Chapter Text
Rose plunged into the grand ballroom—a glorified fuckpile with an hors d’oeuvres table, really—her every nerve alight as she pushed deeper into the pulsing crowd. Daring to spare a glance over her shoulder, she watched with dread as the hooded figure who’d been trailing her on the terrace slipped in through the French doors.
Fantastic. She was most definitely being followed by someone who looked like a Scooby Doo villain, and there was zero sign of the Doctor. Typical.
The rush of blood in her ears was deafening, but she could still hear her stalker closing in, their footsteps perfectly in sync with her own.
The crowd was no ally. She stumbled past a naked woman, spraypainted gold and carrying a tray of drinks, sending champagne cascading in golden arcs, and narrowly avoided a crash into a masked couple spinning too close to her path. A hand brushed her waist, and she wrenched herself free, almost falling in the process. Behind her, the figure darted closer.
Luck—or something like it—intervened. There was a wet skid, the unmistakable sound of shoes skidding across marble, and the figure slid hard into a puddle of something milky and viscous.
Shedidn’t wait to see if they’d recovered. Her legs burned as she pushed herself up the grand staircase, one hand gripping the bannister for balance. The thought of what might happen if they caught her sent her pulse racing. Things were already far too Eyes Wide Shut for her liking.
She didn’t dare look back until she reached the top.
Leave it to the Doctor to inadvertently drop her into the throbbing centre of an intergalactic sex cult and then leave her to fend for herself.
Rose’s heart pounded as she turned a corner down another opulently decorated, labyrinthine hallway, cursing under her breath. She scanned for any hiding place that wasn’t already occupied by writhing bodies, her frustration growing with each locked door she rattled.
At an orgy full of voyeurs, why the hell was every bloody door locked? Privacy wasn’t exactly the theme of the night!
Other attendees, in various stages of undress, eyed her curiously, but none seemed bothered enough to intervene or ask what was wrong. Something told her this was the kind of gathering where chasing the prey wasn’t just tolerated—it was encouraged.
Between the high cut of her skirt, flashing just enough leg to hint at all the running she did, and the gentle bounce of her sweat-slicked breasts, she must’ve been a tempting prize indeed. This had, of course, been her intention when she picked out the outfit—just not for these apathetic glass-eyed revellers. She’d only wanted to catch the eye of a certain pinstriped and plimsolled alien with ridiculous hair, soft hands, a really nice bum…
And—oh, for crying out loud, focus, Rose! You’re running for your life!
All the same, she was glad she’d been thinking with her brain rather than more southern parts when she opted for slightly more sensible kitten heels over sexy stilettos. It was best not to take it for granted that any trip with the Doctor was likely to require running for your life at one point or another. Speaking of the errant alien…
She needed to find the Doctor. Now.
Sprinting down the universe’s longest corridor, dread driving her every step, Rose's sharp eyes finally caught sight of a door that was slightly ajar. Instinct took over, and without a second thought, she veered towards it, praying it would provide the refuge she so desperately needed.
The door creaked softly as she slipped inside, heart hammering, and she pressed her back against the cool darkness as she pulled it closed behind her. If still in pursuit, the hooded figure would hopefully pass by without noticing the sanctuary she had found. Lord knew there were enough locked doors in the hallway to keep them busy for a while.
Hopefully the Doctor found her before the hooded Scooby Doo villain did.
Squeezing herself into the corner of what she assumed was a linen closet, its faint mothball scent clinging to the stale air, Rose fumbled blindly for her mobile. Cramped and dark, it wasn’t much of a hiding spot, but it was better than being out there with prowlers and party-goers. Her hands shook as she pressed the home key, the screen dimly illuminating the closet. She needed to find the Doctor—needed him now.
The door slammed open before she could type a single word. Her breath caught, her stomach lurching as light poured in. But there he was—scandalously tight blue suit, Venetian mask, and an energy that filled the small space almost as much as he did. Relief flickered through her, but her grip on her mobile stayed tight.
“Where the hell have you—” she started, but her words faltered as she caught the faint smell of smoke clinging to him. What had he set on fire this time?
And then he leaned in, his lips crashing against hers in a kiss that stole the breath right out of her lungs.
This wasn’t like him. Sure, the Doctor could be a bit handsy now and then—grabbing her hand, tugging her along, the usual—but not like this. Never like this. If anything, any time their touches edged too close to crossing a line, he’d pull away, all skittish, like he’d brushed against a lit hob. The tension between them was always there, bubbling under the surface, but this? This was different.
