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He decided to prove her wrong.
He sent her the image of the top of her head, surrounded by a fluffy sheepskin collar, and the puff of her breath on the icy air as she walked alongside him. He also sent the impression of want, a constant companion, hungry for more than adventure and friendship. He felt her gasp at the contact.
And if he’d given in to those baser urges, welling up in him as she smiled at him, eyes sparkling in winter sunlight, lips and cheeks rosy with cold? If he’d caved to the desire to kiss her mouth, tangle his tongue with her own? A thousand opportunities had been present, a hundred timelines spinning off that moment on the precipice. He could have followed one, seen where it led to.
He followed it now, pressing the memory into her mind like an offer, showing her a glimpse of what could have been. His arm wrapping about her shoulders - that was a memory, as was the way he bent his head to hers, saying we’d better find shelter, the temperature is dropping steadily. What wasn’t memory was the direction he took, leading her down a forked path, choosing a road that led to a natural hot geyser at the centre of the snowy wonderland they were visiting.
He showed her how he might have removed his coat to keep it from being drenched in steam, how her jacket would have followed, and then more and more articles of clothing, until it all lay in a heap by the edge of the hot water.
He showed her how he would’ve dived straight in, slicking his hair back, daring her to do the same, and catching her when her foot slipped on the rocks at the bottom of the heated pond.
He showed her how her arms would have circled his neck as they floated into deeper, even hotter water, their skins flushed pink, eyes wanting. She’d cling to him, and he’d press her against a protruding, smooth boulder, chest level with the top of the water, churning frothy white this close to the source of the bubbling spring. Everything hot, so hot, the false memory scalding against his mind, against hers, like a brand.
Then he felt her taking over, taking control of the image, wrapping her legs around his hips, levering herself up out of the water so she partially sat on the rock, breasts in view and nipples hard, even in the stifling heat. She pulled him down with one hand tangled in his hair, inviting him to partake, and so he did, mouth closing around one hot little peak and then the other, making her gasp and moan and writhe. He did it until he couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t wait to be inside her - and took his rigid erection in hand, pushed her back so she lay on the boulder, and thrust into that slick, willing heat.
Minutes later he was panting on his bed, cock aching, and the answering throb on the other end of the link told him his message had been received.
—–
An hour had barely passed when he did it again, establishing a link, sending out another entreating plea. She allowed it into her mind, letting him brush up against her consciousness like a purring cat. Fur flashed through her head, dark hallways and creaking wood and the smell of leather and books.
This memory went further back than the previous one, and she shivered, waiting to see how it would unfold.
The estate was busy with mourning and shock, and in a set of rooms not far away from them the monarch of a nation plotted and planned against them. No one would be wanting to read books at this very moment. No one except him.
Of course, reading wasn’t exactly what he had in mind. This was definitely not how she remembered the events playing out. He hadn’t ushered her back into the library and steered her to one side, towards a low table. He hadn’t urged her to lower herself at the waist, pressing himself against her bottom, showing her what he wanted.
She felt his breath against her ear, as he bent her over the surface, instructed her to hold onto the edge of it. Her hands fumbled with a decorative vase and a book someone had left lying open, the gilded pages gleaming in the soft lamplight. She managed to grasp the other edge of the table with trembling fingers as hands stroked down her sides, over her hips and under the hem of her skirt.
“Spread your legs,” he rumbled against her neck, kissing the nape of it, spreading heat and tingles down her spine. His voice was dark and unlike anything she’d ever heard, full of promise. Wet heat flashed between her legs as she obeyed, shifting her feet apart to make room for him.
“Good girl,” said the Doctor, and pressed the stiff bulge in his trousers against the terrible ache in her cunt.
In the solitary confines of her room, Rose’s hand inched downwards and crept under the lowered zip of her jeans. She found and circled her clit with two fingers, crying out harshly as the Doctor in the fantasy library tore her tights, yanking them down over her arse, eager to get to the prize.
She bit back a scream as he sent the full force of the vision to her, how he imagined the feel of her muscles clenching around his cock, freed from the trousers that soon bunched around his ankles. Deep, tight, unimaginable.
