#(I haven’t enough talent to dare call this a horror fic but that tag is still there just to be safe)

[honey-sunsets]

Little Hurt-Comfort Bee Duo Fic!

TW: derealization, anxiety attack

Reminder: this is all platonic and all roleplay!

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, sleep well.”

Ranboo rolled over onto his left side so that his back was to Tubbo. Tubbo was out in seconds, as noted by the immediate steadiness he sunk into. He was in his tired arc this night, so this was expected. Ranboo, on the other hand, did not fall asleep so immediately.

Earlier that evening, when he went to put Michael to bed, he found the piglet scribbling on a sheet of paper with the colored ink Tubbo had crafted for him a while back. Ranboo went to Michael cheerfully, asking what he was drawing and being overjoyed to learn that it was a family portrait. But when Ranboo finally saw the drawing, he didn’t find it so endearing anymore. Each of the three faces were drawn with thin smiles and solidly colored eyes. It was a sloppy and innocent drawing, so much so that Ranboo nearly didn’t notice the smiley faces at first, and they didn’t frighten him into an enderwalk. But they were still there, staring at him mockingly. And as he tucked Michael into bed, as he changed into pajamas, as he slid into his own bed, they were still there, hovering in the back of his mind.

So he didn’t get to sleep easy. It was quite a while, Ranboo wasn’t sure how long exactly, before he even felt tired, then another long while slipping in and out of consciousness. His brain fogged over with hundreds of thoughts flicking by too quickly to cause serious panic, only the indecipherable trailing of it.

He woke up in darkness. He wasn’t sure when he fell asleep, but that didn’t bother him. What did bother him was that something felt wrong. He wasn’t sure what at first, until he heard shuffling in the far right corner of the bedroom. He thought, he hoped, it might be Tubbo, but the lump beside him bitterly proved him wrong. Ranboo sat up slowly, trying not to wake Tubbo or alert whatever might be waiting for him in the corner. That is, if his shaking breath and pounding heart hadn’t already alerted it.

Something on the opposite side of the room moved, darting across the left side of Ranboo’s vision. Before he could react to that, there was a noise from right beside him.

“Tubbo?” he whispered, turning in fright to see his husband. Tubbo was now sitting straight up, body facing forward and head turned away. He sat agonizingly still, the only movement Ranboo could sense being the shaking of his own body.

“...Tubbo?”

Tubbo then jerked his head to the left, tiny black circles suddenly meeting Ranboo’s wide red and green eyes. His face was flattened, his features completely erased and replaced with a familiar smile.

Ranboo shot upwards out of his deep sleep, screaming and slamming his hands against the sides of his head.

“Ranboo? Ranboo!” Tubbo woke right up and jumped into action, reaching out to put his hand on his husband’s shoulder. Ranboo flinched violently at the contact, arms separating from his head only long enough to shove Tubbo away.

“RANBOO, Ranboo, it’s me, it’s Tubbo! I’m not going to hurt you, you’re safe, you’re alright!”

Ranboo stopped abruptly, trying to figure out if this was another cruel trick of his imagination. Slowly, he peaked out from behind his forearms, and was shocked to find Tubbo’s normal, forgiving features instead of a distorted smile.

“T-Tubbo?”

Tubbo’s expression softened, and he lowered his voice to something that sounded a little calmer.

“Hey there, big man, it’s me.”

“Tubbo, you— you were— your face—” Ranboo’s eyes darted away, his gaze unfocusing and breath picking up again.

“Ranboo, listen to me, please. I’m going to take your hand, okay?”

Ranboo didn’t respond, but Tubbo carefully took his hand anyway. He flinched a little, but didn’t try to pull away this time. Tubbo slowly brought Ranboo’s hand down and gripped it with both of his.

“Just listen to me and breathe, Ranboo, that’s all you have to do. Listen to me and keep breathing.”

Gently, Tubbo took Ranboo’s thumb with his thumb and forefinger, applying just a little pressure to make sure the other would register it. “Your name is Ranboo,” he stated tranquilly.

He moved softly to the pointer finger. “My name is Tubbo.”

Next the middle finger. “We’re married.”

The ring finger. “We have a son, his name is Michael.”

The pinkie finger. “The three of us are in our house.”

And lastly, Tubbo took Ranboo’s other hand, pulling it down to rest beside the first and lightly squeezing it. “You’re safe, you’re real, and so am I. It’s going to be alright.”

The pair sat in quiet anticipation, Tubbo hoping Ranboo had calmed down, and Ranboo trying to grasp what Tubbo said. Finally, Ranboo took in a deep, shaking breath, and let out a rough exhale.

“You feeling a little better now?”

Ranboo took another, shallower breath and squeezed Tubbo’s hands. “Yeah, yeah, I’m... I’m a little better, I think.”

“There you go, that’s good. Do you remember those breathing exercises Tommy showed us?”

There was a hesitant pause, but Ranboo nodded. “Mm-hmm.”

“Good, let’s try some of those, okay?”

“Okay.”

For the next couple of minutes, the two practiced deep breaths, which slowed down smaller and smaller until they were brought back to a normal pace. Soon, Ranboo’s heart settled down to where he couldn’t hear it anymore, and the images of smiley faces faded enough in his mind so that he could see and think over them.

