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The Doctor dragged Rose out of the TARDIS, her hand held tight in his, his coat flapping, tangling, around his legs. She laughed, in delight, in sheer happiness, and stumbled out after him.
It was beautiful, wherever they were, a lovely day of warm sunshine tempered with a gentle breeze. They'd landed on top of a small hill rising out of rolling fields of clover. Well, something that looked like clover, at least: it probably wasn't, not with how the air was heavy with the smell of lavender and jasmine, rich and intoxicating. The soft wind blowing, tugging at her loose hair, carried with it just a hint of cinnamon as well, spicy enough to make her nose twitch.
Beside her, the Doctor grinned and took a huge, bracing, lungful of air. 'Oh,' he practically shouted, terribly excited. He took another sniff before he continued. 'Get a whiff of that, Rose.'
Tossing him an affectionate look, Rose delicately inhaled again – the scent of the flowers almost seemed to settle in her mouth, coating her tongue with a sweetness that reminded her of really good honey. She smacked her lips at the taste and waited for the Doctor to get around to his lecture. He had to have one prepared. It stood to reason.
'That,' he went on without her prompting (she grinned to herself and linked her arm through his), 'is the winner of the best smelling planet award three centuries in a row.'
'Are you having me on?' Rose asked, prodding at his shoulder.
'Me? Never.' The Doctor beamed and took off down the slope, pulling her along with him.
It only took one larger-than-average hill before the TARDIS disappeared from view, making Rose feel as if she and the Doctor were the only inhabitants of the planet, two figures in a sea of green and white and cloud-spotted blue. He shrugged off his coat and laid it out carefully, his hands running over the fabric to clear away the bumps; once it was flat, he invited her to lie down next to him, as if they were on a blanket – a fairly common use of his coat, if Rose was being honest with herself, and honest about the sheer number of times they were caught without shelter in their travels.
Once they were settled, having wriggled into comfortable positions, he picked up their stop-start conversation where he'd left off.
'You lot – humans, I mean, or as close as you get in the year five and a half billion – you get obsessed with pleasure planets. Not just your average, run-of-the-mill water park and spa planets, either. Really specific pleasure planets. Imagine, whole worlds devoted to having the most vivid autumn leaves, or seas the right temperature for a quick dip!' He shook his head, half despairing, half entertained at the follies of the human race.
'An' this one has the best smellin' air?' Rose concluded, posing it as a question just in case.
'Yep! They've got entire continents full of flowers, just like this.' The Doctor lay back with head resting on his arms, gazing at the fluffy clouds above them. 'Developed a neutral-odour fertiliser, too, and a really fantastic filtration system, Rose – used on all the best space stations.'
'Must be a big business,' she mused, leaning back as well.
She could see his profile out of the corner of her eye, and saw his eyebrows twitch, the corner of his mouth tipping up in amused pride. 'You're right. It is. In fact,' the Doctor twisted around, peering about the meadow as if he expected to find something other than miles and miles of not-clover, 'this field should be absolutely teeming with tourists, now that I think about it.'
'It's nice, though.' Rose kicked off her shoes and made sure her skirt wouldn't go flying up with the wind. It was a summery outfit, the one she was wearing, and she only hoped it was a good choice. He'd promised her no running, no arrests and no exploding aliens and his expression had been so painfully sincere that she'd believed him. 'Sor' of reminds me of New Earth.' She frowned then continued. 'Not as many bitchy cat-nuns, of course, and it doesn't smell like apple grass. But it’s close.'
The Doctor made a face at the cat comment, but nodded in agreement all the same. 'Was that our second date?'
She felt her heart flutter at the casual reference to dating, and was absurdly pleased he’d remembered their conversation. Buoyed by it, Rose smiled and dared to shake her head. ‘Nope, that would’ve been Cardiff, an’ the ghosts.’
‘So new first date then?’ His eyebrows went up and down, and she giggled; his face softened, telling her it was clearly the reaction he’d been hoping for.
‘For a new new Doctor? Sounds about right.’
They were quiet for a time, lazing about in companionable silence. For all that they were full of banter and in-jokes, some of Rose’s favourite moments were ones spent resting and recuperating. She wondered if he knew – that travelling with him was more than the adventure, the excitement, the world saving and running away from danger. Part of her hoped so. Her previous Doctor had been so dismayed when he (mistakenly) believed she’d only wanted to travel with him so she could try to save her father. Another part of her quailed at the idea of the Doctor knowing: it was far too close to her feelings for him, and feelings were messy, tangled, domestic (as he would have said a regeneration ago) things, not to be discussed lest their lovely world become unbalanced.
Rose stretched out to prevent her body growing stiff from lying on the grass: she extended her arms and legs until she could reach the not-clover bordering the Doctor’s coat, the leaves and flowers brushing against her fingers, her toes. Her muscles tensed and released; the relaxation that followed settled into her bones, a heavy and warm weight wrapped around her limbs. It felt good – great, even – more than she would have expected, and Rose suddenly became aware of just how aware of everything she actually was.
Above her, the sky was oversaturated, a blue so bright that it reminded her of the Mediterranean Sea. Of Greece and white sand, and the Doctor not taking off his leather jacket, no matter how much she teased him. The clouds shifted as she watched them, floating fluidly in one direction and rushing back as soon as she blinked, returning to their original position as if they’d never moved. Her skin was tingling all over from the breeze, sending shivers down her spine and goose bumps along her arms.
‘Doctor…’ she began, trying to sit upright.
As she did, she felt a rush, a swooping sensation going from the pit of her stomach to the top of her head – in its wake was a bubbling feeling, a tight, happy feeling that made her want to laugh. It was like having the safety bar lowered, hearing the click-click-click of a roller coaster climbing the crest; pulse racing; hands gripping the handle in front for dear life.
Or… it was a lot like getting high.
‘Doctor,’ Rose tried again. ‘Somethin’s going on.’
‘Mmm,’ he replied, sitting up as well. ‘I think I’ve worked out why there aren’t any tourists.’
From the pocket of his suit he pulled out the sonic screwdriver. He swung it through the air, making it whir and blink, and then cocked it to the side to look at the readings. Rose watched as he paused, his fingers tightening slightly around the device, and then glanced up – there was something sheepish in his expression, and despite the over-sensitivity prickling over her body, her concern lessened.
‘What is it?’ She prompted, since he was procrastinating by carefully tucking away the screwdriver. ‘Why’m I feelin’ funny? And why aren’t there any people?’
The Doctor hunched over and started untying his shoes. That was a bit strange. He rarely undressed in front of her, not even his shoes – they were important for running, after all. She’d wondered if it was one of the rules he had for being a Time Lord: no removing one’s jacket in front of one’s companion, to prevent said companion getting lusty ideas. Well, too late for that, Rose thought, grinning to herself as she admired how his shoulders stretched at the material of his suit, filling it out quite nicely.
‘Right, well,’ the Doctor finally began, having worked out the particularly tough knot of his shoe lace, ‘the answer to your first question is that we’re currently sitting in the middle of the galaxy’s largest field of jasmadula –,’ he stopped and peered at her through his floppy fringe, eyes wide. She could see that his pupils were huge, much larger than usual; shiny, black buttons almost entirely covering his lovely chocolate-brown irises. ‘Oh, Rose, you have to try saying that!’
‘Jasma – what was it?’ She scrunched up her nose, trying to remember. ‘Dular? Dula?’ He beamed widely at the second one, letting her know she’d got it right. ‘Jasmadula.’
He giggled, and so did she. It had been fun to say. After he toed off his first shoe, the Doctor continued. ‘Anyway, jasmadula smells wonderful, but that’s not all it’s good for: it’s a painkiller, the seeds are used in cooking, and uh,’ he bent his head, focusing intently on the knot on his second shoe, ‘you could say there are certain, er, recreational uses, as well.’
