Work Text:
It’s been there for a while, this feeling in Rose’s gut—that sense of precarious balance, of anticipation swelling and fluttering behind her ribs. She can feel something approaching but can’t quite name it, like trying to remember the word perched between her teeth, on the tip of her tongue. All she knows is that it’s only a matter of time before something happens.
(In fact, it’s a matter of twenty-two days, four hours, and sixteen minutes.)
Just a handful of weeks after an encounter with a gas-mask-boy, an uncatalogued amount of time after he first grabbed her hand and told her to run, the Doctor guides Rose down the rain-slicked cobblestones of a bustling street, Jack following after, each of them casting uneasy glances all around in search of their pursuers. Over the patter of rain and the static of the crowd, a soldier shouts, one in a squadron of some scarlet-clad dozen. Before the squadron has a chance to move in, Jack peels off in one direction, and the Doctor seizes Rose by the hand to yank her in another.
(He doesn’t say run this time; he doesn’t have to.)
Despite their best attempts, sprinting where they can, squeezing between slow-lumbering humans and humanoids and aliens when they can’t, the gap between Rose and the Doctor and the soldiers begins to close. Desperate to escape, Rose frantically scans the area for anything, anyone, anyplace that can offer them some form of sanctuary, and through the thunderous rainfall she spots it, its neon lights casting an otherworldly glow on everyone and everything that passes by—a nightclub by all appearances, and even if it’s not, it’ll have to do.
Inside, the chatter of city-dwellers and tap-tap-tap of fat raindrops gives way to a pulsing beat and a thump-thump-thump, musical notes lost in a sea of overwhelming sound. More importantly, it’s dark and crowded, its occupants nearly shoulder-to-shoulder in the cavernous space; even with the spotlights that pass over the teeming mass of dancers writhing on the dance floor, visibility is thin, and Rose and the Doctor have no trouble slipping into the shadows.
A gentle hand on Rose’s shoulder prompts her to turn toward the Doctor, silently instructing her not to look at the door no matter how badly she wants to, not to stare at the scarlet soldiers standing guard there. Heart hammering in her throat, Rose reluctantly turns her back on the soldiers, ignoring how all her instincts scream otherwise. Unable to watch their pursuers, she feels so vulnerable, she might as well be naked; still, she refuses to look.
She can’t always trust her instincts. She can—and does—trust the Doctor.
Her faith is rewarded by the Doctor pulling her close. And oh, that’s a bit much, isn’t it, considering everything? It’s not enough that every sense in her body is shrieking at her to run, to look, to hide, dread and impending doom crawling down her spine like a drop of ice-cold water sliding down her vertebrae—now she’s got to deal with the Doctor, too, his hands on her arms, his body mere inches from hers, his gaze locked on hers, distracting her with his—
Oh. Distracting her. So she doesn’t glance nervously all about the room, arousing suspicion. Swaying together, so they both blend in. The Doctor’s mouth quirks in a half-smile as he watches her figure it all out, and amidst his casual scan of the room, eyes lazily gliding over everyone and everything like any typical club-goer’s might, he spares Rose an encouraging nod.
Trust me.
Biting her lip nervously, Rose nods back at him. But they’re not typical club-goers, and it shows. Anyone paying the two of them even the tiniest ounce of attention is going to notice the way neither of them are dressed for the occasion, the tension evident in their stilted swaying and the relative continents of space remaining between their bodies. So, as casually as she can, Rose sheds her hoodie, dropping it to the floor to be trampled into anonymity underfoot. Ignoring the way the Doctor’s eyebrow raises in question, she tugs at the hem of his jumper until he follows suit, abandoning it in favor of his tee-shirt underneath. The differences are subtle, but if the scarlet guard didn’t get a good enough look—and Rose can’t imagine they did, that they had enough time to—then maybe, just maybe, the two of them can squeak by unnoticed. At any rate, with Rose in her vest and short skirt, the Doctor in his tee-shirt and jeans, they could almost pass for a pair of casual dancers; they could be any working-class gal and her bloke, unwinding after a long day with a dance and a date.
Just one thing missing from that equation.
Stepping close, Rose shifts the Doctor’s hands down to her waist, draping her own arms around his neck. The contact makes the Doctor jump almost imperceptibly (you’d think it wouldn’t, not with all the time they’ve spent with their hands on each other in all manner of friendly excuses) but he doesn’t stop her, doesn’t move away. But he does watch her with no small amount of confusion and bewilderment.
