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It had been twenty years.
Twenty years since they first landed in London with the communicators. Twenty years since he'd re-met his Rose. Twenty years since he'd entered this universe.
And no escape. Not yet. Oh, there was a brief reprise, five years earlier, when he'd taken one last trip back to France. But other than that, it was London. London all the time. Traveling to find clues to figure out how to save the universe, but the universe wasn't having any of that saving business.
And there he was. In London. In his silver-tree-shaped TARDIS. Alone.
Reinette had died. Five years earlier. Lived much longer than they'd expected, and as she started to wither, he and Louis took her back to France, to die in the palace. Where she wasn't supposed to die, of course. Being a non-noble. But she was loved by a King and a lonely God. That was enough of a title for them. Louis stayed in France to tend to her. To make sure her grave was not lost in their universe as it was in the one the Doctor returned to.
Suzie left far earlier. Found her own calling or some such nonsense. Or maybe she was simply tired of the domestics. Now, he was simply alone. He'd gotten used to it, by now. It had become the norm these last five years as dressing in French silks had become the norm in the three years he spent in France before coming here.
He sat in a chair outside the TARDIS, looking over new information. The neverending war against the cosmic apocalypse that seemed to never come. The sonic screwdriver twirled in one hand. A gift from Reinette to the Doctor many, many years earlier. Helped made by Ted. How long had he blamed Ted for Reinette's death? Too long, he decided.
Twenty years since they first landed in London with the communicators. Twenty years since he'd re-met his Rose. Twenty years since he'd entered this universe.
And no escape. Not yet. Oh, there was a brief reprise, five years earlier, when he'd taken one last trip back to France. But other than that, it was London. London all the time. Traveling to find clues to figure out how to save the universe, but the universe wasn't having any of that saving business.
And there he was. In London. In his silver-tree-shaped TARDIS. Alone.
Reinette had died. Five years earlier. Lived much longer than they'd expected, and as she started to wither, he and Louis took her back to France, to die in the palace. Where she wasn't supposed to die, of course. Being a non-noble. But she was loved by a King and a lonely God. That was enough of a title for them. Louis stayed in France to tend to her. To make sure her grave was not lost in their universe as it was in the one the Doctor returned to.
Suzie left far earlier. Found her own calling or some such nonsense. Or maybe she was simply tired of the domestics. Now, he was simply alone. He'd gotten used to it, by now. It had become the norm these last five years as dressing in French silks had become the norm in the three years he spent in France before coming here.
He sat in a chair outside the TARDIS, looking over new information. The neverending war against the cosmic apocalypse that seemed to never come. The sonic screwdriver twirled in one hand. A gift from Reinette to the Doctor many, many years earlier. Helped made by Ted. How long had he blamed Ted for Reinette's death? Too long, he decided.
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But she was holding back. Too soon, perhaps? They'd only just re-found each other, maybe he had gone too far. He was never one for knowing boundaries or tact.
He said something he thought she might remember. The Gallifreyan equivalent of "I want you", purred against her ear.
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But there was still the matter of his injuries...
And there were ways around them.
Dragging his lower lip sensually between her teeth as she pulled away, Rose slithered down his body. She ran her hands over his thighs -- one part copping a feel, one part testing him for injuries -- and then back up to the fastenings of his trousers. She didn't hesitate, deftly undoing them and slipping one small hand inside to firmly and tenderly cup him.
"I want you, too." Her Gallifreyan had mostly deserted her: she needed a refresher.
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As for her next motion, the rest of the lower half of his body jerked to life in response, and he growled again---not a word, just a growl. He cupped one of her breasts with a hand and pinched a nipple between two fingertips.
How long had he desired her, like this? So long, though before many things kept them apart. Now, it took one trip into his bedroom before they fell into bed together. Years and years worth of want.
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Then her mouth replaced her hands and she finally got a taste of what she'd been craving for fifteen years.
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"Rose." Her name came out in a gasp of pleasure.
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It was rude to talk with your mouth full, after all.
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How long had they wanted each other? Too long. A dam had been broken and they weren't going to be able to stop, not after all this.
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It was utterly dizzying to feel each movement of her lips, each flicker of her tongue echoing through the filter of him -- but an excellent cheat. She'd never exactly been a slouch at this, but this was the perfect way to absolutely perfect head. (If she could only keep her concentration!)
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"Come here," he instructed. "My turn."
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But more than anything, she wanted this to be worth all the pain. She wanted their coming together to be as fierce, undeniable and shattering as each time they had come apart at the seams. She wanted his desertion of her and her desertion of his absolved in skin and desire and the deep and abiding love that flourished under everything like night-blooming jasmine, growing even in the darkness and imbuing everything it touched with an unforgettable perfume.
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He couldn't imagine pulling away, so he, instead, poured more desire into her. Decades of want and need and loss and pain and love that they hadn't let themselves touch before, pooled around her the pleasure centers in her mind.
