivalent, perhaps, of thinking of football. Her smile prompts an explosion of laughter in her head, and she remembers, too late, that he’s much more skilled at this whole mental link thing. She can feel his amusement mixed with torment and the faint thought - he’s trying to hide it but it bursts out all the same - that fuck she’s right, oh fuck, ohhhhh.
He loses control; her fingers entwined in his hair, and she’s forcing his lips hard on hers. She is so naïve, so innocent compared to him, and yet he desires her more than he could ever define, ever explain. He wants so much to keep her safe, to protect her from him, but it’s too late for that. She’s moving beneath him, her breath shallow and fast, and it’s far, far too late. Time wavers and blurs, with the explosion in his loins. Time Lords never gave much credit to the sexual urge. With reproduction taken away from them, the physical act was scorned as somehow worthless. No intellectual value. A pointless expenditure of energy that could be put to better use. The Doctor wonders vaguely if they were mad or simply deluded, as his whole body is filled with pleasure. He can feel Rose’s delight as their minds touch and dance, each nerve ending throughout each limb throughout each body, alive and singing. They are overpowered by each others sensations - the tingle of breath on hot, slick skin; his slim frame heavy on her body; desire, intangible but overwhelming. Together, they fall out of time, and are amazed.
Later, the Doctor turns his attention, what little of it he can piece back together, to the complex problem of pleasing Miss Rose Tyler. It turns out to be not so difficult. A little application of a little common sense. Attention to a shift in position here, an increase of breathing there. Enjoying the scent of her arousal. Licking his finger to taste her wetness, and watching her blush. It will not take long to tip her over the edge, he knows, and the Doctor cannot bear to tease her for once. He feels that his intense scrutiny of her is making her nervous, but he cannot stop himself. She is so beautiful. When his agile fingers make her cry out, and her whole body shudder, he cannot help but feel unreasonable pride. I did that, he thinks, I did that. She smiles, heavy eyed, at him. Their minds are not so closely tied now, but the connection still holds. He is aware that she is tiring, and he fears - irrationally, but still fears - that she will regret allowing him into her mind come morning.
She wraps him in her arms and pulls him so tight he knows he will bruise. It is a comforting pain.
“Will you still be here in the morning?” she asks, sleep pulling her mind away from his. Her hold tightens, even as she falls.
“I will never leave you,” he says, tears falling on her head as he tells her a truth which will comfort only her. He knows that for him this joy will only be fleeting, and that the eventual pain will overwhelm him, more even than the loss of his planet and his people. He is a Time Lord. He knows how it will go. But of all the joys of all his life, this one is perhaps the greatest, so he will grasp it with both hands, and hold on until the end. He kisses the top of Rose’s head and smiles. She needs her roots doing, as usual, his Rose.
Title - Crying Over Gallifrey
Author - who_la_hoop
Rating - Adult
Spoilers - Doomsday
Words - A one shot with just over 3K words
Disclaimer - The Doctor and Rose are not mine. Woe.
Summary - Reunion fic set after Doomsday with a little angst, rather more smut and hopefully a lot of heart. Hope you enjoy!
Comments are love. Constructive criticism welcomed.
The Doctor
He wasn’t entirely sure how he should be reacting to the way he was feeling. Overanalysing his feelings wasn’t helping, and he was a Time Lord, damn it, and as such should be quite able to rationally explain everything and anything away. It was a strange sort of pain. He’d felt it before, of course. More than anyone else, he suspected, more than anyone or anything could bear without going crazy, but then, he’d always been a little crazy and perhaps that helped. It wasn’t helping now. Damn it! He was a Time Lord! A renegade, strange, cursed and confused version that’s for sure, with certain predilections and fondnesses for inferior species, but this. This was beginning to be more than he could bear, and time and time and time had proved that this Time Lord could bear a lot.
He’d wiped his tears (wondering, all the while, why he’d never discovered his tear ducts before, fascinating things) and gone on to his next adventure, all brides and lace and alien-santa-tinsel-death-merry-christmas. Gone on to his next adventure, hello Martha Jones, a new and fascinating female to show the world to. Human females so inferior in intellect, but so collectable, so delightfully emotional, such social creatures. Never stopping, because why would you, if you were a Time Lord with a TARDIS and the whole of Time and Space to explore, taa daa! Try not to remember the time you saw a packet of digestive biscuits on your study desk, grinned in recollection of that time with Rose, you know the one, and burst into tears. You didn’t cry over Gallifrey. Try not to remember that.