In reply, Rose offers her most disarming grin.
Dance with me.
Swallowing, the Doctor offers a curt nod, pulling her in close until their chests nearly touch. But it’s almost worse than actually touching, Rose thinks, because the space between them practically buzzes, humming with potential energy. A flash of red in her peripheral vision and Rose turns her face against the Doctor’s neck, equal parts hiding her face and preventing herself from giving in to the nigh-overwhelming urge to look for the soldiers. She forces herself to ignore the alarm bells ringing in her skull and focuses on the Doctor instead, memorizing the feel of his hands on her waist and the weight of their chests pressed together and the steady pulse of his hearts behind his ribcage, two for every one of hers, a solid and reassuring thrum—thrum, thrum-thrum and god, the Doctor smells good. Rose’s nose is close enough that she could nuzzle right into the join of the Doctor’s neck and shoulder if she wanted to, could lean in just the briefest of millimeters to plant a kiss.
After a few seconds of lightheadedness, Rose finally remembers to breathe. This close to the Doctor, the air seems suddenly thick and impossible to take in.
Nope. That won’t do. That way lies temptation of an entirely different kind, one that frightens Rose no less than the squadron prowling the dance floor for their blood. She spins in the Doctor’s arms, pressing her back against his chest, because that seems safer, somehow. Less chance of eye contact that way, less chance of lips wandering where lips shouldn’t. Now she can pretend that she’s dancing with just any old fella, that the hands on her waist don’t belong to one of the most ancient and powerful beings in the universe. He’s just a bloke, and she’s just a girl, and they’re just having a dance. With the thunderous pulse of the nightclub music pounding in her ears, the room around them warm and hazy, dark and sultry as nighttime in summer, Rose could almost believe it. She shifts his hands down to her hips and loses herself to the beat.
One song slides fluidly into another and another and the more time that passes, the more Rose feels herself relaxing, lulled into liquid looseness by the ebb and flow of the bodies pulsing around her. The beat thrums hotly in her blood and Rose rakes a hand through her hair, leaning back against her partner despite the heat. Unthinking, she rolls her hips, grinding back, like she might with anyone else.
Except the tightening of the hands on her hips reminds her, forcefully, that this isn’t just anyone else.
Rose’s eyes fly open. Heart caught in her throat—oh god, how was she so stupid, how could she have forgotten who she was dancing with?—Rose wonders if she should turn around to explain, or apologize, or mutter any number of thin excuses, but soon the hands on her hips loosen, fingers stroking gentle circles over her waistband, as if in apology. Rose sighs in relief, her head rolling back against the Doctor’s chest. So she didn’t overstep any boundaries, or if she did, she’s forgiven. Good. She couldn’t bear it if things ever became awkward or strained between them.
Suddenly warm, Rose rakes her hand through her hair again, pulling it away from her face and neck. The motion causes her vest to ride up, exposing just the smallest strip of her stomach, damp with sweat, but before Rose has a chance to pull the shirt back down, a set of fingers edges beneath the hem, tentatively exploring her bare flesh. The skin-on-skin contact is near-electric and Rose fails to bite back her gasp of surprise. The Doctor shifts his hands away but Rose grabs them before they can make it too far, planting them solidly back on her hips. Letting him know, in terms that even he can’t misinterpret, exactly where she wants his hands to be.
(Still, Rose grinds back against him again for good measure.)
She feels rather than hears the Doctor hum as his hands slip beneath the hem of her vest, bolder this time, fingers splaying against the bottom of her ribcage. His palms are refreshingly cool, a blessed prayer on her sticky and overheated skin, even as his thumbs brush the underwire of her bra. The feeling of his hands on her is delicious, almost overwhelmingly so, quickly slickening Rose between her legs. She can’t help but imagine his hands touching her elsewhere, those large beautiful hands of his circling patterns across her breasts, teasing her nipples to taut attention, slipping beneath the hem of her skirt—
Rose mentally shakes herself. It’s not—he doesn’t—he wouldn’t—but his hands slide down her flanks to her hips again, pulling her bodily against him, and oh, maybe it is, he does, he will. One hand wanders, trailing up and across her ribs, anchoring her close, lightly scraping the undersides of her breasts through her vest. The other slips into her skirt-pocket, fingers tracing the seam where her leg meets her pelvis, and it’s all Rose can do to keep from bucking against him, pressing him closer to where she’s practically begging for his attention.
