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It would be one thing if he didn’t want to—Rose dealt with that easily enough before, not to mention that she’s grateful just to share the same universe with him once again—but the problem is, it seems like he does want to. And yet, they just…don’t.

Oh, there have been some close calls, moments when Rose is so, so sure something is about to happen, gets that swooping feeling in her gut like she’s plummeting from the top of a roller coaster, times when they just can’t seem to get close enough with their urgent kisses and hot breaths and clutching, wandering hands. But the hands (nor any other body parts) never wander quite where Rose wants them, ratcheting up tension just to let it sit there, suspended and tenuous and quivering until she’s squirming for relief in her bed, alone, wishing desperately she could take care of herself but fearing he would hear her through the paper-thin walls, and she’s just starting to—she’s just—she’s—

She sighs, teeth biting into her lower lip until it glows white from the pressure.

She’s fucking frustrated, all right?

Rose stares at her computer screen, but her eyes don’t register any information; they’ve glossed over the same sentence at least four times (maybe five, maybe a hundred) and the words are starting to look like gibberish, shapes and lines splashed haphazardly like Pollock’s most boring work. It’s the computer’s fault that she’s so distracted on work time, she decides—rather, it’s the report’s fault, because the report mentions the Doctor, which means she’s now thinking about the Doctor, and that inevitably leads to daydreaming about the Doctor.

Over the past few years, daydreaming (when she permitted it, which wasn’t often, because it was a waste of her precious time, not to mention it hurt) might have included a hug, a kiss, a healthy snog at most; she was so preoccupied with simply getting back to the Doctor that her brain scarcely had space for anything else. But now that he’s here, with her, and he isn’t going away, and she has caught him looking, and his kisses deepen as his hands grow braver and braver, lingering on her knee, her thigh, the small of her back (and down lower, but just high enough to maintain plausible deniability—oh yes, Rose knows the tricks, practically wrote the manual)—now, she wants more. She wants to slip his necktie loose, kiss that soft spot underneath his jaw, maybe nip at it for good measure, wants to feel his breath going ragged, his fingers slipping under her shirt, his pulse quickening while she finally unbuttons that damn oxford and moves down to his trousers—

“Are you ready, then?”

Rose jumps at the noise, startled to find the Doctor watching her from her office doorway.

“Huh?” she asks, begging her cheeks and ears not to blush a desperate shade of pink. (They don’t listen; she’s fairly certain her face is hot enough to fry an egg on.)

“It’s that time,” the Doctor says, tapping the nonexistent watch on his wrist. “Ready to head over to your mum’s?”

Nodding, Rose doesn’t speak; the Doctor isn’t doing anything to subdue her fantasies right now, with his specs and tousled hair and his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow, exposing his forearms and his stupid beautiful wrists and his even stupider elegant hands. Rose is fairly certain if she opens her mouth right now, the only sound that will emerge is a strained little whimper.

The Doctor frowns. “Are you all right? You look a bit flushed.”

“Fine,” Rose squeaks, just a little too quickly. When the Doctor raises an eyebrow at her, she clears her throat, wills her voice to return to normal. “I’m fine,” she says. “Just a little warm. S’warm in here, isn’t it?”

“I suppose. Maybe you should shed a layer or two.”

Gathering her things, Rose laughs weakly, resolutely not staring at the Doctor’s bum the moment his back is turned, certainly not thinking about digging her heels into it while he—

Rose breathes in sharply. Good god, she’s got to get ahold of herself. The Doctor is nearly a thousand years old, practically a demigod for all the power and knowledge and wisdom housed in his lean frame. He’s not just some boyfriend or pretty face or quick shag.

At the very least, he’d be a nice long shag, Rose thinks, and blushes even harder.




“…and quite frankly, it’s ridiculous, the laxness of Torchwood’s requirements on the Copenhagen interpretation. It doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface,” the Doctor complains. “Mind, even the Copenhagen interpretation doesn’t cover everything—not like Bohr and Heisenberg had eighty spare years to dedicate to calculating sets of probabilities and possible values—but how am I supposed to teach them to accurately measure wave function collapse if they haven’t even properly mastered the study of classical physics?”

Staring out the window, at the pavement and passersby zipping by greyly in the rain (and most certainly not thinking about the Doctor pushing her up against the rough brick wall in any one of the passing alleyways), Rose realizes just a little too late that the Doctor has ceased speaking. Judging from the expectant air of his pause, he didn’t only stop long enough to take a breath—he’s waiting for a response, this time.

