No Questions

by WhimsicalSpecks [Reviews - 1]

Printer
  • Teen
  • None
  • Fluff, PWP, Romance, Series

Author's Notes:
Calling this blatantly NSFW despite the lack of actual sex due to some incidents reported on tumblr... In other news, this turned out a lot longer and a lot better than I expected. Which is delightful. Part of my written-out-of-order Fanservice Series. [Much later edit: I had actually failed my original objective of getting Seven to say certain things when I wrote this, so I may write another one...]

You try to think back and you find that you don’t have a clue, between the time he plucked you from your boring, pointlessly stressed life, took you into the TARDIS, and now, when exactly you began to fall for this strange little man, yet here you are, charmed to your toes as you attempt to focus on his rambling. But you keep getting distracted by a peculiar, not-unpleasant buzz whenever he rolled his Rs in that weakening way he does.

Well, that, besides the fact that he’s trying to teach you to help him fly the TARDIS, and as the Doctor’s hands move over yours or guides your attention by pointing out the switches and levers from behind you as he circles the console and brushes against your back, you suppress a blatant shiver of delight.

You’re too distracted to realize that he isn’t usually this tactile or that he’s stopped talking. Wait. He might have asked a question.

You turn to see that he is next to you. He isn’t very tall but he intimidates in his own alien way. His bright, hypnotic eyes command more attention than you think you have to spare and has an unreadable, almost curious expression on his face. Your eyes fully meet his in your stunned silence and he switches to a smirk, eyes steady to yours.

“I prrrefer my companions pay attention.” He forms a grin that you know means he knows everything he needs to know and knows how everything will play out next. Your eyes slightly widen; you are wary of what that might mean for you. “Certainly, I can expect at least that frrrom one as rrrremarkably intelligent as yourself…” He tilts his head as he trails off but has more to say, and you blush at the compliment.

“But,” he continues, as your stomach drops in anticipation, “something else is distrrracting you…” he says in a tone you recognize as his false ignorance.

You feel actively paralyzed as his eyes shimmer and bore into yours, with slight relief that you were not expected to move because you weren’t sure if you could anyway, as his large hand moves up to your cheek, caresses your neck teasingly and slides up to cup the side of your face.

The Doctor hums questioningly, and suddenly his voice has dropped to an undeniable, seductive pitch: “I know what you want.”

His other arm has snuck around you and in a deft movement, somehow without breaking the moment, has your chest pressed to his, his lips capture yours in a delectable and weakening caress, his fingers curling behind your ear and down the side of your neck, his other hand at your side, wiggling fingers in teasing movements and manipulate you to press yourself closer to him with very little effort on his part and he hums in satisfaction.

He concentrates on plying your mouth open to him, and suddenly he is tasting you and you are tasting him. His mouth is somewhat colder than you expected, certainly in a more pleasant way than expected, while you know that you must be flushed and very heated. The greed in his grip around you suddenly intensifies and he groans and attacks your mouth with a new hunger. You return the enthusiasm because he tastes like some incredibly outerworldly spice that some part of your subconscious warns may be rather addictive.

Not that you mind the form of apparent delivery.

At all.

You slow down the kiss as you remember things like a newly apparent need to breathe and silly things like that, before his face pulls away for a bit and you rest your foreheads against each other. The Doctor’s eyes dance in a mixture of amusement and desire, as you lightly pant and he breathes deeper breaths than before.

It finally seems appropriate to ask a question you’ve been wondering for at least a few weeks now (if that, but you lose track of time in a time machine, don’t you?)

“What’s your bedroom look like, Doctor?”

He grins and pulls you by the hand down swerving corridors as you are briefly thankful for the fact that he did not immediately return to teaching you to pilot the TARDIS had anything else interrupted, before you are unable to articulate any such complex or chaste thoughts at all.