But, a bit like toothache - even Time Lords suffer, especially our one, drinking too much tea with sugar, and eating too many biscuits, just like R.O.S.E. would have (don’t say the name, don’t say the name) - some things, grinding away at your constantly, get too much to ignore for another day. The Doctor finally sat down, told the TARDIS firmly to keep Martha out of his room, and put his head in his hands.
He didn’t weep for a long time. Just sat, letting the babblebabble of his thoughts subside a little. Letting his muscles relax and mind unwind. Allowing himself to breathe. But then he cried, an image of a bright face overpowering his senses, time wavering and bending in front of his eyes, and tormenting his mind. Dispassionately observing himself, crying over a human teenager he’d never even kissed (don’t think about it too much or you might break), thinking I never felt this way oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.
After Martha, Sarah, and then Elizabeth and Grwaineth and Michael and Jean-Claude and Elevene and Xyzabell and Wesley and all tumbling down into an endless stream of oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck and Emmanuel and Priah and Kylie and oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck and finally admitting, yes, sod it, I love Rose, I fucking love her, I am the last of the Time Lords, the last, alone, and I want her back. And yes, he wept, alone again in his room, shutting out the world, head in hands and both hearts screaming for her touch.
The thing with our Doctor though, right, is that he wouldn’t be our Doctor if he wasn’t an ingenious little sod. Burning up a sun to say goodbye - that’s all in a day’s work. Of course, he never did it before Rose. Not that he was an unemotional man, of course not. He’d felt the pain of losing all his previous companions. Yes, even Mel, even Adric. Even a pain in the neck can be a much loved pain in the neck. Didn’t want to think about Ace too much. Had always felt the guilt there, the guilt of testing her too far, endangering her at every opportunity. He’d loved her for her spirit, her sense of adventure, her Nitro 9, and her tight hugs, given when no-one was looking. No, he wasn’t an unemotional man. But Rose. Well. It cost him just to think her name. And our Doctor can’t be doing with that. He needs his mind on the job. Saving the universe can be a tough gig, you know. He needs to have someone he can count on. Not that I’m saying there was anything wrong with Xyzabell as such, but a homicidal fembot who burnt out half of the TARDIS and poisoned all the bread? Maybe not the wisest of choices for a companion. Being blonde doesn’t make her… Ah. I believe our dearest Doctor is starting to catch on.
After far too long crying, the Doctor, his eyes puffy with salt (see, he is human in all sorts of unexpected ways), took his head out of hands and lay back on the bed. He’d always loved his room, and yet he’d never invited Rose into it. It was, perhaps, even more so than the control room, the heart of the TARDIS. His previous incarnations had made a mess of it, of course, making it alternately stark and comfortless, to filled with books and paperwork. Now in his tenth incarnation, the room was clean and bare. A bed, a thick carpet, and the sky. The roof transparent, a portal to the world beyond. Somewhere, the Doctor thought with longing, is Rose. And not being human, being something else entirely, all he could do was wish for fulfilment of that sort (strictly hush hush amongst Time Lords, who are nothing if not prudish and reticent).
But after a certain amount of physical attention that we won’t dwell on here, the Doctor felt refreshed. He’d met many challenges in his life, and always won, even against other Time Lords, and good lord they could be a challenge. And after a certain amount of tweaking and wrestling and praying with and to and from the TARDIS, he slipped through the walls of the dimensions and stood outside Rose’s bedroom.
It was night, and the Doctor had no reason to expect that she was there, rather than curled up in Mickey’s arms, but he could not bring himself to open the door. Regular as clockwork, the tears came. He was old and he was worn out and he was in love. He leant on Rose’s door and sobbed like a tired child.
Rose
It had been just sixteen months for Rose. Although when I say just sixteen months, it doesn’t quite cover the pain and grief she felt, she still feels. She got a job at Torchwood, easy enough. A girl who knew what she was talking about wasn’t one to be ignored, and Rose sure as hell wasn’t ignored. No more shop girl for her, that’s for sure. She wears a suit to work, and no-one dares to push her around or try to take advantage. Hard as nails, she is. The money helps. Mickey tried to help, until she pushed him so hard that he fell and broke his arm. Still comes around, he does, but she can’t bear to look at him, all puppy dog eyes and forgiveness. She doesn’t want to be pitied. She just wants - well. People don’t get what they want, and life isn’t a fairytale. There is no happy ever after.
Rose used to be able to sleep. On board the TARDIS, if she couldn’t sleep, it wasn’t because of insomnia, it was because of sexual frustration, no other way to put it. Sleeping aboard the TARDIS - big as it was inside - she was still too close to the Doctor for comfort. Any close was too close, except for skin on skin which she knew she’d never get. Knew she’d never get, until he said goodbye on that beach, and she knew she could have had it any time, if she’d only sodding asked. They’d had to drag her away, kicking and screaming, crying so much that she was sick for days.