Drunk on the feel of the Doctor’s hands on her, his body wrapped around hers, the beat thundering through her veins like a second hammering pulse, Rose throws a hand back, desperate to touch. Her nails scrape the bristling hairs at the bottom of his scalp and he shudders. Head lowering, he burrows his face against her hair, his nose tickling the shell of her ear, and distantly, Rose thinks he must be smelling her, breathing her in, inebriating himself on the potent cocktail of her sweat and hormones.
Any moment now, Rose realizes with a thrill, she’s going to turn around and kiss him.
She could almost do it right now; his head is still bowed close to hers, his breath issuing warm on her ear, and if Rose craned her neck just so, just like she’s doing now, she could lean back and—
“Sorry to impose, but what the hell are you two doing?”
Jack’s voice cuts through Rose’s thoughts like a knife through butter and instantly, the spell is broken. The warm and soft haze of their cocoon snaps, ice-cold air flooding in. As if waking up from a deep sleep, the Doctor blinks, shaking himself, and both of them pull back to see Jack watching them. Panic wells up in Rose’s throat—oh god, it’s all going to come crashing down around their ears, isn’t it, the second Jack opens his mouth again to let out something some stupid innuendo-laden thing—
“Did you not notice the guards chasing us?” Jack snaps, one eyebrow raised incredulously. “The heavily-armed, state-sanctioned, religiously-motivated guards with lots and lots of pointy weapons? Did this really seem like the best time to squeeze in a little clubbin’?”
“Yeah, well. Maybe it’s time we leave,” the Doctor hmphs, clearing his throat.
Jack stares at him. “You think?”
When the Doctor just rolls his eyes in response, Jack turns to leave, shaking his head and muttering exasperatedly under his breath. Rose has every intention of hanging back and trailing after the two of them, in the hopes that she can regain some control over her shallow breathing and scarlet-flushing cheeks before either man has a chance to get a good look at her, so she doesn’t resist the sudden sluggishness of her feet, doesn’t press her jelly-soft legs to move any faster than they want. The Doctor will start pretending none of this happened soon enough; she has no desire to hop straight to that any sooner than she has to. Let her hold onto the memory just a few moments longer, she thinks. Let her bask in the magic for just a little bit more.
But then the Doctor’s hand wraps around hers and he squeezes, a quick but unmistakable thing, brief but oddly reassuring, and then he’s pulling her back out the way they came, his eyes never meeting hers, but his grip comfortably snug. As if his fingers are saying, maybe, that they’ve got no intention of letting go.
Rose’s stomach settles a little and she allows herself to be tugged along, willing her body to calm and her skin to stop pleading for the Doctor’s touch. It was only a handful of moments anyway. Not like she didn’t go without for countless days before.
(Besides—if she’s really got to have someone scratch that itch, she bets Mickey would be willing even if the Doctor wouldn’t. Maybe she ought to give him a call.)
***
A visit to Cardiff and a repeat run-in with a stray Slitheen (not to mention a frustrating argument with Mickey) leaves all three TARDIS companions just a little bit tired, or at the least, a little bit ready for some quiet downtime. So while Jack struts around twenty-second-century England looking for companionable fellowship (as he puts it, with a wink), Rose and the Doctor sprawl over the couch in the library, both of them cheerfully ignoring the nature documentary that plays quietly on the ancient TV set in favor of their respective reading material (the Doctor with his alien literature Rose doesn’t recognize, Rose with her latest batch of trashy mags). Per usual, the Doctor sits squarely in the middle of the couch, and he doesn’t protest when Rose decides that a position decidedly more horizontal would suit her needs better, even though it means her blanketed legs drape across his lap.
Attention fixed on his book, the Doctor’s hand drifts idly down to rest on Rose’s legs, fingers drumming absently through the blanket over her knees like he’s not even thinking about it. At first, Rose doesn’t think much of it either; it’s nothing he hasn’t done before, and besides, she’s thirteen questions deep in a crossword puzzle, and she’s buried in her own thoughts, trying to remember a host of British pop culture references.
But then his hand shifts higher, and Rose notices.
It isn’t that the touch is inappropriate, especially not for them. It’s perfectly innocuous between two flirtatious friends, just a hand on her leg above the knee, fingers drumming gently, the blanket a soft but impermeable layer between their skin. It isn’t inappropriate, but it’s still unusual, fairly new territory for the Doctor to touch, and Rose’s body knows it.