Rose bit her lip, trying to take what the Doctor was saying seriously, but she couldn’t help but laugh. It flowed out of her, completely unstoppable. The situation was so absurd, and he looked utterly embarrassed; she doubled over and laughed until her sides hurt.
‘Oh, my God,’ she said eventually, placing a hand over her mouth to cover her smile. ‘We’re high. You took us to a planet and got us stoned, Doctor. Oh, my God.’
‘It wasn’t on purpose!’ He protested. ‘I swear! I meant to arrive about three years earlier, before the system-wide recession. That’s why there aren’t any tourists – no one has any money. This place is out of business.’ His other shoe came off and he chucked the pair off his coat, followed by his socks, bundled together in a ball. ‘Now everything has gone to seed. Literally. What we’ve inhaled is an evolutionary tactic designed to make us roll around and get covered in seed pods.’
‘Didn’t work,’ Rose observed, smirking at him. ‘Barely feel like rollin’ around at all.’
The Doctor smiled, but it disappeared rather quickly into a concerned expression. ‘Are you upset?’
‘What, that you accidentally got us high?’ She grinned. ‘’Course not. It’s safe, yeah?’
The Doctor gave a nod, seeming relieved that she wasn’t angry. ‘Yeah. Oh, actually, hold on a tic.’ He flipped over the edge of his coat, revealing the TARDIS blue lining and the opening to his inside pocket. ‘You’ll get a headache if you keep breathing in the stuff - I’ve got a nose spray that’ll block the pheromones.’
She rolled her eyes at the never-ending list of things he kept in his pockets. ‘What don’t you have in there?’
‘I think I’m out of Jelly Babies – we should really pop by a supermarket when we’re next in London - but other than that…’
Her stomach rumbled at the mention of sweets. ‘Did you bring anything else to eat? M’starving.’
‘Crisps OK?’
Before she could answer he threw a packet over his shoulder, making it land in her lap with a rustle. The Doctor grabbed a packet for himself as well, two cans of soft drink, some napkins and the nose spray he’d been looking for in the first place. Rose dutifully medicated herself against the pollen or pheromones or whatever it was the plants were producing and opened her bag of crisps.
The smell of potato and sunflower oil hit her instantly, making her nostalgic for after school snacks. She had the most vivid image of herself, lying on her stomach on the couch, watching TV and kicking her legs in the air until her socks sagged down to her ankles. As she ate her first crisp, she remembered Mickey coming over and helping her with spelling – he was rubbish, but her mum gave him a fiver to babysit when she had overbooked the clients – and the sound of Shareen’s pencil case opening, the sharp noise of the zip and the feel of pencils bundled together, held in her fist.
Rose shook her head, surprised at how many memories the smell could conjure. Glancing up from the packet, she saw that the Doctor was looking out at the fields of jasmadula, a peaceful smile on his face. A bright flare of affection for him burnt through her, and she turned her head aside before he noticed her watching him – she probably had a dopey grin on her face, and he’d tease her until she told him what it was about.
She put her hand back into the bag of crisps; she was still hungry, having skipped breakfast to get out of the TARDIS sooner. This time, Rose got caught up in the texture, the way a crisp was rough in her fingers, all covered in bumps and bubbles from the frying process; how the salt crystals scratched at her tongue. When she started chewing, it shattered under her teeth with a corresponding noise, extremely loud to her ears but satisfying. Fascinating, too. Rose did it again, chewing in a rhythm of four beats – six for bigger crisps – before swallowing. It was like she was writing an instrumental song about eating Walkers Ready Salted, she decided.
Thirsty, now, she opened her can of orange soft drink and took a slurping mouthful. The carbonation made her nose itch and irritated her mouth, but the drink itself was wonderful – cold and intensely flavoured. Rose watched as the light played off the aluminium rim of the can, sharp and gleaming. She turned it in her hand, directing the angle of reflection and the size of the blossom of light.
‘Enjoying yourself?’ The Doctor asked wryly.
‘I’m stoned, you git,’ she reminded him, but without heat. ‘Of course I’m enjoyin’ myself.’ Bloody alien, Rose thought, not as if I pointed out you admiring the scenery for ten minutes like you were a senior at a duck pond.
She leaned over to take another crisp and a thought occurred to her. It dropped neatly into her brain like it had always meant to rest there. Maybe it always had been there, and it was only now that she was realising the importance of it. Either way, her eyes widened and she felt like her head was spinning.
‘Oh, my God. I’m eatin’ crisps on a different planet.’ Another thought occurred to her, or came to her attention – she still wasn’t sure which. ‘I’m eatin’ crisps on a different planet with an alien.’
‘Yep!’ The Doctor agreed happily, sucking his fingers into his mouth to clean them of salt. ‘In a different galaxy, too. And nearly five and a half billion years after you were born. Don’t forget that. Rose Tyler and the Doctor…’ the next five words were accompanied with hand gestures, as if he was placing them in an invisible marquee. ‘Travellers in time and space.’
Rose shook her head, still reeling from her epiphany. Carefully (very carefully), she found a steady place for her drink to rest and then she took her phone out of the pocket of her skirt – it was hardly good for the lines of her outfit, but travelling with the Doctor meant she never went anywhere without it.
‘I’ve got to tell mum about this,’ she muttered. As she typed in the message she said it aloud for his benefit. It would save her from his curiosity, which usually resulted in him whining until she gave in and told him, despite his loud protestations of hating domesticity. ‘Hi mum. On an alien planet. Eating crisps with the Doctor. Who is an alien. Love, Rose.’
‘She’s going to know that you’re high.’ The Doctor commented mildly. He took a larger mouthful of his drink than he expected – he winced as he swallowed – then continued. ‘And it’s not you who’s going to get in trouble,’ the Doctor tapped his chest, ‘it’s me. Mark my words. Next time we pop by for a visit, it’ll be, “hello Jackie, nice to see you, how’ve you been. Met any grocers recently?” And she’ll say,’ he took a breath and put on a high-pitched voice and a thick accent. ‘Oh, you ‘orrible man, you! You’ve been corruptin’ my innocent daughter. I oughta give you a slap, I should!’
Rose giggled helplessly at his impersonation of Jackie Tyler, even though she felt a bit guilty at not defending her mum. ‘Oh, come off it,’ she managed. ‘Mum knows I’m no innocent. Ran off with a bloke when I was sixteen, didn’t I?’
The Doctor shrugged. ‘That is neither here nor there when it comes to your mum and her desire to give me a slap.’
As he said “slap”, the exaggerated motion of his tongue brought Rose’s attention to his mouth – not that it took a lot to make her look at it, not these days. She started laughing again.
‘What?’ He asked irritably. ‘What is it? Have I got something on my face?’
‘No,’ she said, quite breathless. ‘Your mouth is completely orange.’
Rather than being annoyed, the Doctor became excited. ‘Really? Oh, that’s brilliant. Must be the food colouring. Good old Sunset Yellow!’ He stuck his tongue out and crossed his eyes, trying to get a better look at it; it sent Rose into another round of giggles, until she was nearly crying. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Hang on, hang on,’ Rose gasped through her laughter, lifting her phone up in a shaky hand. As soon as he understood what she was doing, the Doctor opened his mouth wide and stayed still so she could take a photo. She handed her phone over to him with a flourish. ‘There. Now you won’t do yourself an injury just tryin’ to look at your tongue.’
He grinned cheekily at her in thanks and contemplated the photo on the tiny screen of her phone. Rose rolled her eyes to herself and picked up one of the napkins the Doctor had chucked her way earlier. They were her favourite type. Very fancy. Nothing like the sort you’d get from KFC in her time. Using some technology she couldn’t understand, opening the packet one side would result in a warm towelette, slightly steaming and vanilla scented. Open the other side, and the towelette came out cool and refreshing, smelling of ginger and cucumber. Rose had become so enamoured with them that she’d made a habit of stuffing her – or the Doctor’s – pockets with the napkins whenever they went to fast food restaurants in the future for chips.
