A Teaspoon And An Open Mind: A Doctor Who Fan Fiction Archive
Tenth Doctor
Kinetic Sense by Doona Rose [Reviews - 18] Printer
Author's Notes:
Massive thanks to chicklet73 who did a great deal of editing, reassuring, visualizing, contemplating and poking. It started out so innocently: just sex with the lights out…then it got a whole lot worse. And rather long though the whole thing is pure smut I asure you. Nonetheless, I enjoyed writing it immensely and I hope you all enjoy reading it.




He thinks she’s probably just gotten out of the shower, thinks she must be standing somewhere — bedroom or bathroom — wrapped only in a towel, wondering why the lights have gone out. A fluffy, white towel that would barely make it a third of the way down her thighs because he’s seen her towels and has thought about it. Walking all the way to her room in the dark, with nothing else to think about, he’s probably thought about it a little too much.

“Rose,” he calls out, opening her door and stepping inside, a hand on the solid metal behind him to keep his bearings. There’s no reply and he purses his lips and takes a second step forward. “Rose, are you in here?” Still no reply and now he really wishes he hadn’t left his sonic screwdriver in a pile of TARDIS odds and ends the day before. At least it would provide some sort of light.

Hearing a door open at the other end of the room, he feels a solid sheet of steam move past him, the smell of strawberries wafting through it too strong to be ignored. Hopefully, she’s emerging in a towel because the alternative, the one where she forgot to grab her towel at all, is so much worse. What was she doing taking a shower in the middle of the afternoon anyway?

“Doctor?” she calls and he thinks he can place her just off to the left, maybe a half dozen meters away.

“Here, Rose.” There’s an annoyed, tiresome edge to his voice she doesn’t understand at all but that he’s already mentally chastising himself for.

A pause as she wonders several things, her feet then sliding across the metal floor, the sound, usually soft, omnipresent in their current situation. “What’s going on?”

Oh yes, she knows something’s upsetting him. She poses her question like whatever’s wrong, it is his fault but he shouldn’t feel bad about it; the little boy who wanted to make his mum breakfast in bed but only succeeded in setting off the fire alarm. The nine hundred year old Time Lord who occasionally has dreams of his platonic companion naked and writhing beneath him.

“The lights have stopped working.” She sighs and he rolls his eyes, not that she sees it. “Probably something to do with the alternate reality, a loose sector or something.” A shake of his head. “Either way, all they need is a new energy surge and they’ll be fine.”

“And how do we do that?”

“We —” he falters because his hand has alighted on something. It’s warm and scratchy but certainly not a towel: jeans, a hip. He’s thankful it’s not a towel because of that image that’s curled around his thoughts: grabbing the material and pulling. Not the thing to be thinking now. Denim, good. “We need to —” again he stops, stuttering slightly as his fingers — seemingly with a mind of their own — drift higher to find a shirt all too easily slipped under.

Skin still damp, a droplet here, trailing down, following it to pants and the stark contrast of denim, now comparatively cold, making him remember himself and retreat.

She’s not saying anything but her breathing gives her away.

“We need to find the cause, otherwise the energy will never spread around equally and there’ll be parts of the TARDIS stuck in the dark.”

And then she agrees and her hand finds his and they edge out into the corridor. Ten minutes later he remembers that he had planned on leaving her behind and a heavy sigh escapes his lips. She’s let go of his hand, is trying to keep her distance, walking out in front, because she knows something’s wrong.

Leaving him alone would be easier if it wasn’t pitch black, but she moves slowly with her hands out in front of her and he directs, telling her when to take a turn or find a door from a few steps behind.

Fifteen minutes pass and she has to ask: “Are you sure you know where you’re going?”

He sighs again and is glad she has no idea he’s letting his mind wander. Not a lot, nothing too distracting, just a few vague glimpses. It’s dark and boring and she still smells like strawberries and heat and as miffed as he is, he can’t avoid thinking of her in the shower. Usually, she’d be there, the one in reality raising an eyebrow and crossing her arms as his eyes lost focus and his lips quirked up. But now it’s dark and there’s nothing to stop him.

“Yes Rose. I know this ship like the back of my hand.”

She mumbles something then clicks her tongue, obviously beginning to get frustrated but what’s he meant to do about that? They keep moving, corridor after corridor and he thinks they must be almost there, wherever it is they’re going. The TARDIS knows where the problem lies, is directing him telepathically, so he can’t really be wrong.

Thoughts of the TARDIS a welcome distraction that’s shattered as Rose licks her lips then swallows. He doesn’t know why or how he picked that up but even at a few meters, he can hear it and he’s back in the shower, her wrists in his hands and water pouring down over both of them. She’s grinning at him like sin and he’s mirroring it, letting his eyes wander over her body because in this little fantasy she’s his. In all of his little fantasies, she’s his.

It’s too much. He squeezes his eyes shut and wishes he could send Rose back to her room, could just be him by himself, mind and hands wandering until Rose leaves his mind for good. But he can’t. Right now he just needs to keep walking, be thankful that there’s no way for her to tell there’s anything out of the ordinary, that she can’t see the very real (and possibly quite embarrassing) physical reaction of his body to the thoughts of her in his mind.

And now one of his hands is wandering: instead of swinging at his side or stretching out to feel his way along the walls, it’s resting on the crease between trousers and shirt. It’s ridiculous what she does to him and he just wants it to stop. His hand slips lower, the heel pressing down, pressure and warmth and the slightest bit of release, though he knows it will only make things worse in the long run.

Then he stops, takes his hand and shoves it into his pocket and starts mentally reciting the complete works of William Blake. Anything to stop him thinking about Rose, anything to make it all disappear.