“Erm,” she says, casting about in her memory (maybe she accidentally retained something relevant from his diatribe? Unlikely, but stranger things have technically happened). She comes up empty. “That sucks?” she offers.

“Well put, thank you,” the Doctor says. “It does, in fact, suck.”

Rose flashes him a smile before he begins ranting again, spouting off about wave-particle dilemmas and energy-momentum transfers and space-time visualizability, Rose, it’s all about making things mathematically describable. To be fair, when she properly listens to him, she actually understands a fair amount of his technobabble (one doesn’t help design and build a Dimension Cannon without absorbing a fact or a thousand), but she’s having trouble focusing on his words right now, distracted by the proximity of their legs and hips, pressed close together on the taxi backseat.

Of course, they’re only pressed so close together because the Doctor always insists on sitting in the middle seat. (“It’s got the best view,” he likes to argue, giving Rose’s hand a squeeze.)

“…but I suppose that’s just how it goes,” the Doctor says with a resigned sigh, the shift in his tone dragging Rose out of her thoughts. She tears herself away from the window to find him watching her, a slow smile blooming over his face, crinkling his eyes at the corners.

Oh, god. He’s so beautiful.

She’s so, so fucked.

“Sorry, might have prattled on for a bit there,” the Doctor says, his grin turning a little sheepish as he scratches the back of his neck. His free hand pats Rose’s knee through her skirt. “Thanks for listening. Or pretending to listen, at any rate.”

“Any time,” Rose laughs.

At that, the Doctor takes off again, chattering on about some new topic. Rose can only imagine he’s now complaining about something else the Torchwood research department gets wrong, getting it out of his system before dinner with Jackie, but she doesn’t actually know, because all of her focus has narrowed down to the fact that his hand hasn’t left her knee. She can feel the warmth of his palm through the thin suiting material of her skirt, feel his thumb stroking absentmindedly along the hemline. If he shifted just by an inch—half an inch, even—he would be touching her skin directly. Or better yet, he could push beneath her skirt hem, dance his fingertips along the soft and sensitive skin of her inner thighs, wandering higher and higher—

Rose swallows, and insinuates her hand beneath his. Just one touch, she thinks; just a little bit of touch will be enough to get her through the rest of the day. Just the tiniest, most innocent press of skin on skin is all she needs.

(She already knows that’s a lie, but that’s not going to stop her.)

She shifts the Doctor’s hand slightly, so that it drags up the hem of her skirt just the littlest bit, leaving her knees bare. She pauses, breath bated, to see if the Doctor noticed.

“…phase transition,” he’s saying, perfectly oblivious. “But the problem is, the Velphinium Triumvirate doesn’t specify different phases like the rest of the universe, they don’t distinguish between continuousness and discrete boundaries…”

Eyes solidly fixed on the back of the driver’s seat in front of her, Rose shifts the Doctor’s hand a tiny bit higher on her leg. She waits.

“...fermionic condensates, only they call them k’thrak bag’rall, and there isn’t an exact translation in English…”

Rose gently removes her hand from beneath the Doctor’s, pulling the hem of her skirt with it until the Doctor’s hand rests on her bare skin.

The Doctor’s rant halts for just a second, his fingers twitching on her thigh. Rose holds her breath, waiting.

“But then you get into two-dimensional systems, and that’s a whole other thing altogether,” the Doctor continues, and Rose tries not to be disappointed. She must have imagined that pause, must have dreamed up that hitch in his breath, because now he’s talking about alternative cataloging methods for chemical bonds.

Except after a moment, his fingers begin to move.

Slowly, gently, his fingertips stroke her leg, a lazy circular pattern that traces along the outer edge of her thigh before dipping inward. Excitement shivers up Rose’s spine, bringing a blush with it, but she forces herself to hide her smile, offering an indulgent “That sounds like a fantastic idea,” when the Doctor pauses for breath.

“It does, doesn’t it?” he asks conversationally, his hand inching up higher on her thigh.

Rose wants nothing more than to close her eyes, just lose herself in the sensation of his skin on hers, tracing lazy circles up higher and higher, but she forces her eyes to stay open, her face to stay blank. It’s easy enough until his hand slips under her bunched skirt, fingers glancing against the hem of her pants.