Once her hands were clean of salt and oil and crumbs, Rose stretched out her legs properly and basked in the sun. The warmth of it hitting her skin was almost tangible: she felt like she could scoop up golden sunlight and watch it trickle through her fingers. Rubbing her legs together, calf passing over shin and back again, Rose nearly gasped at the slinky smoothness of her skin, the lack of friction delightful, nearly overwhelming in her sensitive state.
She’d been stoned before – Shareen’s brother had rolled them joints once or twice, and Jimmy had struggled to fall asleep without a bowl – but it had never been such a body high, or anywhere near as enjoyable. There was no paranoia, or racing pulse, just soft edges and enhanced perception. Everything seemed slightly softer, or slightly sharper, than reality.
One thing that was definitely sharper was the underwire of her bra. It was digging into her breast as she reclined on the Doctor’s coat, and the lace – which was, admittedly, quite sexy – was scratching her nipples. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t have bothered her at all, but every inch of her skin was oversensitive at the moment. Rose tried to ignore it. When the straps began to irritate her shoulders, too, she sighed in frustration and gave in.
‘I’m adjustin’ my outfit,’ Rose told the Doctor. He was still scrolling through the photos on her phone, apparently absorbed in the snapshots she’d taken during their travels. ‘No peekin’.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ he replied, cupping his hands over both his hearts to prove his sincerity.
She wasn’t sure if she believed him, and was disappointed by his lack of interest, or if he was being dishonest, and she could be annoyed at his untrustworthiness. With skill that came of much, much practice, Rose turned her back to the Doctor and removed her bra without taking off her shirt, pulling it out through the left sleeve. A round of applause met its appearance, and she tossed an amused glance over her shoulder.
‘You looked!’
‘Do you blame me?’ He asked, spreading his hands. ‘That’s an art form, that is. I’ve never been able to do it.’
Her indignation clashed with both her confusion – the Doctor wearing a bra? – and the butterflies in her stomach at the idea of him watching. In fact, she was fairly certain he was struggling not to stare at the front of her shirt; his eyes kept drifting back to where the soft, elastic material of her top stretched over her breasts. Feeling bold (they could always blame it on the jasmadula), she leaned back, resting on her elbows, her chest pushing out slightly as she extended her legs and arched her spine. Yep, she thought, amusedly, as the Doctor entirely failed to tried to hide his interest in her chest, he is definitely a breast man this regeneration.
‘Doctor…’ Rose began, her voice as sweet as the smell of the flowers surrounding them.
He made an alarmed noise, a choked-off yelp, and looked up to meet her eyes; his cheeks had the faintest blush of pink to them and she bit her lip. ‘Yes! Rose!’ He took a breath and appeared to calm down some. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Oh, I was just wonderin’ how long we’ve been here.’ Her expression was the very picture of innocence, matching the innocuous – and completely fabricated - question.
‘Ooh, tough one, that.’ He screwed up his face in thought. ‘Somewhere between an hour and an hour and a half, maybe?’
She was taken aback: the Doctor was a Time Lord and always kept track of time. He would whine into her ear when they had tea with Jackie, informing her of just how many minutes they had wasted in her mum’s flat. Her old Doctor would lean against the counter and stop the microwave a second before it was finished – without looking – just to stop the beep annoying him. Sometimes Rose would ask him for her age, out of the blue, and he could tell her down to the nanosecond. The Doctor not knowing how long they’d spent lounging around on his coat was a concept as foreign to her as the planet itself.
‘What?’ Rose frowned. ‘You always know the time.’ As if he needs me pointing this out to him, she scoffed to herself.
The Doctor shrugged and flopped down beside her, clearly unworried. ‘My time sense was going haywire so I turned it off. Well… I say turn it off, but it’s a lot more complicated than that. Anyway, it was driving me barmy.’ The Doctor made a face. ‘Telling me it’d been six hours, then ten minutes, then stretching out a second like gooey melted cheese on pizza. No point in keeping it on if it’s going to be wrong.’
Rose shook her head, astounded, as always, at how strange he was. ‘That’s amazin’.’
‘Noooo,’ he affected modesty, hanging his head. When he looked up again, the act dissolved and he broke into a bright, smug grin. ‘Oh, no, you’re right. It is amazing, isn’t it?’
She smacked him in the shoulder for being his arrogant self. He wobbled slightly from the impact, but didn’t quite fall over. It made her snicker, the way he slowly managed to right himself by leaning forward, not using his hands but just by shifting his weight.
‘What about you, Rose Tyler?’ The Doctor asked, propping his head up with a hand. She felt the same rush of pleasure she always did from hearing him say her name – she only hoped she didn’t make it too obvious, how much she liked it.
‘What’s it like bein’ high?’ He nodded at her question, and she shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Everythin’ is just a bit more, you know? The sun. The crisps and drink. Even your coat.’ Rose ran her hand over the material and then laughed. ‘I swear it feels like a sofa.’
‘A sofa?’ He spluttered. ‘I’ll have you know this coat was given to me by -’
‘- Janis Joplin, yes, I do pay attention sometimes.’ She tapped the side of her head. ‘Still feels like a sofa, but.’
‘It does not!’ The Doctor argued, petulantly, stroking the material like he would the TARDIS controls. Rose held back a snigger – ever since she’d met Sarah Jane, she’d been unable to get her mind out of the gutter where the Doctor and his ship were concerned.
He made a “hmm” noise in the back of his throat. His fingers stopped, and his forehead wrinkled.
‘It does, doesn’t it?’ When he refused to comment Rose crowed in delight. ‘Ha! I knew it.’
‘No, no, I didn’t say that!’ His eyes dropped from hers to the coat, where his hand was smoothing over it once more. ‘I was merely appreciating the texture.’
‘Pfft, it’s not that good.’ Rose rubbed her nose with the back of her wrist, mildly (very mildly) put out that he wasn’t giving in to what she thought were very good arguments – largely, that it totally did feel like a sofa and that was perfectly obvious. ‘There are loads of better things to touch than your coat. There’s probably a sofa somewhere in the 60’s that’s missin’ its fabric.’
‘That’s just rude, Rose.’ The Doctor actually pouted. If it weren’t for how much she adored his lower lip – and how the purse of his mouth emphasised it – she’d make further fun of him. ‘And for the record, I think this coat is the best thing I’ve touched all day.’
Given what the Doctor thought of her missing fabric comment, Rose decided he’d probably choke on his own tongue and regenerate if he knew what she’d just thought: her mind had wandered below the belt. Barely keeping a straight face, she rolled her eyes. ‘I bet it isn’t.’ She continued as his mouth opened to disagree, and said, before he could speak: ‘Five quid.’
‘Ten quid.’
‘Ten quid,’ she agreed readily. ‘And you still owe me for Queen Victoria.’
This reminder was dismissed with a wave of his hand.
Rose cast her eyes over where they were sitting, looking for inspiration. She took in the empty crisp packets, the cans of drink – neither struck her as particularly touch-worthy. It was hard to know what might sway him away from the coat: Rose had no idea what criteria the Doctor was working from, and, in general, the TARDIS would most likely win simply for being the most beloved thing he’d been in contact with that day. However, it hadn’t absorbed him, not like his coat.
She took in the Doctor himself, starting with his bare toes, wiggling under her scrutiny. There was a glimpse of bony ankles, pale skin and a few stray, dark hairs before his pinstriped trousers hid the rest of his legs. Not very well, of course, given the tightness of the suit. Under his jacket he had his relatively casual outfit: a button-up and a t-shirt, but no tie, leaving his neckline exposed. The Doctor had a slight shadow of stubble across his Adam’s apple and throat, and it kept going, over his chin and across his cheeks. Rose was tempted to touch his face and find out what it felt like, to see if that would intrigue him, too.