By then, the room had started to lighten. The white light of the moon, reflected all around by the wintry Snowchester grounds, began to give way to the pale blue of the early morning.

“I guess that’s all the rest we’re getting for the night,” Tubbo shrugged, taking note of the rising sun.

“Yeah... Sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it, big man, it’s not your fault. Now why don’t we go get something to eat and get the day started?”

Ranboo grinned, something so much softer and more real than what had haunted him all night and morning.

“That sounds great, Tubbo.”

[megabadbunny]

love don’t roam

“It’s just sex, Rose,” says the Doctor.

“Oh, is that all?” Rose asks exasperatedly.

(A shag-or-die fic; please check tags for potential warnings. <3)

***

“Welp,” says the Doctor appraisingly, glancing all about the room. Rose watches as he catalogs everything from the vaulted ceilings above them to the intricately-patterned gold-paneled walls surrounding them to the rich marble floors beneath them, polished so thoroughly they might as well be mirrors. Withdrawing the sonic, he scans the ceiling and walls and floor, even the lanterns hanging in the corners, their yellow light flickering cheerfully between filigreed panes. His attention lands on the bed, last, scanning over the velvet midnight-blue drapes and golden tassels, the four posts towering high above, the plush pillows and silk brocade lying atop the mattress below.

“It’s got buckets of atmosphere,” the Doctor concludes, and to Rose’s horror, he starts untying the belt to his ceremonial robe. “Shall we get this over with, then?”

“Are you sure we’ve got to?” asks Rose, nervously worrying her lip between her teeth. “I mean…are they really gonna be able to tell, if we’ve…?”

The Doctor pauses, eyebrow piqued. Waiting for her to continue.

Sighing in frustration, Rose rolls her eyes, fidgeting in her robe as she begs her cheeks not to flush.

“Had sex?” she says, and tries not to choke on the words.

“They’re not watching us, if that’s what you mean. The fertility rite is sacred, to be observed only by the physical participants and the gods above.”

“Oh, is that all?” Rose laughs weakly.

“But they do supposedly have their methods of checking, yes. Nothing too invasive,” the Doctor continues, clasping his hands behind his back. “Again, it’s a highly sacred ceremony; they consider your body to be, quite literally, a temple, therefore performing any kind of invasive procedure would be akin to defiling the temple, which is a crime punishable by death. Thus high priests and priestesses are typically chosen from a pool of candidates whose senses are highly attuned to hormones and pheromones.”

Rose fiddles with her earring. “So what, they can smell if I’ve shagged someone?”

“More or less.”

“And if I haven’t? If we don’t?”

Tugging on one ear, the Doctor averts his gaze. “Difficult to say, exactly, but the outcome would be…less than ideal, to be certain. Refusal to engage in the rite would be a crime akin to blasphemy or heresy. And societies like this don’t respond to that sort of thing very nicely.”

“So there goes our chance of saving the queen, is what you’re saying,” Rose murmurs. “Why didn’t you look into all this before you signed us up for the weird secret fertility-death-cult?”

“That would be because it is, as you so accurately described it, a secret fertility-death-cult,” the Doctor replies pleasantly.

Rose glares at him. “You know, if you were any other bloke, I would’ve thought you got me into this on-purpose.”

“Good thing I’m not any other bloke, then,” the Doctor says cheerfully, hands moving back to untie his robe.

Rose’s pulse thunders madly in her ears. “Wait!” she calls out, smacking her hands over his. “They’re only checking me, right?”

“Right. You’re the temple, the holy vessel—the sacred figure, as it were.”

“Okay. So what if I just like…touched myself, instead?” she asks, cringing even as the words leave her mouth.

“Touched yourself?” the Doctor asks. Looking down at her hands, clenched atop his but still very much touching each other, he frowns. “How would that help?”

“No, I mean like—like masturbating,” Rose says, her cheeks absolutely scalding.

“Well, it depends. Which do you find less awkward, sex with your best mate or masturbating in front of your best mate?”

“I don’t know! It’s all awkward, isn’t it? Being forced to shag someone?” Rose blurts out, wrapping her arms round her midsection protectively. “What about everyone else who joined up with us—are they all going through the same thing right now? Have they got to do the fertility thing, too?”

“Well, yes, but I imagine they’re doing so voluntarily.” The Doctor tilts his head, suddenly thoughtful. “In fact, they all seemed rather eager about it.”

Groaning, Rose turns away to flop down on the bed, burying her face in the duvet. A dip in the mattress lets her know the Doctor has sat next to her; her cheeks flush even more, if that’s possible, and she wishes that the bed would swallow her whole.

“You know, any other bloke might consider all of this a blow to his ego,” the Doctor teases.

Rose laughs curtly, the sound muffled by the duvet.

“Would it help if I turned out the lights?”

Begging her stupid body to please stop flushing, Rose slowly sits up in the bed. “The lights aren’t the issue, Doctor.”

“Then, if you don’t mind me asking, what is? I was given to understand you had a fairly easygoing attitude about this sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing?”

