Time passes at a different pace in the parallel universe, Rose is sure of it. After she first got trapped there, it took her a long time (Days? Weeks? Months?) to come to terms with the days here, which were longer, darker, bleaker, which went on and on for endless periods on end. She was tired all the time, suffering from a jetlag of massive proportions, but nobody else felt that way. Neither Mum nor Mickey seemed to realise that days were so much longer here, dragging away, hour after tedious hour. They had not travelled with the Doctor for as long as she had, hadn’t learned to feel time, hadn’t had the time vortex flow through their veins. They slipped right into the time stream in the parallel universe like it was the most natural thing to do, and it was unfair, because it took her such a long time to “lose her sea legs”, as Mickey called it, to be able to walk through her new life without staggering and stumbling.
Sometimes, she can’t tell how long she’s been here, and it worries her. It worries her, because the man who sleeps by her side cannot tell, either, and he, of all people, should be able to. She is convinced that years have passed since she exchanged her last goodbyes with the Doctor, with her Doctor, but the man with whom she’s sharing the bed does not appear to think so. Rose turns her head carefully and looks at him, taking advantage of the fact that he’s still asleep, and she thinks how much she loves him. She actively forms the words in her mind, the words: “I love him”, the words: “I love you”; she superimposes them over the jumble of thoughts and sensations that coil and uncoil within her mind and soul. He is the Doctor, the Doctor told her so, and she trusted him, she does trust him, she believes that this man is the Doctor. Even though he is asleep (the other Doctor, her Doctor, did not sleep). Even though he is naked (she never saw the other Doctor undressed). Even though he feels wrong (the other Doctor felt right).
It’s Sunday, and they’ve got nothing on today, and he is sleeping in. Rose is itching to do something, to get out of bed, to leave, to go off on an adventure through time and space, but she can’t. His arm lies heavily around her waist, and she doesn’t want to move, because she doesn’t want him to wake up. Not yet. He will wake up soon enough, and they will have sex, and it will be good. Great, really. He’s beautiful and skilful and she wanted him for so long.
Rose moves her hand from where it rests against his arm and slides it underneath the duvet and between her legs. She’s still sticky from last night, and she rubs herself for a bit with her eyes closed, fantasising about the beautiful, amazing man who is holding her in his arms. Even without checking, she is fairly sure he’s hard. He always wakes up hard and needy and he fucks her every morning, hard and thorough, and this is something that she fantasised about for so long.
She rubs a bit harder and slips a finger inside, biting her lip. She’s nowhere wet enough yet. She wants to be wet for him, she wants her cunt to throb and drip and hunger for him, and she talks dirty to herself inside her head to turn herself on. She wants her body to feel the way it did during all those months (years?) in the TARDIS.
The man beside her is a good lover, a great lover, he’s all that she’s ever dreamed of. He’s intense and passionate and he uses those slim, strong fingers of his to make her come even before he uses his cock to fuck her. When he slides into her, he does so confidently and effortlessly.
He is stirring now, his breath quicker and shallower, and his arm around her tightens as he rolls over. Rose was right; he is hard, and his cock drags heavily over her hip and thigh. She can feel the need radiating off him, can sense it in the way his fingers press into the soft flesh of her belly and in the heat of his breath against her neck. She sensed that need in him before, when he was older and darker and Northern, but it is disconcerting to feel the same craving in this man, who is younger and happier and less edgy. It is disconcerting to feel that he might not be happy and sometimes, when she lies awake in the dark hour before dawn, she is haunted by the question if he was unhappy then, too, in those days in the TARDIS, when she was having the best time of her life. She can’t ask him. She can never ask him. Here and now, they don’t talk about the Doctor. She did, once, when she caught him looking out into the star-strewn night sky; she asked him if he missed travelling among them, and he said: “I never travelled among them. He did.” And he turned to her and asked, in a voice that she never heard the Doctor use before and that she did not want to hear again: “Aren’t you glad of his parting gift? His body and his mind, for you to enjoy. He really knows what humans want, doesn’t he?”
“Rose,” his voice is an urgent whisper in her ear. “Rose?” His desire is palpable, the desire of body and soul, the desire to take and consume her and to burn her up. She used to be able to stop him, back in those days when he was darker and she was more innocent, but she lost that ability somewhere along the way. After he’d changed into that chatty, charming, beautiful man, she let herself fall and followed him wherever he went, and she doesn’t know how to rein him in anymore.
“Rose!” he growls against her shoulder, dragging the sharp edges of his teeth over the skin there. His hands move over her body with intent. The familiarity of his touch is something she always dreamed of and she tells herself how good it feels, lets herself melt into his embrace. Anticipates the moment his cock will push into her, in the wake of those clever fingers that are already probing inside her with what feels like scientific interest. He’s gentle and giving, she’s got nothing to reproach him for, not when he gathers her in his arms like this and pulls her close so that her arse rests against his groin. His fingers find a rhythm that makes her hips twitch and she comes easily, sliding wetly over his palm as he pulls his hand away.