Instead, she continued her examination, striving for scientific interest, despite the giddiness rattling in her chest. The Doctor’s eyes were watching her lazily, dark and still dilated from the jasmadula. When he blinked, Rose found herself fascinated by his eyelashes, the stark contrast to his cheeks and their slow flutter enthralling. She blinked herself, and her gaze dropped down, landing, accidentally, on his mouth. All hope of an impartial assessment faded away, leaving only her complete and utterly biased attraction to him; Rose felt a spark of arousal deep in her stomach, and hoped desperately that she could avoid blushing.
‘Struggling?’ The Doctor asked, smug and superior.
Rose didn’t realise at first that he was talking about their bet: her eyes widened in panic at the thought he’d worked out she was fighting off the desire to cover his body and snog him. After the brief moment of horror, she calmed down enough to shake her head, giving him an annoying, beatific smile in response. He snorted, but didn’t say anything more.
It was when she reached the top of his head that she discovered the key to winning his tenner. Of course, she thought, appalled at the time it took to work it out. It was the perfect mixture of tactility, sensation and vanity – at least, for the Doctor.
Reasoning that she couldn’t declare his hair to be better to touch than his coat without actually touching it, Rose wriggled closer to him, her left shoulder bumping against his right as she rolled on to her side, and she ran her hand over his head. She tugged the strands softly, and grinned as he gave her a quizzical look.
‘Hair?’ He asked, incredulity plain on his face; it soon melted into an amused grin. ‘Rose Tyler, I think your simian ancestry is showing.’
‘Shut up.’ She kicked him lightly on the shin. ‘I think your rude is showing.’
The Doctor let out a scoff, and Rose made an insulted noise. A scuffle ensued, a mock battle of just their knees and feet, pushing and pressing and knocking against each other even as their upper bodies remained still. They had silly skirmishes like this occasionally, lying on opposite sides of the long couch in the library with books lying forgotten on their stomachs.
Eventually, he managed to sandwich her right leg between his, trapping it there, and Rose laughed breathlessly in defeat. She draped her other leg on top of his, though, tangling them further and undermining his victory. The scrape of rough woollen trousers against her bare leg was incredible, the sensation stealing her breath. It made her uncomfortable, the way their friendly play fighting had turned arousing, and she avoided meeting his eyes.
Her hand was still in his hair and she was loath to remove it, no matter that the close proximity was making her blood pound, rushing loudly in her ears. ‘You haven’t said if I was right or not,’ Rose reminded him, scratching his scalp gently.
He hummed in thought, his fingers brushing over hers as he grabbed a handful of hair to investigate. Personally, Rose thought it was much better than the coat. Not only was it lovely and thick, there was a gradient of temperatures: near his scalp the strands were warm from his body heat, and as they slipped between her fingers she could feel them get rapidly cooler until she reached the tips. She didn’t know what kind of product the Doctor used, but it left no residue – no tackiness, or stickiness, just clean, pliable hair.
‘Well,’ he finally said, drawing the word out. ‘I don’t know if it’s the best thing I’ve felt today… but it might be better than the coat.’
‘Ha!’ Rose ruffled his hair, making him half-heartedly bat her away. ‘That’ll be ten quid, please!’
His hand dropped to her leg – the one lying on top of his – and Rose couldn’t help the shudder that went through her. The warm weight and the sudden, clear, mathematical knowledge of how much of her skin his palm and fingers could cover was enough to make her head spin. The contact felt indelible, as if his handprint would be burnt there from the heat of both their skin.
When he dragged his hand down the length of her shin, Rose looked up at him. He seemed perfectly at ease with what he was doing, casually stroking her leg with his eyes half-shut and a silly smile on his face. It was very cute, she had to admit: seeing the Doctor peaceful, truly peaceful, was a rare thing, and to be cherished. That he looked younger, freer, and less strained was just an extra, really.
Rose wondered if he was even aware of what he was doing, or what he was doing to her. Specifically how drawing a circle on her ankle was simultaneously exciting all her nerve endings and making her almost sleepy with relaxation; he was creating soothing motions with his fingers which tugged at the laziness already brewing in her bones from the jasmadula. It was a testament to that relaxation, in fact, that Rose was able to push aside the need to label his actions and, instead, adjusted her leg to give him better access.
They stayed like that, hopelessly wound around each other, her hand stroking his hair and his hand on her calf; her heel; her little toe. Rose closed her eyes again, feeling the sunshine wash over her face. Behind her lids jewel-tones splashed against the contrasting darkness as clouds obscured the sky and cast shadows: blue and indigo and green brushstrokes on a black canvas. It was rather like being a cat having an afternoon laze, she decided, and, as if to prove this to herself, Rose squirmed pleasantly – involuntarily – when the Doctor’s fingers ran along the inside curve of her knee; she imagined herself as a kitten, stretching out her paws.
‘Your skin is so soft,’ the Doctor said slowly, almost dreamily. Rose cracked an eye open, just wide enough to catch a glimpse of him, and giggled; he was absorbed, entirely, in his own little world. At the sound of her laughter, his fingers paused on her leg, stopping in the middle of writing her name – Rose could feel his fingertips resting on the curl of the half-finished “S”. ‘I said that out loud, didn’t I?’
She nodded. As she watched, the Doctor’s face folded up; it closed, becoming tighter around the edges – his mouth pinching, his jaw setting. His eyes were dark and worried, and he was probably close to blurting out something terrible, something like “considering you’re human”, so Rose smiled wryly and gave him an out. It’s basically self-preservation, she thought, mentally rolling her eyes.
‘Yeah, but you’re high.’ She shrugged. ‘People say stupid stuff when they’re high.’
His body relaxed immediately, the tension in his limbs releasing; she even felt it in fingers, how they no longer pressed into her flesh. It was hard not to be unsatisfied with this reaction, especially since they seemed so close today, so happy and silly and unwound. But what more could she expect from the Doctor? Today was just the latest in a long line of backtracking behaviour. A series of slips of the tongue and running away from getting too close that characterised whatever relationship they had between them.
Rose stifled a sigh of disappointment and tried to enjoy the fact he hadn’t leapt up off his coat, dragging her with him back to the TARDIS. Perhaps she’d be able to get another hour or so of sunbaking in before he started getting anxious and itchy.
‘I suppose that’s true,’ the Doctor said, cautiously. On her shin he finished her name, ending the “E” with a flourish that made her shiver. ‘That people say stupid things when they’re high,’ he continued, clarifying his statement. ‘But, uh,’ he tugged at his ear, one of Rose’s favourite of his nervous habits, ‘I suppose it’s also true that your skin is very soft.’ He licked his lips. ‘And that might be something I’m aware of, even, for instance, when I’m not high as a kite.’
It took her a moment to sort out what he was saying, filtering the actual meaning from the pauses and unnecessary clauses that he’d thrown in to disguise the content of his speech. He’s thought about my skin before today, she realised, and Rose felt her heart start beating faster with the knowledge. There was nothing she could do to stop the spreading of her smile, or how it lightened, sparkled, until she was almost beaming at him with the wattage of the sun.
‘Yeah?’ She asked, moving her hand down to cup his cheek. When he nodded, the stiff hairs of his left sideburn, rough and scratchy on the pad of her thumb, made her laugh. ‘Oh, your skin is rubbish – that’s not fair at all.’
‘Rose, that is clearly not skin,’ he huffed. ‘Hardly a reasonable comparison.’
She raised an eyebrow and shrugged. ‘C’mon then,’ her nail scratched lightly at his cheek, ‘if you’re so impressive, find me some of this soft skin of yours.’
The Doctor hesitated for a moment, her teasing demand suspended between them – ready to fall awkwardly, or be accepted and swept along. Then he scowled theatrically, and grumbled, ‘Fine.’
