Fic: Perversions (Heretofore Unpracticed On a Most Willing Body)
Perversions (Heretofore Unpracticed On a Most Willing Body)
Author: Regala Electra
Email: regala_electra@yahoo.com
Rating: NC-17 (Very Adult)
Pairings: Tenth Doctor/Rose, Tenth Doctor/TARDIS/Rose, Tenth Doctor/Rose/Other
Summary: He has to know everything and see how far this body can go.
Warnings: Cross-Dressing, Strap-Ons, Threesomes, Slash (AKA: All Good Things)
Author’s Notes: Thanks go out to adrenya and krabapple for their suggestions. Major thanks to jonquil for offering a quick and very awesome beta and pointing out grammatical errors. Will be cross-posted to little_bit_foxy and time_and_chips. Feedback cherished.
*
It all begins with - no, there isn’t a perfect beginning, created out of strange desire for a linear, logical life. He refuses to simplify it. There is no start, no spark, no inspiration, it just is: changes and desires and wanting.
Yes, it is the wanting. The wanting is always there at the beginning, the middle, and the end, and he can go to the beginning of time and the end of it - and he will still want more. It is something quite entirely natural, born of his own curiosity, his own arrogance, and his...well there are many adjectives to describe him and few of them are kind.
Sorry, that’s a horrible beginning, isn’t it? Well, he has no other beginnings to offer, and he’s feeling rather fond of the word brusque today.
There is no linear structure that he follows, save the one that keeps the universe chugging along and keeps wounds in time from forming, as that makes his travels rather more work-related and he’s doing this for pleasure.
Right, there might be a spark after all. Pleasure. He loves his body. Even though he has to wear spectacles, he’s certainly not complaining that his eyesight’s gone a bit cocked up in this regeneration. Also, why has he not licked everything tactile before? The taste of things is far more pleasurable than the sight of things.
He wants everything because he’s selfish and really, there’s no one to outright call him selfish, save him, there are no other equals, not anymore, and well, that’s selfish of him, really, calling himself selfish, isn’t it?
See, he can find logic in a house of mirrors in the dark. Hmm, sex in front of mirrors. He’d try that, but that might be a trifle too vain. Then again, having his spectacles knocked halfway down his nose as he continues moving, the lenses barely covering his field of vision and when he looks into the mirror, it’s half a blur of moving bodies, naked flesh rolling back and forth. Ah, unless they’re partially clothed, a thousand identical images of rumpled trousers and skirts and more trousers, shirts pushed down shoulders and blouses hiked up over naked breasts. But there will not be a cacophony of sound, only two or maybe three voices clamoring to make up for all the false reflections.
He considers this, pushing his specs further up his nose, and when Rose asks him what he’s thinking, he just smiles, in that vague friendly way that’s really more threatening that most people realize.
He needs to know everything and see how far this body can go.
*
Their first time is oddly enough, considering the participants, as normal as it goes. Mating, rutting, instincts, all that mess, the humans aren’t the only one to express emotions in sexual actions. He’s estimated that only about seventeen and a half percent of all intelligent life in the universe has no use for sex.
This just means the other eighty two and a half percent of life out there have to make up for those missing out. And from what he’s seen of other species, most of them are very willing to give it a go.
Yes, the Doctor has thought many times upon the subject, but then, he thinks about everything, all the time. Sex is just another facet of existence. To ignore it, well, that’s just plain stupid.
The normality of the situation though, that may be a problem. It’s been building up to this, hasn’t it? Breaking a barrier he’s sure he had very good reasons to maintain, Do Not Shag Companions. They’re all just so young. And human. And fragile.
And he’s still what he is.
Perhaps he has broken that rule one or twice or thrice, or hmm, yes, perhaps it’s really so much of a rule as a constraint. Or a restraint.
The Doctor thinks that this time, he might enjoy restraints.
But they’ve shagged now, and may he say, quite properly, and it was a thoroughly wonderful experience. Ephemeral though it might have been, it’s quite altogether marvelous, and Rose is staring at him.
He is about to say something, quite brilliant and funny (but is there ever a time when he isn’t either of those things?), but stops himself, noticing the expression on her face.
She looks almost surprised. She presses her lips together and one-two-three-four taps her fingers against his chest. Does it again and almost matches the sound of his heartbeats. Her nails have grown a bit longer than usual and she scratches at his chest in a familiar way for a bit before hesitating, then moving her hand away.
He should say something, then. Something that’s just exactly the right response and will guarantee sex in the future.
“Something the matter?” Oh brilliant. Well played.
“Dunno,” she says, and her hair looks completely ridiculous all mussed up and tangled and normally he’d tell her this, but he wonders if this is one of those all too human moments of fear, the fear of change. “Thought it would be-”
“You didn’t like,” he says, a bit stupidly, even though he knows it isn’t true and he instantly backtracks with a bit of bravado, “Well no, I know you did, certainly felt you do that lovely clenching-”
A smile almost appears before she sweeps it away, shaking her head. “That’s arrogance there. And yes, I did, I mean, yeah. I just - thought it would be different or something.”
“Now that, that right there is-” He’s trying to be clever and failing and maybe being naked is the problem. Because now he’s having those moments of doubt that he never has (or even if he has them, he never admits to having them, even to himself) and he’s frankly getting annoyed because he doesn’t do this: worrying about such little trivial things as though they matter on the grand universal scale. A pebble sinking in the ocean, now that’s roughly the value of all these trivial worries.
He also isn’t supposed to be naked in bed with her.
“Doctor?” There’s a touch of pink to her cheeks, blood rushing up to the face, an instinctual behavior, a learned behavior too. Shame and embarrassment, the things learned for the idiotic notion of modesty. Oh, the things she could learn. The things he’s still learning. “Look, I don’t know what I mean, only I just thought about things sometimes, yeah, and well, you’re you-”
“I am that, at the very least,” he says a bit airily, detaching from her and sitting up, as though he’s about to start a naked lecture, making it up as he goes along. The usual then, only with a dash of nudity.
“You’re an alien!” Rose blurts it out as though it’s a dirty word. The Doctor quirks an eyebrow at that and his serious face falters when Rose starts giggling. Hysterically. “We just shagged in my bed and it was normal and nice and proper and well-” she can’t get the next word out, her laughter has overtaken her.
He laughs as well, but can control it. Because now the very best of things has happened. He’s having all sorts of ideas. Ideas that will requite many experiments and he knows he’ll be a very willing test subject. He raises both eyebrows, “What were exactly all your expectations? A bit of unexplainable sensations that some attribute to magic and not natural biological reactions? Something otherworldly? A crush of space and time all in one spontaneous instant, breaking you apart for all eternity, so powerful you can barely remember your own self?”
She stops laughing then.
“We could do that.” He shrugs, as though it’s the easiest thing in the world. “We could do anything.”
“Anything?” She asks him that question in a way that breaks him, just a little. It’s the question of how far. The willingness to fall. For so many, it is carved in their nature, but for humans especially, it is terrifyingly powerful. And he’s always admired it. It’s just gone a bit different this time, spiraling to another level of curiosity.
He takes her hand in his. Familiarity must begin this journey. He takes her hand, and then moves it, in a southern direction, towards his cock, and that expression on Rose’s face, oh, there are poets and composers and artists who try to capture that, he is quite sure. Or he’s just gone a bit maudlin because this is the last time it’ll be like this. Normal. Boring.
Adjectives he’s cheerfully disregarded for over nine hundred years.
“I would be delighted,” and with his other hand, he runs fingers across the edge of her jaw, almost tracing the edge of her bottom lip with his thumb, “Rose, if you’d care to join me, in finding the exact limitations of my body.”
She doesn’t answer him - instead she crushes her mouth to his, and soon enough, they’ve found themselves on the floor, her kneeling in front of him and his tongue running down her back, perspiration tasting exactly wonderful and entirely like her. Once he slides in, pushing in all the way and oh yes. He loves this.
And he can’t wait to find out what else he loves.
*
“Conventional is just another way of saying sorry.”
Rose stares at him, like he’s mad. But then, she’s the one who’s dressed ready to go out and he’s the one in just his trousers and trainers.
“No really, it is. You insult the Sneciigra by doing anything in a conventional manner, which makes it profoundly difficult to have proper small talk with anyone. They spend most of their time just thinking of new ways to do anything which has, not surprisingly, led to a very stagnant civilization for nearly four millions year. Which, incidentally, might just drive them mad as a stable government, really, how conventional is that?”
Rose just raises an eyebrow at that. “You want to assist in an overthrow, do you? A bit underdressed for the occasion, no?”
“Actually, I just wanted to surprise you and shag you rotten, a proper one too, with a drawn out climax and everything, but I’ve decided not to, mostly because I think everything in here’s a bit too rough for a human and I don’t think I’m going to be particularly concerned with being gentle. Also, I don’t think it’s right to shag on the TARDIS console, it’s a bit demeaning.”
Rose breathes out, “I don’t think it’s demeaning at all. I’d rather-“
“Oh,” the Doctor says, realizing she’d missed the point, “I meant for the TARDIS. Not exactly fair, is it?”
There’s a slight shake of her head in affirmation, but the twitch of her lips is more expressive. She’s peeling off her jacket, draping it on the seat. Folding like only a former Henrik shopgirl can apparently, with swift, decisive motions. “Always knew about you and the TARDIS. Really, can you do anything about it, then?”
He’s not entirely sure where’s she going with this. So he blusters a bit and from Rose’s reaction, she thinks this utterly endearing.
“That’ll be a no, eh? Is there anything though? Something mutual you can manage?”
He blinks at her. “Are you asking me if I can have, uh, relations with the TARDIS?”
Rose laughs. “Relations. Honestly. You broke the showerhead off *my* shower, when we were trying to figure out the best setting, for,” and here, she blushes again, instinct, “well, you were there, and now I’m asking, since I’m not blind and you do stroke bits of the TARDIS a bit too much, so I’m asking. Do you?”
And he’s actually considering it. It’s incredibly wrong. The TARDIS is, well it just is. It’s an impossible question. But then, he invited her to follow him, he’d asked her to find the limits.
Just didn’t think they would ever come up this quickly.
“No.”
