Fic: A Sticky Situation

[doona_rose]

Title A Sticky Situation
Rating M
Summary A smutty sort-of sequel to The Joy of Self Discovery but no need to read that. Quite kinky, quite dirty: Rose tells the Doctor she knows what all that shouting was about last night.
Disclaimer Don’t own them.

A/N Long time coming and a very long piece of smut. Very, very long. Very, very smutty. Thanks to chicklet73 for the beta-reading and continuous hand-holding. Thanks to phase_shifter86 for some of the ideas, the title and further hand-holding. Here she is, be warned, this is only the first part, there will be a second to follow in a day or two. Don’t worry, it’s pretty much finished.



She decides to broach the subject over breakfast the next morning: from that brave decision, it’s only a matter of working out how. But after ten minutes of her sitting across from him, spoon turning absent-mindedly in her hand, he knows something’s up. The way she keeps glancing at him but refuses to make eye-contact all the while seemingly intent on watching his every move - he wonders if she’s having second thoughts about agreeing to travel with him. Then, without looking up, she says: “I heard you last night.”

The sudden noise startles him and as what she’s said registers he wishes she was having second thoughts about traveling with him. A moment after thinking that, his mind’s flown to last night’s …experiment and he’s responding, his voice high-pitched, “Sorry?”

Completely missing her satisfied smile, his eyes have darted down and begun to bore a hole into the centre of the table. But now she’s sure; by the way his eyes widened and he swallowed heavily, she knows she’s right. “I heard you last night.”

Reasserting control over himself, he asks in his most innocent voice, “I’m sorry, you heard me what?” And then he looks up, catches her eye and her satisfied smile falls away at the challenge he seems to be presenting.

That’s an unexpected development. Though not entirely a bad one.

“I heard you last night…shouting.”

His immediate, matter-of-fact reply - he was ready for that: “I must have been dreaming.”

“I don’t think so,” she says, obviously skeptical.

There’s another smile, this time strangely shared during the pause as he considers his options and then simply asks, “Then what do you think I was doing?”

She licks her lips and her gaze falters but she manages to say it: “With all the noise you were making? You were out of control.” She can’t look up but she hopes he looks well and truly shocked; may as well take it all the way. “You were coming.”

He’d forgotten she can do brazen. And now he has to respond; first close his mouth which is gaping a little, perhaps smile back because in the ten seconds it seems to have taken to process it all, she’s stopped blushing and the corner of her mouth has quirked up. She gets impatient and prompts again: “Am I right?”

He waits, watches, considers the situation. Because this could go very, very wrong. He could say ‘no’:, lie and escape the conversation they seem to be headed for. Or he could say yes, witness her reaction and know whether she really is the open-minded woman he thought her to be before the regeneration, who still might look at him and want him. To say that yes, last night he came hot and hard and powerful and it was to thoughts of her, and in response to that admission to have her crawl across the table and kiss him senseless. He looks at her and she’s still watching him with a smile about her lips. Shrugging his shoulders, he explains, “New body, need to try everything out.” And in his mind, he cheekily adds ‘twice’.

It’s somewhat disappointing then that she doesn’t crawl across the table as planned. All she crosses, in fact, are her arms. Then she sits back and, if he’s not mistaken, narrows her eyes and begins to chew on the inside of her lip. “Show me.”

Now he splutters, well and truly outside his comfort zone; she likes that. “What?”

“Show me the new body -” the briefest pause: hesitation “- and what you did with it last night.”

He begins shaking his head, hands up between them as he chuckles uncomfortably. “No…no…I don’t think that would…no…” and his eyes focus on anything but her.

Silence is her only response; he just continues to mutter ‘no’ and not meet her eyes and then he realizes, he stops and he looks up and knows his discomfort felt like rejection and now, perhaps, he understands what she was offering. He starts again: “I mean yes, but I couldn’t. I mean…” He looks up again and wonders if the befuddlement in her expression is better than the hurt. “I mean -” What does he mean? “I mean I’d love to -” Love to what? “To show you, but… that’d be weird.” he finishes rather lamely.

