Author: Regala Electra
Summary: He's tried out scores of species like he's auditioning for a full out West End musical, complete with an elaborate orchestra and he's only regretted a handful of experiences.
Pairing: Doctor/Rose, Doctor/Others
Author's Notes: Well, he is a Slutboi Alien Tease. I don't even want to begin to explain why I was inspired to write this.
He's thought about fucking almost everyone he’s ever met (unless they’re Evil and trying to kill him, although there have been a few times when that line’s been smudged) and he's done it while still in his regeneration cycle so parts of him could mend, doing the impossible, almost breaking parts of him he had previously been sure were impossible to break. He's tried out scores of species like he's auditioning for a full out West End musical, complete with an elaborate orchestra and he's only regretted a handful of experiences.
It's fucking, it is, and this is how it's done.
You've got hands and cocks and cunts and tongues and teeth, oh a good scrape of teeth at just the right moment can make up for the times when it's precisely the wrong moment. He's invented several sex acts on other worlds that never experienced them beforehand (he still wonders how the Rveinks even managed to flourish as a species without ever achieving sexual release using their hands, they did have six hands each, after all). He's also discovered that he could, quite easily, put most supposed ‘sex experts’ in the loony bin before he's even described a mere sixteenth of all his experiences.
So when Rose asks him about the if, when, how, and what of others (people? Did she just want to hear about the people?) and the other times, the Doctor tries to sum up his experiences into something she can handle, because the afterglow of sex being ruined by careless truthfulness is just not worth the aggravation. "I've lived a very long, long life."
"That doesn't answer my question."
He could do things to her that haven't even been thought of on Earth, not yet anyway. He could make her body sing and make it scream and she could hurt him, could just continue to break him, and he'd come every time.
He could tell her he thinks of everyone, all the time, because he thinks of everything all the time and it's just sex on top of fucking on top of rutting on top of hate-love-lust-regret-pain and it's better everytime until after, until later. Then there's guilt and regret and sometimes, that happens during.
And he screams all their (other) names without saying a single word.
Sex is overrated and often unspoken and just is. Bloody fantastic and fatalistic and so stupid of course it had to be a part of life. A necessary evil and a happy accident. Just another wonderful, worrying paradox in the universe.
If he had breathed a little lower on Jabe, he would have technically engaged in full out foreplay. Which would have been a little rude and he’s gotten much ruder since his tenth regeneration and he’s fantasized about breathing just along her lovely wooden belly, having her stiff fingers grabbing onto his hair. As it was, it was just a little teasing.
Like running his tongue along Rose's chest, inches above where she really wants to be touched. And she's impatient because she doesn't think he'll get there and oh, he's already been there, on a thousand different bodies (more really, but you have to stop really counting once you hit a thousand and although he does have a number, because he knows, it’s just his nature). He’s run his tongue on chests flat and chests with enough breasts to make him question why anyone thought that many were necessary, especially in a species that only had four offspring at most at a time.
He knows there are almost as many words for the female breast as there are languages in the universe, and he's not even going to start counting up all the terms for all the other interesting bits for females and males (and then there's multisexual, male-and-females and sometimes more, they've got breasts too, and words that means "breasts specifically attributed to multisexuals," and there's a species out there with four separately acknowledged sexual groups and enough differences to make it count).
But she's asking questions because she’s trying to understand just what he knows about this and he knows everything. He's the Doctor.
He knows that she thinks she likes it gentle and thoughtful and occasionally a bit reckless. He knows she's aware of exactly what men think about when her tongue sneaks out of her mouth, curving over teeth and barely touching her lips. He knows she wants him to think about sex like a human does - not just a human - but a human of her own time.
He knows that when he fucks her, he's going to be thinking of everything and anything and when he comes, he'll have to force himself to say her name to invent a little illusion into this visceral act, because a little lie always hurts everyone, but it feels so good when you're doing it. It's like sex, almost.