There’s a quick nod. “I’m not in the mood to overthrow a government today. You said spontaneous. Right, let’s go somewhere by accident on purpose, then.” She’s walking over the console, ever ready to assist.
It’s slightly disappointing that this strange line of questioning has ended, but then, he isn’t sure he wants to know what else she’ll be asking him. So he starts entering in random coordinates and guesses and fiddles around with dates he’s never been to and then dividing them by dates he has been, all leading to something he doesn’t -
It’s that moment she chooses to add in her own dash of spontaneity. And what a dash it is, Rose masterfully managing to get his trousers and pants pulled down with the very cunning deception of standing behind him and putting her hands around his waist. He’d assumed it to be just a small gesture before she asked him how she could help and really, he loves being touched and she knows it. When he turns to face her, oh that was a bad, bad mistake, because she sinks down, incredibly fluid she is and why did he not notice that she’d folded her jacket just so on the couch before, that she’d moved it while he had been doing calculations in his vast and brilliant mind, set it just so on the floor and she’s kneeling and she’s about to -
“Doctor,” Rose says, breathes, manages, and the Doctor is amazed he’s even able to listen at this point, “It would probably help if the ride isn’t as bumpy as it normally is.” Then, oh then, she’s opening her mouth and just a flick of her tongue to tease him, oh, that tongue and she’s taking him and -
He doesn’t see her hand flicking at the switch under the console but he hears it and the TARDIS swings into full gear, that glorious sound, the sound of home and even though this shouldn’t be happening, oh this is just wrong, he will not stop. He’s got his hands all over the console, trying to keep them from not hitting into anything, no bumping into any nasty stars or nebulas or pulsars and definitely, no landing, not yet. Oh, yes, and Rose, he isn’t about to let her stop and the TARDIS cannot stop and he will not stop. Yes, not yet not yet not yet not -
Oh, he really liked that. He gasps and almost forgets himself, but that’s impossible, he can’t forget and the TARDIS is beneath his fingers, and ouch, that knob’s digging into his palm, so he knocks it back and throws his hips forward a bit too hard and oh, that right there is perfect and his fingers are clutching into his TARDIS (his) and if he’s shouting, it barely makes any impact as his beautiful ship moves and -
There’s a blank spot, mere seconds it must be. The TARDIS has landed and Rose stands up, a bit shakily, leaning on him. She runs a hand along the TARDIS console, and he kisses her and he wonders if it’s gratitude or selfishness or maybe it’s both.
“Good then,” she laughs against his mouth, and he’s pulling at her jeans, pushing down knickers.
“I,” he begins, but he pretends to be distracted at his task of shoving down those jeans, just enough, just to the knees and really, he’s going to have to think about pulling up his own trousers. But he doesn’t, so he’s kneeling bare-arsed and ignoring how ridiculous he must look, and really, he’s going to have to say something or she’ll mock him for being stunned into speechlessness.
And he knows the best thing to say. The thing guaranteed to make her moan before he’s even brought his tongue to her, tasting everything and anything. “It’s your turn now, I’d hold on, but not to that navy lever or that black knob.”
The TARDIS starts moving all over again, but not fast enough to drown out that first wonderful escaped moan as his tongue presses deep, anxious to discover everything.
*
The art of a good blowjob is not at all in the eye of the beholder. Oh, look, his brain’s been melted.
Yeah, there’s the mechanics, there’s a certain technique and there’s also the bloody knowing, knowing not only the body’s responses but how to anticipate the next set of responses.
Rose is utterly adept, a near virtuoso. They’ve also practiced enough times to qualify for a public performance, he just wishes she had given him a signal other than dropping her fork, and really, why would he assume that she’d go under the table for another reason?
And yes, being that he is seated at the High Chancellor’s Dais whilst she is displaying her craft, this makes it a public performance piece.
The Doctor considers shredding some of his grnvak and throwing it in the air like confetti. This is actually reasonably sane, it’s an Yvengor way of saying, “this food is rather tasty.” Now, if he tosses his plate up in the air, that means, “I agree, let us celebrate this event!”
And why is he thinking about Yvengor custom when Rose’s hand manages to further push his legs apart? Fingers gliding slowly and oh, he didn’t teach her that. She knew it. Bloody fantastic. One finger pressing inwards, slick with saliva, he hopes, he didn’t see her stick her fingers into the murky soup dish that’s still at her place setting.
When he gasps, he forces himself to say, “Sorry, it’s just that I’m just amazed by those window treatments. They just really open up the space, don’t you ah! Ah, don’t you think?
The High Chancellor is silent and the Doctor hope that he isn’t doing that twitchy thing with his face, the one that Rose has brought up on several occasions. He’s biting his lip, but he doesn’t remember that having a particular meaning to Yvengorese.
And it is truly hard staying still when Rose swallows him whole and finds that spot and he’s clenching the cutlery in his hands hard enough that he’s moments away from having permanent cutlery scars.
Damn, he probably is making that face.
Finally, the Imperial Advisor, after the lengthy silence, informs the Doctor that the window treatments are for mourning those lost at the great Hnevoi Charge. The High Chancellor’s own brother died in that battle.
“Yes, yes right,” he gasps, forcing himself to drop the cutlery and adopting a pose of supposed remorse, bending his face downwards. The less they see of his face, the better. He’s feeling a bit warm in the cheeks, but he’s sure he isn’t blushing. Just refuses to believe that.
He can feel Rose’s mouth and tongue, oh bless her tongue, and he’s fit to frankly do nothing but duck his head, gone slack jawed and mute. But he presses on, his voice shaky, a thought crossing his mind that perhaps this is a rare occasion where he should bite his tongue, but he ignores that, “Sorry. Didn’t know those window treatments were for the MOURNING OF OH YES THOSE POOR LOST SOULS, YES!!”
He’s banging on the table and then, quite stupidly throws his bloody plate high in the air. When Rose comes up with a weak, “found it!” as she clutches a fork, the Doctor’s fastening his trousers faster than anyone post-orgasm has ever done before him (and in all likelihood no one will ever beat his record) and he’s jumping up from the dais. Nearly everyone else is standing up as well, looking like they’d like to make window treatments out of the Doctor and Rose.
Rose catches on quickly and says warily, “Doctor?”
“Run fast,” the Doctor responds helpfully and they’re on their way.
He’ll later have to explain to Rose why they couldn’t stay for the rest of the festivities, since celebrating the death of heroes isn’t exactly polite guest behavior, and that perhaps next time they should mutually plan these public shags beforehand.
However, first he says, as they’re safely hiding behind a rarely large rubbish bin in a dark little alleyway, “That was fantastic. We’ll have to do that again. Only without the running for our lives bit.”
Rose glares at him, tugging at the broken strap on her dress. Then the stern expression turns playful as she says, “Really? Thought that was your favorite part.”
And he says, eyeing her in the most salacious way, “Is that a challenge?”
She doesn’t answer but then, she doesn’t have to, bless depravity.
*
For once all her makeup is useful.
She slathers the eyeliner on - and the mascara too, he blinks too much and she has to do it three times before she gets it right. She keeps on sticking out her tongue, like that’s helping keeping the gunk from creeping towards the corners of his eyes. She sets her shoulders, as though this is brave work, a finger brushing over an eyelid to properly smudge the eyeliner. By then, his cock is painfully hard and he wants to say something, to say anything, but she notices first.
She sets the fedora down amongst the disarray of makeups and then she bends down, ever so gracefully, taking it in her lipsticked mouth and well, she bloody well knows exactly what’s she’s doing. It doesn’t take long, no it doesn’t take long at all, but it’s perfect, really. When she comes up, her lipstick's all smudged. Some of it’s even on his shaft and she doesn’t seem to be embarrassed by that. Humans and their need to leave a mark.
He wipes a bit at the corner of her mouth and she cleans some mess off his crotch with a spare tissue, careful enough to leave remnants of her earlier activities. Enough to make it count.
Then she slides the knickers up his legs and goodness, how do women get around in these? At the same time, despite not being precisely comfortable, they’re quite delightful to wear.
He could get used to this. Especially if he could just lounge around. Maybe shimmy a bit when he feels like it.
But there's still work to be done. Rose laces up the corset, pulling a bit too tightly at the chest, emphasizing the flatness. He'd consider adding something up top, but that's no what they're going for.
She's wearing a suit, not brown with blue pinstripes, she didn't fit in that one and he’s not about to put on one of her hoodies and those strange track bottoms with the writing across the bum. That is not what this is about. Her suit is a sort of muted silver with sharp black pinstripes, fitted nicely to her form. Very nicely, he should add. She's wearing a flimsy sort of white blouse. Nearly transparent it is. Her little black bra is peeking through as if saying a very friendly sort of hello.
She'd dressed herself. He'd wanted to help but doubted he'd be of much use in putting on the clothes. And considering how bulky the front of her trousers looks, it appears that she's decided to put on everything. He can’t wear to start tearing that suit apart.
They both snap the stockings into place. Her fingernails scratch at the exposed skin on his upper thighs. Not virgin flesh, but still aching to be touched deeper. For marks to be left. Fine, he can’t mock humans for that desire.
He'd painted his nails black and she'd taken the polish off hers. They almost look dull but still feminine; they've been sharpened just a bit more than she normally trims her nails. If she presses a bit deeper, ah, there it is. Faint white marks blossoming on his thighs, fading into whispers of red.
She doesn't paint his lips and she needs to look in a mirror to correct her own lips. The lipstick is the color of bruised fruit, red and black and purple, every shade captured differently with a tilt of her head. Her own mascara is not as thick as it usually is, nor as black, and she's tempered down the eyeliner. Almost eradicated it really and it’s fascinating to notice how much it does and doesn’t change how she looks. Her hair's been done up, though some wisps fall down to frame her face.
When he places the hat back on her head, tilting it just so, if you were very drunk and almost completely blind, you might mistake her for a very pretty bloke.
With cherry bruised lips.
They’d intended to go out this evening, for as long as they could manage, but besides the Doctor's failed attempts to totter about in his three inch heeled boots (which amuses Rose, as she considers three inches nothing at all and is very glad to inform the Doctor just how ridiculous he looks), he realizes soon enough that if anyone dared approach Rose with an offer, he'd have to show just what a man he was, even in this dress.
Well, not a dress. He'd thought about putting one on, but really, that's overkill.