And now Rose, his smart, rather cunning Rose, has another question, asked immediately. “Weird compared to what?”

“Well,” he thinks, “Compared to sex.”

“You’d rather have sex with me instead?” she deducts for him.

“Yes,” and he wonders when he accidentally let that one slip. But it’s out now and she’s grinning. So, grinning back, he quips, “I’d love to make love to you.”

“Good,” she says; he wonders what’s next. She tells him: “I still want you to show me what happened last night.”

“Ah. Would it surprise you to hear that I’m actually very shy?”

Laughing she pushes back her chair - for a brief second he wonders if she’s finally going to scramble across the table and shag him stupid - and stands. “What if I offered to pay you back?”

And there it is again, his mind flooding with completely lewd images that he should not be thinking. One little vaguely alluded to idea and he knows exactly how she’d look splayed on his bed, her own hands sliding down her body, her fingers wet from his mouth and leaving tracks across her breasts and stomach, down and down and then slipped inside her. He could watch her a hundred times and never know where to look: the way her hands work, the rise and fall of her chest, the arch of her back, the play of ecstasy across her face. Sounds and smells and…with a swallow, he forces his mind back to reality. “How’d you do that then?”

She frowns having noticed that brief delay in response and unsure of the cause. She’s also somewhat unsure of how she should offer to pay him back. With a mischievous waggle of her eyebrows, she says nothing but comes to stand beside him and offer him her hand.

Without hesitation, perhaps out of habit, he reaches up and intertwines his fingers with hers; he stands and follows her, letting her lead him out the door and in the direction of…her bedroom. With a tug on her hand, he brings her to a standstill and explains without thinking. “I need the mirror in my room.”

It’s only when Rose lets a giggle escape half way down the corridor that he realizes what he said; he would try to explain but he figures with a blush that she’ll see for herself soon enough.

And then they’re there, stepping over the threshold of his bedroom and standing somewhat awkwardly at the foot of his bed. But it’s not the awkwardness at the end of a first date, oh no, this is so much worse than that because they’ve made love dozens of times on this bed and yet she’s never seen him naked, never kissed him or touched him and that really is just plain weird. What’s worse is that in some strange way he feels like he’s never touched her; these new hands with longer fingers and a brush of course hairs on the backs, have not once raced across her skin. His lips have never pressed to hers, his tongue’s never been in her mouth, he’s never once tasted her.

She’s looking at him with an eyebrow raised, knowing he’s thinking, but not knowing what, she doesn’t understand and before he can stop himself he’s falling forward, gravitating towards her. Fingers instantly thread into her hair, hands cradling her head, angling her lips against his so that when they first brush, it’s exactly as he wants it, brief and subtle. Then back: less control, more pressure, better and he leans in closer, tip of his nose tracing down the side of hers and then pressing into her cheek.

Their hips graze and that splinters her control, compelling her hands to come up to the centre of his back and grasp at his jacket, pulling him closer and opening her mouth. Her tongue traces his bottom lip before sliding over his teeth to tease his own. Hands race down to the curve of his ass, fingers splaying and gripping as her palms press and her nails dig in hard enough to make him arch into her, his tongue and a groan sliding roughly over her mouth.

Squeezing his backside, she kisses him harder, pushing until his back hits the corner post of his bed. It stuns him and his lips escape hers, her mouth moving instantly to the sensitive flesh just behind his ear and sucking. A gasp slips from his lips and she feels his body shudder against hers. That’s enough: she smirks against his neck and slides a hand between them, cupping him through his trousers before grabbing the waistband and raising her lips to his ear. “Weren’t you going to show me something?” She gives his pants a final playful tug and steps back.

He’s a little incoherent, mouth hanging open, eyes still half-closed, but as the seconds pass he recovers enough to understand.

She licks her lips and says in a low, coaxing voice, “Show me.”

