A Naughty Piece of Cake

by fid_gin [Reviews - 5]

  • Teen
  • None
  • Fluff, Het, Humor, Romance

Author's Notes:
Yes, it is! It is the dreaded (and adored?) alien aphrodisiac cliche! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry - but I tuned into the Food Network the other day to some chef proclaiming a very decadent-looking slice of chocolate cake to be exactly what I've titled this fic, and the silly thing wrote itself.

The air outside is much colder than before. Freezing, in fact, but Rose hardly notices. Burning. Shuts her eyes, the taste of chocolate swirls in her mouth. Opens them and he's there. He's always there.

The Doctor.

His coat is flapping in the biting wind, his hair tousled to strange angles by it, but he still grins as he approaches. “Bit nippy,” he says as he nears, sounding out of breath, as though he's been running. Searching for her. “Perhaps the Sok-soman had a point...”

She grabs him by his tie and kisses the words from his lips. He goes rigid under her lips — a distant memory springs to her mind of New Earth and possession and 'What's with the voice?', but she doesn't release him until his mouth softens just the slightest bit. When she pulls away his eyes are closed, flutter open. He reaches down and she braces for his touch — disappointed when instead of grabbing her he rummages in his pockets and produces the sonic screwdriver, brings it up and shines it into her eyes.

“Rose, what's wrong.” It's more a statement than a question. She bats the screwdriver away and tries to reel him in again by his coat lapels, but he evades her. “Listen to me — what is it, what did you eat?”


“The atmosphere is a sort of augmenter — an inhibitor and, in some cases, a stimulant. Takes the senses that are there — tastetouchsmelletcetera and just sort of...flip-flops them.”

“Flip-flops?” Rose asks, smirking only a bit. “Scientific.” The Doctor ruffles his hair thoughtfully.

“Okay, example. The marijuana plant. Cannabis. You've smoked it, yes?”

Blushing slightly, looking down. “I decline to answer that question on the grounds...”

“That'd be yes. Anyway — manipulates the chemical receptors in the brain. Colours brighter, foods you never liked taste amazing, music you may have hated becomes beautiful, time slows down...but it's all still you, just different. Altered.”

“So you're saying,” She quirks an eyebrow at him, amused at hearing the Doctor's take on recreational drug effects in humans, a memory in the back of her mind of she, Keisha and Shareen in fits and tears of laughter over something none of them could remember being nearly as funny a couple of hours later, “that bein' on this planet...”


“That being on Sok-som is like being high, all the time?”

“I'm saying,” he continues, using his Very Serious voice, “don't eat or drink anything while we're out here, because it might effect you strangely. Or touch anything. In fact, just stay behind me and do as I do. We shouldn't need to be long. Come on!” And in a twirl of long jacket he's out the door and, determined to be a good little companion, she's close on his heels.

In the vast and cacophonic sprawl of the marketplace, she thinks perhaps he's mistaken. Doesn't feel any different — well, no different than it might normally feel wandering through a landscape of alien merchants, shouting their wares in various languages from oddly shaped mouths or, in the case of one being she glimpses, tiny ducts at the corner of their one giant eye. “He's talking out of his eye!” she points out, and the Doctor gives her an amused glance.

“You don't want to know what he thinks you're talking out of.” Steps over to speak with the eye-talking alien in question, leaving Rose standing alone, scuffing the toe of her shoe against the clay ground to convey how very bored she is with behaving herself. After at least twenty minutes the Doctor has that determined look in his eye and the creature has crossed two of its three arms across its chest in a similarly determined stance, and Rose senses the bartering has come to a halt and that neither party is going to back down any time soon. There's a chill in the air, and as she blows on her hands, sees her breath go up in a puff of white around them, there is a tap at her shoulder. A very tall, very wispy-looking creature is standing behind her, holding out a cup of steaming liquid.

“Something to warm you up?” it says without speaking. Rose begins to reach for the cup, then stops, the Doctor's warning resounding in her head.