"I'm pretty enough without the dress?" He hasn’t tried fluttering his eyelashes as he fears they might get stuck together. How in the hell did Rose manage to slap all this about her eyes and still have full visibility?
Rose stares at him. "You are wearing barely anything."
"Well most of my-" right, so most of his chest is pretty much completely exposed when he stands up, the corset sliding down quite happily. That's fine. Because these knickers cover most of the danger (and he’s becoming more accustomed to them the longer he wears them) and the stockings are almost modest, really, a translucent near black with a subtle almost fishnet pattern (but not fishnet as that’s a bit tacky). "Ah, you're right. I probably need a boa."
"A. Boa." She says this the way he might repeat back the words tea at your mum’s.
"Yeah, a nice old boa, something preferably long so I can wrap it around and later, well we can find uses for it later." He winks and then winces. “I think my eye’s gotten stuck.”
“You should let it dry a bit, yeah.” There is a gentle dabbing of something at his eye and she says, “Now open sesame, or whatever magic password you need.”
He opens his eye. Hello there, blurry Rose, he doesn’t say.
Rose laughs. “It looks like a runny bruise.”
He bites back a comment, noticing that when she throws her head back just so, he can catch the still angry bruise, a purpled, violent affair, at the base of her throat, just before the meeting of neck and shoulder. He’d put that there, what, two days ago? And she hadn’t bothered to cover it up.
Clever girl. Or not so clever, that’ll just entice the locals. Unless she intends to inspire jealousy.
“Maybe I should wear something else,” he says in a soft voice, his mind already ahead, whirling with all sorts of ideas.
“Yeah, do you think? I’m wearing a suit and, uh, all the rest of it, as promised,” she shifts her hips just then, and oh, she shouldn’t have done that, “and you haven’t even bothered with a skirt.”
He smiles at her; the lopsided affair that he knows she loves and knows it distracts her in all the right ways. “Do you really want me in a skirt?”
She looks at him, and then circles him and he lets her. It’s a bit territorial and she doesn’t touch him because he’s far too greedy for touch. If he thinks rationally (which is a stupid thing to do; rational thoughts never lead to fun places or new discoveries), he might look a bit ridiculous in the high heels and the corset and the knickers. Not to mention the stockings.
Yet when Rose struts (that’s what she’s doing, oh yes it is) around him, so much shorter thanks to the heels he’s wearing, he quite ignores that small moron part of his brain that is trying to use reason. He’s not about to miss out on any of this.
She’d switched out the sensible trainers he’d left for her and chosen a pair of boots instead. The heels are spiked and he hadn’t even broached the topic of experimentation with shoes before. He hadn’t even thought about it and he thinks about everything and oh yes, he’s certainly Having Thoughts about it now. Fucking her with boots on, having the spiked heels digging into his back, yes, he must know exactly how that feels.
But the way she’s looking at him now. Loads of ideas, far more depraved, are just circling round his head. He really doubts that they’ll make it outside the TARDIS. That’s a first, there.
“Now that I’m tarted up, what will you do with me?”
She angles the fedora once more on her head. It’s meant to look dangerous, but fails, falling somewhere in the vicinity of ‘jaunty.’ Then she says, “I think I’m going to shag you,” and that now, that’s perfect, dangerous all the way.
He moves to kiss her, but she ambles out of his reach, her lipsticked smile very wide. Feral, almost. And thanks to these bloody heels, he can’t exactly make a motion to grab her without being guaranteed that he'll look like a baby giraffe taking his first steps and inevitably falling. “No. I’m the bloke here -“
“All evidence to the contrary,” he interjects, because knickers meant for women don’t hide that he’s hard once again.
“I’m wearing the trousers,” Rose says with a sweet smile and she makes it go lopsided a bit, like she’s trying to mimic his grin. “Kick off your shoes.”
That he does quite willingly. “I do believe, that when I’m wearing the trousers, my lady,” and at this Rose stifles a giggle, trying to maintain her composure, “is allowed freedom to snog. In fact, I rather insist that whenever she feels she must, she should grab me and kiss me for however long a duration she feels necessary.”
“Yeah, but you’re not a lady, all evidence and all that.” She comes closer then, and he kisses her, all messy and when they part, her lipstick’s run only a little bit. She’s peppering kisses up his jaw like she’s got something important to say, gently bites the lobe of his ear, holding it between her teeth for a good long while and he shudders against her. She lets go and whispers, “You’re a tart, like you said. Bend over.”
He breathes out a response, probably something that’s meant to indicate shock, but after all, he’d asked that she wear it and he can feel it pressed up against his thigh, he’d just thought later rather than sooner. He’d assumed some restraining using a boa would have been involved prior to the finale, as he’d envisioned it.
Yet, spontaneity. One must never forget the importance of surprise.
Still, she’d worn those spiked boots for some reason. He bends over just a bit and she’s pressing up against his arse and he bites back whatever inane ramblings were about to spill out. He looks over his shoulder, watching her unbutton her jacket, she’s keeping the hat on, and she pushes down the front of her trousers. “I was supposed to do that bit,” he says, “I planned to -“
“Do it then,” and there’s a wonderful mischievous glint in her brown eyes.
He blinks, but before he can straighten up, she’s pulled his knickers down and slapped his bottom, rather hard. She scratches her nails over the sore spot.
“Didn’t say you could move.” She presses up against him once more, but now all the anticipatory pleasure is laced with a thin edge of pain. One hand moves to the front of him, fondly rubbing his cock before moving lower, cupping his balls and he daren’t move at all. Even though he wants to. Restraints don’t have to include handcuffs and other things, although they should - sometimes it’s just self-restraint. And he’s always been rather poor at that.
Not this time. He will excel at it.
The moments pass by, he feels them, always, forever, he can’t stop it anymore than he can stop wanting more, and just when he’s about to break this self-imposed restraint, as she continues rubbing herself against him and her hand continues to explore, while her other hand is busy playing with the skin just underneath the top of his corset, she says the magic words. “You can move.”
He knows many tricks, enough to puzzle an illusionist for decades and he’s detached from her, and turned around and he’s on his knees before she can do anything, say anything else. He’s yanking impatiently at the zip and her trousers are pushed just down enough, and he says, looking up at her ( and he enjoys the view: mussed lipstick and jaunty hat and her biting her lip), “That is beautiful.”
The response is beautiful as well. A shuddered intake of breath is fascinating to him, because really, it’s not like he’s deep throating something that’s a part of her - it’s an attachment, an accoutrement if you will - a fantastic strap-on that she’s wearing. When he moves towards the head and strokes the base, he’s not really giving her a blowjob, he can’t frankly, but she’s certainly showing her appreciation vocally. And when he abandons the strap-on, she makes a dainty little sigh that he quickly takes advantage of.
He’s tearing her shirt off, just as he’s wanted ever since he saw her walk in with this outfit on, kissing and licking upwards till he’s standing up again, pulling her shirt off and she’s unclasping her bra. He twists a nipple, knowing it hurts, and loving it when she gasps into his mouth. She did spank him, he’ll take this revenge for now and hopefully she’ll punish him later.
Really, these games are rather wonderful, when it comes down to it. His corset is staying on; he pushes her hands away when she attempts to start unlacing it. As if in response to that, when he moves to take off her hat, she grabs his hands, kissing both palms before saying, “You keep the corset, I get the hat.”
An arched eyebrow is what she gets for that demand and she smiles then, not a mocking smile or a dangerous one, it’s honest and pure. “You look ridiculous trying to do that when you look like you just lost a fight. Honestly Doctor, it isn’t hard to wear mascara properly.”
So he tackles her, but not really. It’s easy enough to pick her up and really, he had been aiming to push her up against the wall, his cock and her not-cock rubbing up against each other, but he miscalculates by just a fraction and they’re both tangled against one another on the ground. All the right parts pressed together, so really, it’s not that bad at all.
But Rose is strong and bless her instincts, has pushed him on his back and she’s pulling her trousers off, and just before she attempts to remove those wonderful shoes, he manages, “Keep the boots on,” and she listens. Manages to tug off the trousers without losing those lovely boots.
Just wearing a hat and spiked boots and that strap-on. If he tells her how beautiful she looks, she might just punch him in the arm.
Later then, he’ll tell her later.
They’re both pulling his stockings off, they’d put them on so carefully and now it’s hurried, scratching up and down his legs. She’s the one that takes his panties off, pressing a messy kiss against his hipbone and he’s grateful that she’s gentle and yanks them off in one neat motion. A maneuver that leads to both of his legs over her shoulders.
“Well played, Rose Tyler,” he murmurs and she actually bites his left calf, not even hard enough to leave a mark. And well, he’s a bit disappointed at that.
“Wouldn’t it work better if -“ she hesitates, as though at a loss for words.
Astounded, the Doctor chides her, “I don’t think I am in a position that calls for apprehension. Aren’t you supposed to be shagging me?”
Honestly. Humans can pick the oddest things to worry about. Still, she isn’t moving and being that he’s very much in the mood to move, among other things, he moves his legs off her shoulders and is about to explain that this is perfectly fine and he wants but she finally speaks.
“I just mean, it would be easier, you know, if you were on your knees, yeah? And um, whether we needed lubrication?”
He blinks, carefully this time and his eyelashes don’t stick together. “Yes,” he answers stupidly. “To both. Did you check the jacket? I put it in the left, no, the right pocket.”
She has very wide eyes and says, “No, I didn’t.”
He ruffles at his hair, and says, “I think you should take a peek then.”
She’s turning the jacket over in hands, finding the small bottle, a flat kind, and opens it. He watches her rub it between her fingers, a woman with a mission.
But his cock aches and he has to stop before he starts stroking himself and coming just by watching her fingers moving. He turns over, getting up on his knees and says, looking over his shoulder with a wide grin, “My turn now, isn’t it?”
She’s done this bit before at least and there’s confidence, wonderful confidence, causing him to make some very unDoctorish noises. He might have begged, just a little bit before there are three fingers and she knows not to touch his cock or this will be a very brief performance. He rocks back, his eyes jammed shut and he doesn’t care if his eyelashes get stuck again.