She swallows a needy whimper as moisture gathers between her legs. Oh, Christ. What is she doing, torturing them both like this? They’re heading to her mum’s, in a taxi, for pete’s sake. They’re getting ready to meet with Pete, for pete’s sake!

As if the Doctor can sense her distress, his hand stops, his fingers halting their exploration of her pantyline. “But in order for the research treaty to work,” he continues, and is it just Rose’s imagination, or has his voice grown just a little husky?, “both parties would have to be amenable.”

Grabbing the Doctor’s hand, Rose guides it between her legs; the angle is awkward, his wrist twisted as it is, but she can still feel his fingertips through her pants; doubtless he can feel how hot and damp she is in return. She definitely doesn’t imagine the hitch in his breath this time.

“But yes, we’re, erm…” the Doctor continues, and out of the corner of her eye, Rose can see pinkish-red slowly blossoming up his neck and throat, peeking out beneath his shirt-collar, “…we’re making good progress.”

“With the research treaty?” Rose asks, fighting not to squirm while his fingertips start circling against her again.

The Doctor nods. “Yes,” he says on a soft exhale as his fingers push up into her through soaked cotton. He’s so close, almost exactly where she wants him, his fingertips exploring and stroking until Rose is gripping the seat beneath her in an effort not to rock her hips against him. Rose bites down on the hum that tries to escape her as tension mounts, as heat pools and throbs between her legs; she leans against the Doctor, burying her face in his shoulder under the guise of a snuggle. She feels rather than sees his head angling in her direction just the littlest bit. Looking up, she watches his parted lips, half-mast eyes. If she wanted, she could bridge the distance between them, press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, slide her tongue along the seam—the Doctor’s fingers push until he finds her clit through her pants and oh, it’s almost enough, it’s almost enough to break her even just like this, and she tilts her face upward to meet his—

“Here,” the taxi driver announces with a suddenness that makes them both jump. The Doctor springs away to the other side of the backseat, running a hand through his hair while Rose yanks her skirt down. Distantly, Rose hears the taxi driver announce his total fare, but she’s too busy cursing him and his terrible timing to pay attention to the amount. She just forks her card over and tries to smooth some of the wrinkles out of her skirt (no doing; it’s going to be ridiculously rumpled for the rest of the evening).

But at least when she risks a glance over at the Doctor, she notices his cheeks are every bit as red as hers, his breathing just as heavy.




The second Rose puts down her dessert fork, the Doctor grabs her hand and pulls her around the corner.

Rose immediately melts into him, body arching into his as he trails kisses along her jaw and throat, tongue tentatively darting out to taste her. Nipping along her throat and soothing the hurt afterward with his lips and tongue, the Doctor finds her pulsepoint hammering beneath her jaw, grazes it with his teeth until Rose gasps. Her earlier arousal reignites, thundering between her legs in time with her racing heart, and Rose has to clutch at his back to stay upright.

It isn’t terribly unusual, the Doctor sneaking touches at random and inopportune times, but the way he clutches at her—his fingers digging into her hips while his lips trace a line down to her collarbone, his body pushed up against hers until she can feel him half-hard through his trousers, and her hand snakes between them, and when she cups him, he muffles his resulting moan against her neck—if she thought she wanted him before, it’s nothing compared to the sheer screaming need flooding through her right now. There’s nothing she wants more than for him to hitch her skirt around her waist, drop to his knees, stroke himself while he thrusts his tongue into her—

“Let’s get out of here,” she whispers breathlessly, but before the Doctor can respond, the pit-pat-patter of tiny little feet comes echoing their way.

“Rose?” chimes Tony’s voice from down the hall. “Mr. Doctor?”

Grabbing the Doctor’s hand, Rose wrenches him away in the opposite direction, swearing up a storm under her breath.




Of course, they can’t get out the door without running into her mum one more time, and they can’t run into her mum one more time without having one of those interminable end-of-the-visit conversations, and they can’t wrap up one of those never-ending conversations without the help of at least one after-hours workplace emergency. This time, it’s a break-in mounted by none other than the Doctor’s “friends” from the Velphinium Triumvirate, attempting to abscond with some of Torchwood’s more sensitive research material.