Ironically, it’s one of the Songs of Innocence that’s running through his head when he walks straight into her. He remembers her saying a second before something about a dead end but it hadn’t registered because he’d been working so hard at remembering the poetry. And now he’s walked straight into the back of her.

Strawberries and silk and when he has the intelligence to pull his face away he realizes that’s her hair. A second later he realizes his body is pressed to the rest of hers, can feel her curves and heat where his left thigh is pressed to the back of her right. Is ever so tempted to move closer, line up better and slip his hands around to the front —

Her hand is pressed against his crotch, all the dimensions lining up so that she can feel him right there. Fingers splayed and this has to be the most awful coincidence fate has ever played on him. Pressing down for just an instant and then he jumps back.

Waits, patiently, curses the fact that it’s so dark: if there’s any light anywhere, the tiniest fleck peaking out from under a door or a tiny phosphorescent glow from the ship’s walls, his eyes would have honed in on it by now. He would be able to see it. To see her, an outline, a shadow, something that would reassure him she’s going to ignore it. Here, now, nothing is happening, she’s holding her breath and he’s just waiting for her to laugh or run or get really, really cross.

He’s never thought of anything like this actually happening in reality; he wishes he could dismiss it, pretend she hadn’t felt just how hard he already was, let her palm lie heavy against him for a brief second and then gasped. But since it’s turned his blood hot and made his pants tighter still, he can’t pretend.

About to start yelling, he automatically runs a hand through his hair, takes a deep breath and then it hitches, lungs full, vocal chords ready, but the back of her fingers just moved back over his crotch: only a whisper but he knows it happened.

What’s she doing? Making sure? Confirming the sin?

Back again but this time it’s the very tips of her fingers tracing the length of him, finding him absolutely, undeniably hard. Heat and tension radiating through cotton she’d always suspected was incredibly thin. And she’s thinking: he can almost hear it.

More now, her palm pressing against him, rough, hard pressure that doesn’t seem testing at all. Fingers curling, pressing, cupping him just there and god he can’t help it, his hips moving towards her, pushing into her hand.

Then hears the zipper, hears it before he feels it, can’t see and his eyes are squeezed shut so tightly the lights might have come on and he wouldn’t know. Pressure gone for a second and he hears the scrunch of clothing as she moves; he braces, teeth clenched, terrified and exhilarated and bollocks, he’s going to shatter into a thousand little pieces and not care.

Is she grinning, letting him hear the zipper descend? Does she know about the lightest rush of cold air, his breath shallow and fast and him just wishing she’d touch him again? Does she think it’s funny? A tease. Eyes springing open, he reaches for her blindly, one hand laid flat against the wall behind him, while the other is tracing the air in front, wanting a wrist or a hand so he can force it and getting nothing. Leaking energy and passion and desperate, desperate need, and not finding anything.

Leaning further forward, almost letting something escape his lips, something low and gravelly, but stopping himself. Where? Straining against the invisible constraint of position and distance to find some sort of contact and —

Built up, it releases, a dangerous, drawn out groan that rattles through him as she appears from no where, just a hand and fleetingly he knows much more of her and it’ll kill him. Fingers wrapping around him, slipping seamlessly into his pants, down the waistband of his underwear, and doing exactly what he’s silently been begging for. Hard. Fast. Rough. Clichéd but fantastic. Shoving material out of the way so she can do more.

Over and over until his hips have gone from rocking upwards — soft, subdued as he holds back that little bit longer — to reckless, erratic movement, bucking into her hand and she is so enjoying that. Grinning and letting her tongue catch between her teeth, he knows, knows her well enough. Teeth and tongue and he still hasn’t kissed her. Moans again.

Needs to kiss her more than he needs release — god, release and just minutes ago none of this was real — they haven’t spoken or explained or excused the behavior and he should ask her to stop but won’t. Wants to feel her lips and the rest of her body against him, telling him that this is Rose and not just some incredibly talented fingers. Wants it all more than he wants her to keep going and when he manages to reach for her, pulling her hands away, he knows she’s wondering why he made her stop.

Pulls her hands to his lips and presses his lips to the back of one and then the other, leaning against her skin as the seconds pass and she relaxes and he slips back into control.

Then her hands move, suddenly jumping to life and meeting in the middle, pulling at buttons, undoing each and every one and then sliding across skin. Pulling shirt tails out of trousers that have slipped half way over his backside, zipper undone at the front, rendering the garment useless. She lets the back of her knuckles brush back along his length before moving back up his chest.

One hand after the other, fingertips then palm of her right, nails then knuckles of her left. Explores: abdomen, arms, shoulders, back, lower and again she contemplates pushing the trousers all the way down. Because it wouldn’t be hard, the zipper and clasp already taken care of, the actual garment, if she remembers correctly, leaving his modesty in tatters.

But no; up his back again, scratching lightly as her hands move under his shirt, ducks beneath an arm that’s he’s raised instinctually and rests her hands over his hearts. His breathing is evident his heart rate fast. Hands down, nails scraping lightly over nipples because she’s known men who like that, hears nothing in reply but a moment later feels a slow breath released, the air moving across her cheek. Wonders what it means. Grins, then can’t resist.

Dips her head and runs her tongue over his right nipple: rough, all pressure, then a flick and something gravelly moves through him. But she’s distracted now; this close she can smell him — sweat, she thinks, something distinctly spicy and something sweet. And not like any human she’s ever smelt before; she wonders why she never noticed before. Leaning in, she presses her lips to the other nipple, sucking and then licking when his hand flies to her hair in unconscious encouragement.