Way different.
His kisses came fast and desperate—lips brushing hers, then her neck, her shoulder—like he couldn’t decide where to stop. And for a moment, all she could do was let it happen, too stunned to push him away or even speak.
Had the fear of someone else getting to her first finally pushed him over the edge? Or was this just him losing it completely, the pressure finally cracking him wide open?
Delirious, she remembered why she’d ducked into the closet in the first place. Presumably, her lurking stalker was still at large, and she was no closer to discovering why they were following her in the first place. With a gasp, she reluctantly pulled away, putting scant millimetres of distance between them. “Doctor, somebody was following me–”
“I was following you,” he said, grabbing her by the hips and pulling her back into his orbit.
"No, but there was somebody else, in a robe with a hood–" The words stuttered and died when she felt him grab her knee, his palm gliding from there up the inside of her thigh. Mouth suddenly dry, the words evaporated from her thoughts as she felt a rush of wet warmth to her core.
He whispered something under his breath—soft, almost inaudible. “Oh, but I’ve missed you.” She must have misheard. They’d been apart for no more than half an hour, but the weight in his voice made her wonder if, for him, even that had felt like a lifetime.
“I missed you too, while I was busy running for my life,” she laughed nervously, the will to hold him off steadily waning as her libido decided to remind her that it was, in fact, alive and well, thank you very much.
Pressing her thighs together, she made one last-ditch effort to remind him why they had come there, if only because she couldn’t bear the idea of finally having the Doctor make a move just to be interrupted by an ill-timed alien threat. “Again, and I can’t stress this enough, somebody was following me. Maybe the same somebody who led us to the party in the first place? What if they catch us in here?”
“Don’t worry about all that. I promise, Rose—I’m not gonna let anything happen to you. Not again,” he said, his voice oddly flat. There was a whirring and a flash of blue light as the sonic emerged from his pocket and she heard the locking mechanism on the door click into place.
Before she could demand an explanation, his lips were on hers again, stealing her words and replacing them with wet heat and simmering longing. She might’ve rolled her eyes at the sheer cliché of it all—Jackie’s romances had taught her to be wary of the motives of heroes who kissed first and answered questions later. But then again, there was no denying it: the Doctor was her dashing hero, and if he wanted to snog her senseless, well, this heroine wasn’t about to put up a protest.
As it turned out, she cared far less about the identity of the stranger following her than figuring out what, exactly, his mouth tasted like. Tea with lemon—extra sweet—and something metallic? The thought barely formed before her knees wobbled, and she fisted her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, grasping for purchase as the world tilted slightly.
Time blurred as Rose gave in, her earlier reluctance dissolving under the Doctor’s touch. If he wanted to be reckless, she couldn’t bring herself to be the voice of reason. His hands, hesitant at first, grew bolder, pushing closer to places he never had dared to before. She wasn’t sure what surprised her more—his desperation or her own.
Her grip on his hair tightened, almost painfully so, driven by everything they’d never said aloud. This was more than the simmering tension of the past—it was the here and now, breaking every rule, every line he’d ever drawn. And neither of them was stopping.
“Oh my God,” she thought, dizzy with disbelief. “It’s actually happening.”
The Doctor’s face was mostly lost to shadow, but his eyes found hers in the dark, silently asking for the go-ahead."Alright?" he inquired, his index finger delicately tracing the lacy edge of her knickers, the gentle touch a promise of something more.
Eyelids fluttering closed, a shuddering sigh escaped her. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “Yes.”
Without further preamble, the Doctor slipped his hand into her pants and the groan that left his lips in unison with her own was positively indecent. “Oh, Rose.” He uttered her name like a sacred prayer, each syllable trembling with the weight of his devotion.
Flushing deeply, she imagined what he might have looked like sculpting her likeness as Fortuna, how carefully he must’ve always been studying her to render so perfect and generous a likeness. Now those same hands mapped her curves as though they were as familiar to him as the route home, and it was nearly enough to pull her undone.
And then, the Doctor shattered that poetic illusion by whispering the most delightful filth into the shell of her ear, his breath hot and ticklish on the bare skin of her neck and shoulders. “You’ve completely ruined these knickers, y’know.” He said this entirely too conversationally for somebody currently finger-deep inside of her. “Positively dripping wet, you are. I bet you’re just aching to come for me, aren’t you? My precious girl.”
