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“Doctor,” Sarah says sleepily, tugging at his curls.
He rolls over, back in her direction- she’d mentioned tiring of being squashed all the time, so tonight the Doctor’s taken middle. Harry snoozes on his other side, warmly sheltered by lengths of knitting.
“Sarah Jane.” As delighted and fresh as if he hasn’t seen her for absolute ages. “I hope you’re feeling quite as well as I do.”
“How would I know,” Sarah murmurs, nestling against his side. The flowered polyester wrap she’d been wearing has rucked up to her belly, but it’s too slight to pose any real resistance. “Not a Time Lord, am I?”
“I could check.” He helpfully places his head against her chest, ear pressed flat against her skin. The feel of his cheek is cool, not disagreeably so. “No, I don’t think you could be. Not with that single heartbeat- mind you, it’s quickening now.”
“I couldn’t imagine why,” Sarah says, in the dry sarcastic tone that appeals to him so- the same one she’d been using about half an hour earlier, teasing him to come. “Are you licking again?”
“Not if I’m talking,” the Doctor informs her with great satisfaction; and immediately resumes work on her bosom, his tongue tracing tiny circles around her nipples. She buries one hand in the nape of his neck, carefully tangling her fingers in the delectably soft strands.
“I say. Did you two get started again without me?”
“Not everyone wants to sleep all day, Harry.” It’s the sort of remark the Doctor would make if he was talking right now, and she doesn’t want him to start.
“Well, that’s not exactly fair. I mean, any ordinary man would have trouble keeping up with you two…”
“Do shut up,” Sarah says, rather dreamily.
The Doctor’s attentions are moving in a downwards direction, allowing Sarah a good view of Harry attempting to extract himself from the all-encompassing scarf. Stark naked otherwise, it’s a screamingly funny sight and her body trembles with suppressed laughter.
“I’m not hurting you, am I?” the Doctor whispers.
“No, no, keep going,” Sarah hisses.
He takes her at her word.
*****
There’s a line chasing through Harry’s head, something from Kipling probably- I’ve taken my fun where I’ve found it.
His companions certainly take that sentiment to heart. Here they are on a desolate space station, having nearly died half a dozen times today, and Sarah is acting quite as if they’re in a palatial hotel suite. Instead they’re on this cold metal floor, cushioned by his coat and the Doctor’s corduroy jacket.
He strokes, somewhat tentatively, at the Doctor’s back. This is the first time he’s been in a relationship with a man (fumbles behind the bicycle shed don’t count, surely) (the Doctor isn’t so much a man, more a force of nature) (camaraderie under fire is an old naval tradition, of course)
he really is babbling at this point. And not even aloud.
With great care, he chooses a spot on the Doctor’s shoulder- that seems safe enough, doesn’t it? Presses his mouth against the deltoid muscle.
Harry’s aware he isn’t the world’s finest kisser, but he’s not altogether inexperienced either. Aside from fumbles, there was Esther: dainty blue dresses, soft-spoken, drawing room with the curtains closed. She’d given him reason to think he was at least passable in that department.
“Passable” is hardly the correct descriptor for the Doctor’s joyous screech, with a full-bodied resonance that’s all but deafening. Not altogether voluntary, Harry considers: the abrupt jerk of the vertebral column looks very much like an involuntary reflex.
“Harry. Don’t do that.”
Sarah Jane’s laughter floats upwards. “You really ought to have told him, you know.”
“Ought to? Do I have to recite every piddling anatomical difference before getting into bed with someone?”
The Doctor has turned all his attention on Harry, pulling and grasping and sucking, in ways he finds extremely difficult to get to grips with but rather enjoyable despite that.
“Something about nerve clusters in the shoulder,” Sarah Jane calls. “He’s awfully sensitive there.”
“Oh, I see. A corpora cavernosa?”
“Something like that,” the Doctor growls. The cheerful madness in his eyes has faded to something more human than usual, not less. “My dear Harry- my very, very dear Harry-”
“Yes?” Harry asks; and then yelps as the Doctor’s mouth closes around his cock.
The only word he can think of for the sensation is indecent: positively indecent. This is an act he’s always associated with great delicacy, gentleness of touch coupled with nervousness and shaky hands, which is no more the Doctor’s style here than in any other regard. Rather it’s passionate, leaves no uncertainty about the extent or sincerity of the associated enthusiasm, and shifts his cock back and forth with tremendous jerking motions that quiver on the edge of pain without reaching it.