And he can hardly resist for much longer. As embarrassing and bizarre as it may be, she’s asking him to show her and in the darkest corners of his mind, he wants her to see; wants to lose control of the situation that completely and see what happens. He slips past her, the back of a hand brushing over her thigh as he moves and she turns to watch him as he opens the door of his wardrobe.

Half of him wants to run and hide and giggle like a child: this isn’t normal, it isn’t safe and every time he actually thinks about what he’s about to do he can feel the blood spreading to the surface of his cheeks, making him blush ruby red. His mouth’s dry, his palms are sweaty and his thoughts are all out of order. What if she just laughs?

Of course, the other half of him just wants to strip off and seduce her properly; show her his body, show her exactly what it can do and then invite her to try because he’s pretty sure she couldn’t resist. He wants her to see just how fantastic he is now. And thoughts like that are making the blood rush elsewhere.

Mirror in place he turns back to her and hurriedly does away with his shirt and jacket: no ceremony, just buttons pulled quickly loose and both garments shrugged off. Rose watches all of this from her position next to the bed, wants to tell him to slow down but at the same time refusing to say a word, to give him a reason to stop. Her eyes drink him in even as his fingers come to rest on the clasp of his trousers.

He’s pale to the point of never having seen the sun (and she supposes that’s true) but the skin’s pulled taut over muscle and bone; lean and strangely powerful, looking as though everything’s on edge, tense and always has been. His arms, like the rest of him, are long and lean, and now that she’s taking the time to look, she sees dark hair that she thinks would feel delicious against her skin. The same hair scatters his chest, scratchy and dark and that’d feel even better against her breasts, friction as they moved together. Down to the concave dip at the bottom of his ribs and she doesn’t know it but she’s started to suck on her bottom lip. Slim and lithe but then the softness of his belly endearing her for the second it takes her to come to the line of hair that begins just below his belly button and is cut off just inches later by long fingers that are now resting quite dormant at the top of his trousers.

She looks back up and catches his eyes, holding the fierce stare that seems to be asking if she really wants this. She just looks back, determined and curious and impatient. The light click of the clasp pulled free signals the end of the stand-off, a glance down revealing his hands sliding beneath the waistband and a glance back up lets her see his jaw tense and his throat working as he swallows hard.

But then her eyes travel down, taking in long pale legs and narrow hips, everything whispering of quiet strength and subtle masculinity, the power of it leaking into the air.

There’s a rogue freckle just on the outside of his right hip, dark and round and she can’t help but notice it. The crease between his leg and his torso, equally fascinating; no matter how firmly she commands herself, she keeps imagining running her tongue along that crease.

And then, with a quick glance that she didn’t really plan, her eyes fall, following his fingers from where a hand rests on his hip, all the way along, beyond the tip of fingernails to his - her cheeks warm - she’d almost thought ‘willie’ but that’s what her mum calls it and thoughts of her mum aren’t exactly what she needs right now. She searches for another term but none of the somewhat crude euphemisms Mickey and his mates always used seem to sit right.

Of course, they’ve all got names for theirs. She wonders it the Doctor’s got a name for his (the Little TARDIS, his Sonic Screwdriver, his Doctorhood) and consequently blushes about seven shades brighter. It’s a little ironic but she’s lost focus, he’s just a pale blur a few feet away and that’s ridiculous. She refocuses, this time on that line of hair that leads down, she tracks it with her eyes, doing her absolute best to take her time, to make it last, not to think of her mum.

She felt him against her thigh before when she kissed him; some peripheral part of her mind registered and catalogued the feel of soft belly and toned legs punctuated by hard and hot straining against confinement. And now she’s reliving it, not thinking about Mickey or her mum, just looking and she can see him laid bare: pale skin, dark hair and even now as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, perhaps uncomfortable, she keeps staring. Letting her mind run wild, taking what she can see and extrapolating weight and fit and feel, smell and touch and she desperately wants to have him buried deep inside her now.