Covering her hand with his (and Rose hoped he didn’t notice her shiver – it had been slight, really, barely worth even calling a shiver) he shifted her fingers along his face, his index and ring fingers nestled between her spread ones. As they travelled along the roll of his cheekbones and the surprisingly abrupt edge of his chin, they both encountered the abrasive, rasping stubble shadowing his skin.
His forehead wrinkled in frustration. ‘Hold your horses,’ the Doctor muttered when she giggled, ‘I’m sure there’s some about.’
Rose bit back a gasp of surprise: he’d pushed their hands down further, moving along his jaw and throat. Under her sensitive fingertips she could detect his pulse, the odd, seemingly out-of-sync beat that instantly gave him away as alien. She found it comforting now, a familiar rhythm that she felt when she hugged him tight, or when he clasped their hands together over his chest. The trail of rough hairs continued, even here on his neck, the area open and exposed to their fingers from how he’d unbuttoned his shirt earlier; the floppy collar of the button-up fluttered in the breeze and knocked against her knuckles as the Doctor scouted for the elusive soft skin.
‘You’re not gonna find any,’ Rose said in a sing-song voice. ‘Look,’ she stroked at the top of his chest, agitating the hairs there, ‘you’ve got too many manly hairs.’
The Doctor sighed. ‘I am a paragon of masculinity,’ he agreed heavily, as if releasing some great burden. There was a pause, and Rose could see he was thinking furiously. His expression soon brightened. ‘Ahh! I’ve got it.’
‘What’ve you -,’ she stopped suddenly as he let go of her hand and started tugging at his shirt, yanking the material out of his trousers. ‘Doctor! What are you doing?’
‘Showing you my hips,’ the Doctor explained, terribly earnest, as he struggled with the last bit of fabric stuck in the waistband. ‘My hips, Rose, are free of manly hairs. My hips,’ he grabbed her hand again, and shoved it under his shirt, ‘do not lie. Wait, no, that’s a Shakira song, of all things.’
She rolled her eyes, but her entire focus was on her fingers, and how they were actually touching him, the Doctor, in a place usually hidden by at least three layers of clothing. Her breath caught in her throat, as if just the act of exhaling would fracture the moment, ruin the spell hanging over them that was letting her feel his quite impressively soft skin. It was warm, too, like it had soaked up the afternoon sun as they lay there, and now radiated its heat on to her palm. He had bony hips, which she’d expected, and there was a concave dip that led down to his stomach – she traced the path, finding that he gave a delicious shake when she did so, one that flowed down his leg and made his knee jerk into hers.
Rose looked up at him at the bumpy contact; their gazes met, then they burst into giggles like naughty school children.
‘All right,’ she conceded, and he hummed happily. Her fingertips danced along the line of his waistband, mapping out the flat plane of his stomach and returning to his hip, a hard outcrop on the geography of his torso. The temptation to slide underneath the strip of fabric was strong, especially with how the Doctor seemed to lean closer at her touch, his eyes half-closed and dark with pleasure. Rose cleared her throat and tried to sound disinterested, an impartial judge. ‘S’very soft.’
‘Thank you,’ the Doctor replied. He grinned a wide and boyish grin, the one she loved, and which tended to make her blush, even on a good day. Her cheeks definitely went pink, the warmth from them seeming incredible in her oversensitive state. Thankfully, he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he chose to walk his fingers over her skirt, tripping their way up and over the gathered folds of material that had wrinkled into existence as she rested on his coat. ‘I’m curious, though, Rose,’ he continued, and his voice dropped lower, darker, ‘about your hips.’
That comment sucked all the air out of her lungs, and left her mouth completely dry. ‘What?’ She managed to croak. ‘My hips?’
‘Yep.’ It was said without his usual enthusiasm, more like he was affirming a well-known fact. He didn’t elaborate, instead, he watched her face very carefully and started to peel away the hemline of her shirt from her stomach. His movements were slow, cautious, as if he was waiting for her to object – and Rose nearly choked at the idea of her objecting to anything remotely close to the Doctor touching her. When a long sliver of her belly was finally revealed, pale and spotted with goosebumps, he stopped, and licked his lips again, nervously. ‘I think they might be better than my hair.’
It took Rose a second to make the connection, her brain sluggish from the jasmadula and from how very intense the Doctor appeared.
‘Oh,’ she whispered, and her fingers tightened, unintentionally, where they rested on his hips. He glanced down quickly, his fringe flicking forward and obscuring his face. When he looked up again, he was teetering, and she could see it: the urge to pull back and apologising manifested itself in his frozen expression, the slightly-too-wide eyes.
The situation was so surreal, and the light giddiness that had suffused her earlier now made her feel insubstantial. But she was touching him, was now rubbing a reassuring circle on his hip, and then her lips were moving without permission from her brain.
‘D’you wanna find out?’
‘Yes. Absolutely,’ the Doctor said, in a rush. ‘Yes, Rose.’
He didn’t waver this time, just slid his hand across and around, moving quickly over her stomach and finding her hip – less prominent than his, but still there, still waiting for him to caress. The first stroke was tentative, then became more assured, tracing over skin and bone and muscle. Rose sighed, and the sense of floating snapped, ceased suddenly: she felt grounded, and with it came all the sensation from the Doctor’s fingers – it crashed down all at once, as if a numbing barrier had broken.
Rose rolled closer, almost until her nose touched his buttons.
‘All right down there?’ He asked, the question sounding, with her so near his chest, like an amused, deep rumble.
‘Very.’ Her hand shifted to his back, slipping underneath his flimsy t-shirt. ‘You?’
‘Never better.’ The Doctor declared squeezing her hip gently to punctuate his sentence.
Rose laughed a bit at that, and so did he. This feels ridiculously normal, she decided. I’m basically snuggling the Doctor, and he’s not running away or anything. Her fingers made a tactile inspection of his back, discovering all the moles he had, small and scattered in loose, uneven groups over his skin. When she found a solitary mole, she drew a circle around it, then carefully dragged her finger back to the last one she’d run into, tying them together with a squiggle – they wouldn’t be lonely now: they had each other.
The Doctor was following the bumps of her spine as it curved up towards her neck, using his whole hand, smoothing and rubbing. Rose moaned quietly, loving the languid strokes. There were three separate and distinct layers to it: the anticipation that made her skin tingle; the actual caress, and the feel of his palm, rough with callouses but so gentle, and his fingers, light and delicate; and finally, the after effects, the lingering buzzing that cried out for a second (and third, and fourth) pass of his hand.
It was as she arched into the contact, hoping to extend his reach down to her lower back, that she felt him, hard and prodding into her belly.
Oh my God, that’s his cock. That’s his cock. He’s got a hard-on, and I’m touching it and the Doctor has a cock, oh my God.
Around her, the meadow faded away into irrelevance. Rose’s world narrowed down to the Doctor, his arms around her, and his really obvious erection. Even over the rushing in her ears she could tell he had stopped breathing: his shirt no longer brushed her face with the rise and fall of his chest. In fact, his entire body was rigid with tension, practically quivering, he was so highly strung – she feared he might snap at any moment and pull a muscle.
He’s waiting for me to respond, Rose realised. And he wants this. Oh, my God, the Doctor actually wants this! The thought dragged with it a bubbly happiness; effervescence fizzing in her chest like the soft drink they’d had earlier.
She gave his back a quick, calming stroke and made her decision. With a determined wriggle, she curled closer, eliminating the last bit of space between them. Her chin lifted and she looked up into his face, daring him to question the move.
‘Oh,’ the Doctor whispered softly. ‘That’s OK, then?’
‘Yeah, it’s OK. S’great.’ Rose found it hard to say anything with the way her mouth was curved so fiercely in a smile.