“Thank you, no, I'd better not.” She can see movement on the other side of and right through this alien, wonders if it's a ghost or a shadow or what.

“The sun is about to set and the temperature will plummet, and you are hardly dressed for the season.” Not for the first time, Rose wonders at the kind of bizarre life that has see-through aliens on other planets insulting her fashion sense. “You will freeze unless you consume something hot. Please, there is no danger.” She catches a whiff of the liquid on the breeze and her mouth waters a bit at the scent of what smells like hot tea. Sweetened. Just enough milk. Shrugging, Rose decides if something horrible does happen to her, then it serves the Doctor right for not advising her to wear something warm, takes the cup from the creature, which seems to bow a little and sort-of floats away, sniffs suspiciously at the liquid again and, smelling nothing outwardly Evil, takes the smallest of small sips. Her eyes go wide a bit, and she takes another, longer drink.


“S'like that thing said,” she says, her voice very low. “Temperature's falling...I need to get something warm inside of me.” Smiling at her sexy pun, but the Doctor does not return it, though his Adam's apple might bob a bit as he swallows. Denied his lips, she buries her face in his neck, kissing and then nibbling the soft flesh there. In this weather, even the Doctor's skin feels warm. He continues trying to extract her, his hands on her shoulders, but that only makes it easier for her to step into his arms.

“Rose. Rose, please...listen, I need to...Rose!” The last when her hand snakes its way down through the front of his jacket in an unmistakable journey across his stomach toward the front of his trousers. He takes both of her wrists in his hands, pulls them up between them, as the sonic screwdriver is fumbled and dropped with a clatter to the ground. He has that wild-eyed look, when something or someone has upset or angered him, but his eyes seem much darker than normal. Nearly immobilized, she cranes her neck forward and flicks her tongue against his lips, snake-like, before he can pull away. In retaliation he shoves her backward against the alley wall, out of reach. “Stop that,” he says. “You've obviously ingested something and it's having a...reaction. Chemical.” His vocabulary seems to be failing him a bit. It's progress.

“I love it when you talk technical,” she says teasingly Unbelievably turned-on.


“I did warn you, Rose.” The Doctor's voice, several paces away. She turns and he's giving her that pitying look he saves for when she's done something really foolish, most likely something he's already told her at least once not to do. Realizing that she's still standing in the middle of this crowded market, sobbing over the seemingly religious experience she's just had with the cup of tea that lies spilled at her feet. Oh.

“You might also have warned me,” she says, swiping tears from under her smudgy black eyes, “that apparently I'd have frozen to death if I didn't drink something warm.” She can still feel the effects, buzzing through her body, now accompanied by a sense of betrayal that the Doctor would question something so magical. Tries to dismiss this, knowing it's just the...receptor-whatevers that he'd explained. But it's difficult. He gives her a little half-smile.

“Is that what it told you? Well, that's to be expected. They get somewhat of a kick, you see — the Sok-soman — watching how alien life forms react to their atmosphere. Gives them an ego boost, or something. Entertainment.” Drawing the word out, as he does.

Rose shakes her head. Denial. “You're lying...it was, it was kind, and...” She looks around for her saviour but it is nowhere to be spotted. The Doctor takes a step forward, places his hand on her shoulder. It all feels very condescending to her.

“It's okay, you're not poisoned or anything, you just need to metabolize the...”

She shakes his hand off of her. “Leave me alone!” There's a flash of hurt and concern in his eyes at the tone of her voice. Whirling quickly to find somewhere to storm off to, she spots a side street. Looks much quieter.

Starts walking, and he grabs her wrist. “Rose...” he says, warning in his voice, but again she pulls away.

“I'll be fine, I'm not poisoned or anything. Go play with your bug-eyed friend.” Still choking back tears that she doesn't want him to see, because it's all so silly and human of her to fall for some intergalactic prank and it'd felt so real. She weaves through the crowd of shoulders and wings and antennae, vaguely aware of the Doctor trying to follow her but being cut off by some kind of dwarf leading a long string of what look like peacocks. With blinking eyes in their feathers.

