Buffy
the Vampire Slayer
Doctor
Who
Enjoy!
She Stopped Walking Away
Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who, nor do I pretend to.Summary: John Smith dreams of being the Doctor. And he dreams of Rose. One night he wakes up in a certain condition. Whatever will he do about it? Ten/Rose
Author's Notes: Smut.
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Professor John Smith jerked awake with a gasp, eyes snapping open as his body first tensed into wakefulness, then settled back on the bed in an approximation of relaxation.
He was far from relaxed though; certain parts of him less so than others. Fisting his hands in the sheets, he evened out his breathing, willing his body's reaction to the salacious dream to leave him.
But the dream was still there, playing out in front of his opened eyes. Blonde hair, red lips, pale skin.
His imagination had supplied him with far too many vivid situations in which to view these precious parts of her. Shoving the heels of his hands into his eyes, he dug in, trying to erase the sight of soft, sweet-smelling blonde hair on his shoulder as he held the woman close enough to feel her heart beating. Tried not to see her full lips, smiling at him one moment and gasping his name the next.
Too vivid.
He was alone in his rooms; it'd be a simple matter to take care of himself, and certainly not the first time, but it was... shameful, base and low.
He stared at the ceiling above him, willing the images in his mind to fade away. They always went away eventually, but there were times when it took too long for him to hold out, to hold on to his sanity. To not give in to his lust. And tonight was... oh, tonight was one of those nights, he knew.
It was always that way when he dreamed of her.
And he wanted her image, her voice, her touch to recede, to go away. To not affect him so.
If only his body would listen to him. In the dim of the night, all he could see was shadows, but he knew the ceiling and walls were white and he concentrated on them instead of the ache in his hearts and the hardness of the flesh between his legs. Moonlight shone in, yellowing the ceiling and walls like ancient maps and books that had seen better days.
He blinked a few times, breathing deeply, trying not to remember the curve of her lips as she smiled at him-- no, at the Doctor. Her smile was never for him, it was for the other him. The terrifying man called the Doctor. He tried not to hear the sound of her laughter, feel the brush of her hand on his, the way her arms felt wrapped around him. He tried very hard not to remember the smell of her.
It was disgraceful.
He was a grown man; he didn't indulge in fantasies. He was practical, he believed in things he could see, taste, touch, hear, and smell.
What he did not believe in were beautiful girls created to entertain his sleeping mind.
His breathing wasn't getting any slower, nor was his body relaxing. In fact, the more he tried not to think of her, the more she remained stubbornly fixed in his brain.
And the harder he became. Achingly so.
He'd like to believe it'd been years since he'd felt lust as fiercely as this, since he was a boy of sixteen or seventeen, but the truth was, he'd woken up this way far more times in the past two and a half months than he'd done in all his years.
Clenching his hands by his sides, he forced air in and out of his lungs, breathed slowly in and out, and willed the ache to leave him, but his body stubbornly betrayed him.
Yes, he could relieve the pressure, but it wasn't something he was comfortable doing. Certainly he could control his emotions and his body well enough that he need not touch himself.
Couldn't he?
In the past he had been, but over the last few months, he'd been assailed with horrible dreams and thoughts that drove him to the brink of madness. Terrible images and sounds. People dying. Strange monsters from outer space and... her.
Rose. He called her Rose.
In his dreams, she was always walking away. Lately, though, lately she was walking toward him. Her laughter surrounded him and soothed him like a good cup of tea. She smelt like a summer's day, warm breezes, and freshly mown grass. He sometimes smelt apples when he thought of her, but he didn't know why.
No other dreams were this vivid, not even the nightmares. They were the worst, with fire bright enough to blind him, flames hot enough to burn him, sounds loud enough to deafen him.
And then she came and they all faded into the background.
She was his... what? He hadn't been sure when writing about her in his Journal of Impossible Things and he still wasn't sure now, months later. 'Stupid ape' shoved itself into his mind, but he pushed that away impatiently. It made no sense, no matter how affectionate it felt.
So, what was she? Not his lover. More than his friend.
He drew in a shuddering breath at the thought of her being his lover. Oh, how he wanted her in that role. Secretly wanted her to be his with or without benefit of marriage. His body tightened at the thought, like the strings on a bow; one careless turn of the screw and he'd snap.
The hard flesh he was trying to ignore begged his hands to soothe the ache, and with a low groan he gave in.