Rose manages to…dissuade them, as the Doctor calls it (others might call it “threatening with a dangerous weapon,” a tactic that the Doctor only trusts Rose with, because he’s got a blind spot the size of a continent as far as Rose is concerned and she is absolutely not above taking advantage of that, especially not when she’s so tensely-coiled she could burst), and afterward, the Doctor issues the Velphiniums one of his trademark warning speeches, words so oft-spoke and well-worn that the rest of the Torchwood agents mouth the phrases to each other when they think the Doctor isn’t looking.

During, the Doctor clenches Rose’s hand with a grip that borders on painful, but she doesn’t mind; it’s strangely reassuring, knowing he’s just as tightly-wound as she is, feeling the energy vibrate through his frame. But the time they get back to their flat, it’s nearly three in the morning, and the only use Rose can imagine for a bed is the sleep she’ll get in it. She and the Doctor split at the door to complete their evening routines, to crawl into separate beds afterward.

Disappointment wells up in Rose’s stomach as she changes into soft jim-jams and brushes her teeth, but she tries to ignore it. There was no guarantee that anything would happen today, anyway. Besides, they’ve got the rest of their lives together, haven’t they? No need to rush.

Rose rinses out her mouth and stares at her reflection. Her reflection wrinkles its nose back at her. Her reflection looks strangely unconvinced by Rose’s line of logic, as if it knows that there’s nothing rushed about any of this. Her reflection, in fact, seems to think that maybe, just maybe, Rose and the Doctor both want the same thing, and they’re each both waiting for the other to make a move, because they’re both just too scared to do anything about it, for some reason that is at least 85% complete and utter bullshit.

Huh. Rose smiles lopsidedly at herself. Maybe it’s just her sleep-deprived brain talking, but her reflection’s got a pretty good point.

Heart hammering wildly against her ribs, Rose strides over to the Doctor’s room—the spare room, really, except that the Doctor staked a claim on it for the time being, and Rose let him, because he isn’t the only one with blind spots—and pushes the door open without so much as a knock. She finds him lying on the floor, hands folded over his stomach as he stares pensively at the ceiling, like it’s got a secret he’s trying to puzzle out. But the moment he sees her, his gaze locks on hers. He sits up.

“Rose—” he says, or tries to say; the word has barely emerged from his mouth before Rose falls to her knees and, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt collar, drags him closer for a kiss.

Their bodies collide and the Doctor hums in surprise. His hands fly to her waist, bunching in her tee-shirt; they tremble just the smallest bit, and it could simply be that he’s tired, but judging by the way he opens his mouth, deepening the kiss until his tongue plunges into her mouth, Rose doesn’t think so. She answers in kind, her tongue brushing against his, her teeth teasing his lower lip until he’s panting for breath. His hands ghost up her sides, thumbs stroking against the underwire of her bra before backing down (why didn’t she take her bra off before donning pajamas? Just how tired is she?), but before they can move too far away, Rose grabs his hands and plants them firmly on her chest.

The Doctor shifts his hands away once again; Rose pulls back to protest through kiss-swollen lips and finds she doesn’t have to when the Doctor lifts her tee shirt by the hem, pushing it over her breasts. He plants a warm kiss to the swell of each one, teases her nipples through the thin fabric of her bra until they’re peaked, straining for more attention, more touch, more more more, driving heat to pool between Rose’s thighs. Rose drags a hand down his chest, across the plane of his stomach, down to where his cock strains against his trousers; she traces the length of him and he shudders, pinches her nipples a little harder.

She leans into him, pushing her breasts completely into his hands while she kisses his ear. “Oh, I really just want to fuck you right now,” she whispers hotly against his neck, her cheeks burning flame-red at the admission.

The Doctor halts his ministrations and an icy shard of doubt pierces Rose’s gut. Oh god, did she say the wrong thing? She did, didn’t she? He doesn’t want to do things like this—he’s not an animal, he’s not a base and needy human like she is, he needs for things to be elegant and spectacular and memorable, meaningful. But then his fingers hook into her waistband, dragging her pajama bottoms over her bum and ripping them off Rose’s legs (with her help, in a tangled mess, and they both shakily laugh). Then, despite the fact that Rose has still got her pants on, the Doctor his trousers, the Doctor hauls Rose into his lap.