Her insides were molten lava, slicking his fingers and the insides of her thighs, and the only answer she could offer him was a low and keening moan. Before, she would have claimed it was impossible te become so wet just from some snogging and light petting, but the Doctor, as always, shone a blinding beacon on exactly how inadequate the men in her life up to this point had been.
Somehow, hearing him talk dirty was almost more shocking than the feeling of his slender fingers dipping into the slippery cleft between her thighs, all while managing to skirt, quite infuriatingly, around the main target. Masquerade sex party jokes aside, it was extraordinary—and a little overwhelming—to see his mask slip away, to watch the facade of Time Lord propriety crumble in real-time. She’d always known him as a shameless flirt, regardless of the regeneration, but she couldn’t recall ever hearing him speak so explicitly.
Not outside her fantasies, anyway.
While his fingers worked their magic between her legs, she couldn't help longing for the reciprocity of her dreams of being with him—to feel their connection through her own heated touch. Rose was unable to keep the dark and carnal corner of her brain from wondering what he looked like beneath his pants, how it’d feel to stroke his length solid before taking him into her mouth and swirling her tongue around the tip of his cock. Whether intentional or not, he maintained just enough space between their bodies that she couldn’t indulge the impulse to touch him back.
Perhaps sensing her silent frustration, his meandering, feather-light touches became increasingly more firm and deliberate, finally pressing into her clit instead of skirting delicately around it, shooting white hot lightning straight to her core.
“Fuck!” she gasped against his mouth, as loud as she dared to be knowing there was a chance her skulking stalker could be nearby. Moments later, she tasted herself on the Doctor’s fingers as they replaced his mouth, thrusting forcefully between her lips and past her teeth, stopping just shy of gagging her.
“Hush now, you don’t want anyone to hear us, do you? There’s a good girl.”
Rose whimpered, her thighs trembling and squeezing involuntarily. She was so close that it hurt, her cunt slick and throbbing with the need to be filled and stretched tight. The Doctor’s hand in her mouth, tasting of the essence from between another set of lips, wasn’t helping any.
Fingers weren’t enough; she needed his hips slamming into her own hard enough to leave bruises as he buried his tumescent cock so deep, she’d be able to feel the imprint of him inside her for weeks to come. She wanted his lips tattooed on the swell of her breast, the tender spot below her ear, her inner thighs and everywhere else his bare skin burned hot against her own.
More than anything, though: she wanted to see his face crumble as his resolve had, to watch him break like glass as his cock twitched and pulsed inside her. The last of the Time Lords, brought to his knees by a timorous beastie in kitten heels and a skin-tight mini skirt.
If this was her one and only guaranteed chance to shag the Doctor, Rose was bloody well gonna make sure it counted—for both of them. She’d leave him with marks to prove it happened, the kind you don’t forget in a hurry. Even if he never wanted to talk about it again, she’d make sure he thought of her every time he looked at himself naked in the mirror for the forseeable future.
Her hands slid up his chest, deliberate and slow, until they settled on his shoulders. Rose dug her nails in just enough to feel him stiffen under her touch, the sharp exhale of his breath telling her she’d hit her mark.
Right as she was on the verge of begging him to get his cock out and fuck her (before she spontaneously combusted with lust), he hiked up her skirt, palming her through her sodden pants before yanking them unceremoniously down over her hips.
“Please, oh fuck, please,” she cried brokenly, her plea muffled by his fingers in her mouth.
“Shhhh, it’s alright, darling. I’m gonna take such good care of you,” he crooned, pulling his fingers from her mouth with a wet pop before reaching down to undo his fly. Nuzzling her neck, he pressed a damp kiss there. “Gods, you’re so beautiful. Oh, love, you’re just perfect.”
His voice was warm and thick as honey, as deep and dark as a gravel quarry on the moon. She’d only ever heard hints of that tone from him before, and every time, it was near enough to turn her knickers into Niagra Falls. Having the full force of that smoulder directed at her now, when he’d spoken so little thus far, was enough to stand her nipples at full attention.
Nudging clumsily between her thighs, the Doctor finally ended her suffering with a thrust rough enough to make her eyes water with the force of it. In the absence of coherent thought, Rose couldn’t muster the wherewithal to be embarrassed by how little resistance he met withdrawing before slamming back into her, completely sheathing himself in her fluttering, clenching heat. His right hand slipped between them to find her clit again, applying pressure until she couldn’t help herself, she was biting his shoulder hard enough to draw blood.