“Rose, my Rose,” he mutters into her hair. “Good girl.” Rose shudders as he shifts away and cold air hits the sweat-slick skin of her back. “I want you so much,” he continues in the same low voice. “I love you, Rose,” he speaks the words that she longed to hear for so long and that have become so familiar by now. The hands, their grip also all too familiar, curl around her hips and pull her up. Rose clambers to her hands and knees and feels him move behind her. She arches her back when he thrusts in with a groan. Even without seeing him, she knows that his mouth is open in a snarl, she watched him often enough in the moment of penetration to know the expressions he assumes during their lovemaking. She arches her back and pushes her arse up, forcing him to change the angle a bit, to make his thrusts deeper and longer, and she fucks back against him in the secure knowledge that no matter how ferocious his need, he will hold back until she comes. His hands roam over her body, around and between her legs, fingers dipping into the cleft of her arse, just so, and languid, strong strokes up her sides and back. Long fingers entangle themselves in her hair, forceful enough to make themselves felt, but not painful, never painful.
“Oh, Rose,” he groans. “Rose…” he pulls out and moves around her, the sheets tangling around his hands and legs as he shuffles across the bed. “Stay like this, please.” He’s kneeling before her now and his hard-on points right at her face. Rose licks her lips and looks up. His face is taut with desire, his hair dishevelled and sweat-soaked, and his eyes are huge and stare right through her. Rose knows that look, wild and unfocused. His mouth says all the words she always wanted to hear, but his eyes… Rose shudders and parts her lips. His cock is a familiar weight on her tongue and she sucks it in all the way, choking only slightly. She can taste herself on him, and she can taste him, too, a sharp and bitter taste that is entirely human. He likes her like this, on her knees before him, and his hands are back in her hair, on her face, fingertips pressed against her temples in a gesture that reminds her of the Doctor. It’s reminiscent of the way he used to walk into people’s minds, long fingers aligned along their cheekbones and an intent expression on his face. She wishes he had read her mind, just once. But he never did, and this is where they are now.
He’s not reading her mind now. He can’t. He’s human.
He’s oh so human. He’s hot, his skin is hot and moist and the hairs on his thighs are scratchy against her palms as she clings to him in an attempt to control his rhythm. He likes it when she doesn’t use her hands to guide his cock as she’s sucking him off. He likes to thread his fingers through her hair. He likes to pull his cock out and rub the tip against her lips until she sucks him in again, and then he groans and his rhythm falters and sometimes he swears.
A Time Lord no longer, he still swears in a language that she doesn’t understand. In this universe, there is no TARDIS. Without the TARDIS, she does not understand any of the languages he speaks, the languages the universe speaks, and she realises in moments such as this, when he is at his most human, turned on and teetering on the brink of a climax, that he is not.
“I’d like to come in your mouth.” His fingers in her hair tighten as he speaks these words. “May I?” His voice is thick and sultry, a palpable caress that she can’t reject. Rose nods and shifts into a more comfortable position, ignoring the fact that her left leg is getting numb. If she lets him fuck her mouth fast and hard, it won’t take long. She licks the underside of his cock with the flat of her tongue and looks up at him, watching him look down at her with murky eyes. “Please,” he gasps. His thighs are trembling. She can almost see the Oncoming Storm when he’s like this, all-consuming want sleeting off him, and she sucks him in, all the way in, until her nose ends up pressed into the hair on his groin, and he moans.
She curls one hand around the sharp hipbone and cups his balls with the other. His head falls back, long neck stretched above the curved line of his collarbones, his stomach fluttering with frantic breaths. He throws himself with all he has into the sex, into his orgasms, with an abandon that’s shattering. And when he does come, a few moments later, he convulses and swears and floods her throat with semen. They’re both gasping for breath as they collapse in a shaking heap, and the ring on his finger snags painfully in her hair. She hisses as he tugs it free. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” He strokes her face and kisses her deeply. “Oh Rose, my beautiful Rose,” he sighs into the kisses that he presses against her lips and into her mouth. “You’re all that I wanted, you know that?”
“I love you too,” Rose says. And she does. This is what she wanted for so long. This is why she asked Dad to make Torchwood build the Dimension Cannon, this is why she started to punch holes into the universe, desperate to find a way back to him. He is what she wants.
He pulls her hand to his lips, kisses one finger after the other, until he reaches the ring finger, and he curls his tongue around the ring that he put there only last night. He looks at her, looks her straight in the eye, his expression dark and unreadable, and says, mouthing the words against her skin: “It feels like this is what I was born for.” Suddenly, he smiles. “I can’t wait to make you mine, really mine. Mrs Smith. Forever.” He rolls onto his back, pulling her with him until she comes to rest on his chest. “We can start thinking about that mortgage now.”