“Rose!” he calls after her. “Promise me you won't...” The rest of his sentence is lost, but she can take a wild guess. 'Do anything stupid', perhaps? She waves a hand next to her head to indicate she's heard. Heading into the alleyway and finds herself under a large sign, swinging in the breeze, advertising a bakery. The inside looks warm and inviting and, pulling her hoodie tighter across her chest, she thinks she'll just step in for a moment, to get out of the cold and wait for His Highness. Won't eat anything.

And walks straight into the intoxicating aroma of freshly baked chocolate cake.


“We need to get you back to the TARDIS,” he continues. His glasses are fogging up with their combined breath. “I can ice...”

“Ice?” Imagining the possibilities.

Isolate. I can isolate the contaminant.” His grip on her wrists is weakening, just a bit. Just enough.

“You sure you don't just want to isolate me?” Twisting her hands out of his grasp and grabbing him by the hair, she seals her mouth over his again to much less resistance than before. He might be kissing her back, in fact, and his hands might slide down to gently cradle her waist, then around to tickle her lower spine with long fingers. Everywhere he touches sparks another chain reaction of blossoming warmth. A lock of her hair tangles on the frame of his spectacles, stays there as he pulls slowly away, eyes half-lidded and freckled cheeks slightly and adorably flushed.

“I can't.” There's a thought — it hadn't even occurred to her that maybe he doesn't have... Nudging one jean-clad thigh forward, and smiling.

“Is that another screwdriver then, Doctor?” He makes a small sort-of squeak at the contact, falls into her a bit. His fingers are curling in the hem of her t-shirt, like they can't help it.

“I can. I mean to say that, I would.” His lips against her ear as he nearly whispers. “I will.” Then, sadly. “But not like this.” Releasing her and backing a step away.

She considers him for a moment, then nods her head. Resigned. “Okay.” She's never seen someone look simultaneously so relieved and so discouraged — only has a moment to register that mix of emotions on his face before she spins suddenly, away from him. Settling back against his body, she feels the press of his erection against the curve of her ass, wiggles back against it as she bends forward to place her palms flat against the alley wall. “How 'bout like this?” she asks, over her shoulder.

No response. Silence and then an almost inaudible growl, the Doctor's teeth sinking lightly into her skin where her shoulder slopes up to her neck and his hands reaching under her arms to caress her breasts.


The walk back to the TARDIS is quiet.

He takes her hand, but other than that gives no indication of acknowledging that this latest adventure has been rather extraordinarily different. As the slice of cake digests and the world begins to clear a bit, Rose finds herself filled with apprehension instead of lust. Apprehension and...other stuff: under her hastily replaced and re-buttoned jeans, her knickers are noticeably damp.

The Doctor releases her hand to turn the key in the lock, steps aside so she can enter before him. She heads immediately in the direction of her rooms.

“Rose,” he says before she has the chance to flee. “I think we should have a talk, don't you?”

“What's there to talk about,” she mumbles, arms crossed. Embarrassed. The Doctor shrugs.

“Oh I don't know — music? Maths? Politics?” One eyebrow goes up. “Exhibitionist wall-sex?” She blushes more furiously, if that's possible.

“You want me to say I'm sorry?” she asks, not looking at him. Surprised when his voice is much closer, when he answers.

“No.” Wrapping his arms around her, kisses her forehead, and she relaxes into the embrace. “I want you to tell me what it is you ate.” His voice rumbles in his chest, against her cheek.



“Chocolate cake.” He pulls away to beam down at her.

“A naughty piece of cake?” Before she can answer he kisses her, slowly, still grinning between nips at her bottom lip.

“Did I ever tell you, Rose Tyler,” he says as he pulls away. “That I bake an absolutely brilliant chocolate cake?” Her lips, slightly swollen, curl into a smile.

“No,” she says. “You never did.”