Ah, some detached part of his mind processes, that would explain why it’s called jerking off.
He repeats this revelation as best he can, between gasps.
“Harry, you idiot,” Sarah Jane says warmly. “That’s masturbation.”
“Oh.”
Perhaps it’s the frisson of femininity that brings him to climax, perhaps the Doctor’s ministrations are solely accountable.
It is rather a comfort, that nobody is going to quiz him as to the precise cause.
*****
Perhaps, the Doctor considers, he should put a trifle more effort into remembering this sort of thing. He’s almost positive humans don’t really need sex, but then they don’t need stuffed owls either and Sarah is very happy with hers.
New life, new body, who’s to say things can’t be different this time round-
“I wish I could hypnotize you,” Sarah says out of the blue.
“Why bother,” Harry mumbles. He’s worked off some previous uncertainty to have adopted a sprawling all-over pose atop the Doctor, chest to chest and ankles draped on calves. It seems to be making him happy, which is nice. “You know I’d do anything for you, Sarah.”
“I meant the Doctor.”
“Ahhh,” the Doctor says, as a stopgap while he spends an unusual amount of time processing the statement. “Yes. I only do it for your own good, you know.”
“That’s what’s so terribly aggravating about it,” Sarah says, and sticks her tongue out at his request for clarification.
Well. As a small puzzle in the mechanics of mental control, it could be interesting enough- “I suppose that by inducing your neural pathways to express volition while subsuming my own to minimal levels, it might be done-”
“Oh, would you?”
She does sound so enthused at the prospect; so he takes her face in his free hand (Harry’s cuddling the other one), cradles it. “Think of nothing, Sarah. Think of nothing at all.”
“But this is just like the other times,” she starts to protest; which is a help instead of a hindrance this once.
“And now think of something,” the Doctor says, disengaging his will.
Like floating underwater, in a state of blissful suffocation. Generally he doesn’t have the luxury of appreciating the curious qualities of this state-
“I say, how do you know it’s worked?”
“I know.”
Her voice draws attention like clanging cymbals, the loveliest sound in all the worlds. “It’s like he’s sleeping in my mind. If I pulled the leash-”
“I say, old girl, no need to be smutty.”
Her laughter is like the autumnal migration of brightly coloured frogs, like a handful of melting nonpareils, like a steam-driven puzzle box the size of a house. “Do you think you can describe what we’ve been doing without being smutty?”
“Erm, no. I suppose not. What are you going to do now?”
“I’m not altogether sure- I mean, I didn’t think he’d really do it.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself,” Harry advises. “Doctor, are you really under Sarah’s control like that?”
If he had eyes in his mouth, he could watch it working of its own accord; but he doesn’t so he can’t. “Yes.”
“Do handsprings? Sing? Say you’re in love?”
“Harry,” Sarah intercedes, then pauses. “Are you in love with us?”
He’s fallen in love with everything from funny bits of broken architecture to the Trans-Jupiter train shuttle to the moonsglow on Arcturus Four. “Of course I am!”
“…I suppose that’s all I wanted to know, really.” Her small sigh could explain the whole of the cosmos, if he meditated on it long enough.
“Not going to make him do any party tricks?”
“I- I-” and he adores the stumbling hesitation, that this is what it takes to render her perplexed. “He wouldn’t, though. The Doctor’s never treated me like- a thing, when he’s doing this.”
“So no sailor’s hornpipe.”
“I wouldn’t know how,” the Doctor interjects. “I don’t know everything yet, or what would be the point in travelling?”
“Be happy to teach you.”
Sarah snorts at him. “Before you start, I’d better take this hypnosis off him- Doctor, how do I do that?”
Ten bewildered seconds later- “It’s all right, Sarah. Don’t worry about it.”
“Oh good. I wouldn’t have felt right about kissing you under the influence,” Sarah says, and does.
(He’s not at all clear how to undo it. Probably won’t happen without the aid of his TARDIS, a bout of unconsciousness and possibly some of those wretched mental exercises they taught back at the Academy.)
Not the worst problem he’s ever faced though.
After all. He trusts Sarah with his life.