The view’s intoxicating. And then he takes it away, turning slightly and crouching. For a moment, she’s utterly confused, her mind feels sluggish and dizzy and what she really wants is to push him back onto the bed, straddle his legs and examine every inch of him with eyes and tongue and breath. But he’s undoing his shoes, difficult things that they are and - Good god he looks good from behind.

Curve after curve: of his neck then his back, all pale and smooth and tense and then his backside, little red marks she’s sure are the work of her nails. It’s always provocative, the swell of flesh peeking out from beneath his jacket, and now she gets to see it properly, taut and tantalizing. She’d known it was nice, has watched it move through tight cotton, has felt it beneath her palms, has liked it. But now she’s wondering whether it’d be more fun to slide her legs either side of his hips, straddling his ass and running her nails down his back.

Because, she thinks, as he toes his shoes away and stands up, catching her gaze on the way, his back is equally as enticing as his front. All in all, she thinks she’s never seen anyone look quite so shaggable. Has never felt quite so desperate to touch when she still hasn’t been touched herself.

And by the smirk that’s settled on his lips, somehow he knows it.

His eyes slide rather purposely to the mirror and a moment later her gaze meets his in the reflection. She can’t help but look him up and down again, lingering on the freckle that’s moved to his left hip with the trick of the mirror. When her eyes come back up to his, the intensity’s too much and she has to break the silence. She jokes, “Did you spend this long eyeing yourself up last night?”

Intensity slips beneath a lop-sided, not-so-innocent grin. “Well,” he begins, dragging the one word for miles, as per usual. “I do have a rather enticing physique.” And then, as her eyes dart, of their own volition, downwards, his grin grows and he mentally adds to himself, Not to mention a frankly magnificent cock.

“Then what?” she asks, entirely unaware of his internal boasting.

“Then what what?” he asks, momentarily distracted by a need to justify his silent declaration with official observation - flesh still hard and really nothing to be ashamed of under the circumstances.

She sighs and rolls her eyes though there’s something about her that says her flippancy belies something else. “What did you do next?”

He hesitates for a moment, hands up on his hips and his body turned to her so he can look her in the eye: it all feels a bit weird again. “You really want to see me touching myself?” he asks rather earnestly.

Concise: “Yep.”

“Why?”

“So I can learn how you like to be touched,” she answers simply. Then, a little saucily, “I did promise to pay you back.” Though she’s still not exactly sure how.

He moves away from her, not touching, but close; he returns to the mirror, carefully adjusting it until, even though from where she’s standing it doesn’t quite work, she can imagine the show he must have put on for himself the night before. The show she’s about to get.

He slides back past her, this time fitting his hand to her hip and making sure she can feel the heat he’s radiating: nervous, sexual energy burned into existence by that lean, powerful body and she can feel it in the instant where he’s almost pressed against her. Then he’s gone, sitting on the edge of his bed - pale skin against dark sheets - with his feet just a little over shoulder’s width apart, splayed. His hand, right hand, comes up and then…he’s talking. She hadn’t expected that and in the time it takes her eyes to flicker up to his mouth and then back down, his fingers are wrapped around his length, not tight at all, and only the pointer finger sliding up a few inches and then back down.

She tries to listen: “To be honest, last night it was kind of an accident. Brand, spanking new body and not exactly a relaxed regeneration so I was just checking everything was in place and then suddenly -” even with her eyes focused solely where two fingers are now drifting up and down she can tell he’s shrugging, his all too casual voice pausing and letting her imagination fill in the blank.

“And it wasn’t like this, all bare and exposed, not to start with. I still had my trousers and my jacket on, because it all started completely innocently. I was standing right there, where you are now, standing and then touching and suddenly stumbling back to here -” he pats the bed with his spare hand “- to sit and then -” His hand suddenly twists, tight fist and a breath, taking a long, slow stroke from base to tip, his thumb rubbed roughly over the head, pausing as he takes another gulp of air, his eyelids fluttering. Air hissing from clenched teeth, he lets his hand slide, almost gingerly, back down to rest at the base.