It’s a bubbling feeling of pure giddiness as she removes her fingers, and she’d been so achingly careful, probably because of her fingernails, worried about pain, and really, the pain’s almost half the reason why he wants. Then she’s entering him, slow at first and then, she must realize that it’s working, it’s actually working because she shoves up all the way and he, well, he just has to scream.
She doesn’t know quite how it’s done from that perspective, her thrusts are uneven and she’s not hitting the right angle. He has to bite his hand to keep from crying out and she’s too bloody slow and steady.
“Doctor,” she gasps, “I’m not sure, can you tell me how -”
He has to tell her so he stops biting his hand, reaching back and managing to grab her hip, keeping her from moving. “Like you’d like it. Maybe a bit faster. And deeper.”
Sensing her nod of agreement, he releases her hip, steadying himself on his arms, spreading his legs wider. As she begins again, this time her thrusts are steady and she’s so close to getting it right, he opens his eyes. He can feel her breasts against his back, her nipples are hard. The corset forces him to stay a bit more rigid than he likes, it’s difficult to arch his back when she finally moves just right, a long deep stroke. If he hisses then, he doesn’t feel any shame about it.
“Oh,” Rose moans, “I felt that too, just when I pushed, oh, that’s…”
She trails off and the Doctor’s not surprised. There’s a point when words are obliterated and he’s teetering on that edge. It’s hard and rough and ungainly, and it’s just damn perfect. She takes his cock in her hand, still slick and wonderful and he clenches his teeth, hips pumping like he’s fucking her hand.
She nips at the exposed skin on his back and it’s like a jolt, all at once, teeth against skin, the sensation of rough-turned-smooth pleasure as she fucks him, steady pumping of his cock, and he comes quite easily.
Disengaging is a bit rougher than he expects, but it doesn’t matter much, he’s frankly the very definition of well-fucked. Rose is lying next to him and he looks at her, and says with honest wonder, “You kept your hat on.”
“You kept the corset on,” she says by way of response. She’s rather uselessly attempting to undo the belt of her strap-on. Though he’s quite content to lie down on the floor for a good long while, he assists with a few very nimble movements, earning a grateful kiss. “Thanks.”
He almost says thank you as well, but doesn’t, because he’s saving his energy. She’s still got those boots on. She smiles at him and he decides to look grim, almost disapproving.
Before she can question him, ask if there’s a problem, if she’s done something wrong, he’s got his fingers exactly where she didn’t expect them, moving inwards, pressing his thumb ever so close to the clit, but not quite there.
Her eyes flutter closed and he knows he can keep this up for such a very long time. But she’s far too wet and so eager, he watches her hips move and she is frankly shameless and it’s lovely. Lovelier still, when she comes, arching up, and here is when he says, “You’re so beautiful,” because she can take it any way she pleases and won’t understand that’s it’s far more complex than just appearances.
It’s quiet for a long while before either of them speaks.
“Do you wonder,” Rose says, and she’s wavering a bit, as though she’s still in the warm rush, which the Doctor does have to admit, is a very lovely place to be, “do you wonder what it’ll be like with a -”
“What?”
“With a man?”
“Well,” he says, thinking about it, “It’s -”
“Oh,” she says, a bit deflated. “So you have -”
“Not in this body,” he says. “Obviously.”
“Well. Do you want -”
“I want everything,” he says and he is utterly sincere, and if it’s said a bit too harshly, a bit too strongly, then she has to understand. He wants to experience everything. Realizing that perhaps he should further explain himself, he goes on, “Yes, I would want to. And you have to understand that it doesn’t mean -”
She presses a finger against his lips. “Can I watch?”
He grins at her, playfully nipping at her index finger. “Now, I should pretend to be shocked, but since I’m well, I’ve just been thoroughly shagged rotten, I’ll leave mock surprise for another time.”
“Promise?”
“Promise what?” And there’s a moment when he fears, fears she will ask him for something he cannot give her and he will have to lie.
“All of it,” Rose says, biting her lip before continuing, “everything. Anything.”
He kisses the tip of her nose and snatches away her hat. “Yes,” he says and he knows he is not lying, knows that he believes it even though it’ll all go wrong in the end as all things do.
“Yes.”
*
He’d laugh, but she’s gagged him with the tie exactly how he specified (she’s adept at following these instructions, he’s learned, it’s the rest of the bloody time, when her life is actually in peril that she isn’t as attentive). It’s all he can do to remember to fuck - breathe - as he bends over and takes it, staccato breathing betraying that he is just there, on the very edge of it all and it’ll be a bloody marvelous plummet, it will.
Fortunately for him, he is brilliant and has a brain bigger than the size of a planet (or wait, was that a fictional robot?) and yes, he didn’t quite catch the name of the eager bloke behind him, but well, it’s the impression of him that’s really making the - fuck - impact anyway. They’ll exchange pleasantries later, he’s just a bit tied up at the moment.
The handcuffs are digging into his skin just right, even though he hadn’t wanted it before. Having his wrists shackled behind him unable to touch her? That’s not entirely fair, now is it?
Then she’d done that thing with her mouth, tongue sneaking past her teeth and she’d whispered, “Just don’t want you to sneak a taste before,” and yes, that, that undid a little (or rather, all) of his hesitation.
Yes, then there’s the fact that most of this was his idea. Or at least he thinks it was.
It’s rather hard to think while he’s watching Rose, sitting at the front of the bed, pleasuring herself as he’s being fucked. She’s the voyeur here and next time, he’ll have to give it a go considering how much she looks to be enjoying herself.
But then, it’s not like he isn’t having quite the time, bent over and being fucked into the mattress by the kind Unnamed Gentleman With Whom He Must Exchange Pleasantries before they are off somewhere else getting into trouble (and hopefully experimenting with another improbably wonderful sexual experience) - and really, he must give him a shorter name, like Not Jack or something, and in fact, Not Jack it shall be, for the time being.
(When they had spotted Not Jack at the club - which she had insisted they’d enter even though they played nonstop dance music from the Twenty-Seventh Century, and really, that’s not a century known for fine music - Rose had gasped and he had to stop her from rushing up to him, ready to jump into his arms. “That’s not Jack,” he had said, equally disappointed. And perhaps out of revenge for that, Rose had said, “Him. Can we, with him?” and the Doctor hadn’t answered her, no, instead they went over and were charming and clever and this man, Not Jack, he at least held the same appreciation for both males and females.)
Really, it’s probably incredibly rude to attach that name to this man but just then - well, Not Jack has just angled just right and he’s not screaming, he’s not, because he’s been muffled quite utterly and the only sounds he makes are small and harsh and it burns straight through, past everything worth knowing.
Sex. He thinks if he every gets around to visit the inventor of it, he’ll have to give them a hug. And definitely try to shag him/her/it.
Hot human hands are all over him and there are gentle questions being asked. Now is not a time for that nonsense. And Rose has learned that already, so she says something to Not Jack, and Not Jack stops petting him, like he’s dazed and confused.
He’s never dazed and rarely confused. He is sex worn and he thinks he might have ruined this tie by clamping down on it. He can taste the tang of his blood in his mouth, thankfully not tasting of iron (bleh, human blood). He looks up at Rose; she’s now kneeling at the head of the mattress, working her fingers deep inside of her, actually moving in time with Not Jack’s thrusts. The Doctor would be quite glad to assist her, but with his mouth and hands unable to do anything, it’s rather frustrating, and he just tries to get her to take pity and at the very least, remove the tie so he can taste her.
She actually does read this from his expression, but instead she asks Not Jack to stop and if he could just be kind and let her move down onto the bed?
She’s not wearing boots or heels which would at least make up for not being able to kiss her. But she works a hand between their bodies, arches her hips against his and his cock’s now inside of her, pushed deep as Not Jack continues thrusting behind him. Rose and Jack, no wait, Not Jack, have to hold him, he’s crushed between them and Rose is whispering something in his ear and he feels Rose’s orgasm, the heady, spiraling rush of release and he comes, and it’s all bloody marvelous.
Not Jack has come as well and he’s lying off to the side, swallowing big gulps of air.
Rose unties the gag, freeing his mouth, kissing the corners, running a finger against his lip, and oh, he can taste exactly where that finger’s been and he sucks on it, just a bit. Releases her finger with a dry kiss.
“Mmm,” she declares, “that was lovely. Had a nice time, Bertram?”
Bertram? He mouths that to her, making sure Not Jack, sorry, Bertram, doesn’t see it. Rose just inclines her head in a don’t say anything stupid gesture. “Right, Bertram, my good man, if you wouldn’t mind taking these handcuffs off? As interesting as this bondage has been, I’d rather like use of my hands back, thanks.”
“No problem,” he answers and it’s not long before he leaves, giving Rose his contact information in case they decide to stay a bit longer. Right, they’d said they were tourists, which is almost correct, if tourists are involved in making sure a planet or the universe isn’t destroyed while out shopping for knickknacks that’ll look good on the mantel.
“Next time, no handcuffs,” he declares. “Unless you’re wearing them.”
Rose smiles. “I’ve done handcuffs before.”
This catches the Doctor’s interest. “When?”
Rose looks at him, frowning slightly. “Do you really want the details? Even if they involve Mick-”
“Oh,” he says. Winks at her. “Well, now that you mention it…”
Rose laughs. “Don’t be stupid.”
“What should I be then?” He’s flexing his wrists, enjoying the freedom and wondering how long his wrists are going to be marked. It looks like he’s conducting a symphony in bed.
“You’re the Doctor,” she says simply and she believes it so much, that he just has to kiss her.
“Now, Rose Tyler, do you have any other clever ideas?”
She pretends to think about that, affixing her finger on her lip, as though lost deep in thought. It looks incredibly ridiculous, just as her hair does when it’s all mussed up only this time, he tells her it and when he does, she’s overcome with laughter. “Right, because when your hair’s been pulled all over and when you make that face,” she mimics it, something like a grimace only a gargoyle could love, “that doesn’t look even a bit idiotic.”
“Never said I didn’t look ridiculous.” He moves then, ducking his head and biting her nipple. “And you, naughty girl, are evading my question.”
“Think it’s your turn for being clever, Doctor.”
“Is it?” And the Doctor beams at her. “Well, never fear Rose, I’ve got some extraordinary ideas. And I believe I promised everything.”