Tangling her fingers in his hair, fingernails scraping roughly across his scalp until he groans helplessly into her mouth, Rose grinds her hips against him, relishes the hard heat of him even through all of their combined layers. He grasps the waistband of her pants as if he might tear them off, but when Rose tries to sit up, he yanks her back down, like he can’t even bear to be parted with her long enough to shed their clothes, like he’s too desperate for relief. Rose completely understands—she’s already so close she may very well come like this, the Doctor’s tongue in her mouth, his cock hitting her through her pants just so. Part of her wants to slow things down, strip all their clothes away and do this properly; the other, more present part of her tells her to throw out a hand against the wall in front of her, because she needs leverage.

Seeking that last little bit to push her over the edge, Rose’s free hand wanders down between them, slipping into her pants, but surprisingly, the Doctor grabs her wrist, pulling her hand away.

“May I?” he asks, voice hoarse.

Overcome with emotion and need, Rose can barely speak. “Please.”

The Doctor reaches between her legs, pushing her pants to the side so he can touch her directly. He draws in a sharp breath upon feeling how wet and ready she is, and dispenses with any notion of teasing her, gathering moisture between his fingers so he can push them inside in one smooth thrust.

Rose swears under her breath and clutches at the Doctor’s shoulders, her muscles fluttering and clenching around his fingers as they slowly slide in and out, slickening her further with every stroke. She wants so desperately to touch him but she can’t focus on anything but the feel of his fingers inside her, pumping in time to her hips in a frenzied crescendo until she thinks she might burst. Her breath escapes in spurts, carrying with it a series of cries she can’t clamp down on—so she no longer tries, gasping and keening as his fingers curl and hit her just right, right there, so close, so close

Her eyes drift shut as her climax hits her in waves, each stronger than the other, her muscles contracting and spasming almost painfully in pleasure; she’s dimly aware that the Doctor is watching her, drinking in the knit of her brow and the perfect sweet “o” of her mouth as she comes.

She slumps forward as her orgasm subsides and the Doctor cradles her head in one hand, pressing his forehead to hers. They’re both speechless for a moment, the room silent save the sounds of their rasping, ragged breaths.

Something loosens a little in Rose’s chest. She knows sex doesn’t cure everything—not by a long shot—but damn. It can certainly help.

Everything below her waist is completely, pleasantly numb and utterly unwilling to move. So she grins and slides her arms around the Doctor’s neck, hugging him fiercely. He responds in kind, his face burrowing into her neck.

“Thank you,” the Doctor says softly.

Laughing shakily, Rose pulls back so she can look at him. “For what?”

“For letting me be a part of that.”

Rose’s throat constricts, swelling with tenderness and affection. She isn’t quite sure how to interpret his words, except that they seem happy, and he seems happy, and that’s good enough for her.

Well, almost good enough.

“And now,” Rose says, blinking the fog out of her brain so her hands can fall to his chest, where she slips his oxford buttons undone one by one, “you get to let me be a part of this.”

“Already up for round two?” the Doctor asks, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I was rather under the impression that I’d taken your breath away. Eliminated your capacity for rational thought, as it were.”

“So sure about that, are you?” Rose asks, even though he’s right (of course).

“I am,” the Doctor says with a wink, reaching around to undo the clasp of Rose’s bra as she slips the last of his shirt-buttons free. His hands slide back over her ribcage to her front, pushing beneath the cups of her bra. “In fact, I’m so sure, that I think I’ll do it again.”

“Smug git,” Rose replies even as she hums deep in her throat; her breasts are even more responsive now, skin singing at the feel of his touch, her nipples almost painfully taut. She tries to push the Doctor’s shirt off his shoulders but his arms remain stubbornly put, his thumbs teasing her breasts in torturous, slow circles. “You’re making this difficult,” Rose complains halfheartedly, tugging at his shirtsleeves.

The Doctor makes an affirmative sound before he bends down to enclose his mouth around a nipple. Rose bites her lip to cage in a whimper at the sensation of his teeth nipping, his tongue swirling around and soothing after, bringing feeling back into her legs, heat back between them.

“Doctor…” Rose breathes, hand sliding down to cup him through his trousers, but he stops her again.

“Not yet,” he says, and the roughness in his voice floods Rose with warmth. “I’m not done exploring. I want to taste every inch of you, Rose Tyler.”

It’s almost embarrassing, how quickly she slickens at those words, how much she wants his mouth on her. But as gorgeous as that sounds, she wants even more to see him lose control—wants to make him come undone.