—–
It became far too easy to forge the connection between their minds now that they’d done it more than once. He found it gratifying, if frightening. There was a certain joy to it as well, the sheer pleasure of having someone else there, someone to fill the silence that was the Universe. He made sure to share the pleasure, sending it doubled through the intimate link as he let Rose glimpse another fantasy.
Fear was her first response, when he showed her the image of herself beneath a sheet, faceless, unmoving. A bit of anger - his own - leaked through as well, and he felt her nudge him soothingly, as if to say here I am, safe and sound.
In response he showed her his elation upon finding her returned whole to him, and the burst of happiness in his chest at the sight of her lovely, bright smile directed at him. He followed that with a quick change of scenery, a rapid mental time-skip, getting to the good stuff.
Back in the TARDIS. Settling her on the jumpseat, cradling her head. Kissing that precious face - the fluttering eyelids, long-lashed and paper thin, the fine-boned cheeks, that devastating mouth - the Doctor savoured it, relishing the task.
Once he’d had his fill of kissing her lips, he sank to his knees before her, a supplicant most ardent, and hoisted one leg over his shoulder, opening her up to view. She was knickerless under that pink skirt, slick to the touch and utterly ready for him. He licked, working his tongue, tasting her sweet willingness, and made her release a thoroughly delectable sound from the back of her throat. Maybe he’d be able to hear her make that noise in reality, soon.
Sliding his hands under her bottom, he lifted her tight to his face, sucking and drawing shivers from her entire body as he worked her with his tongue and teeth. She came in a blinding flash, riding his face as her hoarse cries echoed over the console room.
This was his favourite bit, one of his most delicious and often-replayed fantasies. Tongue fucking her until she screamed, and then getting to his feet, grabbing fistfuls of that silky skirt, and fucking her with his cock until she screamed again.
He didn’t give her time to recover, she was still coming as he thrust inside her tight spasming slit, the air knocked out of his lungs from how utterly fantastic she felt clamping around him, milking him to orgasm.
He felt her tugging at their joined consciousness, a yearning, instinctual, desperate plea: Come to me. Find me. Take me.
—–
“Take me,” he repeated back to her, hands gripping her hips and positioning her above him. Rose nodded, her lidded gaze drenched with as much desire as the sweet well between her thighs. She rolled her hips once against him, making him curse, and then she gave him what they both wanted and sank down, hot and slow and slick.
Her muscles fluttered around him as she adjusted to his size, lowering herself slowly until she was seated fully on his cock. He closed his eyes, sparks shooting behind his eyelids from the sheer pleasure. His mind went frighteningly, exhilaratingly blank and he revelled in it.
“You’re so tight,” he said, gritting his teeth to keep from coming too soon. “Rose, you feel so good.”
She bit her lip and sped her pace, hips rising and falling with increasing urgency. The Doctor watched greedily as she rode him, the sight of his cock disappearing inside her making his blood surge harder through his veins.
He occupied himself by letting his hands roam from her waist to her breasts, fingers toying with her blushing nipples and eliciting the most delicious little mewling sounds from her pretty throat. She was gorgeous, abandoned to sensation, her head thrown back, wisps of hair stuck to her flushed face.
“Fuck,” she said, eyes closed, “You’re so deep, I’m gonna come-”
“Yes,” he groaned, flicking one nipple with his thumb.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she moaned, her hands splayed on his chest. She swiveled her hips, taking what she wanted from him, until every inch of her was thoroughly pleasured. Her orgasm came with a cry - his name - and a wave of bliss overtook him, leaving him momentarily senseless.
It took several long minutes for them to recover. The Doctor slipped out of Rose, already trying to think of ways to get back inside her as soon as possible. She shifted, rolling onto her side, panting, and kissed him.
“Still think I never had an inappropriate thought in my head all this time?” he asked, eying the lovely line of her torso, from breast to rib to swelling bottom. He ran his hand along that stretch of bare skin as Rose laughed and closed her eyes, rubbing her cheek against the bedsheets like a contented cat.
A second later she opened them again, wide and startled, and he felt a throb of lust spiking from her, in answer to the image he’d just sent her way. He gave her a wicked grin, and danced his fingertips down her back, eyebrow raised.
“Okay,” she agreed, “But it’s not easy getting into those Victorian stays, you know.”
“Oh, I’ll help.” And so he did.