“Sexual intercourse,” the Doctor replies.

Now Rose’s laughter is verging on the hysterical. “That doesn’t mean I want to shag just anyone!”

“We’re not talking about just any old anyone, though. We’re talking about me.”

Rose buries her face in her hands, wishing this was all some stupid horrible dream, willing herself to wake up. Any time now would be great.

“It’s just sex, Rose,” says the Doctor.

“Oh, is that all?” Rose asks exasperatedly.

“It is. It’s just bodies and fluids and friction.”

“Oh, great,” Rose mutters. “That makes it so much better.”

The Doctor draws in a long breath, as if he’s drawing deep from the well of his patience. Rose half-expects him to say some silly snide or flippant thing; she jumps when he pulls her hands back from her face, instead.

“Rose,” he says, and in any other circumstances—fuck, in any other circumstances, the way he’s looking at her, gaze soft, stupid kissable mouth open and questioning, would make her stomach flutter, her heartrate hammer to match. “There are multiple ways we could go about this, you know,” he tells her. “Methods that don’t involve vaginal penetration.”

Rose’s ears burn like they’re on fire. “Please stop talking now.”

“I’m just saying, I’m quite dexterous, in multiple senses of the word. Orally and manually talented, if you take my meaning.”

“I really wish I didn’t.”

“Just let me know what sort of stimulation works best for you, and I’ll make it happen. You can guide me along the way, direct me towards your pleasure; I’m a very fast learner, as you know, and I’m confident I can bring you to a very enjoyable orgasm.”

“Oh my god,” Rose groans. “Please stop saying words like vaginal and penetration and orgasm. This is bad enough as it is.”

Huffing in frustration, the Doctor pushes off the bed. “Blimey. I’m just trying to make this easier, Rose. Easier for both of us!”

“It’s not about whether or not it’s easy,” Rose argues. “Easy isn’t the question. Easy isn’t the problem. It’s…”

The Doctor stares at her, eyes wide, brow furrowed in confusion. And just—

God, Rose just can’t bring herself to say it.

Because it isn’t just the horrid awkwardness of this whole contrived situation. Even if this giant weight weren’t looming ominously over them, Rose can’t—she just can’t think about him like that. She’s not allowed to. She won’t let herself. Because the Doctor is above all of that, isn’t he? He’s nearly immortal, practically a demi-god, virtually unreachable, functionally untouchable. The Doctor cares for her—of course he does, Rose knows that, she’s not stupid—and they hold hands and they share adventures and they share their lives, to a degree, but that’s it. She can’t ask for more. She can’t even think about asking for more. That would make her selfish, and stupid, and silly, wouldn’t it? It would be like a moth striving to kiss the sun. Wouldn’t it?

Rose may not know much about mythology, but she knows enough to realize what happens to demi-gods and the unlucky mortals who love them.

“It’s just wrong,” Rose says quietly.

The Doctor’s expression cools. “Wrong,” he repeats, voice flat.

“I don’t mean like that. I mean like—having sex because other people are making you, that’s wrong,” Rose quickly amends. “Sex should be something that people do, because they want to. It should—it should mean something.”

The Doctor watches her, his face inscrutable.

“I mean—I know that’s not how it works for everyone,” Rose adds, thinking of Jack and his easy flirtation, that megawatt grin that guarantees a good time to anyone willing and able within a ten-mile-radius. “And that’s fine, for them. But that’s not how it works for me. I can’t just separate sex from my feelings. I can’t just turn it all on and off like that.”

“I understand that, Rose, and in any other circumstances, I wouldn’t push you on this—wouldn’t even dream of it—”

“Then why are you doing it now?” Rose demands.

Scratching the back of his neck uncomfortably, the Doctor averts his gaze, looking uncertain and, dare Rose think it, the slightest bit worried.

“Doctor,” Rose says, suspicious now, “What aren’t you telling me?”

“I don’t want to add undue pressure to the situation,” the Doctor says carefully, “any more than I already have.”

Rose shakes her head. “What does that mean? What are you talking about?”

The Doctor doesn’t answer, his mouth pinched in discomfort, his gaze firmly fixed on the floor.

Huffing in irritation, Rose pushes off the bed. “Look, we’ll find another way to save the queen, yeah?” she says, walking toward the exit. “For now, let’s just—”

“Stop,” the Doctor bites out, grabbing her by the arm.

Rose obeys, only because she’s surprised at the firmness of his grip. “What are you doing?” she asks. “Let’s just leave, Doctor. Please.”

“We can’t,” he says, but he won’t meet her gaze when he says it. “I’m sorry, Rose. We can’t.”

“Why not? What are they gonna do, if we try?”

“It’s like I said earlier,” the Doctor tells her, slowly. “Refusal to engage in the rite is a crime, akin to blasphemy or heresy. And it is punished as such.”

Rose thinks on those words—uncommon words, to her, blasphemy and heresy, it takes a moment for her to properly place them—but after a moment, she remembers school lessons about witch hunts in the Middle Ages, about horror stories from the Inquisition, about Joan of Arc, burned at the stake. Visions of hangman’s nooses and guillotines and deep, dark lakes fill her mind.