His lips moved on her forehead, almost a kiss. ‘I wasn’t sure…’ Despite his words, the Doctor’s fingers crept around her side, slowly drifting up and along her ribs, following the subtle bumps and valleys with coy fingertips.
Rose slipped her own fingers under the waistband of his trousers. His pants had gaped slightly at the back by how he was lying, and so she slid her hand partly under the material – not too far, not enough to ruin the teasing mood they’d established, but just enough to skim over warm skin, the dip of his lower back which continued down under his pants. ‘No, Doctor,’ she smirked. ‘I let just anyone roll around in the grass with me, an’ feel me up.’
The expression the Doctor affected – all thoughtful and sly, and playful like he always was – tugged at her heart.
‘Oh, I see.’ He brushed the side of his thumb right under her breast, not quite touching the swell of it, merely the skin underneath, and Rose gasped in pleased surprise. Her nipple hardened, rising to meet the soft cotton of her shirt and reminding her that she’d taken her bra off and thrown it behind her somewhere; this fact seemed both wonderful and slightly dangerous. ‘That’s what I’m doing, is it? “Feeling you up”.’
‘Yeah,’ Rose murmured, trying not to push herself closer to him, or to his hand. The Doctor was stroking all around her breast, his fingers now skating the top of her chest, but he had yet to touch her firmly, or the places where she wanted him the most. He looked entirely too pleased with himself, so she continued. ‘Though, got to say, you’re a bit shit at it.’ Rose tsked and shook her head. ‘Haven’t even groped me yet.’
Watching her face carefully, the Doctor finally covered her breast with his palm, lightly grazing her taut nipple. Her moan of pleasure turned into a hum as she pinched her lips together, embarrassed by the noise she’d made. He squeezed her, gently, as if testing the right pressure to make her inhale sharply and her eyes flutter closed. Rose’s head was spinning – no, it felt like it was constantly turning, tumbling over and over itself, not sure where to land.
‘Better?’ The Doctor asked, and she wasn’t sure when he’d moved his mouth to hover next to her ear.
Rose nodded, and gave into the desire to press into him; her hips met his, and she rocked against his erection, and she felt his shuddered breath along her neck. His hand clutched at her chest, and he placed a messy kiss on her earlobe before pulling back.
She was confused for a moment, wondering what had made him stop. The Doctor was hovering over her, and though his face was thrown into shadow from the position, Rose could still tell how serious he was. He gets that look when he tries to reprogram the TARDIS DVD player, she realised, and couldn’t help but start laughing.
‘Stop giggling,’ he told her, sternly and slightly insulted. The Doctor ran his nose across the curve of her cheek, and the sensation was so ticklish that she burst into more laughter. ‘I’m trying to kiss you, Rose, and I can’t kiss you if you’re giggling.’
‘Oh!’ The announcement surprised her, sending tendrils of warmth down to her belly and lower, but then the idea that this was the Doctor’s seduction face rose to the surface of her mind and made her laugh again.
‘Rose…’
‘Ok, OK,’ she mumbled. Her lips pressed together firmly. They trembled with effort.
‘Good.’
The Doctor nodded to himself, and shifted, bringing himself closer. She tried to close her eyes and relax, but it was still too funny, especially the way his eyelids had drooped as he leaned in, falling to half-mast. Just as she started laughing again, he closed the distance, his mouth meeting hers, finally, despite the fact she was mid-giggle – he muffled it, then stopped it entirely, by running his tongue across her lip and making her gasp.
Rose’s mind fractured, blowing apart spectacularly – her hand drifted up from his lower back and caught in his hair, her fingers tangling. The random, skittering pieces of her consciousness scrambled, offering her scraps of sensation and thought. She realised he tasted like salt and crisps, and orange soft drink, and that kissing the Doctor felt remarkably similar to every other boy she’d ever kissed. The slight metallic, testosterone-tang of his spit. Warm, sweaty hair under her palm. The vibrating tension, restraint pulling his muscles tight, stopping him from thrusting his erection against her.
But it was the Doctor, and she’d wanted to kiss him for months, maybe even years – who knew, on the TARDIS? – and that made it fundamentally different from Jimmy, or Mickey, or any other quick snog at a party. That made it huge, and important, and made her heart expand from emotion until it stuck to her ribs.
She sighed, and that was muted just like her giggles earlier, and then they broke away with a small, smacking noise. The Doctor gave her a brilliant look, all open and full of adoration.
He laughed.
‘Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do that?’
‘Wha?’
Rose’s ears were ringing and every part of her felt a bit sluggish. It took a few seconds, but soon she had her mind stuffed back somewhere in the vicinity of her body and could consider the question. She suspected – knew – that it had to be longer than today, what with how he’d already admitted to thinking about her skin, and how quickly casual touches had turned sexual. But she couldn’t help the insecurity itching at the back of her mind: they’d never acted like this before, even after months of tension.
‘Not just today, then?’ Rose suggested. Another thought clicked into her brain, and she frowned. ‘Oh my God, it’s not the jasmadula, is it? Making you, I don’t know, horny or something?’
The Doctor spluttered, actually spluttered, and withdrew far enough to look down at her, perplexed ‘What? No! No, no, no, no, no. No. Definitely not.’ His eyes scanned her face, as if he could somehow discover how she’d reached this conclusion just by the expression she wore; the fact his gaze slipped down to her lips more than once was just a little gratifying.
‘Rose,’ he tried again, breathing out rather exasperatedly, ‘the jasmadula has three main effects: euphoria, relaxation, and increased sensitivity.’ He tapped her hip with a new finger for every item on the list, and she was vaguely amused that his hand had found its way back there during their kiss. ‘Please note that “alien aphrodisiac” is not one of them. And, while I’m at it, I can tell you that jasmadula will not turn your skin blue, make you think you’re a teapot, or cause spontaneous combustion.’
‘Shut up,’ Rose laughed, feeling a bit silly. ‘I was just askin’.’
‘And I’m just telling you that this,’ he indicated between them, ‘has been of interest to me for quite some time – and I’m a Time Lord. I have oodles and oodles of brain cells I can use for the sole use of being interested in you. And your, uh,’ he glanced at her chest, and grudgingly continued, ‘your various assets, which I…’ He coughed. ‘I might have written poems about, actually.’
Rose’s eyebrows shot up, and she smacked him on the shoulder in delight. ‘Oh my God, you wrote poems about me?’
With a ridiculous growl, he pushed her back on to his coat and covered her with his body; a fine distraction, and one she didn’t mind one bit. His mouth went to her throat, and he kissed the delicate skin, soft at first, but rougher as he travelled further down the column of her neck. When he nipped her with his teeth, she tightened her hold on his hair, and held him in place until he licked away the pain. She loved the feel of his weight on top of her, even with all the clothes between them: her hips lifted again, and he didn’t stop himself – he pressed his cock right there, and they both groaned, the relief of pressure only momentary.
‘Tell me a poem,’ Rose demanded, finally, winding her leg around his and keeping their bodies close.
The Doctor pulled a face. ‘It sounds better in the original Huxorian.’ He worried the zip of her skirt, fiddling with the clasp and dragging it down a tooth or two.
‘I don’t care.’ In retaliation, she undid two of his shirt buttons. The material split open, finally showing her areas she had only recently been able to touch. ‘No one’s ever written me a poem before.’
He rolled his eyes, but gave in, removing his hand from her leg and tumbling over to the side gracelessly, taking Rose with him until they had nearly switched positions. Lying half on top of him, Rose waited impatiently for the Doctor to speak.
‘Your breasts,’ he began, looking off into the distance, as if struggling to recall the words ‘are soft, tasty and round.
‘Like custard pudding or a cake.
‘As your feet sprint across the ground
‘Your breasts jiggle, tremble and shake.’
Rose sucked air in between her teeth. ‘That was awful,’ she told him, but took the sting away with a kiss to his lower lip – it was already thrust forward in a pout. ‘Just appalling.’