“Kiss me, Rose,” he panted through clenched teeth. His fingers trembled as they brushed a strand of hair away from her face. “Kiss me, please, and say that you love me.”
“I love you,” she gasped, her hands finding their way under his suit and running up his back, her fingers tangling in his shirt. She kissed him again, fierce and unrelenting, catching the taste of his need and hers colliding. “Oh God, do I bloody love you.”
Eyes closed, he leaned his forehead against hers, the rhythm of his thrusts growing increasingly erratic. “I love you, Rose Tyler. I know I don’t say it, but don’t ever doubt it,” he whispered, his voice wavering with unshed tears. Moments later, she got one of her wishes as he spent himself inside of her with a breathless cry, his fingers digging unmercifully into her hips as he rocked against her.
“Doctor!” Rose gasped, startled awake in the throes of a toe-curling orgasm.
Her senses were still buzzing from a dream so vivid, it was hard to believe she hadn’t just been living it. That night on Felicity had only been a few weeks ago, and it wasn’t like she’d forgotten a second of it. Wet dreams, though? She thought those were just a bloke thing. Clearly not.
She shifted awkwardly, her face heating up even though no one was there to see it. Her skin was still buzzing from the aftershocks, like her body wasn’t quite ready to let go of the dream. It wasn’t the first time she’d dreamt of him since Felicity, but this one? This one felt different. Less dream and more memory, like her brain was trying to remind her just how good it had been.
Not that she needed reminding. It had been the best sex of her life.
Too bad the Doctor was acting like it’d never happened.
*****
With his freakishly attuned hearing, the Doctor easily discerned Rose's voice calling his name from beneath the TARDIS console, even amidst the clattering of his tools. The urgency in her pitch suggested distress, prompting him to quickly wrench himself out from under the console and dash down the corridor towards her room.
He didn't progress far, however, before a dense cloud of pheromones smacked into him like a brick wall, so thick it was practically tangible on his tongue. Halting abruptly, he hesitated, pondering whether or not he was on the verge of intruding on Rose having a private moment. There had admittedly been more close calls in that department lately than he was wholly comfortable with. Was it really necessary for the distress and mating calls of human females to sound so bloody similar? What kind of evolutionary tomfoolery was that?
Still, he wasn’t as oblivious regarding human sexuality as everyone seemed to assume. The Doctor caught every sidelong glance Rose gave him when she thought he wasn’t looking, every wistful sigh, her cheeks betraying a subtle blush each time. He meticulously filed these reactions away in his vast memory stores, cataloguing those moments for future reference and private perusal.
Even amidst their casual banter, he noticed her fidgeting, occasionally twirling a strand of hair or adjusting the collar of her shirt–nervous habits that hinted at a deeper attraction. And he’d spent more than enough time cohabiting with humans to put two and two together as to why her room might smell like sex from a mile away, right after he heard her calling out his name in that thin and reedy voice.
Yep, still got it.
But a tiny sliver of doubt crept into his head; what if she was in trouble? What if something was wrong? It wouldn’t be the first time one of his companions had been possessed or infected by something that toyed with their body chemistry or invaded their dreams. What if something like that had happened to Rose? Life and death in those instances could be a matter of minutes. Could he really in good conscience walk away without at least checking to make sure she was okay?
More importantly, would he be able to forgive himself later if it turned out she wasn’t okay and he couldn’t be arsed to check?
No. Of course, he couldn’t. Not that it would matter which of his companions it was, but the fact that it was Rose only propelled him towards her room faster.
Just as he raised his fist, ready to announce his presence with a knock, the door swung open on its own accord before he could make a move.
Rose stood before him, her hair wild and her cheeks blazing with fury—or was it embarrassment? Her vest top was askew, her shorts were plastered to her thighs, and her glare made it clear he’d noticed one second too long.
“You’re here,” she said flatly, arms crossed so tightly it looked like she might snap in two. “Good. We need to talk.”
Humans weren’t normally horny and angry at the same time, right?
Perhaps he wasn't as well-versed in the nuances of human sexuality as he thought.
Shifting uncomfortably on his heels, he hesitated before gingerly crossing the threshold into her room. The air was still thick with pheromones, dizzying in their potency. If she hadn’t been…occupied, right before his arrival, he’d honestly be shocked. Swallowing hard, the Doctor asked a question he was already dreading the answer to. “I heard you calling for me. What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” she repeated, her voice cracking as her eyes filled with tears. “What’s wrong is you! You’re still acting like nothing happened that night, and I can’t—” Her breath hitched, and she scrubbed at her face. “I can’t do this anymore.”