She shudders her yes and the Doctor smiles, knowing as far as the wanting goes, he hasn’t quite found where it ends. And there are still so many perversions he longs to experience.
end
Author: Regala Electra
Email: regala_electra@yahoo.com
Rating: NC-17 (Very Adult)
Pairings: Tenth Doctor/Rose, Tenth Doctor/TARDIS/Rose, Tenth Doctor/Rose/Other
Summary: He has to know everything and see how far this body can go.
Warnings: Cross-Dressing, Strap-Ons, Threesomes, Slash (AKA: All Good Things)
Author’s Notes: Thanks go out to adrenya and krabapple for their suggestions. Major thanks to jonquil for offering a quick and very awesome beta and pointing out grammatical errors. Will be cross-posted to little_bit_foxy and time_and_chips. Feedback cherished.
*
It all begins with - no, there isn’t a perfect beginning, created out of strange desire for a linear, logical life. He refuses to simplify it. There is no start, no spark, no inspiration, it just is: changes and desires and wanting.
Yes, it is the wanting. The wanting is always there at the beginning, the middle, and the end, and he can go to the beginning of time and the end of it - and he will still want more. It is something quite entirely natural, born of his own curiosity, his own arrogance, and his...well there are many adjectives to describe him and few of them are kind.
Sorry, that’s a horrible beginning, isn’t it? Well, he has no other beginnings to offer, and he’s feeling rather fond of the word brusque today.
There is no linear structure that he follows, save the one that keeps the universe chugging along and keeps wounds in time from forming, as that makes his travels rather more work-related and he’s doing this for pleasure.
Right, there might be a spark after all. Pleasure. He loves his body. Even though he has to wear spectacles, he’s certainly not complaining that his eyesight’s gone a bit cocked up in this regeneration. Also, why has he not licked everything tactile before? The taste of things is far more pleasurable than the sight of things.
He wants everything because he’s selfish and really, there’s no one to outright call him selfish, save him, there are no other equals, not anymore, and well, that’s selfish of him, really, calling himself selfish, isn’t it?
See, he can find logic in a house of mirrors in the dark. Hmm, sex in front of mirrors. He’d try that, but that might be a trifle too vain. Then again, having his spectacles knocked halfway down his nose as he continues moving, the lenses barely covering his field of vision and when he looks into the mirror, it’s half a blur of moving bodies, naked flesh rolling back and forth. Ah, unless they’re partially clothed, a thousand identical images of rumpled trousers and skirts and more trousers, shirts pushed down shoulders and blouses hiked up over naked breasts. But there will not be a cacophony of sound, only two or maybe three voices clamoring to make up for all the false reflections.
He considers this, pushing his specs further up his nose, and when Rose asks him what he’s thinking, he just smiles, in that vague friendly way that’s really more threatening that most people realize.
He needs to know everything and see how far this body can go.
*
Their first time is oddly enough, considering the participants, as normal as it goes. Mating, rutting, instincts, all that mess, the humans aren’t the only one to express emotions in sexual actions. He’s estimated that only about seventeen and a half percent of all intelligent life in the universe has no use for sex.
This just means the other eighty two and a half percent of life out there have to make up for those missing out. And from what he’s seen of other species, most of them are very willing to give it a go.
Yes, the Doctor has thought many times upon the subject, but then, he thinks about everything, all the time. Sex is just another facet of existence. To ignore it, well, that’s just plain stupid.
The normality of the situation though, that may be a problem. It’s been building up to this, hasn’t it? Breaking a barrier he’s sure he had very good reasons to maintain, Do Not Shag Companions. They’re all just so young. And human. And fragile.
And he’s still what he is.
Perhaps he has broken that rule one or twice or thrice, or hmm, yes, perhaps it’s really so much of a rule as a constraint. Or a restraint.
The Doctor thinks that this time, he might enjoy restraints.
But they’ve shagged now, and may he say, quite properly, and it was a thoroughly wonderful experience. Ephemeral though it might have been, it’s quite altogether marvelous, and Rose is staring at him.
He is about to say something, quite brilliant and funny (but is there ever a time when he isn’t either of those things?), but stops himself, noticing the expression on her face.
She looks almost surprised. She presses her lips together and one-two-three-four taps her fingers against his chest. Does it again and almost matches the sound of his heartbeats. Her nails have grown a bit longer than usual and she scratches at his chest in a familiar way for a bit before hesitating, then moving her hand away.
He should say something, then. Something that’s just exactly the right response and will guarantee sex in the future.
“Something the matter?” Oh brilliant. Well played.
“Dunno,” she says, and her hair looks completely ridiculous all mussed up and tangled and normally he’d tell her this, but he wonders if this is one of those all too human moments of fear, the fear of change. “Thought it would be-”
“You didn’t like,” he says, a bit stupidly, even though he knows it isn’t true and he instantly backtracks with a bit of bravado, “Well no, I know you did, certainly felt you do that lovely clenching-”
A smile almost appears before she sweeps it away, shaking her head. “That’s arrogance there. And yes, I did, I mean, yeah. I just - thought it would be different or something.”
“Now that, that right there is-” He’s trying to be clever and failing and maybe being naked is the problem. Because now he’s having those moments of doubt that he never has (or even if he has them, he never admits to having them, even to himself) and he’s frankly getting annoyed because he doesn’t do this: worrying about such little trivial things as though they matter on the grand universal scale. A pebble sinking in the ocean, now that’s roughly the value of all these trivial worries.
He also isn’t supposed to be naked in bed with her.
“Doctor?” There’s a touch of pink to her cheeks, blood rushing up to the face, an instinctual behavior, a learned behavior too. Shame and embarrassment, the things learned for the idiotic notion of modesty. Oh, the things she could learn. The things he’s still learning. “Look, I don’t know what I mean, only I just thought about things sometimes, yeah, and well, you’re you-”
“I am that, at the very least,” he says a bit airily, detaching from her and sitting up, as though he’s about to start a naked lecture, making it up as he goes along. The usual then, only with a dash of nudity.
“You’re an alien!” Rose blurts it out as though it’s a dirty word. The Doctor quirks an eyebrow at that and his serious face falters when Rose starts giggling. Hysterically. “We just shagged in my bed and it was normal and nice and proper and well-” she can’t get the next word out, her laughter has overtaken her.
He laughs as well, but can control it. Because now the very best of things has happened. He’s having all sorts of ideas. Ideas that will requite many experiments and he knows he’ll be a very willing test subject. He raises both eyebrows, “What were exactly all your expectations? A bit of unexplainable sensations that some attribute to magic and not natural biological reactions? Something otherworldly? A crush of space and time all in one spontaneous instant, breaking you apart for all eternity, so powerful you can barely remember your own self?”
She stops laughing then.
“We could do that.” He shrugs, as though it’s the easiest thing in the world. “We could do anything.”
“Anything?” She asks him that question in a way that breaks him, just a little. It’s the question of how far. The willingness to fall. For so many, it is carved in their nature, but for humans especially, it is terrifyingly powerful. And he’s always admired it. It’s just gone a bit different this time, spiraling to another level of curiosity.
He takes her hand in his. Familiarity must begin this journey. He takes her hand, and then moves it, in a southern direction, towards his cock, and that expression on Rose’s face, oh, there are poets and composers and artists who try to capture that, he is quite sure. Or he’s just gone a bit maudlin because this is the last time it’ll be like this. Normal. Boring.
Adjectives he’s cheerfully disregarded for over nine hundred years.
“I would be delighted,” and with his other hand, he runs fingers across the edge of her jaw, almost tracing the edge of her bottom lip with his thumb, “Rose, if you’d care to join me, in finding the exact limitations of my body.”
She doesn’t answer him - instead she crushes her mouth to his, and soon enough, they’ve found themselves on the floor, her kneeling in front of him and his tongue running down her back, perspiration tasting exactly wonderful and entirely like her. Once he slides in, pushing in all the way and oh yes. He loves this.
And he can’t wait to find out what else he loves.
*
“Conventional is just another way of saying sorry.”
Rose stares at him, like he’s mad. But then, she’s the one who’s dressed ready to go out and he’s the one in just his trousers and trainers.
“No really, it is. You insult the Sneciigra by doing anything in a conventional manner, which makes it profoundly difficult to have proper small talk with anyone. They spend most of their time just thinking of new ways to do anything which has, not surprisingly, led to a very stagnant civilization for nearly four millions year. Which, incidentally, might just drive them mad as a stable government, really, how conventional is that?”
Rose just raises an eyebrow at that. “You want to assist in an overthrow, do you? A bit underdressed for the occasion, no?”
“Actually, I just wanted to surprise you and shag you rotten, a proper one too, with a drawn out climax and everything, but I’ve decided not to, mostly because I think everything in here’s a bit too rough for a human and I don’t think I’m going to be particularly concerned with being gentle. Also, I don’t think it’s right to shag on the TARDIS console, it’s a bit demeaning.”
Rose breathes out, “I don’t think it’s demeaning at all. I’d rather-“
“Oh,” the Doctor says, realizing she’d missed the point, “I meant for the TARDIS. Not exactly fair, is it?”
There’s a slight shake of her head in affirmation, but the twitch of her lips is more expressive. She’s peeling off her jacket, draping it on the seat. Folding like only a former Henrik shopgirl can apparently, with swift, decisive motions. “Always knew about you and the TARDIS. Really, can you do anything about it, then?”
He’s not entirely sure where’s she going with this. So he blusters a bit and from Rose’s reaction, she thinks this utterly endearing.
“That’ll be a no, eh? Is there anything though? Something mutual you can manage?”
He blinks at her. “Are you asking me if I can have, uh, relations with the TARDIS?”
Rose laughs. “Relations. Honestly. You broke the showerhead off *my* shower, when we were trying to figure out the best setting, for,” and here, she blushes again, instinct, “well, you were there, and now I’m asking, since I’m not blind and you do stroke bits of the TARDIS a bit too much, so I’m asking. Do you?”
And he’s actually considering it. It’s incredibly wrong. The TARDIS is, well it just is. It’s an impossible question. But then, he invited her to follow him, he’d asked her to find the limits.
Just didn’t think they would ever come up this quickly.
“No.”
There’s a quick nod. “I’m not in the mood to overthrow a government today. You said spontaneous. Right, let’s go somewhere by accident on purpose, then.” She’s walking over the console, ever ready to assist.
