What Dreams May Come
By Fluffy Nabs
Doctor Who – Ninth Doctor/Rose PWOP
Rose didn't know that he was telepathic.
Usually his telepathy depended on being in close proximity or physical contact with someone. Sometimes, when the situation was do-or-die, or if he had already established a close bond with a person, he was able to communicate telepathically over greater distances. When his people had still existed, he'd been able to feel them, and they him, for that was part of the burden of being a Time Lord.
Rose was different. What he had with her was more than a "close bond," but he wasn't sure what it was, really. He knew that she had a few small words in her native tongue that could convey the smallest measure of this feeling, and some of those words were respect, awe, love, and desire.
Yes, even that last one. He wasn't blind, after all. But no matter how charming a human was, they were still human, and he wasn't. What she wanted out of life, what they nearly all wanted eventually – namely a stable home environment, a mate, and the propagation of their species in the form of offspring – was, if not impossible, quite impractical for him.
He couldn't leave the TARDIS, any more than he could stop breathing. He couldn't give up his life, this mad dash across the universe, seeing and touching and feeling and acting and doing and living like there was no tomorrow, as the saying went. To settle down away from it all – well, Rose had said it herself to her mum, "If you'd seen it out there, the size of it, you couldn't stay at home."
If he let her know how he really felt, would she change? Would he? Suppose he let these new feelings overwhelm him and acted on them, in a way that she would know, in a physical way, wouldn't she want more? Wouldn't she want what he couldn't give her, what would be unfair to impose upon her? Humans were so prone to physical expression, and Rose especially so, it seemed. The holding of hands, bumping shoulders together, hugs.
And there was no denying her healthy appetite for the other sex, which was only natural, considering her age and species and timeline. No repressed Victorian wallflower, she. Once or twice before Adam, she'd turned those eyes of hers on him, and he knew what she was thinking, and that she was thinking it about him. He'd known that the invitation was there, if he'd been willing to take her up on it.
But again, she was human, and he wasn't, and neither of them was really ready to deal with something like that, not really, so he'd never answered that look in her eyes. Not when she could see it, anyway.
So of course, the need not being met by him, she'd turned to others, looking for that tangible physical contact that her species craved so much, and had found more than one pretty young thing willing to give her what she wanted.
He hadn't expected another emotion to stem from that; something akin to what Rose would call jealousy. Overwhelmed by it, he'd always managed to steer her away from them. He knew her frustration was building, but what to do? Unable to give her what she wanted himself, and unwilling to let someone else, he was at an impasse.
Mickey the Idiot. Adam, that selfish prat. None of them knew how fantastic she really was, how deep she ran, how pure, a spring of intense life welling out of her eyes, from every pore of her skin.
When she touched him, it was like brushing against lightning. When she smiled, it was like bringing the dawn. When she turned her eyes to him, it was like looking into the deeps of endless Space itself, full of everything there is in the Universe.
He kept his mind linked to hers constantly, now, ever since her decision to trust him at 10 Downing Street. It was only a very thin thread of connection, like holding hands or listening to a loved one just breath over the telephone during a pause in conversation. She didn't know he did it, didn't even know he was capable. Usually, he was too busy with his own thoughts, his own perception of things that were happening, to pay much attention to the link that bound them. Sometimes, though, when she was feeling a particularly strong emotion he could feel it, too.
Like right now, for instance. She was sleeping, having turned in an hour ago. The TARDIS was humming quietly, herself in a resting mode, and he was enmeshed under the console, sonic screwdriver in his teeth and elbow-deep in wires when his connection to her knocked. He paused in what he was doing, and opened the mental door between them.
Lust sprang at him and the intensity of it made him jump. He hit his head on the grate and fell back again before he recovered from the surprise.
She was having one of those dreams.
He knew it, even though he hadn't gone that far into her mind, yet. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. He untangled his arms from the wires and spit out the sonic screwdriver, then covered his face with his hands. He should have known something like this would happen. The Doctor took a deep breath, and concentrating, tried to close the door. Then he tried again, and again.
It remained stubbornly open.
He was … reacting to her feelings as they raged in his brain. He couldn't concentrate. The tide of emotion was growing stronger and stronger, and he couldn't believe that she could feel like this and not explode.
Who was she thinking of?