What is like sex is when he turns her over with nary a care about her exclamation of protest, now stroking his fingers down her back with a steady pace. Her back is stronger than he'd thought, but everything else about it is delightfully ordinary. He runs his fingers down the top of her thighs, like a tease, like a promise of gentle adoration. There, there’s the little fantasy and now it’s all about shattering it.
It makes it so satisfying when he can get her just there, encouraging her to kneel and to bring her back flush against his, tilting her up, as though there is some important message on the wall that they must look at before anything else comes to pass.
She actually stares ahead, her gaze unwavering. He almost admires it.
His fingers are circling lower and lower and she trust him enough to let his other hand rise higher up towards her body, bypassing almost all of the lovely topography of her breasts, as though he’s mapping out all her quirks, when there’s so much that’s familiar and same and that’s all the better. He’s almost avoided it completely, except for a brush of fingertips against the curve; a sweet rising swell (because the Doctor likes so many things about humans and breasts are definitely in the top hundred). He delays for a time at the hollow of her throat.
He could make her forget where his other hand is, but he sees no point in delaying that.
Fingers brush just close enough to her clitoris that she actually shimmies, a clever twist of her hips and he loves that sensation of cock rubbing against ass. Ah, yes, he misses the sensation of it from the other perspective, but he'll have opportunities later, much later, to experience that again.
And just as he's almost gotten her climbing towards the inevitable fall, he pauses. Yes, it's all about the simple act of muscles contracting, the release of endorphins causing the belief that this is too good to exist - well it is good. Sex is good and release is almost as good as the interminable struggle towards that fleeting moment.
She breathes out a word and he doesn't listen to it, hand not quite encircling her throat, but creating the appearance that he would - he would do it. Hell, he has done it, but he won't. This time at least. But the thought of doing it - doesn't thinking about it make it better? How do humans concrete on just the now? How can they deaden themselves to all the possibilities and impossibilities of it all?
She's on her hands before there are any protests and he murmurs something, soothing he hopes, because she's not ready to be utterly frightened yet. And when his cock is there, inside of her, oh, all perfect and not needing the words, but he does bless the human language for coming up with the word cock, because he knows one word that translates as 'trembling man pillar' and that does not enhance sexual excitement at all.
It enhances hilarity, but he's not doing this to laugh. He's doing this because it - fuck - it feels good and with just a little edge of horrible to it - it feels profoundly real.
"Do you like to talk dirty? Do you want gentle words? Promises that can bend so easily into lies? Do you want this to be forever or do you want this end?" It has to end, he wants to tell her. Because he's fucked enough species to know it's best like this, that orgasms that last years only bleed into madness, that sex is not the only thing and it'll be a distortion if it's just that and only that.
Sex isn't a gateway towards a better and brighter future, nor will it wound all heals. Hang it, it's heal all wounds. Or something like that. Some very kind of beautiful lie.
But it's the sweat and the mess, isn’t it? The needs overtaking and impulses rushing towards a wonderful swooping moment and if they figure out a pace, they could make this last too long and make it all hurt and bruise and he'd thank her for it.
And she'd never understand.
So he rushes it, uneven just a tad, but he's done it every way, awkward, perfect, and terrible and he's been everything, running the gamut from a fantastic shag to just another empty fuck.
She comes all of a sudden, because that's what he wanted. A bit of a surprise, even though it's never a surprise, not really.
And she sinks lower in the bed and her body's almost melting, it's so hot and soft and everything and everything - ah yes, he can remember everything all at once and he comes, perhaps not quick enough (it's an insult in some cultures to have stamina, which had been quite entertaining to discover) and he falls backwards, because otherwise he'd crush her and he'd love doing it just a bit too much.
He breathes then, just a little unsteady. He looks over at Rose, expecting another question that he can't answer honestly yet. But her eyes are halfway closed and there's almost a beautiful expression on her face, one he's seen enough times before that it hurts, just right, under the skin, a sort of sharp seize that makes him feel every bit as old as he is.
"This is just the beginning of how it'll be," he says to her and if she hears him, she doesn't understand. Not yet, at least.