It’s slightly disappointing that this strange line of questioning has ended, but then, he isn’t sure he wants to know what else she’ll be asking him. So he starts entering in random coordinates and guesses and fiddles around with dates he’s never been to and then dividing them by dates he has been, all leading to something he doesn’t -
It’s that moment she chooses to add in her own dash of spontaneity. And what a dash it is, Rose masterfully managing to get his trousers and pants pulled down with the very cunning deception of standing behind him and putting her hands around his waist. He’d assumed it to be just a small gesture before she asked him how she could help and really, he loves being touched and she knows it. When he turns to face her, oh that was a bad, bad mistake, because she sinks down, incredibly fluid she is and why did he not notice that she’d folded her jacket just so on the couch before, that she’d moved it while he had been doing calculations in his vast and brilliant mind, set it just so on the floor and she’s kneeling and she’s about to -
“Doctor,” Rose says, breathes, manages, and the Doctor is amazed he’s even able to listen at this point, “It would probably help if the ride isn’t as bumpy as it normally is.” Then, oh then, she’s opening her mouth and just a flick of her tongue to tease him, oh, that tongue and she’s taking him and -
He doesn’t see her hand flicking at the switch under the console but he hears it and the TARDIS swings into full gear, that glorious sound, the sound of home and even though this shouldn’t be happening, oh this is just wrong, he will not stop. He’s got his hands all over the console, trying to keep them from not hitting into anything, no bumping into any nasty stars or nebulas or pulsars and definitely, no landing, not yet. Oh, yes, and Rose, he isn’t about to let her stop and the TARDIS cannot stop and he will not stop. Yes, not yet not yet not yet not -
Oh, he really liked that. He gasps and almost forgets himself, but that’s impossible, he can’t forget and the TARDIS is beneath his fingers, and ouch, that knob’s digging into his palm, so he knocks it back and throws his hips forward a bit too hard and oh, that right there is perfect and his fingers are clutching into his TARDIS (his) and if he’s shouting, it barely makes any impact as his beautiful ship moves and -
There’s a blank spot, mere seconds it must be. The TARDIS has landed and Rose stands up, a bit shakily, leaning on him. She runs a hand along the TARDIS console, and he kisses her and he wonders if it’s gratitude or selfishness or maybe it’s both.
“Good then,” she laughs against his mouth, and he’s pulling at her jeans, pushing down knickers.
“I,” he begins, but he pretends to be distracted at his task of shoving down those jeans, just enough, just to the knees and really, he’s going to have to think about pulling up his own trousers. But he doesn’t, so he’s kneeling bare-arsed and ignoring how ridiculous he must look, and really, he’s going to have to say something or she’ll mock him for being stunned into speechlessness.
And he knows the best thing to say. The thing guaranteed to make her moan before he’s even brought his tongue to her, tasting everything and anything. “It’s your turn now, I’d hold on, but not to that navy lever or that black knob.”
The TARDIS starts moving all over again, but not fast enough to drown out that first wonderful escaped moan as his tongue presses deep, anxious to discover everything.
*
The art of a good blowjob is not at all in the eye of the beholder. Oh, look, his brain’s been melted.
Yeah, there’s the mechanics, there’s a certain technique and there’s also the bloody knowing, knowing not only the body’s responses but how to anticipate the next set of responses.
Rose is utterly adept, a near virtuoso. They’ve also practiced enough times to qualify for a public performance, he just wishes she had given him a signal other than dropping her fork, and really, why would he assume that she’d go under the table for another reason?
And yes, being that he is seated at the High Chancellor’s Dais whilst she is displaying her craft, this makes it a public performance piece.
The Doctor considers shredding some of his grnvak and throwing it in the air like confetti. This is actually reasonably sane, it’s an Yvengor way of saying, “this food is rather tasty.” Now, if he tosses his plate up in the air, that means, “I agree, let us celebrate this event!”
And why is he thinking about Yvengor custom when Rose’s hand manages to further push his legs apart? Fingers gliding slowly and oh, he didn’t teach her that. She knew it. Bloody fantastic. One finger pressing inwards, slick with saliva, he hopes, he didn’t see her stick her fingers into the murky soup dish that’s still at her place setting.
When he gasps, he forces himself to say, “Sorry, it’s just that I’m just amazed by those window treatments. They just really open up the space, don’t you ah! Ah, don’t you think?
The High Chancellor is silent and the Doctor hope that he isn’t doing that twitchy thing with his face, the one that Rose has brought up on several occasions. He’s biting his lip, but he doesn’t remember that having a particular meaning to Yvengorese.
And it is truly hard staying still when Rose swallows him whole and finds that spot and he’s clenching the cutlery in his hands hard enough that he’s moments away from having permanent cutlery scars.
Damn, he probably is making that face.
Finally, the Imperial Advisor, after the lengthy silence, informs the Doctor that the window treatments are for mourning those lost at the great Hnevoi Charge. The High Chancellor’s own brother died in that battle.
“Yes, yes right,” he gasps, forcing himself to drop the cutlery and adopting a pose of supposed remorse, bending his face downwards. The less they see of his face, the better. He’s feeling a bit warm in the cheeks, but he’s sure he isn’t blushing. Just refuses to believe that.
He can feel Rose’s mouth and tongue, oh bless her tongue, and he’s fit to frankly do nothing but duck his head, gone slack jawed and mute. But he presses on, his voice shaky, a thought crossing his mind that perhaps this is a rare occasion where he should bite his tongue, but he ignores that, “Sorry. Didn’t know those window treatments were for the MOURNING OF OH YES THOSE POOR LOST SOULS, YES!!”
He’s banging on the table and then, quite stupidly throws his bloody plate high in the air. When Rose comes up with a weak, “found it!” as she clutches a fork, the Doctor’s fastening his trousers faster than anyone post-orgasm has ever done before him (and in all likelihood no one will ever beat his record) and he’s jumping up from the dais. Nearly everyone else is standing up as well, looking like they’d like to make window treatments out of the Doctor and Rose.
Rose catches on quickly and says warily, “Doctor?”
“Run fast,” the Doctor responds helpfully and they’re on their way.
He’ll later have to explain to Rose why they couldn’t stay for the rest of the festivities, since celebrating the death of heroes isn’t exactly polite guest behavior, and that perhaps next time they should mutually plan these public shags beforehand.
However, first he says, as they’re safely hiding behind a rarely large rubbish bin in a dark little alleyway, “That was fantastic. We’ll have to do that again. Only without the running for our lives bit.”
Rose glares at him, tugging at the broken strap on her dress. Then the stern expression turns playful as she says, “Really? Thought that was your favorite part.”
And he says, eyeing her in the most salacious way, “Is that a challenge?”
She doesn’t answer but then, she doesn’t have to, bless depravity.
*
For once all her makeup is useful.
She slathers the eyeliner on - and the mascara too, he blinks too much and she has to do it three times before she gets it right. She keeps on sticking out her tongue, like that’s helping keeping the gunk from creeping towards the corners of his eyes. She sets her shoulders, as though this is brave work, a finger brushing over an eyelid to properly smudge the eyeliner. By then, his cock is painfully hard and he wants to say something, to say anything, but she notices first.
She sets the fedora down amongst the disarray of makeups and then she bends down, ever so gracefully, taking it in her lipsticked mouth and well, she bloody well knows exactly what’s she’s doing. It doesn’t take long, no it doesn’t take long at all, but it’s perfect, really. When she comes up, her lipstick's all smudged. Some of it’s even on his shaft and she doesn’t seem to be embarrassed by that. Humans and their need to leave a mark.
He wipes a bit at the corner of her mouth and she cleans some mess off his crotch with a spare tissue, careful enough to leave remnants of her earlier activities. Enough to make it count.
Then she slides the knickers up his legs and goodness, how do women get around in these? At the same time, despite not being precisely comfortable, they’re quite delightful to wear.
He could get used to this. Especially if he could just lounge around. Maybe shimmy a bit when he feels like it.
But there's still work to be done. Rose laces up the corset, pulling a bit too tightly at the chest, emphasizing the flatness. He'd consider adding something up top, but that's no what they're going for.
She's wearing a suit, not brown with blue pinstripes, she didn't fit in that one and he’s not about to put on one of her hoodies and those strange track bottoms with the writing across the bum. That is not what this is about. Her suit is a sort of muted silver with sharp black pinstripes, fitted nicely to her form. Very nicely, he should add. She's wearing a flimsy sort of white blouse. Nearly transparent it is. Her little black bra is peeking through as if saying a very friendly sort of hello.
She'd dressed herself. He'd wanted to help but doubted he'd be of much use in putting on the clothes. And considering how bulky the front of her trousers looks, it appears that she's decided to put on everything. He can’t wear to start tearing that suit apart.
They both snap the stockings into place. Her fingernails scratch at the exposed skin on his upper thighs. Not virgin flesh, but still aching to be touched deeper. For marks to be left. Fine, he can’t mock humans for that desire.
He'd painted his nails black and she'd taken the polish off hers. They almost look dull but still feminine; they've been sharpened just a bit more than she normally trims her nails. If she presses a bit deeper, ah, there it is. Faint white marks blossoming on his thighs, fading into whispers of red.
She doesn't paint his lips and she needs to look in a mirror to correct her own lips. The lipstick is the color of bruised fruit, red and black and purple, every shade captured differently with a tilt of her head. Her own mascara is not as thick as it usually is, nor as black, and she's tempered down the eyeliner. Almost eradicated it really and it’s fascinating to notice how much it does and doesn’t change how she looks. Her hair's been done up, though some wisps fall down to frame her face.
When he places the hat back on her head, tilting it just so, if you were very drunk and almost completely blind, you might mistake her for a very pretty bloke.
With cherry bruised lips.
They’d intended to go out this evening, for as long as they could manage, but besides the Doctor's failed attempts to totter about in his three inch heeled boots (which amuses Rose, as she considers three inches nothing at all and is very glad to inform the Doctor just how ridiculous he looks), he realizes soon enough that if anyone dared approach Rose with an offer, he'd have to show just what a man he was, even in this dress.
Well, not a dress. He'd thought about putting one on, but really, that's overkill.