He smells edible, smells like some fruit she’s never tasted and it’s foreign and strange and exciting all at once. She licks again, trying to taste what she can already smell.

Again and then she pulls back, something occurring to her as the one coherent thought out of a sea of irrationality: they haven’t kissed yet.

The rustle of clothing and he wonders what she’s playing at. Reaches out with one hand and feels the unmistakable bare curve of her waist. Immediately, his fingers are pressing, circling and his thumb moves to the front, squeezing slightly, trailing up over ribs.

Another sound, stark and loud, behind him, a chink as something hits the floor. Muffled somewhat by…realization dawns and his hand trails upwards quickly; the smooth, warm expanse of her back, of her stomach, forgotten. His hand finds a breast, hot and bare and pressing into his palm as soon as it’s there.

Holds it and then wastes no time in letting his lips move across the smooth skin, licking, biting his way from one to the other, licking across a nipple, blowing cold air and then taking it in his mouth, sucking as his hands rests dormant. Swaps and lavishes the same attention on the other.

Drawing his lips away, trailing light kisses down her body in a meandering path he splays his hands, letting them drift lower alongside his lips. Another press of mouth on skin to the left of her belly button and her knees tremble ever so slightly. Then his tongue sneaks out for a lick, teeth take a nip. A gasp that gets dragged into a moan when she feels his hands move with a gentle pressure lower on her stomach, button of her jeans undone and now, any second, he’ll pull them off. Any second. Mouth gone but she thinks she can feel hot air moving over her skin, hands paused, holding the waistband of her jeans. She wonders if this is hesitation.

Reaching out blindly, her hand finds soft, mussed up hair, her fingers curve around to cup his cheek, feeling the corner of his lips against her palm. She’s surprised to find them upturned, a stunning, curving smile that doesn’t make sense if he’s hesitating. Her own lips turn down in confusion, considering how to ask.

Lips break apart and she gasps, a curse escaping on her breath unnoticed and it feels like most of her body has turned to hot, spiced honey. All she knows are his fingers and palm, moving against her, just there. They’ve slipped between cloth and skin and are pressed against her, stroking. She feels air moving across her thighs and knows her pants are somewhere around her knees: ignores it. Only his hand, against her, moving, pressing, fingers, two long and strong — just like the rest of him — slipping inside her. Curling and caressing and moving and her mouth falls open, her head falls back and she feels her legs collapsing out from under her.

Fingers slipping from her just as easily as they’d slipped in. The other hand moving quickly up her thigh, holding her weight, steadying against the small of her back as he chuckles just loudly enough for her to hear. Half stumbling backwards, she’s looking for something, anything that might stop her from ending up a heap on the floor. Her back hits the wall and she transfers her weight, leaning back against it, resting and breathing as he keeps her steady, one hand still gripping waist and hip and backside.

Distantly, she hears lips on flesh, tongue lapping, sucking, swallowing, then the distinct messy sound of lips pulling away from skin. She can’t feel it, consciously searches her body for his lips and finds nothing.

Confused, her brow furrows; again, the sound of lips against tongue, against skin, moisture on moisture then another sound as they are dragged from a finger, that’s what it is. But not hers; she wiggles them to make sure. If not hers then his and through the mist of her mind the picture assembles and somehow a whimper escapes before she can stop it: the thought of him, tongue slipping out from between lips, licking across a palm, up to the tip of long, lean fingers. Winding around, taking one in his mouth; sucking them clean one by one, assimilating taste and texture after that: insanely, maddeningly good.

A few seconds of silence follow, her wondering, him just running his tongue over his teeth. Then he presses a kiss to her stomach and, sure the wall will support her, runs his hands down her sides. Finds her jeans at her knees and guides them the rest of the way down her legs, letting his hands feel out soft flesh and muscle. He remembers that she’d only just gotten out of the shower and is quietly thankful as he tugs her socks off one at a time. Then slips her feet from her jeans and underwear, sliding the clothing across the floor out of the way.

She must be completely naked now, laid out bare and he can’t see her but it doesn’t matter. He’s got two hands and can trace out every contour — isn’t that better? He lets them run up her legs, over hips and stomach and breasts and grins as he feels her breath speed up. Down again, stopping at her waist, one trailing down a leg, resting over her knee.

Moves forward kneeling before her as close as he can and he’s unable to keep the Cheshire Cat grin off his lips when he realizes that his mouth’s hanging open, tongue moving across lips every few seconds because he can smell her. Strong and slick, a scent so uniquely her but so terribly illicit he’d do best to ignore it. A slow breath out over skin as he debates restraint. He traces a slow line back up the inside of her thigh, hears her breath hitch and then follows the same line down. Wrapping his hand around her knee, he coaxes her into bending it and then lifting. Feeling her relax because she trusts him, not because she knows what’s going on.

Another grin as his lips brush his own fingers and then the flesh of her leg, moving up her inner thigh, light kisses that really don’t serve as the warning they should. Licking a slow, wet line as he slides her leg over his shoulder, eventually letting go, his hands trailing back over her skin until he can’t help but let fingers splay over her backside and press her that little bit lower.

He wonders if she’s worked it out yet then places a particularly devilish lick to the crease at the top of her thigh, pressing tongue hotly onto flesh in a small preview of what’s to come.

Pressed against the wall, completely naked and she’s got one leg dangling over his shoulder: in any other circumstance she’d find it all a bit strange. Add in the fact that she can’t see a thing and is beginning to think that her other foot probably doesn’t need to be on the ground and she’d have gawked at the ludicrousness of the proposal had someone put it to her the day before. This is beyond reason, beyond thought, beyond physics and his tongue is just there, trailing a lazy line back and forth across the inside of her thigh.