The blood rushes from her head, leaving her feeling very swimmy, all of a sudden. “So what,” Rose laughs weakly, “if I don’t do this, they’ll kill us?”

“Not us, Rose,” the Doctor says quietly, looking up at her with pleading eyes. “You.”

An odd ringing sound fills her ears as his words sink in, and the sudden desperation behind them.

Rose shakes herself. “That’s stupid. Don’t be stupid. You’d never let that happen. We can just—”

“We can’t though. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. There’s no way out,” the Doctor replies, frantically running both hands through his hair. Rose wishes he wouldn’t; it’s unbearably sexy, all wild and rumpled like that, and that is not the sort of thing she needs to be thinking right now. “I checked earlier, with the sonic; we’re sealed in, and those seals are deadlocked,” he continues. “The doors can only be opened from the outside. And outside of this room, the temple and the surrounding grounds are patrolled by guards and their beasts. There’s no way to escape, no way to leave until the priests and the guards fetch us in the morning. And their weapons—you saw what they can do, you saw it firsthand. One hit would be enough to kill this body, and that’s saying something. But that’s not the end of the world; it’s unfortunate, uncomfortable, but I’d just regenerate.”

“What do you mean, just regenerate?” Rose demands. “Nothing just about it!”

“But you—you’d never be able to survive that weapon, Rose. You’d be dead in an instant. I’d be powerless to stop it.” The look on his face wills her—begs her—to understand. “I’m sorry.”

Her knees suddenly weak, Rose sinks to the floor and sits, rather than let herself fall.

“Why?” she asks, from very far away.

The Doctor sighs. “The same reason any group like this puts their members through the ringer: they’re looking for absolute dedication. Absolute dedication, total obedience, unquestioning, unwavering loyalty, to the gods, and to their priests. They want to make certain they can say jump, and we’ll pull out the trampoline, no matter what, whether they’re watching us or not. But ultimately, Rose, it doesn’t matter why.”

He kneels to the floor opposite Rose, taking both of her hands in his. “I’m so sorry I dragged you into this,” he tells her earnestly. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve learned more beforehand; I should have known. I shouldn’t have rushed into this so blindly. And I know you want to try to fight back anyway, and…”

The Doctor swallows loudly. “And if that’s what you really want to do, then we will,” he tells. “I’ll do everything in my considerable power to get you out of here, to save you. But you’ve got to know that I can’t make any guarantees. Not this time.”

“Are you totally sure this isn’t some silly plot that Jack cooked up?” Rose jokes feebly.

“I’m sorry, Rose. I know it’s a rubbish choice. But it’s still your choice.” He drinks in a deep inhale. “And whatever you choose…that’s what we’ll do. Okay?”

Rose’s hands feel very clammy in his. “What about the queen, though?”

“Don’t think about her right now. Right now, I need you to think about you.”

Gaze drawn to the floor, Rose tries to think. Almost anything would be better than forced intimacy with an otherwise uninterested and unwilling partner; anything would be better than making things awkward or strange or strained with the Doctor. It would be different if he’d expressed an interest in anything beyond holding hands and slightly-too-long hugs and the occasional platonic cuddle on a cold night out or sleepy night in. But he doesn’t need anything more than that, because he’s not some hormone-addled human enslaved to the driving need of his baser instincts. He doesn’t want intimacy, of the physical kind or otherwise. And the thought of pushing him to do something he doesn’t want or need, straining their friendship in the process, makes Rose feel sick.

And it’s probably not any easier for him, she realizes. The Doctor has likely already calculated every potential scenario. He must have done. And if he’s truly convinced that they can’t safely escape, if he’s run every possible equation and all of them have come up bleak…

Well. At least this explains his weird bullshit cavalier attitude earlier. He really wasn’t trying to pressure her. He was trying to convince her that it was all easy lighthearted fun. Trying to coax her into it, despite any discomfort he may personally have, despite any of his own misgivings, so he didn’t have to tell her just how thin the line is, that her life is hanging from.

(Just how afraid is he, she wonders, of losing her?)

“This is stupid,” Rose announces. “We shouldn’t be stuck in a position like this.”

“I know,” says the Doctor, mouth pinched in discomfort. “But I could always,” he starts to say, and stops, considering. “Would it help if I—”

Rose looks up at him, biting her lip.

“I could make you forget, after,” the Doctor says, his tone carefully neutral.

Something twists deep in Rose’s chest. “No. I don’t want that.”

“I’m just saying—”

“No,” Rose says again, louder this time. “God, Doctor. That’s even worse!”

“You’re right. I’m sorry, Rose. I’m so sorry. I’m really so sorry. If there’s anything I can do, to make it up to you, to make it easier—”

She shakes her head sharply, cutting him off. “Just—tell me we’ll still be best mates, afterward,” she tells him. “Say it and mean it.”

“Of course we will,” he says, his voice soft, and god, Rose can’t decide if the stupid prettiness of him is making this situation any better, or so much worse. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“As if any of this is easy.”