"I'm pretty enough without the dress?" He hasn’t tried fluttering his eyelashes as he fears they might get stuck together. How in the hell did Rose manage to slap all this about her eyes and still have full visibility?
Rose stares at him. "You are wearing barely anything."
"Well most of my-" right, so most of his chest is pretty much completely exposed when he stands up, the corset sliding down quite happily. That's fine. Because these knickers cover most of the danger (and he’s becoming more accustomed to them the longer he wears them) and the stockings are almost modest, really, a translucent near black with a subtle almost fishnet pattern (but not fishnet as that’s a bit tacky). "Ah, you're right. I probably need a boa."
"A. Boa." She says this the way he might repeat back the words tea at your mum’s.
"Yeah, a nice old boa, something preferably long so I can wrap it around and later, well we can find uses for it later." He winks and then winces. “I think my eye’s gotten stuck.”
“You should let it dry a bit, yeah.” There is a gentle dabbing of something at his eye and she says, “Now open sesame, or whatever magic password you need.”
He opens his eye. Hello there, blurry Rose, he doesn’t say.
Rose laughs. “It looks like a runny bruise.”
He bites back a comment, noticing that when she throws her head back just so, he can catch the still angry bruise, a purpled, violent affair, at the base of her throat, just before the meeting of neck and shoulder. He’d put that there, what, two days ago? And she hadn’t bothered to cover it up.
Clever girl. Or not so clever, that’ll just entice the locals. Unless she intends to inspire jealousy.
“Maybe I should wear something else,” he says in a soft voice, his mind already ahead, whirling with all sorts of ideas.
“Yeah, do you think? I’m wearing a suit and, uh, all the rest of it, as promised,” she shifts her hips just then, and oh, she shouldn’t have done that, “and you haven’t even bothered with a skirt.”
He smiles at her; the lopsided affair that he knows she loves and knows it distracts her in all the right ways. “Do you really want me in a skirt?”
She looks at him, and then circles him and he lets her. It’s a bit territorial and she doesn’t touch him because he’s far too greedy for touch. If he thinks rationally (which is a stupid thing to do; rational thoughts never lead to fun places or new discoveries), he might look a bit ridiculous in the high heels and the corset and the knickers. Not to mention the stockings.
Yet when Rose struts (that’s what she’s doing, oh yes it is) around him, so much shorter thanks to the heels he’s wearing, he quite ignores that small moron part of his brain that is trying to use reason. He’s not about to miss out on any of this.
She’d switched out the sensible trainers he’d left for her and chosen a pair of boots instead. The heels are spiked and he hadn’t even broached the topic of experimentation with shoes before. He hadn’t even thought about it and he thinks about everything and oh yes, he’s certainly Having Thoughts about it now. Fucking her with boots on, having the spiked heels digging into his back, yes, he must know exactly how that feels.
But the way she’s looking at him now. Loads of ideas, far more depraved, are just circling round his head. He really doubts that they’ll make it outside the TARDIS. That’s a first, there.
“Now that I’m tarted up, what will you do with me?”
She angles the fedora once more on her head. It’s meant to look dangerous, but fails, falling somewhere in the vicinity of ‘jaunty.’ Then she says, “I think I’m going to shag you,” and that now, that’s perfect, dangerous all the way.
He moves to kiss her, but she ambles out of his reach, her lipsticked smile very wide. Feral, almost. And thanks to these bloody heels, he can’t exactly make a motion to grab her without being guaranteed that he'll look like a baby giraffe taking his first steps and inevitably falling. “No. I’m the bloke here -“
“All evidence to the contrary,” he interjects, because knickers meant for women don’t hide that he’s hard once again.
“I’m wearing the trousers,” Rose says with a sweet smile and she makes it go lopsided a bit, like she’s trying to mimic his grin. “Kick off your shoes.”
That he does quite willingly. “I do believe, that when I’m wearing the trousers, my lady,” and at this Rose stifles a giggle, trying to maintain her composure, “is allowed freedom to snog. In fact, I rather insist that whenever she feels she must, she should grab me and kiss me for however long a duration she feels necessary.”
“Yeah, but you’re not a lady, all evidence and all that.” She comes closer then, and he kisses her, all messy and when they part, her lipstick’s run only a little bit. She’s peppering kisses up his jaw like she’s got something important to say, gently bites the lobe of his ear, holding it between her teeth for a good long while and he shudders against her. She lets go and whispers, “You’re a tart, like you said. Bend over.”
He breathes out a response, probably something that’s meant to indicate shock, but after all, he’d asked that she wear it and he can feel it pressed up against his thigh, he’d just thought later rather than sooner. He’d assumed some restraining using a boa would have been involved prior to the finale, as he’d envisioned it.
Yet, spontaneity. One must never forget the importance of surprise.
Still, she’d worn those spiked boots for some reason. He bends over just a bit and she’s pressing up against his arse and he bites back whatever inane ramblings were about to spill out. He looks over his shoulder, watching her unbutton her jacket, she’s keeping the hat on, and she pushes down the front of her trousers. “I was supposed to do that bit,” he says, “I planned to -“
“Do it then,” and there’s a wonderful mischievous glint in her brown eyes.
He blinks, but before he can straighten up, she’s pulled his knickers down and slapped his bottom, rather hard. She scratches her nails over the sore spot.
“Didn’t say you could move.” She presses up against him once more, but now all the anticipatory pleasure is laced with a thin edge of pain. One hand moves to the front of him, fondly rubbing his cock before moving lower, cupping his balls and he daren’t move at all. Even though he wants to. Restraints don’t have to include handcuffs and other things, although they should - sometimes it’s just self-restraint. And he’s always been rather poor at that.
Not this time. He will excel at it.
The moments pass by, he feels them, always, forever, he can’t stop it anymore than he can stop wanting more, and just when he’s about to break this self-imposed restraint, as she continues rubbing herself against him and her hand continues to explore, while her other hand is busy playing with the skin just underneath the top of his corset, she says the magic words. “You can move.”
He knows many tricks, enough to puzzle an illusionist for decades and he’s detached from her, and turned around and he’s on his knees before she can do anything, say anything else. He’s yanking impatiently at the zip and her trousers are pushed just down enough, and he says, looking up at her ( and he enjoys the view: mussed lipstick and jaunty hat and her biting her lip), “That is beautiful.”
The response is beautiful as well. A shuddered intake of breath is fascinating to him, because really, it’s not like he’s deep throating something that’s a part of her - it’s an attachment, an accoutrement if you will - a fantastic strap-on that she’s wearing. When he moves towards the head and strokes the base, he’s not really giving her a blowjob, he can’t frankly, but she’s certainly showing her appreciation vocally. And when he abandons the strap-on, she makes a dainty little sigh that he quickly takes advantage of.
He’s tearing her shirt off, just as he’s wanted ever since he saw her walk in with this outfit on, kissing and licking upwards till he’s standing up again, pulling her shirt off and she’s unclasping her bra. He twists a nipple, knowing it hurts, and loving it when she gasps into his mouth. She did spank him, he’ll take this revenge for now and hopefully she’ll punish him later.
Really, these games are rather wonderful, when it comes down to it. His corset is staying on; he pushes her hands away when she attempts to start unlacing it. As if in response to that, when he moves to take off her hat, she grabs his hands, kissing both palms before saying, “You keep the corset, I get the hat.”
An arched eyebrow is what she gets for that demand and she smiles then, not a mocking smile or a dangerous one, it’s honest and pure. “You look ridiculous trying to do that when you look like you just lost a fight. Honestly Doctor, it isn’t hard to wear mascara properly.”
So he tackles her, but not really. It’s easy enough to pick her up and really, he had been aiming to push her up against the wall, his cock and her not-cock rubbing up against each other, but he miscalculates by just a fraction and they’re both tangled against one another on the ground. All the right parts pressed together, so really, it’s not that bad at all.
But Rose is strong and bless her instincts, has pushed him on his back and she’s pulling her trousers off, and just before she attempts to remove those wonderful shoes, he manages, “Keep the boots on,” and she listens. Manages to tug off the trousers without losing those lovely boots.
Just wearing a hat and spiked boots and that strap-on. If he tells her how beautiful she looks, she might just punch him in the arm.
Later then, he’ll tell her later.
They’re both pulling his stockings off, they’d put them on so carefully and now it’s hurried, scratching up and down his legs. She’s the one that takes his panties off, pressing a messy kiss against his hipbone and he’s grateful that she’s gentle and yanks them off in one neat motion. A maneuver that leads to both of his legs over her shoulders.
“Well played, Rose Tyler,” he murmurs and she actually bites his left calf, not even hard enough to leave a mark. And well, he’s a bit disappointed at that.
“Wouldn’t it work better if -“ she hesitates, as though at a loss for words.
Astounded, the Doctor chides her, “I don’t think I am in a position that calls for apprehension. Aren’t you supposed to be shagging me?”
Honestly. Humans can pick the oddest things to worry about. Still, she isn’t moving and being that he’s very much in the mood to move, among other things, he moves his legs off her shoulders and is about to explain that this is perfectly fine and he wants but she finally speaks.
“I just mean, it would be easier, you know, if you were on your knees, yeah? And um, whether we needed lubrication?”
He blinks, carefully this time and his eyelashes don’t stick together. “Yes,” he answers stupidly. “To both. Did you check the jacket? I put it in the left, no, the right pocket.”
She has very wide eyes and says, “No, I didn’t.”
He ruffles at his hair, and says, “I think you should take a peek then.”
She’s turning the jacket over in hands, finding the small bottle, a flat kind, and opens it. He watches her rub it between her fingers, a woman with a mission.
But his cock aches and he has to stop before he starts stroking himself and coming just by watching her fingers moving. He turns over, getting up on his knees and says, looking over his shoulder with a wide grin, “My turn now, isn’t it?”
She’s done this bit before at least and there’s confidence, wonderful confidence, causing him to make some very unDoctorish noises. He might have begged, just a little bit before there are three fingers and she knows not to touch his cock or this will be a very brief performance. He rocks back, his eyes jammed shut and he doesn’t care if his eyelashes get stuck again.
It’s a bubbling feeling of pure giddiness as she removes her fingers, and she’d been so achingly careful, probably because of her fingernails, worried about pain, and really, the pain’s almost half the reason why he wants. Then she’s entering him, slow at first and then, she must realize that it’s working, it’s actually working because she shoves up all the way and he, well, he just has to scream.