‘You philistine!’ The Doctor accused, smiling broadly as he found a way under the hem of her skirt. His hands snuck underneath the floral fabric and up, the pads of his fingers sketching parallel lines across her thigh. ‘I won first place for that piece. I’m practically a poet laureate on Huxor.’
She couldn’t reply to his spurious claims, as much as she wanted to, because he had stroked along the gusset of her knickers, making her entire body shiver. Her hand grabbed his right shoulder, and she steadied herself, her teeth biting at her lip. The Doctor sat up far enough to kiss her again, then fell back on to the coat covered ground, pulling Rose down, too.
This time the kisses were slow and lazy: long strokes, warm and wet; chaste, blurred kisses along the outside of her mouth. His fingers brushed her again, firmer, and when she pressed herself to him he pushed aside the elastic, slipping under, sly and cunning. There was nothing for a moment, no further contact, just a pause. Rose wondered if he was coming to terms the situation, like she was. If he was trying to digest the fact that he actually had his hand in her knickers. And then – movement – he traced her lips gently, sliding up, a carefully drawn line that made her nails dig in to his shoulder.
The Doctor nudged her nose, turning her face so he could kiss her ear. With a rotation of his wrist, he brought his fingers to her clit, and Rose let out a shaky moan.
‘Oh, that… that, I believe, is important.’ He whispered, quietly enthused.
Rose nodded, and then burrowed into the crook of his neck. Here he smelt the most like the Doctor, sweet hair product and wool, and the darkness of this hollow calmed her; stopped her from spiralling into oversensitivity. Having found where she wanted to be touched, he moved away to tease her, dragging his finger down slowly until he neared her entrance. Dipped in, then out again, up – Rose’s muscles tensed in anticipation – and circled her clit with a wet fingertip. She sagged against him in relief, sighing into his skin.
He repeated the pattern – down and in, up and a loop – again, and again, constructing an entirely languid rhythm from the simple movements. Knowing what to expect made each pass of his finger better and worse: there was no surprise, no off-notes and fumbled touches, but the wait, and the slow build, was driving her mad. Rose began to kiss his throat and wriggle where she lay on top of him, moving her thigh between his legs so she could feel his cock and encourage him to speed up. His breath hitched when she ground against his erection, and his hold on her hip tightened.
‘Rose,’ he said with exasperation, ‘I am trying to get a lay of the land here.’
She choked back a laugh: he slid another finger inside, finally, and further, too, making her toes curl. ‘You don’t need to make a… a – what are those maps that show all the hills and things?’
‘Topographical?’
‘Yeah!’ Rose fixed him with a stern glare. ‘You don’t need to make a topographical map of it - it’s a cunt.’
The Doctor looked momentarily stunned – eyes wide, mouth parted - and then his featured softened, melted into something far more playful: his lips curved, and so did his fingers, and oh, the pad of his thumb glanced across her clit. Her next intake of breath was shaky, and became more ragged when she heard him say, close to her ear, ‘That was filthy, Rose.’
The rebuke sent hot chills down her back, racing along vertebrae until a connection sparked – the sensation of his fingers, filling, thrusting, meeting and combining with the burn of heat his words had caused. Rose clutched at his shirt, resting her forehead on his shoulder. He changed the angle, keeping his fingertips pushing and wiggling inside with no respite, his thumb circling faster, and she lost the ability to breathe entirely. Her thighs trembled with the effort of not closing on his hand and trapping it between them.
‘Doctor, I’m -,’ she managed, breaking off with a groan.
He used his other hand to rub her back. His mouth moving from her ear, he trailed kisses up her face until he reached her temple, where he lingered. ‘Oh, you should,’ he told her. ‘You definitely, definitely should.’
His voice was rough, and dark, and pushed her over, carelessly; she tumbled into her orgasm, the force of it great enough to press the air from her lungs, and squeeze her eyes shut tight. Her muscles contracted – legs, and arms, and jaw, and everything – as the pleasure crashed over her, so strong it bordered on the painful.
When the last wave dissolved, Rose took in a gulping breath and cautiously opened her eyes. Lack of oxygen had turned her vision black and white, and grainy, too, but colour seeped back quickly. The Doctor was stroking her, still, and she placed a hand on his wrist to stop him, shaking her head slightly to let him know she really didn’t need more stimulation. He beamed, clearly pleased with his performance, and removed himself from her knickers. With care, he shifted the material until it was straight and neat, and then brought his hand to his mouth. Rose watched in embarrassed amusement as he started licking clean his fingers, humming happily to himself and making sure to dart his tongue out to get to hard to reach spots. Acting, for all the world, like this was what everyone did after bringing off their best mate on an alien planet that had inadvertently made them stoned.
Rose wasn’t sure if it was the look on her face, or some deep and universal need for reassurance, but the Doctor took his fingers from his mouth and asked her: ‘That was all right, wasn’t it? Good?'
‘Yeah,’ the word was shaky, so Rose nodded as well, just to make sure he knew. ‘That was good.’ She touched the collar of his shirt, and trailed down the V of open space; when she found the first done button, she tapped it, and met his eyes. ‘You were good. Are good. But clothed.’ Her nose wrinkled, and she tugged the button free, then moved down to the next one. ‘I’ve decided being clothed is rubbish.’
‘Ohh, right. This,’ he pointed to his shirt, ‘off, then?’
Another nod. The Doctor disentangled himself from the knot they’d created, their limbs all jumbled together, and quickly flicked open his shirt buttons until there was enough slack to pull it over his head, along with his t-shirt. Rose rested on her back, propped up by her elbows, and ran her admiring gaze along lean lines, the shadowed hint of ribs through skin; the moles she’d explored with her fingertips, and freckles she’d missed. He was gorgeous, utterly and entirely, and when he glanced at her over his shoulder, the look he gave her said that he knew exactly how pretty he was.
‘You too, Rose Tyler.’ The Doctor extended his hand and she took it. ‘Up you get.’
With a groan, he dragged her into a sitting position. When lying down, Rose had almost convinced herself that the effect of the jasmadula had worn off, that she was practically sober. Being hauled upwards told a different story. Her head spun and a rush of blood roared in her ears. The Doctor’s face blurred and then came into sharper focus, back and forth, adjusting in detail as she blinked; swimming in and out of view, like cell walls and chloroplasts on a battered old slide, lost and found with every careless turn of the microscope’s dial.
He held her upper arm to keep her steady. Rose bowed her head, the weight of it seeming far too great for her neck; it lolled forward and rested on the Doctor’s shoulder, and stayed there until the last flutter of giddiness passed.
‘Yup, still stoned,’ Rose muttered.
In her ear, he gave a dry chuckle.
They were kneeling, now, the Doctor having brought her to her knees rather than letting her slump back to the grass in her daze. At her belly button his erection still pressed, eager and waiting for her attention. It made her smile, her lips moving at his neck, where her mouth rested; she kissed them there, softly – a gesture to keep him distracted while she decided what clothing to take off next.
Removing her bra earlier turned out to have caused her unexpected consequences: taking off her top, and revealing her breasts, seemed excessive, especially compared to the Doctor’s milder concession of showing his torso. It would have to be her skirt.
Rose shifted back a bit, then quickly wriggled out of the garment, kicking and pulling at the floral material until it was a twisted loop of fabric pooled at her feet. She nudged it aside with her knee. Bare-legged, she felt for the first time the dip in temperature, a coolness on the breeze that hadn’t been there before; the wind brushed across her skin and made her shiver.
The Doctor saw it, and cocked an eyebrow. ‘Reconsidering your stance on clothing?’
‘Nope.’ Her hands drifted down his body, one remaining on his belt, the other slipping further to brush his cock. She could feel how hard he was through the pinstripes. She squeezed him once, and watched as his head fell back, tipping so there was an uninterrupted view from his chin all the way to where the hair on his stomach disappeared under his waistband. He shut his eyes and very nearly groaned. ‘You?’