In the physical world, he tugged at her shirt, which seemed a pathetic move in comparison to what his mind was giving to her. But he wanted her. He didn't want a lust-filled moment against a wall or touches on a dark bench. He wanted to know every inch of her, taste every inch of her.
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Rose whispered his name -- his real name, told to her once a long time ago and remembered ever since -- stumbling a little over conjoined consonants against his throat and dimly realised she was moving against him, moving up and away from sucking him off and how did that happen, precisely?
-- what was she trying to do? She couldn't remember. Couldn't think beyond the collision of memoriesyearswant -- even hands and mouths and skin felt almost distant.
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She moved up his body and his hands moved to her wrists, taking hold of them and moving them. He wished he had full access of his legs, he'd simply flip her over, like he wanted to do. Instead, he had to be more creative.
Which was good. It was worth it, the extra thought.
"Rose." Her name came out as another growl. Part affection, part a curse. She drove him mad, but he loved her. That was Rose.
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"Yes, Doctor?" she purred back, enjoying his growls, his touch, the warmth of him, the staccato of his dual heartbeats pounding out a rapid pulse.
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His hands already holding her wrists, he leaned upwards so his mouth could move to her throat again. But this was an area he'd already tasted. Wasn't enough.
"You're far too clothed."
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The sheer hunger in his eyes threatened to consume her. Rose smiled broadly, happily.
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"Well," he made a look of mock-thought. "I think I'll have to undress you, then. Seems only logical seeing as I don't really want you clothed."
He moved her hand over so he could hold both wrists with one hand and used the other to unbutton and unzip her pants.
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Her breath caught in her throat, though, as he held her down and started on her clothing. It was really real and really happening and neither of them had pulled away, had reason to pull away, nor seemed likely to pull away. After all this time, and -- Rose swallowed hard against the well of emotion.
"If that's what you want, Doctor, then feel free." She dropped her eyes, mock-demure, and chose not to struggle against him this time -- one part concern for his old injuries and not wanting to hurt him, and one part trying something new to see how he'd react. "I'm at your mercy, aren't I?"
(There was a thrill in yielding to him and letting herself be swept away: she'd learned that long ago. She'd just never played that card like this...)
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Panic hit him. Did she not want this? Had he---well, he could've been mistaken. No, no, no, not from the way she looked up at him as she sucked on him. Or maybe he was wrong.
He moved over her again and tilted his head, studying her. How often had he wanted this? Wanted her? And now...well, now they didn't have responsibilities and emotions with others to think about. Just now.
"Rather, it is I at yours, Rose. But I think you know that." He pressed a kiss to her mouth and could taste himself on her lips. "Unless you don't want me to...?"
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Irritated 'ooooh!', accompanied with a teasing grind down against him. More friction and a pair of blazing eyes.
"I've always loved you. I think I've wanted you since we landed in Victorian Cardiff and you looked at me with Thete's eyes and a surprising amount of heat in your gaze when I was all corsetted up. I've waited for you for what feels like lifetimes. I've gotten over you and fallen for you again more times than I can count. So don't you bloody dare try to make me the reason why not! Not again!"
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He let a hand slide down her throat, between her breasts, just touching her as she ground against him. He hissed at the sensation. He wanted her badly. More badly than he'd wanted anyone in years.
"But if you want me to to all those wonderfully wicked things I'd like to do," he looked up at her with dark eyes. "And believe me when I say I do. Then take. Off. Your. Fucking. Clothes."
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"Yes, Doctor."
Rose began unbuttoning her shirt, slowly revealing inch after inch of skin, the deep vee of her cleavage, the black lace of her bra, the curve of stomach and hips disappearing into black trousers. Boots next, unzipped and plucked off from her position on his lap, socks right after. Another 'accidental' grind against him and an answering groan.
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She ground against him again and he growled a Gallifreyan swear in reply. She drove him mad. Completely mad. He curled up and kissed down her clevage as it was uncovered. He slid one side of her bra down with his thumb and slowly worked his way to her nipple, which he traced with his tongue once, twice, then he bit down gently.
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Her intention had been to tease him deliberately and keep him dangling for the duration of a careful striptease -- but intentions went dramatically out the window. He knew her too well for her to savour an aloofness while tantalizing him. He knew her so well, and the knowledge was transfering to the carnal vividly.
Unbuttoning her black jeans was a little trickier, positioned, as she was, kneeling over his lap. She had to kneel up, robbing them both of the intimate contact that had them both gasping -- brief withdrawal for later, greater pleasures. Rose tugged her jeans down her hips and felt rather than saw his smile at the hot pink zebra print on her thong -- the only non-black garment she had been wearing -- and then sat back to pull off her jeans.
She caught his eye and smiled: "there's no way to slither out of skinny jeans that looks sexy, is there?" The girl and younger woman she'd been before would have likely blushed a little at this, but the woman she'd become had a rueful self-confidence and an absense of her scars thanks to an over-zealous TARDIS last time.
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