The Doctor smiles at her. “Oh, but it is. As easy as we want it to be,” he replies, that cheerful mask of his sliding back into place like it never slipped at all, and he springs up from the floor, offering a hand to help Rose up. “After all, like I said earlier, it’s just fluids and friction, Rose. Just bodies,” he says, punctuating the word by drawing Rose up and close, the motion so sudden it makes her gasp, “drawn to each other like gravity.”

The instant switch in tone is almost enough to give Rose whiplash, but not enough to keep her from flushing warm everywhere they’re touching. “Just like gravity?” she manages to say, desperately trying not to notice he’s pulled her hips into his.

“Just like gravity!” he confirms, one hand grabbing her by the waist. “It’s a force of attraction, you see,” he continues, while his other hand reorients itself around her fingers, “which exists between any two masses.”

And just like that, they’re dancing, now, just the two of them, silly and carefree and not a thing wrong with the world. “Of course, traditionally the term refers to mass and its relationship with the nearest orbital body, but it can also refer to two bodies pulled together,” the Doctor continues, spinning Rose and drawing her back in, “by an irresistible—one could even argue magnetic—force.”

“Never knew you were such a romantic,” Rose laughs, steadfastly ignoring how warm she feels at this close proximity, how she can feel his double heartsbeat tapping steadily against her own.

“Well, there’s a lot you don’t know about me, Rose Tyler,” the Doctor says with a wink, and that is precisely enough to distract Rose from realizing that he has stooped to leverage an arm under her legs so he can scoop her up, bridal-style. Rose shrieks as he draws her up and close, scrabbling to ensure her robe hasn’t flown open to reveal anything (as if he won’t be seeing it all in a few moments anyway, but she’d at least like it all to be exposed on her terms). “For example,” says the Doctor, beaming at her as he carries her toward the bed, “I am, in fact, deceptively strong.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh yes. Positively riddled with manly muscles, this body is.”

“Only the manliest of muscles,” Rose laughs.

“Indeed, so very manly, that you’ll soon be rendered utterly immune to its irresistible charms,” the Doctor tells her, stopping at the edge of the bed. “Devastated by the pristine gorgeousness of this positively godlike form.”

Rose instinctively loops her arms about his neck, only to look up and realize that, goodness, his face is close to hers, isn’t it? Certainly close enough for a kiss, if they both wanted. Which she doesn’t, Rose reminds herself. Because that’s not what this is about. It’s just a silly adventure, hardly different from any of their usual antics. And one day, they’ll laugh about all this together.

Because that’s all this is. Just a load of dangerous silliness. Like any other day, for them.

“Devastated, huh?” Rose laughs breathlessly. “I’m gonna hold you to that.”

“Oh, I know you will,” says the Doctor with another wink, setting her down on the bed. “Now,” he says, stepping back, withdrawing the sonic again, “where did we land, on the lights situation?”

Biting her lip, Rose wonders how he’d react if she asked him to leave the lights on; all jokes aside, she really doesn’t mind the idea of being devastated by this gorgeous body of his. “Erm. Off, I think,” she answers, internally kicking herself.

Nodding, the Doctor aims the sonic at the nearest lantern, dimming it and all the others in the room until their synthetic flames flicker a subdued amber hue, casting the room into semi-darkness. Once Rose’s eyes adjust, many of the details in the room are now obscured for her, but she still can easily make out the Doctor’s motions as he pockets the sonic and unties his robe. Rose quickly averts her eyes, no matter how much they may long to linger, as she sheds her own robe, dropping it off the side of the bed, feeling more naked and exposed than she ever has in her entire life, lights off or no.

“Come on. Budge up,” the Doctor says, bumping her knee with his, and Rose scoots back on the mattress to make room. The Doctor pulls up the duvet after her—for modesty’s sake, she supposes—and she wriggles her way down in. The Doctor climbs in next to her and she turns on her side, facing him.

“All right,” says the Doctor cheerfully. “How do you want me?”

Rose stutters in surprise, and thank god the Doctor dimmed the lights, because she doesn’t think she could bear for him to see just how utterly bright-red her cheeks are flaming right now. “Wow,” she says. “Right down to business, huh?”

“I’m sorry, would you prefer to engage in a bit of pillow talk, first?”

“Erm,” says Rose, her mind going blank.

“Sweet talk?”

“Er.”

His voice drops a register. “Dirty talk?”

“How about we don’t talk at all,” Rose says quickly.

“But then how else are we supposed to communicate? Isn’t communication supposed to be key for this sort of thing, isn’t that what all of your trashy mags are always wittering on about?”

Rose quirks an eyebrow in surprise. “You’ve read my trashy mags?”

“A few of them, sure.” He shrugs against the bedclothes. “You sleep a lot. I get bored. And some of them have remarkably insightful social commentary.”

“Maybe I should just masturbate after all,” Rose mutters.

“If you like,” says the Doctor, shrugging again. “It’s up to you.”

Rose picks at the duvet. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you have a preference? Between…”

“Involvement versus observation?”

Rose’s pulse roars in her ears, threatening to drown out all other sound. “Yeah. I mean…just doesn’t seem fair, if I’m the only one getting anything out of this. You know?”

He smiles, the expression almost tender. “Don’t worry about me, Rose. I’ll be fine.”