His lips are occasionally pressing against her skin, the point of his nose brushing across or a nip from his teeth. But it isn’t escalating and she wants it to. Wants him to do something more; she knows exactly where she wants his tongue, keeps accidentally imagining that first touch and how she’s instantly going to arch. But maybe he won’t, maybe they’re just going to go straight on to the sex. That’s fine, she supposes.

But he likes to lick things and she’d been so sure that that was where he was headed and now he’s just stopped. Constant, wet lips, tongue, back and forth across her thigh, breath steady. He’s just — she reaches out, letting her hand find his hair, move through it to his neck — there. Kneeling in front of her, back straight under her calf and that damn shirt’s still on. Tie too.

“Doctor…”

The tongue stops mid-movement, the tip of it, hot and brilliant, resting against her thigh and then that disappears, a chaste pressure of lips to skin and she feels his breath and the vibration of his voice almost before she hears anything. “Yes, Rose?”

Cheeky, teasing bastard. She can hear it in his voice, he knows exactly what’s going on and now he’s waiting for a reply she hasn’t got ready. What does he expect her to say? He probably expects nothing, just slight incoherence and then he’ll surprise her with his tongue, yes, just wait it out.

But his breath is hot, almost wet, reminding her of his mouth and it feels like it’s been hours since he last touched her, he isn’t moving, isn’t edging forward, he’s waiting for an answer. So what does she say? Does he want admissions of love or a moan or maybe ‘don’t stop’? ‘Don’t stop’ could work, but she has a feeling that he’d likely take that too literally and spend a seemingly infinite amount of time licking her thigh. She doesn’t want that.

Does he want her to talk dirty? Oh god, Mickey made her do that once, that was bad enough. The Doctor wouldn’t want that would he? Obviously he knows mouths have better uses.

She sighs heavily, curling her toes against his back hoping that that might communicate what she needs. And he laughs softly, the vibration moving through him then her; she’d growl at him if she thought it would make a difference.

Thinks hard: she knows what he wants, knows what she wants and the only thing stopping them is this little competition of holding back — him because he’s an arse, most obviously, and her because she can’t quite put into words just what he needs to do with that tongue.

Right. Bringing the hand that’s been resting against the wall to her side she’s surprised by how cold her own flesh is, the way it’s been disconnected from the situation, just against the wall, distanced from his mouth and skin and now it feels cold against her thigh. But he doesn’t know it’s there, he’s still breathing across her leg, settled, dormant.

She bites her lip, closing her eyes by habit to picture exactly where he is. With a hand still on the nape of his neck and heat radiating out, she knows the distance between them, knows the best path to take. Rests her hand on her stomach, flat over her abdomen and doing her best not to shiver with the anticipation and cold.

She smiles a little now because an image of what she’s about to do is swimming in front of her eyes, convincing her that this is right and powerful and will make him do anything she wants him to. Turn the tables, without him knowing it. But only if she was right before, it’s dark and she’s guessing at everything, at angles and feelings, wants and needs and if she’s wrong about this, misread invisible signals, awkward won’t even begin to describe the situation.

Her hand hovers lower, fingers splaying because her hand’s as hot as the rest of her body now and it seems almost natural. If he won’t, she will. And then she’s there, pressing her hand against flesh ever so lightly and she’s surprised by how badly she obviously needs him. Slick and hot and she hadn’t known she was this far gone. The thought that he’s done this, done it almost without her knowing, almost without touching, makes her swallow and her eyelids droop.

Is he still waiting for an answer? Because he can’t know that this is happening, there aren’t any clues because she’s being careful not to give any. His breath hasn’t hitched, his hand hasn’t gripped: he doesn’t know.

Squeezes her eyes shut to keep from making a noise or taking a breath then presses two fingers close, slipping them slowly, soundlessly inside her body. He still doesn’t know. It must be just inches from him and he’s got no idea because she’s being so careful not to let him.

It feels incredible, senses already tuned, nerves already tingling, but it could be better; remembering her objective she slips her fingers silently out, her mouth falling open at the feeling and the thousand images of him that it brings into her mind, things he’s going to do to her.

Another swallow because her mouth’s gone dry and then she lets the hand on his neck move up, intertwining with his hair and angling his head up, away from her skin. He thinks this is so she can answer, thinks it’s some silly little human quirk to be looking him in the eye even if it is pitch black when she delivers what he expects has to be some sort of vocalization of want or love. She knows that’s what he’s thinking and it’s a wicked grin on her lips this time. She almost wishes she could see the blissful arrogant control he has painted across his face. Wants to see it wiped away.

Two fingers slick and wet and it she’s right, if she knows his dimensions as well as she thinks…yes, two fingers resting against his lips, lips that were curved up in a smile but are now a line she can’t quite read. Presses against them, feels the fullness of the lower, the light dip of the upper and then he moves. Subtle but it’s as though he’s flexing every muscle. She hears him take a breath, lips still closed and she knows the scent on her fingers must be strong.

And in a second his restraint is gone, in a second he puts together what’s happened — just how quietly she must have slid her fingers down her body, inside her, all control and silence — and marvels briefly. Can see it all in his mind’s eye and now he wants to see it in reality.

Can smell her stronger now than before because her fingers are wet and he can feel that against his lips, licks them, his lips not her fingers because they just stay hovering in the air as he draws his lower lip into his mouth and swipes his tongue over it. Tastes her, subtle and distant, only a part of what it should be, it would taste so much better on her fingers, or better yet... Pouts a little so he can feel the gentle pressure there. In all his life he’s only tasted her once. A few minutes ago and he wants that again.