She wonders—if she takes the lead, will he follow?
Slowly (very slowly, so she doesn’t frighten him off), Rose shifts on the couch, inching downward until her thighs replace her knees in their position over the Doctor’s lap. Whether he notices is impossible to determine; his hand largely stays put, seemingly content to rest on whatever patch of Rose’s body lies directly beneath it. He’s tapping against her midthigh now, and it’s ridiculous but Rose’s body is already straining for more of his touch, something more intimate, higher, deeper. Drinking in a long breath she hopes he doesn’t notice, Rose scoots a little lower still, until her bum is nestled against the Doctor’s legs and she has to bend her legs over his lap.
His hand stills on her upper thigh, and behind her magazine, Rose chews on the inside of her lip, wondering if she went too far.
Gradually, the Doctor’s hand resumes moving against her, though it’s less of a tap this time, more of a—well, a stroke, if Rose had to put a word to it. Moving from her upper thigh down, down, down to her knee, doubling back. Drawing a long, slow, lazy circle, over and over again. After a few moments, his hand dips inward, trailing over skin over-sensitized by the rasp of the blanket between them, and Rose swallows back the hum trying to make its way out of her throat. As the Doctor’s hand traces its path back upward, Rose arches into his touch in what she hopes is an unmistakable invitation to keep going, please, god, keep going.
The Doctor moves his hand long enough to turn the page of his book, but when his hand returns it’s to slip beneath the blanket, fingers sliding directly against her skin. Her magazine long-forgotten, Rose’s eyes shutter closed in contentment and she imagines what it must look like beneath the blanket, the Doctor’s hand stroking her inner thigh, leaving warm and ticklish trails in its wake. Each time, his fingers hesitate just before reaching the spot where she really wants him, pausing before they can reach the seam of her shorts, so on this last trip northward, before he can switch directions Rose clamps her legs together, trapping his hand very close to where she’s growing warm and increasingly damp.
His hand stills again, along with the air in Rose’s lungs.
Finally, in agonizing slow-motion, his hand ventures upward, fingertips glancing against the seam of Rose’s shorts. Nerves pinging with nervousness and anticipation, Rose tilts her hips forward, a request, a plea. The Doctor replies with a firmer brush of his fingers over her shorts, thumb exploring the center seam til he finds the place that dips inward.
Safe behind her magazine, Rose bites her lip and fights not to whine for more.
Gently, the Doctor circles the area with his thumb, stroking here, pressing there, drawing spirals round and round until Rose has dampened her pants and shorts and she can’t help it anymore, her hips are starting to buck, harder and harder, seeking friction anywhere she can get it. Her head lolls back against the couch-cushions as the Doctor responds with firmer pressure, finding her clit through soaked cotton and teasing it to full, almost painfully engorged attention, and thank heaven for this stupid trashy magazine, thank any god that might be listening, because the crackle-crumple-crunch of the pages in her quivering fists is just loud enough to mask the shameless panting that leaves her lips in bursts, not to mention the thing provides more than adequate cover to hide whatever stupid faces she’s making as he strokes her through her pants.
She wants to touch him, she wants to touch him so badly, but would that make him stop, would that break the spell? But he twists his wrist just so and now she’s close, embarrassingly so, and one hand flies down to his, not demanding, not guiding, just touching, she’s got to touch him somehow, she’s got to—
His rhythm falters—did she surprise him, with her need to touch?—but he doesn’t push her away and he doesn’t stop. Eyes cinching shut amidst the pleasure building higher and higher between her legs, Rose drags her nails along the Doctor’s forearm, charting the tense and release of his muscles as his clever fingers fuck her faster, harder. It’s all she can do to keep from gasping as the heat and bare animal need builds to a desperate crescendo; when she finally comes, she turns her face into her shoulder to keep herself from crying out his name.
God that was—she can’t believe they just—just, god. (And god bless those talented hands of his.)
Only after her hips start to stutter and slow, her entire body numbing beneath the waist, does Rose realize just how hard she was clutching the Doctor’s forearm; a glimpse around the trembling (and completely crumpled) pages of her magazine shows five little crescent-shapes dug into his skin, crescent-shapes that match the curve of her nails exactly. Cringing even as her head fills with that pleasant post-sex hum, Rose traces the dents with a featherlight touch, wonders if she should apologize, what would happen if she did. She settles for dragging her fingers along the curve of his arm, down to his hand, instead, nudging him tentatively, almost shyly, where his fingers are still buried between her legs. His hand withdraws to curl around hers.