“Besides,” he continues, chipper once more, “I am getting something out of it: the knowledge that, one way or the other, Rose Tyler is about to have a very pleasant orgasm.”

Rose rolls her eyes. “How is it so easy for you to talk about this, all of a sudden? Is it a regeneration thing? I feel like the other you would have chewed through his own leg first.”

“That was different,” the Doctor replies. “That was a defensive measure against you insulting my manliness—have I mentioned it, before, just how very manly I am?”

“A time or two,” Rose chuckles.

“But this, what we’re doing here? It’s just science. We’re proposing theories and conducting experiments in an effort to generate a specific outcome. Granted, it’s a little more personal than usual, involving components and variables that are typically considered rather private, but at the end of the day, it’s just another brand of science. That’s all.”

“Right,” replies Rose, chewing her lower lip. Science. That makes sense. That makes it a little easier. Doesn’t it? “So we’re just—we’re just like, doing science together, yeah? Just using bodies instead of beakers, or whatever.”

“Exactly,” he says, with a smile, and Rose forces herself not to look at his mouth.

Science, she reminds herself. It’s just science.

Rose draws in a deep, calming breath. “Okay,” she says, letting the breath slowly out. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s do some science.”

She edges closer to the Doctor in the bed, and he follows suit, until the two of them are just scant inches apart. In the semi-dark, Rose can just make out the contours and plains of his face, his eyebrows lightly drawn together, his eyes half-shuttered, his mouth so very, very close to hers. Once again, Rose wonders if she should kiss him. Wonders if he wants her to.

“Erm,” says the Doctor, clearing his throat. “So,” he tries again, his voice just a bit uncertain, now; it’s like the bravado-façade has slipped a little, now that they’ve made it this far, now that they’re so very close. “You never did say. Earlier. How you wanted to do this.”

“Oh, yeah.” Breath hitching in her throat, Rose closes her eyes. Maybe this will be easier if she can’t see him at all. “Erm,” she says. “I guess…you should touch me?”

For several long moments, nothing happens. But then a rustle of the bedclothes lets Rose know that the Doctor is moving in, the mattress shifting with his weight, pulling her closer to him. Their bodies pressed together now, Rose feels more of his skin on hers than she’s ever felt before, and her body is warming to him rapidly, in a way that’s got nothing to do with the duvet covering them. Because despite everything else, at the end of the day it’s still the Doctor, it’s still him, and her stupid body doesn’t care that this is a horrible situation contrived out of a cheap romance novel; all her body knows is that he’s close, closer than he’s ever been before, and he smells so good, and his skin is touching hers and it’s new and it’s awkward but it feels wonderful and already her body wants more.

Reaching up, the Doctor’s hand ghosts along her jawline, uncertain, soon retreating to the safe territory of her shoulder. “How would you like me to touch you?” the Doctor asks quietly.

God, she wants to kiss him. God, she wants to kiss him so badly.

She thinks about guiding the Doctor’s hand immediately between her legs, but doesn’t know if that’s too much, too soon. Probably they should start out slow, right? But what does slow mean, in this situation? Does slow mean she should start by touching herself?

(Shouldn’t slow start with both of them wanting this?)

Rose starts to reach down, to stroke herself, but that would mean sliding her hand between the two of them, and that would mean touching his naked skin, touching him, and she doesn’t know if that’s allowed, and the thought of it is a little overwhelming at the moment anyway. So she turns over in the bed, facing away from the Doctor, the better to touch herself without worrying about whether she accidentally comes into contact with him, too.

“Maybe just,” she says, feeling very strange about all of this, “hold me, for now.”

She hears him nod, his hair rasping against the pillow, and the Doctor loops an arm around her waist, spooning her. Her bum nestled against his pelvis, Rose is suddenly very aware of the size and shape of him, and fuck, even though he’s perfectly calm and settled behind her, just that hint of contact is enough to make her nipples stiffen, make moisture well up between her legs. Embarrassment and guilt try to crawl their way up her throat but Rose tamps them both down—it’s nothing to be embarrassed about, she tells herself. This is good. This is helping her get wet. She can use this.

Sliding her hand down between her legs, Rose strokes her inner thighs with a featherlight touch, teasing herself first. Rubbing in gentle circles, she inches her way upward, her fingers glancing against her lips. She imagines it’s the Doctor’s hand instead, drawing closer and closer to her clit, and she feels herself slicken and swell with anticipation.

She pictures his fingers drawing upward, slipping between her lips, delving in to find her wet and wanting, and her hips buck involuntarily at the thought, as she caresses herself the way she imagines the Doctor would, teasing and stroking and just a little more pressure, just a little bit more friction. It feels shameful, almost, thinking of the Doctor while she does this (she usually tries so hard not to, she tries so hard), but he more or less told her it was all up to her, didn’t he? How much he was involved? How much, and in what way? And besides, how is she supposed to not think about him when he’s holding her so close, and they’re both naked, and his hand is clenching against her stomach, and he smells so fucking good?