Mouth opening and slipping around her fingers in an instant, tongue moving over them, licking and swallowing, pressing, sucking. She turns her hand for him and he imagines she must be quite pleased with herself because he certainly didn’t see it coming. Recalls that a second ago, just as she’d trailed a finger across the crease of his lips, just as he’d been about to give in, he’d whimpered, wonders if she heard, wonders if she knows she can make him whimper. He slides his tongue between the two fingers, searching unashamedly for a last taste before she pulls away, her hand disappearing as quickly as it first appeared.

His head angles back down, she knows it because she’s still got a hand in his hair, hair that tickles her belly a second later and now he’s lost control, isn’t pausing or teasing, just manipulating with his hands. Breathing and she doesn’t think it’s for the oxygen. A tug from the hand grasping at her side and she falls a few centimeters against the wall, head tilting backwards, body arching to keep support, legs tensing, spreading to adjust to the change.

For the briefest instant she’s mentally congratulating him on getting her into this position, shocking her enough to make her mind wander and moving her body so perfectly to fit against him. Only the briefest instant, the one between him making sure she’s there, angled and tense and him leaning forward those last few centimeters.

His tongue touches first. Almost hesitant, like he’s not sure what’s going to happen; her head does fall back and she arches like predicted but it’s so subtle, so slow and small when what she really wants is for that mouth to devour her. Pulling back and she’d complain except she can hear him licking his lips. Back again, less tentative but she still wants more.

A third stroke, tongue rough, strong but caressing and intricate at the same time. Again and she’s stopped thinking about what he needs to do more of, is just thinking of what’s next, wanting and begging him mentally not to stop, trying not to squirm or dissolve. She’s got her lip between her teeth and her hands lying flat on the wall, trying to keep a grasp on something real.

More and his lips touch, nudging and guiding his tongue. Sucking and she feels her hips move, hears a whimper escape her. More and she has to be making this up: filling in the gaps and picturing it in her mind because what she thinks she’s feeling is far too good, too specific. Every millimeter touched burning different to the one before and it could be her or it could be him but either way it’s never, ever been this good. So she must be making it up, guessing what his mouth is doing, and she doesn’t care, doesn’t care at all if this is half-delusion, as long as it doesn’t stop.

Because while she might be guessing, he knows. He knows exactly what he’s doing where, how: adjusting and amending while all she can really comprehend is molten heat, waves pulsing through her, never abating but just growing inside. Pressure and friction and texture — she thinks she can feel texture; the rough expanse of his tongue pressed flat, the smoother tip, cooler, softer bottom lip, harder top, both pressing against her, open and tugging in an intimate kiss that catches her right there. Then his tongue, lashing out, moving fast and sure and pressing in all the right places and…oh. Oh.

Pulling back and blowing; cheeky, the slightest touch with the tip of his tongue, stroking up and then back. Do that again. Mind reader now: he does. Again and again and then harder, surer, more tongue, hint of lip, nose brushing.

While one hand continues to grab at an all too smooth wall, the other moves into his hair, threading recklessly to bring him back up just a little, just a little: there. She moans and her hips lift ever so slightly, resisting gravity and the dreadful rational need to stay still, to let him do this as he is because he’s ever so good at it. And now he knows where to stay, her hand threads free, unconsciously careful not to pull because he needs to stay just there, slips down to his neck, as far as she can reach to the top of his back and tries to communicate, tries to show exactly how good this is with a light scratch which at any other time would seem ironic because he knows exactly how good this is for her.

But the scratch does something: he hadn’t been ready for that reaction — had been ready for her hips rising and toes curling and the shivers that ran through her body — but not this. It breaks through his carefully threaded control and he groans gravelly and rough and it’s against her. Lips moving with muttered obscenities, the vibrations of the sound, low and long, moving with unforgiving clarity through flesh, radiating out and the hand in his hair grasps as her hips rock upward again, this time unrefined, his mouth unable to keep contact and with a moan she comes back down.

He grins and she knows it, can feel the bottom lip thin out and — oh god, please, don’t; too much — he whispers something. Something incoherent that matters little with this new found tease, lips moving, tongue brushing and her hips rock again, the hand splayed across her tensed backside holding harder, predicting her movements and acting to minimize them. He whispers something else, breath hotter and she’s sure she can feel it resonate as something illicit and sinful making any control she previously had flee and she’s suddenly there, on the edge. Again and she knows that the tongue’s shaping the words instead of the other way around, choosing letters that torture with a flick of the tongue or a gentle breath.

More and he stops, somehow sensing where she is, sensing time and the future and the now. Swallows and she doesn’t know how she knows that but she has to squeeze her eyes shut to stop from dissolving at the very thought. The hand on her stomach presses down, caresses, fingertips moving in small circles that for a second is making it all much worse and then it’s not. It’s soothing and calming and she feels nerve synapses regaining composure, feels air fill her lungs and he’s letting her slip back down to Earth; slip back without falling. Wonderful and talented and now he might do it all over again but really she just wishes he’d make her scream.

Hand turning over, the back of his knuckles across her stomach, caressing, calming and she’s breathing steadily now, almost composed enough to move, tries tensing her muscles in an organized manner.

And he feels it through his hand — had he planned that, known he’d be able to judge her better through that than through anything else? His hand pauses, resting and everything’s stalled. God knows what he’s thinking but she’s not ready to move, wants to just stay there and wait and she doesn’t know why.

Seconds pass and then his mouth delivers a warning, she knows in some small crevice of her mind that this is her chance to prepare and not just to melt. But the warning’s bad enough, some arrogant uttering about just how good he is and just what he’s going to do to her, muttered against the inside of her thigh and she hears it, understands it but then forgets it.