Probably she should say something, but her brain doesn’t seem capable, at the moment.
“No luck, then?” asks the Doctor, but before Rose’s post-shagging-sluggish mind can figure out what the hell he means, she hears the telltale sounds of Jack shuffling into the room. “Ladies, gents, and erstwhile folk not buying what you’re selling?”
“Everyone has their off-season,” sniffs Jack, plunking himself down on the couch by Rose’s feet. Something rustles in his hands and seconds later, the delicious buttery aroma of fresh popcorn wafts Rose’s way. “Besides, at least I’m selling,” Jack says around a mouthful of popcorn. “When’s the last time you set up shop, anyway? Was Margaret Thatcher still in office?”
“I do all right,” says the Doctor primly, and Rose peeks over her long-forgotten magazine to see Jack offering the bowl his way. Without looking, the Doctor plucks a few fluffy pieces of popcorn off the top, popping them into his mouth and licking his fingers free of the butter afterward. Only Rose realizes that’s the hand that was just between her legs, so he’s certain to get a mouthful of something more than butter, and her heart flutters frantically in her throat. The way his thumb brushes over his lower lip afterward is nothing short of obscene.
Rose gulps. Please, please don’t let him feel how warm she is between the legs again. (Of course he does. Who’s she kidding?)
“What are you two watching, anyway? Some kinda nature documentary?” asks Jack around a mouthful of popcorn, wrinkling his nose at the TV screen. “Boo! Boring. Give me something fun!”
“You know,” says the Doctor, chuckling as he turns the next page in his book, “some of us learn how to make our own fun.”
Rose ducks back down behind her magazine so neither gentleman can see how furiously she’s blushing.
***
It’s in the midcentury Italian countryside that she notices him looking, so it’s in the midcentury Italian countryside that she decides to do something about it.
(To be fair, Rose did request that they go somewhere warm specifically so she could wear pretty sundresses, and she did choose this particular sundress with the express intent that he should look at her in it, so she’s not at all displeased to suddenly feel his gaze heavy on her, warm and tangible like the touch of a lover’s hand. You could, in fact, go so far as to say she’s pleased.)
She half-expects him to look away when her eyes meet his, for him to clear his throat and start babbling about something or other, per usual, but he just leans against the wooden countertop in the cottage kitchen, eyes gliding lazy and unabashed over the smooth lines of her shoulders, set aglow in the honeyed afternoon sun leaking through the window. Rose turns to face him, catching dust motes in the swirl of her skirt; they flutter in her wake, a hundred fireflies dancing in the afternoon light and kissing her suntanned skin. Still the Doctor doesn’t look away, his eyes fixed on hers through the sultry gold-glittering haze. He just watches. Patiently. Waiting.
Rose suppresses a delicious shudder.
Jack and the lovely host family chatter amicably around them, preparing for a post-saving-the-day celebratory dinner; Rose and the Doctor smile and join in, the Doctor pulling in chairs and setting bowls and plates and forks, Rose peeling potatoes and slicing shallots with the family nonna. The heavenly scent of fresh-baked bread and ripe-picked fruit fills the air, and there’s eating and laughing and cleaning up afterward, but the Doctor’s eyes never leave Rose for long. The intensity of his gaze is far worse than the afternoon sun ever was and Rose wonders if she’ll ever stop burning.
(The answer, she already knows, is no.)
Once night descends, blanketing everything in soothing darkness at the end of the evening, the family wishes everyone a good night, Nonna pecking Rose and Jack and the Doctor each on the cheek (and squeezing Rose’s hands in hers, with a cheeky little wink for good measure; nothing much gets past Nonna, Rose suspects). The last of the buonanotte’s are exchanged and everyone peels away to their sleeping-quarters, Rose and her gentlemen gratefully accepting their hosts’ gracious offer of a spare room for the night. The Doctor takes up his perch on the old overstuffed armchair in the corner of the room while Jack flops onto the bed without preamble, not even bothering to turn down the duvet; within a few moments, all falls dark and quiet in the house, the lights dimming to gentle black, the sounds of sleepy shuffles and creaking wooden doors and washing-up giving way to the susurrus of chirping crickets and softly-calling nightingales outside.