Now our Rose can’t sleep. She tosses and turns, but the dark is never dark enough, and every sound reminds her that she’s stuck. Suicide is a coward’s way out, and she was never a coward, but sometimes she wishes that she were. Surely things would be easier. She thought she knew pain when he changed, ripping her feet out from under her. Turns out, not so much. Not so much at all.
The Night
It’s quiet in the Tyler household. Jackie and Pete have shagged themselves to sleep, and they’re tired anyway, the little ‘un taking up too much of their time. They’re older and not much wiser. Rose is awake as usual, the bags under her eyes getting deeper each night. She may only be, well, twenty now, she thinks is her official age, but she feels so much older, so much older. The room is cool and dark. Outside her door, the Doctor stands, holding his breath, for a time. But crying requires air and effort, and he can’t help it. He’s so sure, so sure that she’s not there, that he’s left it too late. He collapses against the door with a soft thud, and weeps for everything he’s never done and never will.
Rose starts, and rises from her bed. She can hear someone outside. She wonders if it’s the fucking dog, the dog called Rose, the dog that her father keeps and her mother loves, even though it’s creepy and sick and wrong. She opens the door.
“Rose.”
“Doctor?”
“There’s something I meant to tell you.” His voice breaks off for a moment, and for a moment she wonders if it’s all a nightmare. She’s had dreams like this. Good dreams where he’s back, and then she wakes and it was a nightmare after all. In her nightmares she can smell him, she can feel his skin on hers.
“Yes?”
“Rose Tyler, I…”
She waits.
“I love you.”
She waits.
“I love you. I’ve waited nine hundred years for you, I’ve lost you once…” He wants to tell her that he’ll never let her go, but he’s afraid. Afraid that if he speaks his need she’ll tell him she doesn’t want him back. He’s never been afraid before, not really. It’s new and terrifying and wonderful all at once.
Rose takes his hand and leads him to her bed. They lie there together, skin barely touching. It feels too intimate to bear.
“You didn’t save me,” she says, finally. She’s young, and she’s tired and she thinks it’s all a dream that will melt away and leave her lonesome once more.
He says nothing.
“You didn’t save me,” she screams, and punches him hard on the cheek, before slapping his arms, his shoulders, sitting back up to get a better purchase.
He lies still. He is old, he is tired and he deserves it. He thinks it is all a dream, and soon she will go back to Mickey and leave him lonesome once more.
Then she kisses him.
It’s real, they both think. Rose pulls away. It was such a small kiss, such a tender little thing. She switches on the light. It’s not a dream. He pulls her back towards him, and clutches her so hard she knows she’ll bruise, but she doesn’t complain. For the first time in sixteen months she can feel. Rose lowers her mouth to his. Her tears are falling and she can taste them, salty on his mouth. His lips are not how she’d imagined. They are rougher, and his kisses harsher. She knows that she will find no mercy in his arms. They have put each other through enough.
“Do you trust me?” he asks. There is fear in his voice, and she knows that he is alien, and that this will not be like anything she knows.
“Yes,” she says, in a low voice that makes his body vibrate with need.
“Shut your eyes,” he says, and presses his lips to hers. She nibbles on his bottom lip until she can taste blood, and closes her eyes. “Be strong,” he says, tightly. He knows she is human, she is weak, she is not a Time Lady. There are limits to what she can take. But he knows what he has to give, and it is marvellous. He nuzzles up to her, and opens up his defences. He hasn’t done this since he was a young man, hundreds of years ago. Then, it was an experiment. Now, it is deadly serious.
Rose gasps, as his feelings overwhelm her senses. There is pain and hurt, wrapped up in lust and desire and love, love so strong and bright it cuts. He feels her shock, and tries to keep himself in check. She is so easy to control, this human girl. He could plunder all her thoughts in an instant, and she would never feel the loss. But he is a gentleman of sorts, and though impatient, he opens himself up to her and does not impose himself in her head.
He pulls away slightly, and she writhes a little, to let him know that she is ok, she wants him back. His hands are on her pyjamas. It’s been too long, and it’s all too much, so he rips them apart with hands that are both strong and gentle, tugging at his own stupid suit until there is skin on skin and he feels like he might die with desire.
His hair has got too long again, and tickles his eyes, as he leans over her. He looks into her eyes, to distract him from looking into her soul. He shudders slightly as he feels her read his emotions. It’s all too raw, too personal, and for a moment he wants to pull away. But he doesn’t. She pulls him down and kisses him until his lips feel sore and cracked, and yet, he still wants more. Their thoughts mingling with sorrow and love and need.