Because this time she really can feel lips and tongue, pressing harder, searching out and something about the way the rough expanse of his tongue keeps lapping at her, the way he’ll press lips to flesh, stop the escape of air and then suck, hard. Something about it that gives it away, that says he’s enjoying this just as much as she is and it’s not about him doing this for her, he’s doing this because he wants to. Because he loves the smell and the taste and the feel; the way she reacts. In that moment she knows given half a chance he’ll do it again.

All realized in two seconds and instead of thinking about that and letting a small, high-pitched moan escape at the thought, she should have been heeding the warning.

Then it’s too late; realizing anything at all is beyond her because pretense is gone and he’s not teasing and he most obviously plans on taking her to the absolute highest and sharpest of peaks and then letting her fall, all with his tongue. A tongue that he’s now got inside her, flexing and curving and then, pressing against her from the inside out. Dragging out of her and her hips move the subtle few centimeters to try to keep him there, another quick dart in because he knows he’s good. Then away, his tongue too quick to be tricked, moving to press elsewhere, to withdraw and be replaced by lips, bottom one, she knows, full and pouting, skimming and catching against her. A sudden sensation — a moment to guess — and she can hear him breathing her, the following breath out making her shudder and arch.

Into her again, a powerful stroke that resonates like hunger. Again and she groans and knows this is it; lips caressing and the lightest scrape of his teeth, tongue again. Again.

She wonders what that tongue would feel like in her mouth, what he’d feel like inside her but now it’s his tongue inside her and she knows it’s backwards but doesn’t care — they’ve always been backwards. Wonders if he’d kiss her mouth like he’s kissing her now. And oh my god, his tongue feels good: powerful and strong and oh god, please, again.

He thinks humans are a funny little race; the way you can think you know exactly what’s happening, what’s going on in their heads and then suddenly: not. He’d thought he had her on the edge, had known it, actually. Was still sure that it would only take one more slow press of his tongue, just edging into her, dragging it out all hot wet pressure, up over sensitized flesh, flat and unforgiving; had planned meticulously, had felt her fingers in his hair and a bare foot on his back, toes curling. Had been about to execute the attack when she’d stopped him.

Fingers wrapping tighter into his hair, guiding him up and he’d do anything she wants right now so long as he gets to take her over the edge, he moves away, lips, then tongue losing contact, confusion clouding in on a mind previously only concerned with taste and technique; action, reaction.

She moans and it means loss and frustration and need: it says he was right about how very close she’d been. Long and harsh and he still doesn’t get it but is too busy trying to find the correct direction of gravity to worry. Moving up with her fingers still threaded through his hair, lips and teeth and hands grasping at any skin they can on the way; hip, stomach, breast, neck. Leg having slipped from his shoulder, kneeling up in front of her, lips at her collar bone because she’s slipped that far down the wall, about to stand then suddenly he’s toppled back, hands having to retreat to catch himself because the momentum’s too much to fall all the way, his state of consciousness already questionable.

She’s dropped down over him, is slinking up his body, legs either side of hips, hands slipping down to his neck, pressing her body to his and another moan, this time it might have been him or it might have been her or both, but the sound mingles with the air, heating the room. And they both know why, can feel each other, flesh on flesh. Only five seconds ago it was his lips; lips and mouth and she knows he’s still sliding tongue over teeth, swallowing, tasting. But now she’s over him, pressed against him and she’s able to feel him, hard and begging against her stomach.

And if she’d just move, a little friction, or reach down, guide him into her…and the thought of that makes it worse, makes him rock against her unsubtly, sending the message.

The clock in his mind says it’s only been six and a half seconds since she tore his mouth away from her. Six and a half seconds, says the bit of him that knows time better than anything else. Too long, is all he can think.

Why hasn’t she taken him? He’s hers to take but she isn’t, she’s trying to settle herself, breath into her belly, straining for control.

Then he knows what she wants; on no uncertain terms, it becomes clear that she wants his tongue in her mouth before, or maybe just as, he slips inside her. Her hands are on his cheeks, holding him steady and keeping track of his position. His are still on the ground, holding himself up with his elbows locked in place, unable to touch but this way he can still feel the heat of her breasts, the press of her abdomen and can pretend he still has some sort of control over the situation.

He feels her getting closer, hips moving against him, pressing and making his eyes flutter closed, heat of her breath over his lips and his mouth opens, breathing her in. Closer and he knows the hundred and one things he wants to do to that mouth, knows that he’s already so close, that’s she’s the same, it’ll have to wait for another day. This, what had been so slow and exploratory, is about to become heated and primal and he doesn’t care, can feel every part of him begging her closer, wanting her to take him every way she possibly can and wants it now.

The heated, wet feeling of her lips near his increases exponentially and he realizes it’s flesh to flesh now, lips against his, fitting his bottom one between hers in some strange attempt at control. Presses closer and wishes he could take her hips in his hands. She whimpers, the sound high pitched and trailing lower, her lips opening against his, his doing the same, angling and his tongue slipping into her mouth, over hers and she makes another sound, a hand pushing into his hair, trying to get closer.

Oh and the taste alone is enough to kill him, the idea that she can taste it too, making his hips grind up into hers. No innocent first kiss with the subtle taste of a new man’s mouth: is this what she wants? This taste? Of her and him and oh, good, god, that’s her tongue in his mouth. Her tongue pressing and searching and tasting, running over teeth and moaning. She’s definitely not shy.