The moment Jack’s breathing evens out into the telltale rhythm of a good, deep sleep, Rose rises from the other side of the bed, guiding herself by touch and sound. Everything seems heightened, in the dark; she’s almost pornographically aware of the cool, smooth tiles beneath her feet, the rough walls beneath her fingertips, the brush of her cotton skirt between her legs, the deafening pulse of her heart bleating in her throat, so loud she’s certain everyone in the house can hear it. Her hands roam over a landscape of wooden bed frame and soft linens and whitewashed walls until she reaches the far side of the room. Catching her breath, Rose extends a hand out to the darkness, reaching, a silent offer and request all in one—
After a few agonizing seconds of pitch-black nothingness, gentle fingers wrap around hers, thrilling her blood with a near-electric shock in the night. If Rose thought her hammering heart was loud before, now it’s bloody thunderous.
Rose allows the hand to guide her, following silently; when her knee bumps the Doctor’s, offering a tactile map of where he is (and where she needs to go), it tells her everything she needs to know in order to pull up her skirt and slide right into his lap. A soft intake of breath suggests the Doctor is surprised, but if so, he recovers quickly; his hands settle on her hips, thumbs stroking softly through the thin cotton of her sundress.
Biting her lip—she wonders, can he see her doing it? Can he see how nervous she is, can he smell it?—Rose lifts her hands, searching for him in the dark. Her palms meet his jumper, scratchy-soft and woolen, and her hands travel up his chest to his shoulders, drawing in to trace the sharp line of his jaw. No stubble meets her fingertips; his skin is surprisingly smooth. Her fingers brush across his cheekbones, curling behind his ears, painting a portrait through touch, and the Doctor sits patiently through it all, his hands never straying from her hips. It isn’t until Rose’s thumbs glance against the corners of his mouth that she realizes just how closely she’s leaning in, close enough that she can feel the warmth of her exhale trapped between them.
Well. At this point, it would be ruder not to kiss him, wouldn’t it?
Closing her eyes against the darkness, Rose bridges the distance with a kiss, a short, sweet, chaste thing pressed to the Doctor’s lips before Rose has a chance to talk herself out of it. She pulls back quickly, heart pounding furiously in her chest as she rests her forehead against his, swallowing her nerves. When the Doctor doesn’t respond for a few moments (almost as if he’s just as hesitant as she is, and isn’t that something?), Rose tries again, planting soft kisses on his forehead, his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth. This time the Doctor shifts before she has a chance to pull away, cupping her jaw and turning his head to catch her in a proper kiss.
(Strangely, all the other sounds and textures of the room fade away at that.)
Happiness inflates in Rose’s chest like a balloon and she grins madly as she kisses him back, her arms wrapped around his neck so she doesn’t drift up and away. She doesn’t know how many moments pass with the two of them wrapped around each other like this, content simply to press themselves together and gently chart the unexplored territory of each other’s lips; she also doesn’t care. Probably they should take this slow but as time wears on Rose’s body grows distinctly disinterested in such thoughts and refuses to focus on anything that isn’t the Doctor’s mouth on hers or his hand gripping her hip or his legs tensing beneath her or his lips parting to betray the smallest hint of moisture. Rose chases after the opening greedily, deepening the kiss and fisting her hands in his jumper to stop herself from humming when his tongue brushes over hers. His fingers tangle in her hair, transforming the kiss into a bruising thing and she can’t help but whimper then, her body absolutely shaking with want.
At that the Doctor stops. Winded, chest heaving, Rose starts to ask what’s wrong but stops at his hand soft against her mouth; he shifts beneath her and Rose realizes that he’s eying Jack over on the bed, determining whether their noise has woken him. But Jack is either well and truly asleep or doing a damn good job pretending and besides, he wouldn’t care, he’s Jack for Christ’s sake, and Rose doesn’t want to stop and she doesn’t want to move away and she doesn’t want to wait and then she’s pulling the Doctor’s hand away and kissing him again, harder this time, desperately, like he’s a thunderstorm and she’s a desert sorely in need of rain. Her body cries out for his touch and she presses his hand against her breast so he can feel her nipple peaking through the thin cotton of her dress, so he can feel it and decide what to do about it.