As soon as the thought entered his mind, Mickey's face flashed behind it, and there rose that ugly little possessive monster again.
The Doctor opened the door wider and walked through.
He was standing in a rose garden. Soft golden sunlight shone down, lighting up the luminous green leaves of the trees and the red and yellow and pink and coral and white petals of the roses like stained glass. It was warm, but not too warm, with just a hint of refreshing breeze.
He didn't expect to see her holding desperately to himself, tall and lanky, clad in a leather jacket and dark green jumper, short hair doing nothing to hide the teapot-handle ears, black jeans doing nothing to hide …
The realization that she'd been dreaming about him, one of those dreams, floored him. The Doctor saw this as the opportunity that it was, to kiss her, to know her, without the mess of real interaction, and stepped into himself, dispelling the imaginary him that she'd created, and merging flawlessly with her dream.
He was kissing her, just how she liked to be kissed. Soft lips grazing, just sparking the nerve endings, cupping the back of her head in one hand, tracing the line of her neck with the other. He was much taller than she was, and he had to stoop a little to kiss her. Her breath was sweet and warm and feathered across his cheek like a caress.
Her hands were busy clutching his shoulders, his arms, his ribs though jacket and jumper. Suddenly she slipped them to the waistline of his jeans and tugged out the jumper, and then she was touching his stomach. He felt the muscles there tighten, felt the shivering move lower. He dropped his lips from her mouth to her chin, along the line of her jaw, and to her neck. When he reached the place where it met her shoulder she made a noise that shot through to the core of him, and arched toward him. He did it again and again and again, loving that sound, her gasping for breath, the movement of her body against his.
"Off," she demanded, pulling his jumper higher up his stomach. He tore his hands from her skin only long enough to shrug out of the jack, and pull the jumper over his head. The fell from him and disappeared into dream-space. Her hands were on him, his chest, his arms, his stomach, tracing the dips and ridges of the wiry muscles there. "No chest hair," she observed.
"Did you expect it?" The Doctor pulled back from her enough to watch her eyes, looking for disappointment.
She met his gaze and shook her head. "Don't know what to expect," she told him shyly. Her glance dropped briefly and he knew what she was wondering. "Never made love to an alien, before."
"I've never made love to a human, before, either."
"Are we, you know…" and she trailed off, her eyebrows wiggling suggestively.
"This is your dream," he told her, a lump in his throat at the almost-lie. "You tell me."
"I tell you yes," she whispered, and tilted her had back to be kissed. He happily obliged.
They kissed for what seemed like hours, and somehow he managed to take of her shirt. He sprinkled kisses on her collarbone, across her shoulders, down the valley of her breasts, and on the breasts themselves where they rose above her bra.
"This bra is a problem," he told her sincerely, eliciting laughter from her eyes. "It's just in the way."
"Oh, no," she sighed, and stepped back. "I guess I'll have to fix it." She reached behind and unclasped the offending garment, and then flung it away from her, where it melted away to that same place where all clothes go in dreams. At the dumbstruck look on his face she laughed and twirled around. "Like what you see?"
"Fantastic," he breathed. He fell to his knees before her, and reached up to her, her white skin radiant in the sunshine. Placing a hand on either side of her breasts with reverence, as if she might evaporate at his touch, he gently kissed her right breast. "Brilliant," he sighed, and kissed the left one. "Oh, Rose."
Her hands ran through his short hair, down his neck and across his shoulders. She tilted her head back, the heavy fall of her golden hair gleaming like sunlight. "My Doctor," she whispered.
She smelled like Rose. He paid close attention to each breast, feeling them swell and firm and his hands and in his mouth, feeling the heat rush in with the color as she blushed from his ministrations. Wherever she touched him, she left a trail of fire. There was a spot just beneath his ears that she kept brushing, and it was driving him mad with a pleasure that shot straight to his groin. He'd never been so hard in his life as he was now.
They needed a bed. He stood up again, and hugged her close to him, his hands gliding across her back, up and down her spine, just as she was touching him. He felt the strong and rapid beat of her heart against him, and she glanced down at his chest with a puzzled expression on her face. "What…" she started.
He kissed her. "Two hearts," he said. "I'm sure you've noticed before." Then he picked her up and laid her down on the bed that had come into being during their kiss. "All the better to love you with, my dear."
She giggled. "Are you the big, bad wolf, then? Are you going to eat me up?"