“You have no idea how close I came to getting myself off immediately right there and then.” His voice, casual again except for the slightly breathiness, makes her realize she’s stopped breathing herself. “But I didn’t. I wanted to watch and that’s when I found the mirror and lost the clothes and sat down just like I am now.” His fingers unfurl and then, one by one, close back around hardened flesh. “Then I looked.”

Instinctively, her eyes move up to his to see he’s no longer looking at her but considering his own reflection, a small smile growing and his head tilting. What ever happened to him being shy? This is him showing off, seducing her.

He begins to stroke, fist tight around his length to bring friction and to allow her to watch the pull and push of skin over flesh that seems anything but dormant. It’s enough to make him feel every pulse of blood in his body but certainly not enough to make him come. He doesn’t want to, not yet.

“Is this okay?” he asks and the seriousness that belies the question is blatant.

She wants to say ‘yes’ but her vocal chords have frozen. Wants to tell him he’s beautiful but can imagine what that’d do to his ego. She settles for nodding dumbly.

Another, slightly strained breath escapes his lips and he tells her, “It’s a shame you can’t see the reflection properly.”

She shrugs at that statement, not really thinking there’s a difference between a reflection and the real thing from where she’s standing; maybe for him, but not for her and thinking about it means stopping thinking about his hand’s movements, willing him to move faster, harder, more. She takes a step closer and forces her eyes to flicker to the mirror to find he’s still in the periphery. She takes another determined step, closer, idea formulating almost unconsciously at the edge of her mind as she kicks off her shoes.

He hasn’t stopped stroking; distracted by the delicate motion of his own hand, he doesn’t quite see what’s coming until she grabs one of the posts of the bed and pulls herself up to stand bare-foot on the mattress. Now he stops. Moving around behind him, their eyes lock in the mirror, his with a question, hers with a grin as she sinks down onto the bed, a denim-clad leg unfolding on the outside of each of his and her hands coming to rest lightly on his thighs.

“Now I can see the reflection,” she explains, thumbs rubbing little circles over his skin.

By the looks of things, she doesn’t quite understand her affect on him; she has no idea that the feel of her against his back, even through material, is making his head spin, that her hands lying just there is even worse. He resumes stroking, making each touch as light as he can get away with. He doesn’t think he should let himself look at the mirror, not at her, because he really doesn’t want this to be over too quickly. Clenching his jaw, he lets his eyes focus on the middle distance and tries to think of something else.

Typically, she notices and a hand leaves his thigh to come up and tap at his temple, drawing his eyes to hers in the reflection. “What are you thinking?”

He shrugs noncommittally, not ready to admit he’s reciting the many cities of the 20th Martian Republic because just the idea of her feels like it could make him come. “Not much.”

It’s lucky that with a single look down she can know the nonchalance is put on, otherwise that might have been insulting. Her lips near his ear and he almost flinches, a shiver running down his spine as the tip of her tongue traces the outer curve. “Last night,” she begins, quite aware his hand’s gotten tighter, has started to move a little faster. “You came so hard you shouted. Why?”

She’s started sucking on his earlobe, all hot and wet so he answers concise and honest: “You.”

She giggles and it hums though where she’s now nuzzling his neck. “I wasn’t here.”

“Thoughts of you.”

From beneath heavy lashes, she locks eyes with him in the mirror, he’s breathing a little faster and there’s a tightness to him that says he’s trying to hold back. She looks at him and smirks against his neck, rocking against him from behind, pressing every inch of her body to his and watching his eyes flutter shut. She takes her chance.

Hand snaking around, over his thigh and beneath the hand that’s loosely wrapped around his length. He jumps as soon as he feels the heat of her skin on him, muscles tensing and his entire body bucking up against the firm grasp, feeling every inch of him threaded too-tightly, too-hotly through her fist and then, having to hold there, stretched taut and gravity-defying, half off the bed with her hand clasped at the base.