“Maybe next time,” she says, shifting out from his lap on legs that only wobble a little. “But for now…”

She finally (finally) gets his shirt pushed off, and with his help, pulls off his undershirt after, her thumbs grazing the sparse hair on his chest. She wants to see him, all of him, touch him; wants to do to him what he does to her.

“Off,” she commands, pointing at his trousers.

The Doctor smirks. “Pushy,” he says, even as he stands up so he can unfasten and slide out of his trousers with ease. He pulls his pants off after, finally bare before her, and god, he’s just so lovely, the planes of him, all long limbs and lean muscles. Rose is rendered speechless, eyes traveling over the Doctor’s nude form, just drinking him in, like a desert plant soaking up the rain.

The Doctor offers a hand to Rose. She accepts it and rises, her pulse quickening as the distance between them lessens.

“Like what you see?” the Doctor asks, eyebrow quirked as pink tinges his cheeks.

Rose nods. “You’re beautiful,” she murmurs.

Gaze softening, the Doctor smiles. He draws her upward for a kiss, and with her hands pressed to his chest, Rose can feel his heart racing beneath his sternum, thundering madly for all that he’s pretending to be smooth. She can also feel his cock, still hard and hot and trapped between them, pressing into her stomach insistently; thinking of how it would feel to clench around him, feel him spiral out of control, she rubs her thighs together for any friction she can get, and jesus, she needs to see and feel him snap like right now.

Rose pulls her tee shirt and bra off overhead, shifts the Doctor’s hands to her hips, slipping his fingertips beneath the waistband of her pants. The Doctor slides them down, pressing kisses to her body along the way, worshiping her breasts and ribs and belly with his lips until her pants hit the floor and his face is dangerously close to her pantyline.

“Bed,” Rose instructs, before she allows herself to surrender and let him do exactly what he wants. (What she wants, as well, but she already got to come once and she wants—no, needs to see him do it, too.) The Doctor obeys, sitting on the bed and scooting back until his head hits the pillow. Rose crawls over him, revels in how his gaze glides over her, licking his lips as he files away every facet and detail, every freckle and muscle and bit of untouched skin. Rose’s cheeks go warm at the heavy feel of his gaze on her. She has never been one to feel ashamed of her body, or nervous about it, or any silly thing like that—short skirts and shorts and mini-dresses and tiny bikinis have never been a problem for her. Skin is just skin, after all. But the Doctor’s eyes on her, like this, right now…she doesn’t feel embarrassed or ashamed or exposed so much as she feels simply overwhelmed. His eyes travel back up to her face and it’s like she’s standing outside in a Florida heat, like the sun is kissing her skin all over.

Rose kisses his mouth before working her way back down, pausing every so often to lavish attention on his flesh, biting and sucking on his throat, a nipple, a hipbone, leaving little pink-swollen calling cards along the way. She grows ridiculously needy between her legs as he groans and tenses beneath her.

“Wait,” he says when she reaches his cock, hissing when her breasts brush against it.

“You don’t want me to?” she asks, surprised.

“I—erm, I wouldn’t say that,” he replies, glowing brilliantly red, and Rose hides a grin. Was he always such a bloke, and she just never noticed? “But this body’s still rather new, mostly untested—not certain how quickly it would respond to that sort of attention.”

Mostly untested?” Rose asks innocently.

“Well,” the Doctor says, and Rose hears the smugness crawling back into his voice, “I did take it for rather a nice test drive a few minutes ago, and didn’t hear any complaints. In fact, I’m positive I heard nothing but breathless, passionate praise. But still, like you said—maybe next time.”

Rose hums, nodding in agreement, before bending down and sliding her mouth over his cock.

A choked gasp rips out of the Doctor’s throat and Rose glances up to see him panting, the cords of his neck straining while his hands fist white-knuckled in the bedsheets. His entire body quivers beneath her, trembling with tension and barely checked restraint. Rose can feel just how much his body wants to thrust, can hear the Doctor holding back in the stillness of his breath; since she can’t fit her mouth over much more of him, sensitive as her throat is, she strokes him with one hand, secretly quite self-satisfied that she’s the one causing these reactions, that he’s panting and tense and helpless because of her.