"If you want." He raked his gaze along the length of her, pausing at the apex of her jeans-clad thighs. "I can do anything you want me to, right now."
"Then come here, you." Her outstretched arms folded themselves around his neck. They kissed again, and he tasted her tongue, sweet and fresh and hot against his. She lay on her back and he was close at her side, one leg thrown over her two, his body pressed tightly to hers. He ran a hand over her skin, feeling the dips and curves, the softness of her skin. When he pressed his palm over her breast and squeezed slightly goose bumps raised on her flesh and he pulled back to see them. He squeezed again, and she arched to meet him. He smiled as he saw the goose bumps on her skin.
"Ah, humans," he said lightly. "You're so adorable. I just love the way you react so strongly to everything. Right now I've made each and every hair on your body stand up, and all the nerve endings are at their most receptive."
"Yeah," she gasped, her eyes closed and her throat bared.
"Perfect," he murmured, and kissed her throat while his hand skimmed from her breast, down her stomach, and into her jeans. He felt the curls there, soft and coarse at the same time, and beneath them her sex. He knew the rudiments of human physiology – he was a doctor, after all – and praised his knowledge as he found the bud of nerves he'd been looking for. When he moved his fingers back and forth across it her whole body rose up off the bed, her legs spread wider, and she began convulsing spasmodically.
Although her mouth was open, no sound issued forth during her orgasm. The Doctor watched in awe the experience that she was going through. Her eyes were tightly shut, and tears squeezed out. Her skin turned a deep pink color across her face and neck and breasts. Her hands clenched the bed sheets tightly. Her hips bucked, her toes were curled. He slipped a finger lower, and felt a slick wetness there, as well as the clenching of muscles. She was ready for him.
He stilled his fingers and she slowly relaxed. Her buttocks came to rest on the sheets again, and she started panting, though slowly. Gradually she fingers and toes uncurled, and then a languidness seemed to come over her limbs.
The Doctor planted a kiss on her navel.
"Hmm," she said. "That was so good."
"Can I have a go?"
Rose cracked an eye open and looked down at him, his long fingers poised at the button to her fly. A grin spread across her face. "Yeah, please do. I never get tired of doing that."
He undid the button, and then the zipper, and hooked a finger on either side of her jeans as well as her panties. Pink, he noticed, with little daisies patterned over them. She lifted her bum and he pulled her clothes down. He kept his eyes on her panties, not trusting himself to look at her yet for fear of forgetting what he was doing. When her clothes were off and gone, he raised his eyes from her ankles, along the sweet curve of her calf, past the cute dimples in her knees, up the length of her still-quivering thighs, and finally to her sex.
Dark brown hair, the same as her eyebrows, covered it in glossy ringlets. She was swollen and pink and shiny with slippery wetness, peeking out from the surrounding curls. He felt he would burst if he wasn't allowed inside of her. But then he remembered.
"Are we still playing Little Red Riding Hood?"
She laughed, a throaty, rich sound that set his blood racing. "If you really want to," she said, still laughing. "But right now what I really want to do, is see you." Her expression sobered. "I want to know you, Doctor."
"Close your eyes." He stood up off the bed.
She did, and then opened one again to the merest slit.
"No peeking!" he told her in mock sternness. She obeyed, grinning, and he quickly shucked his pants and boxers, toed off his socks and shoes and then got back onto the bed. He was about waist-level with her, for she was still laying on her back. It was the easiest thing in the world to touch her womanhood, explore with his fingers the place that brought her so much pleasure, while he explored with his eyes her beautiful face. "All right, you can look now."
She opened her eyes and dropped them immediately to look at his sex. She went quite still for a moment.
"Well," he asked her, "what are you thinking?"
"But not in a bad way. It would still, you know, do the job." She actually blushed.
He grinned. "Oh, yeah."
"Please say lovely," he half-joked.
"I was going to say 'big.'
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
"Oh, that's good." She wrapped her hand around it and gave it a few experimental strokes. Now it was his turn to toss his head back and gasp. "Very definitively good." She brought her other hand to touch the sac hanging down beneath, cupped it gently. "Humans have two of these," she mused.
He managed to swing his head back into its normal position and look at her through eyes heavy-lidded with lust. "There's four inside," he told her. "If you're gentle, you can feel them."