And when he slides back to reality, giving in to trembling muscles, her hand doesn’t move - she’s planned too well or maybe she’s just lucky because with the tight circle of her hand where it is and gravity pulling him down, he can’t help but fall subject to the same wonderful friction. And oh fuck that feels marvelous. About a thousand times better than his own hand: smoother and tighter and cooler and completely unpredictable because now, fingers each skirting over the head, her thumb then drawing a strange half circle, tiny pulls at nerves and then pressing, oh fuck, just there, just beneath the head and there’s no way there were that many nerve endings there last night.

“Fuck,” he bites out, a little unsure of this new propensity for swearing. “Fuck. Rose!” he warns as she strokes down again, setting nerves in every corner of his body racing. His hand alights on hers and tries to coerce her into staying still, just for a moment, but she just continues at a languid pace, tight and slow, up and down and he shuts his eyes and counts, relaxes, tries.

He fails, quite miserably; she moves her hand against him, eventually finding a pace and a fit - his fingers resting in the gaps between hers - and rendering him incapable of thought or interference but, like everything before, not quite enough to make him come. Because she’s still sure he’s holding back.

Her eyes move for the first time since she started touching him, she focuses them away from the vision of their hands and dense hair and taut, hard flesh, up, to find him staring back at her. She wonders how long he’s been watching her expressions. “What exactly were you thinking about me last night?” she asks in a low voice.

A smirk half way between bashful and wicked graces his lips. “Probably things I shouldn’t be thinking.”

That’s not nearly good enough but this languid, almost-enough stroking is the worst torture she can imagine - stroking faster isn’t going to encourage elaboration, slower will just allow him to relax, so instead she says in a low, seductive tone, “What? Sex with me? My legs around your waist and you inside me? My back against a wall and I can barely breathe except to beg you not to stop?” She can feel the muscles in his thighs pulling tighter simply with the tension of not breaking into a hundred pieces and she knows that holding this kind of power over a man like him is one of the most exquisite things she’s ever likely to experience.

Then he says, quite bluntly, “No,” and her hand freezes, her brow creases and that control is revealed as fleeting. He sees the flicker of uncertainty. “Your mouth.” Then he’s talking, fast and matter-of-factly, explaining something she knows right away he doesn’t quite understand himself. “I like you mouth, I love it, actually. I don’t know if I used to…I mean I never didn’t like it, no one could ever not appreciate that particular aspect of your body. You’re a very good kisser.” Distracted then, watching her smile at him in the mirror and completely seduced by the image of them. He turns his head, lips closing over hers until they open beneath his and meld together in some drawn-out exploration that’s messy and hot and almost makes her forget everything else until he shifts and instinctively her hand begins to stroke again, matching the motion of tongue on tongue. When he pulls away his breath is short and his lips are red. “But I never had this obsession. Not with your mouth, not so…” he searches for the right word, “intense.”

She ponders the statement, eyes transfixed once again where her hand’s moving, watching the subtle movements of his body as friction increases and she teases him closer. And then she sees it, a tiny changed detail in the reflection, a glinting, and when she looks down a drop of moisture has formed, trembling slightly, threatening to slip and slide down to where her hand is still stroking. Now more languidly, once again not nearly as fast or as hard as he’d like and he arches a little at the deceleration.

His eyes fly back up to his in the mirror and she can see something fierce and desperate in his expression, a begging for her to do more that resonates with the moan he lets escape. She disappoints him, fingers uncurling, light pressure lessening to nothing at all and then her index finger darting across the tip, just slowly enough that he sees. And before he can comprehend, her hand comes up, arm now draped around his neck and finger poised just an inch from her lips, her chin resting lightly on his shoulder.

Yes, and that’s where I’m stopping it for now. More in a day or two so keep an eye out. As always, feedback is love. The good and the bad, so long as it’s productive crit, I’ll take it. Thanks for reading and reviewing. Standby for part two.