Biting down on her lip so hard she’s surprised she doesn’t draw blood, Rose buries her face in her pillow, swallowing her arousal and shame. She’s properly wet, now, and positively throbbing between her legs, but as good as this feels, it isn’t enough. Her body is begging for more, more pressure, more friction, more contact, more him. And he asked her, he did, he asked her how she’d like to be touched—

Steeling herself, Rose reaches up to grab the Doctor’s hand, shifting it from her stomach to her breast. She feels him tense behind her, but he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t resist, his hand cupping her gently. Chest heaving with exertion and anticipation, Rose guides him upward, until his hand covers her breast completely, her nipple scraping against his palm. She thinks she hears him swallow (so much for all that suave indifference he was projecting earlier) before he moves in, his face pressed to the back of her neck. He kneads her breast, catching her nipple between his long, elegant fingers, sending little shocks of pleasure shooting straight between her legs. The sensation is enough to make her arch her back, her thighs tensing, muscles clenching slickly with want.

“Fuck,” Rose gasps, surprising herself, but if the Doctor minds, he doesn’t say; if anything, it seems to spur him on, his touch growing firmer, and if Rose didn’t know any better, she’d think he was pressing his lips to her neck. Her hand sliding back down, Rose seeks out her clit straightaway, stroking herself harder, now, her hips rocking to match. “Fuck,” she bites out again, as something winds taut deep inside her, as tension coils tighter and tighter, and she gives up any semblance of composure as the Doctor grasps her breast and she fucks herself with her fingers, rutting harder and harder against her hand and the Doctor until she’s so wet she’s coated the insides of her thighs, and she imagines him hardening behind her, imagines him thrusting in response, and—

And oh, oh fuck, she’s not imagining that part, she’s not imagining it at all. He’s hard against her arse, fully hard, rocking against her, and not a second after she realizes it, the Doctor seems to realize it, too. “Ah—I’m sorry,” he whispers breathlessly against her neck, and he freezes behind her. “Rose, I didn’t mean to—I’m—”

“Don’t stop,” Rose chokes, arching back against the Doctor until his hand abandons her breast in favor of grasping her by the hip, a low groan tearing out of him. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything, Rose knows; it’s just friction, it’s just science, it’s just bodies reacting the way bodies do when pressure and movement and warmth and hormones are involved, but she’s too far gone to think clearly about any of that now, and with each thundering bleat of her pulse in her ears and between her legs all she can think about is how very much she wants him to fuck her, and now. “Don’t stop,” she says again, her hand flying up to grasp him by the back of the head, fingers clenching in his hair, and he stifles a moan against her neck, his hips pushing into her as if they’ve got a mind of their own. “Please don’t stop,” Rose pleads, and he doesn’t (thank god he doesn’t) and he thrusts forward again, his cock trapped between her upper thighs, stroking firmly against her slick and swollen clit.

“Rose,” he says helplessly, fingers digging into her hip as he thrusts. His other arm snakes between Rose and the mattress so his free hand can stroke her breasts, teasing her nipples while she ruts against his cock. By now she’s so slippery-wet that he could probably enter her with no resistance, none at all, but instead his fingers plunge between her legs, stroking her clit. She cries out, clenching deliciously. The Doctor buries his face against her neck as she fucks his fingers, his cock thrusting wetly between her thighs and her folds, hitting her with every stroke.

Nearly overwhelmed with sensory stimulation, with the smell of sweat and the slick sounds of sex and the feel of the Doctor moving against her, it isn’t long before Rose feels her climax begin to build, coiling tighter and tighter with each stroke and thrust. Panting for air, Rose grabs a handful of the Doctor’s hair, her nails raking over his scalp, and he inhales sharply, hissing against her skin.

“Please, Rose,” he gasps between the searing, openmouthed kisses he presses to her neck, his thrusts growing shallow and quick, “please…”

She cries out as the tension inside her snaps, muscles contracting violently and flooding her body with pleasure. The Doctor follows soon after, spurting between her thighs, his groans muffled into her skin. The two of them slow to a halt, hearts racing, breaths ragged, and the Doctor removes his hand from between her legs, slumping against her after. They lie like that for a long few moments, each of them catching their breath as the sweat cools on their skin.

“Fuck,” the Doctor eventually announces, utterly winded. “Just…fuck.”

Rose laughs shakily. “Yeah. That was, uh…”

She searches her mind for suitable words, any words, really, but her brain has gone pleasantly blank, filled with nothing but that blissful post-sex buzz.

“…yeah,” she finishes, laughing.

“Indeed,” he pants against her neck.

“Just. Wow.”

“Yes. An apt summary.”

“A hell of a religious rite.”

The Doctor tenses at that. “Rose, I’m sorry. I really didn’t—”

“Don’t apologize,” Rose says quietly, grabbing his hand before he has a chance to move away. “Don’t you dare.”

He hums unhappily into her skin. “You’re far too forgiving.”

“I’m not. I’m exactly the amount of forgiving I want to be.”

The sound he makes suggests he doesn’t entirely believe her.

“By which I mean,” Rose says, “as long as we’re fine, I’m fine. Cos—cos we’re okay, right?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder. “You and me?”

“Of course we are. This just isn’t how I would have liked all this to happen, is all. It isn’t how I would have planned it. You know?”