‘Ohhh, yes.’ As she drew down the zip of his fly, the Doctor grew as tense and taut as a piano wire. ‘Reconsidering entirely. I mean -’ her fingers worked his belt, feeding the leather through the buckle, ‘I do cut a da-ashing figure, oh!’
Rose’s hand stole through the now split open material, and into his boxer briefs; she hummed in approval, finding sticky skin, and humid heat, and him so ready there was a smeared wet spot at the tip. He breathed heavily, and trembled when she pumped him, awkwardly, through the layers of his pants and trousers.
‘B-but that’s a very compelling argument, what you’re doing now,’ he continued when she released his cock to tug down his trousers. ‘Very compelling, Rose. In fact, did you know that there are whole solar systems where clothing is frowned upon?’
She held him again, this time with nothing in the way, and he watched her for a moment, eyes liquid-dark and his mouth parted. ‘Really?’ Rose prompted, more interested in how his hips twitched, as if he was holding back from thrusting into her hand. His restraint, all quivering and delicate, was fascinating; unnecessary, too, after all they’d said and done that afternoon. It was like they were walking a tightrope together, a safety net underneath: nothing dangerous about tumbling, nothing stopping them, other than the thrill had from staying balanced, high above the ground.
Rose really wanted to make him fall.
At the end of a slow stroke, she twisted her wrist; the motion made him gasp, and his hands flutter to her shoulders.
‘I think… I think I’m going to have to take you there.’
Before she could ask him where – the conversational threads forgotten – the Doctor closed the distance between them, trapping her hand between their stomachs. He kissed her, holding her head so he could slant his mouth on hers fully, could suck her lower lip and mumble something right into her teeth. Not expecting the reaction, or able to keep up with him, Rose focused only on breathing, taking in small sips of air when each kiss broke; he drew her back with searching lips, and fingers tangled in her hair. They tightened, faintly, when their mouths met again, and he apologised with caresses down her cheek and across her jaw and throat.
The Doctor pulled back, just a little bit, only enough to rub his nose with hers. In the process of shifting, he caught his knee on his trousers, still wrapped around his legs. The look of confusion – then surprise – on his face was wonderful, until Rose realised that he was tipping over, and taking her with him. They landed half on his coat, half in a patch of jasmadula, her on top. The Doctor gave an unimpressed grimace.
‘Very smooth.’ Rose laughed. She sat up straighter, moving to straddle him; her knees bracketed his ribs, and the Doctor gazed happily up at her, clearly pleased with the turn of events that had her thighs and breasts within easy access. Her hands toyed with the hem of her shirt, but she paused, her eyes narrowing. ‘Now, you’re absolutely sure there’s no one else here?’
‘Yes. Completely.’
She was tempted to tease him, make fun of the way the words tripped over his tongue in his haste, but he was so urgent, and his cock was trapped between them, throbbing impatiently as it pressed into her centre. The events of the afternoon had taken them so far past the point of flirting, that to make the Doctor wait any longer seemed nothing less than cruel. So, crossing her arms, Rose tugged her shirt over her head and discarded it, letting her eyes drift aside and follow the movement of the garment falling to the ground; it gave her time to compose herself, and for him to as well.
‘Oh, Rose,’ he breathed, his touch on her skin just as light as he reached out and cupped a breast. ‘You’re beautiful. I hope you know that.’
‘Mmm, I think you told me that once.’
They removed her knickers and his pants, constantly touching one another – her fingers raking down his chest, his hands palming over her thighs. Kissing - their mouths, at first, and then she kissed her way down his neck, and he found her collarbone, then her breasts, and then his lips placed a careful constellation around each areola, creating ever-expanding galaxies, until she was squirming and gasping and clutching at his shoulder.
‘Now?’ Rose asked, her squirming evolving into purposeful rocking.
The Doctor nodded, and his hand snuck between them, guiding his cock to her entrance. It was clumsy, and messy, but soon the awkward nudging became a smooth motion, and he was stretching her, inside her. When she glanced down, she saw an expression of awe on the Doctor’s face – wide eyes, a silly grin, and Rose knew she must look the same. She kissed him again because what she felt was too big for words, it seemed; they’d have choked her, had she tried to say them.
After a moment, Rose began to move, pushing him deeper. His hands fell to her waist and held her steady, imprints forming where his fingers dug in. She’d always found this position difficult, the search for the right rhythm feeling like scanning through static, trying to find a good song on the radio; senses straining, poised to latch on when she hit the perfect spot. Sensation fluttered in her belly and between her legs, getting stronger when she ground against him. He thrust up, and there, that was it – a spark of pleasure, warm and bright.
Rose followed it, chased after it by repeating the motion exactly; the feeling blossomed, stronger, and she moaned, softly, almost to herself. Underneath her, the Doctor must have heard it: he lifted his hips, meeting hers, falling into a tempo, a pattern of push and pull. His hand shifted, now sweeping up to caress her breast again, the other holding her tightly to him, just enough give for her to move on his cock, and no more. Like that, she was hovering over the right spot, all the sensations pooling together between her legs; her mouth went slack, her head tipped backwards, and she came hard, letting out a rough gasp in surprise. The edges of her vision blurred and she swore she saw stars.
A few lazy thrusts later, the Doctor grunted and he arched up into her, body strung taut and the heels of his feet pressing into the soft earth. Rose imagined the muddy footprints he’d leave, and giggled breathlessly.
‘Rose Tyler, are you laughing at a man in bed? That is poor form, very poor form,’ the Doctor said sternly, even as he undermined his words by rubbing her back with the flat of his palm.
‘Not in bed,’ she pointed out, earning a hum in agreement – however grudging it might have been given. Her eyes narrowed as she looked up at the sky: the formerly fluffy clouds were now heavy and dark. ‘Doctor, I think -,’ a fat drop of rain landed on her nose, ‘I think it’s raining.’
She managed to pull her shirt and skirt on before they heard a crack of thunder, and the heavens opened in earnest. The Doctor wrapped himself up in his grass-covered jacket, and together they scooped up the rest of their clothes and left over rubbish and ran back to the TARDIS. Dripping wet and missing a shoe, Rose was nevertheless beaming when she fell back against the door, now closed against the inclement weather, shoulder-to-shoulder with an out of breath Doctor.
From above she heard a sharp hiss, and a fine mist began drifting down from the apex of the coral control room. Seeing her frown of confusion, the Doctor hurried to explain. ‘Don’t worry, nothing to be alarmed about! Just the TARDIS reversing the effects of the jasmadula. We should be completely, boringly sober in three… two… one…’
It wasn’t an enormous difference, at least, not that Rose could determine. The euphoric buzz cleared, leaving her mind feeling sharper. Her skin stopped tingling from phantom sensations, and the taste in her mouth was no longer distracting. But she was still delighted, still highly aware that the Doctor was naked under his jacket; her eyes skimmed down to where the coat hung loose, revealing a deep slice of his chest.
He cleared his throat, making her gaze jump back to his face. ‘So, I suppose we have two options for the rest of the afternoon - and it’s entirely your choice, mind you. We could, for instance,’ he shrugged and walked over to the console of the TARDIS so he could stroke a particular button, ‘travel to the 1997 National Fish and Chip Awards – and let me tell you, it was a hotly contested title that year – or…’
‘Or?’
The Doctor suddenly found the flashing light Rose had told him about two weeks ago incredibly fascinating. ‘Or, we could try that,’ he waved his hand vaguely towards the planet they had just left, ‘again. In a bed.’ A pause. ‘Without the jasmadula.’
A slow grin spread across Rose’s face. ‘Doctor, we have a time machine.’ She crossed the distance between them and pressed a kiss to his cheek. ‘We can do both.’