Under normal circumstances, he’d pull her into a hug without a second thought. But now? Now, she looked like she might clock him for even trying. “Can’t do what?” he pressed gently, his hands frozen mid-air, unsure where to put them.
“This!” she shouted, gesturing between them. “This thing where we act like nothing happened between us at that bloody party. I can’t just ignore it, Doctor! You might be able to, but I can’t. Humans don’t just switch off their feelings like that. I can’t pretend I’m okay with never talking about it again.”
The Doctor dragged a hand through his hair, letting out a huff as he paced a step forward and back again. “Alright, look. I’ve no idea what I’ve done, but I know I’ve done something. It’s written all over your face. That night, though—it didn’t feel…I mean, nothing struck me as out of the ordinary, other than the obvious. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t miss something.”
The look she gave him was nothing short of devastating—a mix of hurt and disbelief that cut straight through him. “Nothing out of the ordinary? Now you’re just being cruel.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply to keep his own frustration at bay. Whether she was being fair or not, her pain was unmistakable. Whatever had gone wrong, he needed to defuse this argument before it turned into a full-blown row. Hands shoved into his pockets to hide his restless fingers, he kept his voice as steady as possible. “Rose, I mean it. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please just tell me why you’re upset with me. No more beating around the bush.”
She let out a short, barking laugh, her eyes narrowing. “Trust me, there was no beating around the bush that night.”
And then she added, with almost painful nonchalance, “But if you’re gonna keep denying it, fine. I’m late. Does that spell it out clearly enough for you?”
His hearts stuttered. Late. The word echoed in his mind, jarring against his hazy memories of that night on Felicity as he struggled to put it into context.
Tracking a temporal anomaly. A masquerade party. No, not really a party—an orgy, for the planet’s wealthy elite. His brow furrowed, the pieces clicking together in slow, horrifying succession.
Her words hung in the air like a live wire, crackling with unspoken meaning. The Doctor’s mind jolted, gears turning too fast to keep up, and then—like a switch flipping—it hit him. Horror swept through him, cold and sickening, followed by the kind of anger that burned hot and sharp in his chest.
Someone might have hurt Rose. Touched her. Violated her.
The thought twisted like a knife, its jagged edge dragging through his hearts. And worse—she hadn’t told him. She hadn’t felt she could tell him. That realisation sank in like an anchor, pulling him into the depths of his own guilt. Weeks had passed since that night, and not once had he noticed anything amiss with his best mate.
How long had she been waiting for him to see what was right in front of him? He’d left her alone for only a brief time, convinced she’d be fine. Convinced he’d return before anything could go wrong.
But something always went wrong, didn’t it?
He wanted to believe Rose could handle anything, because most of the time, she could. But those other times—those moments when he wasn’t there, when she needed him and he’d failed—those times haunted him. And they were starting to add up.
He was supposed to be better than this. He needed to be better than this.
He was a bad designated driver.
The Doctor’s stomach felt like it was collapsing in on itself, a black hole pulling him towards the void. “Did something…someone…do something to you at that party? When we were separated?” The words came out uneven, like they’d been pulled from the depths of his chest.
Rose didn’t answer right away, but her expression—angry, raw—was answer enough. His breath hitched as the possible implications struck him, each worse than the last. He’d left her alone to investigate, assuming she’d be safe. He should have known better.
His hearts thudded in his chest, a staccato rhythm echoing too fast in his ears. He felt the blood drain from his face, leaving him lightheaded. What if…? No. He couldn’t think like that. Not yet. Not without knowing for sure.
The room seemed to shift around him, his mind struggling to focus. He grasped at fragments of the party: masks, muffled laughter, the air thick with pheromones. It had felt harmless enough at the time, like theatre. Everything had seemed consensual enough. He hadn’t thought twice about it.
But now, something didn’t fit. His memory blurred at the edges, a gap where there should’ve been certainty. How had they left? What had they found? He couldn’t recall. The only thing he knew was that the trail of the anomaly had gone cold—and now, Rose was looking at him like this.
His hands curled into fists at his sides. “Rose, if someone… if something happened, you have to tell me,” he said, his voice tight with barely checked fury. “Did someone do something to you?”
Her gaze sliced through him, sharp as glass. “Not someone, Doctor.” Her voice shook, but her finger was steady as it jabbed into his chest, driving the accusation home. “You.”