He inhales sharply, his hand freezing on her breast. Slowly, his thumb circles her nipple through her dress until it’s almost painfully oversensitized and sending bolts of liquid warmth pooling between Rose’s legs. She bites down on his lip to stop herself from gasping and in response the Doctor grasps her by the hip, pulling her bodily against him until her thighs bracket his waist. Rose’s lips purse together to trap her whimpers inside as the Doctor slips her straps over her shoulders, pulling down the top of her dress to expose her breasts to the night air while he trails kisses across her jaw, down her neck, over her collarbone. Rose clings to him, kissing the shell of his ear as he massages her breasts, teasing her nipples with the pads of his thumbs until her thighs are trembling from restraint.
She’s wet now and when she finally rolls her hips forward, desperate for even a hint of friction, it’s all she can do to keep from cheering as she feels him hardening beneath her. He hisses into her skin as she rubs against him, his hands flying back down to her hips, grasping hard enough to bruise. Even through his jeans she can feel the length of him, hot and hard and pressing right where she needs him, the friction delicious even through all these damn layers of clothing.
Rose buries her face against the Doctor’s neck, stifling her ragged breathing as she fucks him through her thoroughly-soaked pants. He clutches at her ass and her hips and arches into her, hot curses muffled damply by her skin, and fuck. Rose wants him more than she’s ever wanted anything in her life and if his reactions are anything to go by then he feels the same and god if he doesn’t fuck her right fucking now she is going to fucking scream.
“Please,” she whispers brokenly, and his hands have slipped down to his trousers before she can even finish the word. He fumbles with the clasp for just a second before Rose pushes his hands away, flipping the trousers open and lowering the zip so she can free his cock from his boxers. Normally she might take her time with this, enjoying the hot weight of him in her hands as she strokes a line from base to tip, grasping him gently, feeling him shudder, but a more thorough exploration can wait for another day because right now all she can think with every pulse bleating between her legs is in, in, in. And he must be thinking the same, because the second he’s freed of his trousers he’s slipping his hands beneath her skirt, grasping at the sideseam of her knickers and yanking it apart with a rip that rends the night air.
Rose turns to check on Jack again—that rip was loud, did they wake him?—but the Doctor’s fingers wrap around her chin, forcing her back so he can trap her lips in a punishing kiss. He pushes her knickers roughly aside and she chokes back a gasp at his fingers teasing her afterward; he hums quietly into her mouth at how warm and slick she is, how easily his fingers glide around and through before he positions his cock right where she needs it. As she sinks down on him, engulfing him in slick, blistering heat, they both fail to bite back a groan.
This time neither of them bother to check if Jack was startled awake by the noise. It doesn’t matter—nothing matters—nothing else exists right now except the two of them, clutching at each other in the dark.
The Doctor buries his face against her neck, just breathing. His hands, tense and taut on her thighs, suggest he’s giving her time to adjust, or maybe giving himself that time, as if he fears he won’t last long otherwise; Rose stifles a laugh at that, because he needn’t worry about either. She’s almost unbearably wet and it won’t take much to push her over the edge and she’ll be damned if she comes without bringing him along for the ride. She ignores his grip on her legs and starts moving, rolling her hips, her mouth falling open at the push-pull-slide of his cock inside her. He pants into her skin, hands scrambling to anchor her to him by her thighs, her hips, her ass, any part of her that he can get a hold on, fingers digging in so tightly that Rose gasps from the pain, but she’s not going to tell him to stop because something about the bite of his fingertips thrills her, the out-of-control sheer animal need of it, and besides, she’s giving as good as she’s getting. Her hands have slipped beneath his jumper to clutch at bare skin, and she just knows her fingernails are dragging ten little jagged lines down the skin of his back, digging in more and more the harder they both thrust, the deeper he pushes inside her.
Overwhelmed by the mixture of emotion and friction and hormones and relief, Rose bites into the Doctor’s shoulder through his jumper to keep from crying out as her muscles flutter and spasm around him. Her toes curl and legs cramp with the jolt of pleasure surging through her, knocking the air from her lungs and leaving her breathless. The Doctor follows soon after, muffling his shout against her skin as his cock pulses and empties inside her. Their thrusting gradually slows and all that’s left is the two of them wrapped snugly round each other, Rose slumping against the Doctor as she fights to regain control of her breathing, listening to the rush of her blood in her ears.
Holy fuck. She can’t believe they just did that.
(She can’t believe it took them so long.)