And he realizes: she’s done this before, tasted herself on another man’s tongue. Jealousy surges through him and he kisses her harder, catching lip and tongue within his mouth and sucking, tasting her and him and her again, a million little tastes exploding, releasing, tongue on tongue, lapping, sucking and then he’s buried inside her and she’s grinning against his cheek.

A hand snaked down between then and he hadn’t noticed, precise movements he hadn’t felt until it was too late and she was taking him inside her, slick and fast and completely. Making him tear his lips from hers, a sharp intake and then a slow exhale as he feels nerves randomly firing, synapses alive with electricity and lets a word escape his lips, swearing loud enough for an echo and that’s why she’s smiling, because both of them know he’s never had this little control.

Hands sweeping over his chest, quick movements because there isn’t time: moving over the sparse scattering of hair, scratching over nipples and ribs, up his sides, feather-light and then sliding down his back, as low as she can, dipping fingers into the loose waistband of his pants and grasping. Scratching light lines as she moves up, resting on her knees and dragging her hips away.

His hips follow, resting weight on arms that are cramped with the beginning of pins and needles. But she pulls away further, her hands back around to his front, on his abdomen, leaning down and resting weight there, pushing his hips back to the ground. Controlling him with a touch and reveling in the slow hiss of defeat that escapes his lips as she stops, barely touching him anywhere, barely allowing him to remain with her, in her.

He hears her let out a breath, rattling and difficult and this must be just as hard for her. Then she slides back down, taking him inside her, inch by inch, until he’s filling her completely and there’s no where else to go except to repeat the motion, move away, and neither is sure they want that. Not yet, just hold it for a second.

Thighs against hips, legs against legs, her hands moving to his shoulders, steadying, but he still feels the shudder that runs through her and hears her swallow, lips parting, tongue clicking away from the roof of her mouth, probably, resting on her teeth now. Leans forward until he can feel her uneven breath on his face, guesses and presses his lips to hers in an open mouthed kiss, startles her but she moves into it a second later, meeting his tongue with hers, distracting him again so that when she circles her hips, subtle and small as the movement might be, the spike of pleasure makes his elbows unlock and his arms start to collapse.

He thinks she might have planned that.

Slipping slowly back onto the ground, he doesn’t mind so much that he’s losing the battle to gravity because he’s winning her: she’s pressing closer, breasts to his chest, friction in movement that’s in time with the rocking of her hips, in time with the motion of her mouth: that’s all that matters.

One day he’ll watch all of this, have light by which he can see her face and her body, watch as he slides inside her, but now he gets to feel it and so he doesn’t mind so much, just wants to keep going, sinking back towards the floor, her hips moving against his, moving them closer and closer and, on some level, he’s amazed that it’s lasted this long and —

Oh, fuck that floor’s cold! She’s manipulated him all the way back, settling over him, and her hands are at his wrists forcing him down. He’d known he’d end up on the floor, didn’t mind, but he hadn’t been ready for this; so ridiculously, burning hot where his skin touches hers, where he’s inside her, and the clammy, scratching friction of his pants still somehow covering most of his behind, shielding him. But his back’s naked, the shirt caught up under his arms and the floor is freezing.

Arching away, higher and higher, balancing on shoulder blades and backside and, oh, god, that feels glorious. A different angle; friction and momentum and heat as he continues to squirm away from the floor and for a second him inside her pressing like that is all so blindingly good that he forgets the floor, forgets gravity and then he’s arching up again, bucking into her inadvertently as the cold rushes back into his skin.

She moans and her hands tighten on his wrists, her lips moving away from his and he realizes that through all of it his mouth hadn’t ceased its exploration, the action too instinctual to be fractured. But now she needs to breathe, needs to giggle and he remembers he swore in a none-too-pleasurable manner only seconds before, lips moving away for a second as his back hit the floor. And with her shins on the ground, either side of his hips, she knew how cold it was, how cold it would be for him. Did she know he’d arch?

Hands leave his wrists and she places them either side of his head and moves slightly away, hovering over him, no longer pressing down but circling her hips, reveling in the feel of him inside her and holding them on the edge, knowing that one full, hard thrust would set in motion the climax. There’s tension and want evaporating off his skin, mingling with the smell of sweat and spice, sex and strawberries. And even if she can’t see him and he isn’t making a sound, she knows as well as he does how close they are.

Mouth back on his and he’s still arching each time he sinks too close to the ground, just slightly as her hips keep moving in meaningless circles. She’s making it seem like she could go on forever but the need is now coursing through him, overtaking every square inch of skin and tendon and muscle, taking control and he loves it. Really, truly loves it and wishes the adrenaline rush would go on forever but really just wants it all to be over now, wants to collapse and groan and feel her shuddering against him.

Wants to feel that final wisp of control torn from him and he’s already so close he can’t fight, doesn’t want to, knows Rose is exactly the same and just wonders why she hasn’t broken and ground her hips down into his.

Then she does. Again and again, building momentum and friction, altering angle and speed until she’s got a rhythm that’s deadly. More, harder. Lips torn from his because she simply isn’t getting enough oxygen, hands trying to make up for the loss by roaming up his sides, his neck, then shoulders tight with tension, skin stretched over muscle and bone, shirt graspable and damp there, rumpled into a thousand creases.

His mind a mess, a million questions and answers and reflexes like breathing that he’s starting to ignore. She makes a sound and her teeth are tugging on his bottom lip for a second, then her breath and it’s almost too much, makes him falter for a second. Move.

He notices that the floor’s no longer cold, that now it’s sliding against his skin, smooth and warm and that’s not a compulsion to arch. His hips rock upwards anyway, stomach and thighs tightening with the effort and her hips grind down, pressing closer to him, knees digging into his sides, thighs either side of his hips, strength and power disguised in soft flesh that somehow dissolves into liquid heat.