She realizes that the Doctor has just been quietly breathing out her name for the last few moments, over and over again; swirling her tongue around his tip, she gives it a good suck before releasing him with a wet pop. Rose glances up to see the Doctor blinking dazedly, his chest heaving with exertion. He holds a hand out to Rose and she crawls back up, no longer bothering to hide her own smug grin.

“Definitely next time,” the Doctor mutters, pulling Rose down for a kiss.

This kiss is noticeably harder than the ones before, almost frantic in its intensity as the Doctor plumbs the depths of Rose’s mouth with his tongue, sucks her lower lip between his teeth. Giddiness bubbles up in Rose’s head, and she almost feels weightless, like she might float away. But the Doctor’s hands on her, her nipples scraping against his bare chest, the slide of their bodies together, hot and slightly sticky and wonderfully oversensitized, keeps her tethered to the earth.

She lowers her hips toward his and when his cock brushes wetly against her, they both groan. When she sinks down on him, they both fight back a shout.

Rose quickly starts to move against him, but the Doctor stills her with a hand on her hip. “Wait,” he says hoarsely. “Might need a minute—”

Grinning at him through hooded eyes, Rose wriggles her hips a little bit, until his fingers dig into her hip so hard they might leave permanent marks. “Minx,” he manages to eke out.

“You complaining?”

The Doctor laughs, the laugh devolving into a moan as she slides slickly against him, sheathing him fully. “And here I thought I was the smug git.”

“No more talking,” Rose says, leaning forward so that her lips brush against the shell of his ear, so she can whisper and feel him shudder as she fucks him. “Not unless it’s breathless, passionate praise.”

With a growl, the Doctor flips them both over, pinning Rose beneath him. Lowering his mouth to her throat, he bites down as he thrusts into her, the pain shooting bolts of pleasure straight to Rose’s groin. In return, she claws at his shoulders, nails digging in as she wraps her legs around him, urging him deeper.

Now the Doctor is the one swearing under his breath, his face pinched in concentration. For all his bravado, Rose can tell he won’t last too much longer, but honestly, she doesn’t mind—despite the fact that second orgasms for her are so incredibly rare, not to mention orgasms in this position, period, she can feel another one throbbing in anticipation between her legs, spurred on by the feel of the Doctor pushing into her, the desperate grip of his hands, the taste of him on her tongue. But when the Doctor grabs one of her legs, hitching it higher on her waist so that the angle of his cock hitting her shifts just so, Rose realizes she won’t last much longer, either.

Rose slides a hand between them again and this time, the Doctor doesn’t stop her, instead adds his hand to hers, adding just the pressure she needs to crest over the edge. Her muscles contract around him, over and over again, carrying wave after wave of pleasure so strong that Rose’s breath stutters and toes curl with the intensity of it. Suddenly the Doctor buries his face in her neck as his strokes become sharp and erratic, and his muffled cry dampens her throat as he pulses inside her, and god, that’s enough to set her off all over again, electricity rippling through her body, because even if she can’t see him losing control, she sure as hell feels it.

Their movements gradually slow until they’re both still, dazed, the quiet in the room marred only by their calming gasps and the rush of blood in Rose’s ears.

Oh, holy hell. Part of her can’t believe that just happened.

(Another part of her just says Finally, with an accompanying eye-roll.)

After a moment, the Doctor shifts, dislodging himself with a grunt and a wince, and he flops over onto his back, stomach muscles still heaving with labored breaths. But Rose isn’t quite ready to let go of him yet, feels oddly cold without his weight resting solidly over her. Slipping her fingers between his, Rose brings his hand up to her mouth, plants a kiss on the knuckles. In her periphery, she can see the Doctor watching her, his Adam’s apple bobbing just a bit, like he’s swallowing something down. When she glances up at him, all hints of smugness have evaporated without a trace—if Rose didn’t know any better, she would almost call his expression one of reverence.

“I think this is when you’re actually supposed to say ‘thank you’,” Rose jokes feebly.

The Doctor flashes her a tired grin. “Thank you.”

Rose smiles back, snuggles closer to him on the bed—in response, he bridges the gap with his arm, drawing her in until her body is flush with his, so she can feel his heartbeat gradually slowing beneath her cheek, his breaths growing deeper and further apart as slumber begins to take its hold.

“Any time,” Rose murmurs, and the Doctor chuckles sleepily into her hair.

(He doesn’t sleep in the spare bedroom anymore.)