Slowly, Rose’s hand slips around to the Doctor’s abdomen, and she smiles as his stomach muscles flutter under her touch, but she’s not trying to start anything; she just wants to take advantage of this moment, the rare vulnerability of it. Her palm presses to the bottom of his ribcage, measuring the steady thump-thump, thump-thump of his two hearts, solid and reliable as a metronome. His body isn’t nearly as winded or taxed by the experience as hers is, but you wouldn’t know it from how tightly he’s still holding onto her, how his face is still buried against her neck, as if there was any chance she could see him in the dark. She rests her head against his and he idly strokes her skin, like he’s not even thinking about it, like it’s just second nature for him.
They’ll have to get up soon, Rose knows. Discomfort and stickiness will set in, not to mention she still needs to get her sleep. But for now, she just relaxes in his arms, smiling when he presses a kiss against her neck.
Jack, of course, will be unbearably smug when he finds out.
(Still worth it, she thinks with a grin.)
***
“Whoa,” is the first thing she hears upon awakening; the first thing she sees upon opening her eyes is Jack’s face, his brow furrowed in concern. “When did that happen?”
Blinking sleep out of her eyes, Rose takes a moment to drink in the scene around her; it’s morning, now, and Rose is curled into the side of a comfortable bed, almost entirely cocooned by quilts and plush pillows. The Italian cottage has filled with the sounds of children playing and breakfast cooking, birdsong and soft goat-bleats filtering in from outside. Soft sunlight streams in lazily through the open bedroom window, casting a gentle rose-gold hue over the white walls and quilted bedcover, filling the air with an almost magical liquid haze. It’s a gorgeous morning, like something out of a fairytale book, even if Jack is staring down at Rose like that.
Hang on. Why is Jack staring at Rose like that?
Rose tracks his line of sight and bites her lip at what she sees—of course, one of her legs sticks out askance from beneath the bedcover, and of course, her dress has ridden up in the night, and of course, all of this means that a series of bluish-purple bruises is now distinctly visible in the morning light, too stark for the soft pink haze to mask. The bruises stand out against her skin like watercolors splashed across a canvas. Between that and the soreness between Rose’s legs, pleasant but still very much there, Rose has concrete, physical proof that what happened last night wasn’t a gorgeous dream, but did, in fact, actually happen; it also, however, probably looks to an outsider like someone hit her, or worse.
“Erm,” says Rose, awkwardly, twisting the bedclothes in her hands.
Jack’s eyes narrow in suspicion, and he glances up as the Doctor enters the room. Halting in the doorway, the Doctor pauses at the sight of the two of them, at Jack’s shrewd expression and Rose lying on the bed with her bruises exposed to the world. The Doctor frowns, and dread coils in the pit of Rose’s stomach until she realizes he isn’t upset that they’ve been caught out—he must not have noticed the bruises before. He’s upset that he hurt her, that those marks are there because of him.
“Don’t suppose you know how she got those bruises,” Jack says warily, fists clenching like he’s ready to fight.
The Doctor’s gaze darts up to Rose’s, eyes full of worry. She smiles. At that, the Doctor relaxes, tension dissipating from his shoulders with a shrug.
“You should see the other guy,” he replies, with a gesture toward his back.
It takes approximately half a second for the truth to dawn on Jack, then, his eyes widening with the revelation. “Wait. You two—?” he accuses, looking back and forth between them, his mouth falling open at Rose’s broadening grin. “When—?”
“I told you,” says the Doctor, leaning against the doorjamb. “I do all right.”
Laughing at the look of utter bewilderment on Jack’s face, Rose disentangles herself from the covers and pushes up from the bed, crossing over to the Doctor so she can wrap her arms around him in a hug. He responds in kind, and amidst the sounds of Jack muttering to himself in disbelief (But when—But how did I miss—What?), Rose tentatively edges her fingers beneath the Doctor’s jumper, exploring the terrain of his back. Of course, his scratches have already mostly healed; in a few hours’ time, they’ll be gone like they were never there. But she can still feel the lines she carved into his skin, can still feel the evidence that for all that he marked her, she claimed him, too.
“Good morning,” the Doctor says, his voice tinged with amusement, and Rose steps up on her toes to press a soft kiss to his lips, delighted that this is something she can do now. He’s grinning like a daft idiot when she pulls away; she suspects she’s sporting a smile to match.
“Very good morning,” the Doctor amends, and even as Jack laughs—at the statement or their kiss or the blush spreading slowly across their respective cheeks, Rose can’t be sure—he bends down to kiss her again, contented and languorous, like he thinks they’re the only two people in the room.
(The feeling is mutual.)