“I know,” Rose tells him.

Then, after a second, the Doctor’s words properly register with her.

“Wait,” Rose says, mind racing as she sits up in the bed, rewinding the last few moments. “What do you mean, how you would have planned it?” she asks, staring down at him.

The Doctor shrugs, and is she imagining it, or did his eyes flicker down to her naked breasts just now? “For starters,” he says, “typically you don’t have the threat of imminent death involved in this sort of situation, do you?”

“No, I meant—have you thought about this, before?” Rose asks, hardly daring to hope. “Like, you’ve imagined it? Us having sex?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Well, yes,” he admits, as if it were obvious. “Haven’t you?”

Rose can barely believe what she’s hearing right now. “I mean, yeah,” she stammers, something deep in her chest warming nicely at the confession. “I mean, sort of. I mean, I tried not to, I never thought you’d—”

And that’s when the irritation kicks in. “You git!” she shouts, swatting at his shoulder. “Why didn’t you ever say anything? That would have made this whole situation so much easier!”

“Not like you ever said anything either!” the Doctor shoots back accusingly, rubbing his shoulder where she smacked it. “Why are you so surprised, anyway? We flirt constantly!”

“You flirt with everyone! We both do!”

“Yes, but it’s different with you,” he insists. Then, looking the slightest bit unsure of himself, he adds, “Isn’t it?”

She hates how right he is. “Of course it is,” Rose huffs in annoyance. “Don’t be stupid.”

The corner of his mouth quirks in a smile. “Speaking of pillow talk, I think yours could use a little work.”

Rose glares at him. He smiles beatifically up at her, all boyish charm and stupid cheekiness and post-sex-glow.

She hmphs. She also hates how pretty he is. Just for the record.

“And if your trashy mags have taught me anything,” the Doctor continues, tugging on her arm, “it’s that post-coital sessions typically involve a good cuddle.”

With faux-reluctance, Rose inches back down in the bed, sliding back beneath the covers—facing the Doctor, this time. “Would’ve thought you’d skittered away, by now,” she says wryly. “Would’ve thought this bit was too domestic for you.”

“Nah. Besides, exceptions can be made for cuddles.”

“Of course,” Rose laughs, her tongue peeking out to moisten her lower lip. Drawn to the motion, the Doctor’s eyes flicker to her mouth for just a second before darting back away.

Huh. So she’s not the only one who’s been looking. She’s really not.

(How did she never notice any of this, before?)

“So, erm,” she says tentatively, because they’ve come this far, haven’t they? “What did you imagine? When you thought about…”

He meets her gaze evenly, and fuck, he’s gorgeous like this, with his mussed hair and his knowing smile and his distracting nakedness lurking just beneath the duvet. Very distracting nakedness, she thinks.

“…us?” Rose asks.

Blinking in surprise, the Doctor quickly glances away. “Nothing all that specific,” he tells her, and is he the one blushing now? “Didn’t want to cross any lines, do anything inappropriate, of course.”

“Not even in the safety of your own head?”

“Nope. Not even then.” He sighs. “Very few explicitly wicked thoughts in this brain, I’m afraid. I guess I’m just a saint.”

“Uh-huh. What about now, though?”

“What about it?”

Rose licks her lips again, and he’s definitely blushing, this time. “You a saint right now?”

The Doctor hesitates, gaze fixed on her mouth.

“It’s okay,” Rose teases. “We’re still doing the sacred rite, remember? So this is just like a confession.”

He chuckles. “A confession. All right.”

“Tell me what you’re imagining, Doctor.”

“Shall I confess all my wicked thoughts to you?”

Rose leans in a little closer. “Please do.”

“Well,” he says, Adam’s apple bobbing. “At some point, I’d imagine we need to finish dismantling this little cult we’ve stumbled onto.”

“True.”

“And save the queen.”

“Yes,” replies Rose patiently. “And?”

“And in the meantime,” the Doctor says, his gaze soft and dark and locked on hers, “I’d imagine a kiss is in order.”

“Yeah?” Rose breathes, a thrill running through her from head to toe. “Would I kiss you, or would you kiss me?”

“Oh, I’d kiss you, probably.”

“Probably?”

“Definitely,” he says, and he closes the distance between them, pressing his lips to hers.

Rose hums happily against his mouth, her hands landing lightly on his chest. His skin is soft beneath her palms, and even though he’s still cooler than she is, she swears she feels him warming, his heartrates speeding up at her touch. His mouth opens, deepening the kiss, and Rose’s tongue darts out to taste him, glancing against the swell of his lower lip as they part. He watches her through half-mast eyes, after, a soft smile playing across his lips. Something about it is enough to make Rose’s heart trip over itself, just a little.

“So, erm,” Rose says, grinning at him, “how did that compare to your imagination? As good as?”

“Better, I think,” the Doctor replies, with a grin to match hers. “But I’ll need to collect a larger data sample, just to be sure.”

“For science,” Rose laughs.

“For science,” he agrees, and he kisses her again.

  ***

thanks/blame goes to @galiifreyrose​ & @saecookie​ for encouraging/inspiring/enabling me, thank you darlings ( ˘ ³˘)❤