She doesn’t know quite how it’s done from that perspective, her thrusts are uneven and she’s not hitting the right angle. He has to bite his hand to keep from crying out and she’s too bloody slow and steady.
“Doctor,” she gasps, “I’m not sure, can you tell me how -”
He has to tell her so he stops biting his hand, reaching back and managing to grab her hip, keeping her from moving. “Like you’d like it. Maybe a bit faster. And deeper.”
Sensing her nod of agreement, he releases her hip, steadying himself on his arms, spreading his legs wider. As she begins again, this time her thrusts are steady and she’s so close to getting it right, he opens his eyes. He can feel her breasts against his back, her nipples are hard. The corset forces him to stay a bit more rigid than he likes, it’s difficult to arch his back when she finally moves just right, a long deep stroke. If he hisses then, he doesn’t feel any shame about it.
“Oh,” Rose moans, “I felt that too, just when I pushed, oh, that’s…”
She trails off and the Doctor’s not surprised. There’s a point when words are obliterated and he’s teetering on that edge. It’s hard and rough and ungainly, and it’s just damn perfect. She takes his cock in her hand, still slick and wonderful and he clenches his teeth, hips pumping like he’s fucking her hand.
She nips at the exposed skin on his back and it’s like a jolt, all at once, teeth against skin, the sensation of rough-turned-smooth pleasure as she fucks him, steady pumping of his cock, and he comes quite easily.
Disengaging is a bit rougher than he expects, but it doesn’t matter much, he’s frankly the very definition of well-fucked. Rose is lying next to him and he looks at her, and says with honest wonder, “You kept your hat on.”
“You kept the corset on,” she says by way of response. She’s rather uselessly attempting to undo the belt of her strap-on. Though he’s quite content to lie down on the floor for a good long while, he assists with a few very nimble movements, earning a grateful kiss. “Thanks.”
He almost says thank you as well, but doesn’t, because he’s saving his energy. She’s still got those boots on. She smiles at him and he decides to look grim, almost disapproving.
Before she can question him, ask if there’s a problem, if she’s done something wrong, he’s got his fingers exactly where she didn’t expect them, moving inwards, pressing his thumb ever so close to the clit, but not quite there.
Her eyes flutter closed and he knows he can keep this up for such a very long time. But she’s far too wet and so eager, he watches her hips move and she is frankly shameless and it’s lovely. Lovelier still, when she comes, arching up, and here is when he says, “You’re so beautiful,” because she can take it any way she pleases and won’t understand that’s it’s far more complex than just appearances.
It’s quiet for a long while before either of them speaks.
“Do you wonder,” Rose says, and she’s wavering a bit, as though she’s still in the warm rush, which the Doctor does have to admit, is a very lovely place to be, “do you wonder what it’ll be like with a -”
“What?”
“With a man?”
“Well,” he says, thinking about it, “It’s -”
“Oh,” she says, a bit deflated. “So you have -”
“Not in this body,” he says. “Obviously.”
“Well. Do you want -”
“I want everything,” he says and he is utterly sincere, and if it’s said a bit too harshly, a bit too strongly, then she has to understand. He wants to experience everything. Realizing that perhaps he should further explain himself, he goes on, “Yes, I would want to. And you have to understand that it doesn’t mean -”
She presses a finger against his lips. “Can I watch?”
He grins at her, playfully nipping at her index finger. “Now, I should pretend to be shocked, but since I’m well, I’ve just been thoroughly shagged rotten, I’ll leave mock surprise for another time.”
“Promise?”
“Promise what?” And there’s a moment when he fears, fears she will ask him for something he cannot give her and he will have to lie.
“All of it,” Rose says, biting her lip before continuing, “everything. Anything.”
He kisses the tip of her nose and snatches away her hat. “Yes,” he says and he knows he is not lying, knows that he believes it even though it’ll all go wrong in the end as all things do.
“Yes.”
*
He’d laugh, but she’s gagged him with the tie exactly how he specified (she’s adept at following these instructions, he’s learned, it’s the rest of the bloody time, when her life is actually in peril that she isn’t as attentive). It’s all he can do to remember to fuck - breathe - as he bends over and takes it, staccato breathing betraying that he is just there, on the very edge of it all and it’ll be a bloody marvelous plummet, it will.
Fortunately for him, he is brilliant and has a brain bigger than the size of a planet (or wait, was that a fictional robot?) and yes, he didn’t quite catch the name of the eager bloke behind him, but well, it’s the impression of him that’s really making the - fuck - impact anyway. They’ll exchange pleasantries later, he’s just a bit tied up at the moment.
The handcuffs are digging into his skin just right, even though he hadn’t wanted it before. Having his wrists shackled behind him unable to touch her? That’s not entirely fair, now is it?
Then she’d done that thing with her mouth, tongue sneaking past her teeth and she’d whispered, “Just don’t want you to sneak a taste before,” and yes, that, that undid a little (or rather, all) of his hesitation.
Yes, then there’s the fact that most of this was his idea. Or at least he thinks it was.
It’s rather hard to think while he’s watching Rose, sitting at the front of the bed, pleasuring herself as he’s being fucked. She’s the voyeur here and next time, he’ll have to give it a go considering how much she looks to be enjoying herself.
But then, it’s not like he isn’t having quite the time, bent over and being fucked into the mattress by the kind Unnamed Gentleman With Whom He Must Exchange Pleasantries before they are off somewhere else getting into trouble (and hopefully experimenting with another improbably wonderful sexual experience) - and really, he must give him a shorter name, like Not Jack or something, and in fact, Not Jack it shall be, for the time being.
(When they had spotted Not Jack at the club - which she had insisted they’d enter even though they played nonstop dance music from the Twenty-Seventh Century, and really, that’s not a century known for fine music - Rose had gasped and he had to stop her from rushing up to him, ready to jump into his arms. “That’s not Jack,” he had said, equally disappointed. And perhaps out of revenge for that, Rose had said, “Him. Can we, with him?” and the Doctor hadn’t answered her, no, instead they went over and were charming and clever and this man, Not Jack, he at least held the same appreciation for both males and females.)
Really, it’s probably incredibly rude to attach that name to this man but just then - well, Not Jack has just angled just right and he’s not screaming, he’s not, because he’s been muffled quite utterly and the only sounds he makes are small and harsh and it burns straight through, past everything worth knowing.
Sex. He thinks if he every gets around to visit the inventor of it, he’ll have to give them a hug. And definitely try to shag him/her/it.
Hot human hands are all over him and there are gentle questions being asked. Now is not a time for that nonsense. And Rose has learned that already, so she says something to Not Jack, and Not Jack stops petting him, like he’s dazed and confused.
He’s never dazed and rarely confused. He is sex worn and he thinks he might have ruined this tie by clamping down on it. He can taste the tang of his blood in his mouth, thankfully not tasting of iron (bleh, human blood). He looks up at Rose; she’s now kneeling at the head of the mattress, working her fingers deep inside of her, actually moving in time with Not Jack’s thrusts. The Doctor would be quite glad to assist her, but with his mouth and hands unable to do anything, it’s rather frustrating, and he just tries to get her to take pity and at the very least, remove the tie so he can taste her.
She actually does read this from his expression, but instead she asks Not Jack to stop and if he could just be kind and let her move down onto the bed?
She’s not wearing boots or heels which would at least make up for not being able to kiss her. But she works a hand between their bodies, arches her hips against his and his cock’s now inside of her, pushed deep as Not Jack continues thrusting behind him. Rose and Jack, no wait, Not Jack, have to hold him, he’s crushed between them and Rose is whispering something in his ear and he feels Rose’s orgasm, the heady, spiraling rush of release and he comes, and it’s all bloody marvelous.
Not Jack has come as well and he’s lying off to the side, swallowing big gulps of air.
Rose unties the gag, freeing his mouth, kissing the corners, running a finger against his lip, and oh, he can taste exactly where that finger’s been and he sucks on it, just a bit. Releases her finger with a dry kiss.
“Mmm,” she declares, “that was lovely. Had a nice time, Bertram?”
Bertram? He mouths that to her, making sure Not Jack, sorry, Bertram, doesn’t see it. Rose just inclines her head in a don’t say anything stupid gesture. “Right, Bertram, my good man, if you wouldn’t mind taking these handcuffs off? As interesting as this bondage has been, I’d rather like use of my hands back, thanks.”
“No problem,” he answers and it’s not long before he leaves, giving Rose his contact information in case they decide to stay a bit longer. Right, they’d said they were tourists, which is almost correct, if tourists are involved in making sure a planet or the universe isn’t destroyed while out shopping for knickknacks that’ll look good on the mantel.
“Next time, no handcuffs,” he declares. “Unless you’re wearing them.”
Rose smiles. “I’ve done handcuffs before.”
This catches the Doctor’s interest. “When?”
Rose looks at him, frowning slightly. “Do you really want the details? Even if they involve Mick-”
“Oh,” he says. Winks at her. “Well, now that you mention it…”
Rose laughs. “Don’t be stupid.”
“What should I be then?” He’s flexing his wrists, enjoying the freedom and wondering how long his wrists are going to be marked. It looks like he’s conducting a symphony in bed.
“You’re the Doctor,” she says simply and she believes it so much, that he just has to kiss her.
“Now, Rose Tyler, do you have any other clever ideas?”
She pretends to think about that, affixing her finger on her lip, as though lost deep in thought. It looks incredibly ridiculous, just as her hair does when it’s all mussed up only this time, he tells her it and when he does, she’s overcome with laughter. “Right, because when your hair’s been pulled all over and when you make that face,” she mimics it, something like a grimace only a gargoyle could love, “that doesn’t look even a bit idiotic.”
“Never said I didn’t look ridiculous.” He moves then, ducking his head and biting her nipple. “And you, naughty girl, are evading my question.”
“Think it’s your turn for being clever, Doctor.”
“Is it?” And the Doctor beams at her. “Well, never fear Rose, I’ve got some extraordinary ideas. And I believe I promised everything.”
She shudders her yes and the Doctor smiles, knowing as far as the wanting goes, he hasn’t quite found where it ends. And there are still so many perversions he longs to experience.
end