She was gentle, and she did feel them. "Interesting," she said. "Do you make more of, uh, you know?"
"I don't make any," he replied brokenly, trying to clear his mind enough to think coherently. "It's similar, but not the same, really. But I guess it would do the job all right."
"Like I said, I've never done this with a human before."
There was a pause while her hands did magic to him, and his to her. "So if this was real," she started.
"Yes." His eyes met hers and the intensity pierced her. "Yes to everything you're thinking."
"Come here," she said, her voice quiet and thoughtful.
He settled his body over hers, resting the weight on his elbows, and cupping the sides of her breasts in his hands. He flicked his thumbs gently across her nipples, causing them to tighten. Rose reached down between them and found his length, and placed the end of it against her. She touched in to her wetness, and then used the desire-slicked tip to stimulate her wonderful little bud of nerves.
When he realized what she was doing he nearly finished right there, and had to jerk away. "Wait, Rose."
Her eyes opened wide for a second, and then a wicked gleam came into them. "You liked that, did you?"
"Oh, yeah," he panted. "A bit too much. Just give me a mo'."
She puckered up her lips and he kissed her, trying to show her with his mouth how much he needed her, how much he felt for her, how much he wanted to please her. She raised her legs slowly, caressing his legs as she did so, and then wrapped them around his waist. "I can't wait to feel you inside of me." she whispered against his lips. "It's gonna be so good, I just know it. I'll make you feel so good."
He touched himself to her, feeling the heat and the wetness, and then he slipped inside easily. He was all the way in, and she was clutching him, her head thrown back, eyes shut, little noises coming from her. He watched her pulse in her throat, was hypnotized by it.
He drew back, so that he was almost out of her, and then pushed in again about an inch. She tried to raise her his to his, but he simply backed away, not letting her have more. Again he withdrew, and again he entered her just a little bit.
"Please," she whispered.
"Please what?" he continued to tease her, loving that she wanted this, and wanted it badly.
He pushed in all the way this time, but slowly, and again and again. Just as she was starting to adjust to this rhythm, he pulled out and started teasing her again with just the tip.
"Please," she groaned. "Oh, Doctor, please!"
He entered her slowly again, to the hilt. "Is this what you want?"
"Rose, look at me."
She opened her eyes and looked at him. He pulled out and them slammed into her. "Don't stop looking at me." She was so wet, so hot, so sweet. "Do you like this?"
"Will you come for me?"
Her jaw clenched and then she gasped. Her hips ascended to meet his, thrust for thrust. "I want you to come," she managed to breath.
"Trust me, it's not long now." He sped up, and watched her breasts bob in time with their coupling. He pressed a kiss to her temple, where the hair was sweaty. "Come for me, Rose."
She obliged, arching back in that sweet and powerful, yet silent orgasm. The muscles of her sex clenched spasmodically around his shaft and that sensation was the end of him. He exploded inside her, deep inside her, his cheek pressed tightly to hers, her breasts crushed against his chest. He was groaning in incoherent elation with each pulse of pleasure that washed through him.
Spent, he tried not to collapse utterly on top of her, but his arms and legs were shaking terribly. He didn't want to leave her, she was too beautiful, but all good things, etc. He pulled out and subsided next to her, watching the rise and fall of her lovely breasts as she breathed deeply through parted lips. "Rose," he murmured, and kissed her shoulder.
"Mm-hmm," was her affirmative answer.
"Can we do it again?"
"Sleepy," she muttered.
The Doctor cursed himself for being an insensitive prat, but then remembered that she was already asleep. "But this is a dream," he tried to argue with her.
She didn't answer, and he knew that she wasn't going to the rest of the night. Even a mind gets exhausted, and she was only human. He smiled and kissed her shoulder, then moved up to her lips. "I wish I could tell you how I feel," he whispered to her unconscious form. The dreamland was beginning to disintegrate around him, going dim and peaceful.
The Doctor decided he wanted to be fully clothed, and then he was. He climbed down off the bed, which was starting to look more and more like the bed in her room in the TARDIS, and turned around to find the door that was an exit from her mind into his. He opened it and stepped through, and pulled it closed behind him.
This is about as close as I can imagine the Doctor and Rose actually getting to doing any of this stuff. Please review; this is my first post ever, anywhere! If you like, I'll write more.