He’s suddenly glad that he’s, to all intents and purposes, human shaped as Rose reaches down between his legs and the red blood thunders around his body. It feels fantastic, that tentative human hand around his penis, his mouth faltering on hers as she finds out what turns him on. She’s not to know, of course, that all this is merely fore-foreplay, Time Lords, of course, being used to purely mental stimulation and scorning such physical means to an end. His breathing quickening, he wonders if all the Time Lords were so stupid as to believe that.
Rose is, of course, excited to find out that they are quite so compatible. The mental link is odd, but not too odd, for her to find arousing. If she concentrates she can read his thoughts, which is both terrifying and wonderful. She tries not to concentrate, but instead explores, and is rewarded with the warmest feeling that has ever invaded her head. She’s aware of very little else but the sorrow and pleasure of this reunion, and the skin on skin, and the desire, oh sweet god, he wants her so much.
She can feel his tears in her head as she guides him into her. She’s wet, and he’s gentle, and she doesn’t know how to feel anymore, what to do, except lie back and try not to drown in his emotions. He barely moves, but his breathing is hot and fast, and he’s trying to close down his head to her, but he can’t. Everything is too loud and too strong, and it’s good but it hurts, but she’ll kill him if he stops.
“I’m sorry,” he gasps, and Rose looks into his eyes and sees and feels his fear that she will leave and he will be alone and lost once more.
“Shhh,” she says, and strokes his cheek, as she tries to clear her mind of his pain and show him how much she’s missed him.
Her comfort rebounds tenfold in her head, and she moans faintly as he nuzzles her neck, his breath hot against her skin. His skin is cool against hers, and she shivers, but she’s not sure she doesn’t like it. She smiles and feels slightly smug as her mind is filled with complex equations that no human could possibly comprehend. The equivalent, perhaps, of thinking of football. Her smile prompts an explosion of laughter in her head, and she remembers, too late, that he’s much more skilled at this whole mental link thing. She can feel his amusement mixed with torment and the faint thought - he’s trying to hide it but it bursts out all the same - that fuck she’s right, oh fuck, ohhhhh.
He loses control; her fingers entwined in his hair, and she’s forcing his lips hard on hers. She is so naïve, so innocent compared to him, and yet he desires her more than he could ever define, ever explain. He wants so much to keep her safe, to protect her from him, but it’s too late for that. She’s moving beneath him, her breath shallow and fast, and it’s far, far too late. Time wavers and blurs, with the explosion in his loins. Time Lords never gave much credit to the sexual urge. With reproduction taken away from them, the physical act was scorned as somehow worthless. No intellectual value. A pointless expenditure of energy that could be put to better use. The Doctor wonders vaguely if they were mad or simply deluded, as his whole body is filled with pleasure. He can feel Rose’s delight as their minds touch and dance, each nerve ending throughout each limb throughout each body, alive and singing. They are overpowered by each others sensations - the tingle of breath on hot, slick skin; his slim frame heavy on her body; desire, intangible but overwhelming. Together, they fall out of time, and are amazed.
Later, the Doctor turns his attention, what little of it he can piece back together, to the complex problem of pleasing Miss Rose Tyler. It turns out to be not so difficult. A little application of a little common sense. Attention to a shift in position here, an increase of breathing there. Enjoying the scent of her arousal. Licking his finger to taste her wetness, and watching her blush. It will not take long to tip her over the edge, he knows, and the Doctor cannot bear to tease her for once. He feels that his intense scrutiny of her is making her nervous, but he cannot stop himself. She is so beautiful. When his agile fingers make her cry out, and her whole body shudder, he cannot help but feel unreasonable pride. I did that, he thinks, I did that. She smiles, heavy eyed, at him. Their minds are not so closely tied now, but the connection still holds. He is aware that she is tiring, and he fears - irrationally, but still fears - that she will regret allowing him into her mind come morning.
She wraps him in her arms and pulls him so tight he knows he will bruise. It is a comforting pain.
“Will you still be here in the morning?” she asks, sleep pulling her mind away from his. Her hold tightens, even as she falls.
“I will never leave you,” he says, tears falling on her head as he tells her a truth which will comfort only her. He knows that for him this joy will only be fleeting, and that the eventual pain will overwhelm him, more even than the loss of his planet and his people. He is a Time Lord. He knows how it will go. But of all the joys of all his life, this one is perhaps the greatest, so he will grasp it with both hands, and hold on until the end. He kisses the top of Rose’s head and smiles. She needs her roots doing, as usual, his Rose.