Again. Oh god, something sinful slips from his lips. She reacts; hips lifting off slowly, a soft, drawn-out moan, and a hand down his chest between them before she slams her hips back into his, no doubt grinning at the groan that escapes. Hands sliding and scratching but pulling him to her, begging him closer and then fingers moving lower, slipping half beneath the waistband of his trousers — somehow still there, mocking the entire situation — finding skin slick and muscle taut and molding her hand to flesh, bringing him higher, pushing him up and along her body.

Chest to chest now and for the first time in what seems like forever, he can feel his legs, realizes the potential there and plants his feet — shockingly still clad in chucks — properly, consciously making an effort to measure angles and pressures and momentums. Uses the leverage gained, lifts his hips, harder, higher, and now she squeals, his name escaping as she gulps down a breath.

Again and she tells him she’s close with words whispered against his neck, with friction, pulling him into her tight and desperate. No more games.

His hands race down her back, squeezing flesh and pulling her down to him, maneuvering his lips close enough to suck at the base of her throat, crooking his neck to run teeth over a nipple, hearing her moan louder than before, something midway between a scream and a whimper at the end as his lips move back up her neck, sucking harder as he drives into her again. Again and there’s a hand on her breast and a hand in her hair, his lips are pressed together, tongue sliding against hers for just a second and then she’s gone.

Shuddering and moaning, long and hard, lips on his cheek as she whispers his name amongst words of praise and filth and incoherence. And he’s held back long enough, can still feel the aftershocks rattling through her, feel himself teetering on the edge and turning her head so he can kiss her again, he makes her understand and she moves. Hips raising and falling and then her lips against his ear, telling him to come, breathless and begging and tongue and lips and he does.

Light. Soft, golden TARDIS hallway light. When had that happened? Dazed and confused, he looks down at his chest and finds Rose sprawled in a vaguely similar state looking at him with a lazy smile, quick breath and a furrowed brow. The lights must have just come on. Oh.

“How come the lights are back on?”

He’d a little shocked that she still sounds like Rose — husky and a little breathless, but still Rose. And she wants to know why the lights are back on. Looking down at her, hands beneath her chin, resting on his chest, he pulls together what explanation he can.

“You know when the TARDIS was powered back up from the single crystal?” She nods. “And how I powered up that crystal?” Another nod and the way her hair is brushing his chest is distracting. “Well the power, for whatever silly reason, hadn’t spread to the lighting system. And so they died down. What I was coming to do was breathe a bit of life into them.” She’s still nodding and a finger has begun drawing shapes across his sternum.

“No real loss to me,” he continues. “Sort of just redefining the circuit.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t.”

A grin. “Obviously we’re in the right place, that’s why it’s a dead end.” He points to the flat wall just off to the side that makes the corridor end rather abruptly. “And, if you hadn’t noticed, I did seem to have a lot of energy then so it’s hardly surprising a bit of it leaked into the walls.”

Her eyebrows raise and she lets out a breath that tickles up his neck. “Really?”

He considers: “Yep, pretty much.” A pause. “You okay?”

“Yep, fine.” She grins again and presses her lips to his chest.

Grinning widely at her, he can’t help but guide her lips to his, kissing her soundly. She pulls away with another laugh and then, hands on his chest, she pushes him back to the floor, unable to stop the sound — somewhere between a sigh and a moan — escaping her lips at the loss. Sliding skin away from skin, trying to let him slip from her with minimal friction and he watches. She rolls onto her side, both just breathing for a second, him with an arm over his eyes.

Removing his arm, he unconsciously leans down and tugs his trousers back up over his backside and does them up. Then he gives in, eyes racing over everything he’s just mapped out with his fingers and lips: finding her even better now he can see her. Tracing curve after curve after curve and remembering just what they felt like, finding ones he hasn’t yet touched, skin red where he held too hard then looks back up to her face.

She’s grinning at him and he can tell that it isn’t just because he was most blatantly looking at her body.

“What?” he asks and she lets her eyes wander across him. He looks down and grumbles, slightly embarrassed to find his tie draped across his chest, his shirt bunched beneath his shoulders.

Continues to grumble as he stands and offers her a hand, pulling the tie loose and shrugging out of the shirt, saying something about the cold and helping her put it on, bothering only to do up one of the buttons.

He grins at her that grin that says he has a plan and her eyebrows rise.

What?” she asks.

A smirk and he answers. “There’s a room about two minute’s walk from here with a mirror on the ceiling above the bed.”

Her eyes widen immediately, pulse quickening a moment later when the possibilities start to flood her mind. “Again?” she asks, honestly not sure if he means now or tomorrow or an undefined day in the future.

Behind her, he snakes one of his hands around her stomach, drawing her back against him.

Sighing she relaxes back: he feels hot and glorious all hard muscle and sinew and, oh god, he means right now: she can feel him pressing into the curve of her back and he means now.

His hand grasps hers and he gives her a smile both wicked and bashful. Then leans back in to whisper in her ear. “Alright if I’m on top this time?”

Shocked and giggling, she’s about to object, then remembers the mirror and knows perfectly well he’s playing with her, can imagine being able to watch that back curving, backside tightening with every thrust and feels her eyes straying at the very thought. A hand moving down his back, pressing possessively over his bottom. “So long as you manage to get out of your pants this time, that’s fine by me.”

And that makes him blush again.





Told you it went on. Sorry, I may have gotten carried away. All in the name of research. Oh well, feedback is welcomed with open arms, be it praise or constructive criticism. Thanks again ladies and gentlemen, Good night!
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