Biting his lower lip, he let one hand drift down to his stomach. So on edge was he, that it would be too much to touch his bare flesh straight away, too much all at once. So for now he slid his hand over his pyjamas and rubbed himself gently, teasingly. Light touches mixed with an occasional press from the heel of his hand.
His body jerked at the contact, growing even harder.
He moved his hand over that hard flesh encased in his pyjamas, squeezed his eyes shut, and brought up the image of her face. The friction of brushed cotton on his flesh made him wince in pleasure.
Her eyes were warm and brown and sparkling, half closed as she flicked her gaze down then back to his face. The corners of her mouth tilted up while the tip of her tongue curled over her top teeth. He could almost smell her, that soft summer scent that floated around him in dreams. She kissed him, running her hands through his hair, trailing kisses along his neck, letting him-- no, begging him to touch her and undress her.
Far from being scandalized, he felt excitement tear through him, making his breath leave him in ragged huffs.
Her hands removed layers of his clothing with nimble fingers, flesh sliding across bare flesh. Fingernails scratched at his chest.
Pleasure rippled through him as his own hand mimicked the movements of hers, slipping underneath his pyjama top, shoving it out of his way in his haste, popping a few buttons off. Fingernails dug into his chest and stomach. A nail caught his nipple and his hips jerked off the bed, a fervent cry springing from his surprised lips.
Caught off guard, he stilled his movements, feeling guilt and shame flood through him. This wasn't the way a gentleman was supposed to behave.
The sound of her laughter tickled his ears. He felt her lips on his as she kissed him and wrapped her arms around his neck, teasing him and whispering wicked things in his ear.
He didn't care anymore about propriety. His hands unbuttoned the rest of his top and pushed the sides off his chest, then dropped to slide his bottoms off his hips, but went no lower.
Throwing propriety out of the window was one thing, being wanton was another.
His hands resumed their positions, one on his chest, the other grasping his rigid shaft from where it came to rest against his stomach. Warmth seeped from his hand as he stroked up and down a few times. There was a small thought that he should be cooler, but he dismissed it. He was burning up. Tossing the blankets from his body, he scraped his fingernails down his chest again, ready for the pleasure this time and not quite so taken by surprise. He brushed his thumb over his nipple a few times, still startled by how good it felt.
A frisson of pleasure swept though him, straight down his abdomen to the flesh in hand.
The fingers touching him weren't his own, not in his imagination. Rose was there, tentatively touching him, watching his face for his reactions.
She grew more bold with each pass of her hand, with each stroke that made him gasp and moan.
Thoughts swirled in his mind, scattering like pieces of paper caught in a playful breeze when he ran his thumb over the tip of his shaft, forcing a wordless sound from his lips. His hips bucked again, more forcefully this time. Then again.
Backing away from the overwhelming sensation, he ran his hand down to the base and squeezed.
Her finger trailed a path up and down, delicately tracing random patterns along the top, bottom, and sides of his hard flesh. She smiled when she caught him watching her and grasped the base, tightening her hand.
The fingers of his left hand stilled on his chest and dropped to join his other hand. He lightly massaged his balls, tightening his fingers as much as he dared before releasing them to stroke abstract patterns like those Rose was tracing in his imagination. It was too much, too soon. Gasping, he dropped his hand to the bed, gripping the sheet beneath him, fisting it in his sweaty palm as his other hand rubbed and squeezed with quicker strokes.
His incoherent thoughts solidified into one idea; Rose's mouth on him instead of her hands.
Clenching his eyes shut, he arched his hips off the bed, thrusting into his encircled hand, pumping it up and down as he drove into it.
More pressure, faster strokes.
His other hand joined the first, creating more friction.
A groan slipped out, followed by another as he guided one palm over the tip, moving it in circles, slowly at first, then faster.
Her mouth was on him, wet and warm, moving along his flesh with firm suction. Back and forth, deep into her mouth and then back out again, tongue flattening against the tip, hand encircling him, chasing the movements of her lips as they moved up and down.
John was unsure where these thoughts were coming from, but he didn't want them to stop. He could almost feel her hot breath on him, almost smell the sweet soap she used in her hair, and he shuddered. He bent his knees and dug his heels into the bed in order to give himself a better grip. His hand pumped harder, almost desperately.
He sucked in a breath, skimming one hand back up to his chest, running his nails down over his abdomen, shuddering at the light touches followed by scrapes and swirls on his nipples.
Fluid began to leak from the tip of his shaft. In one smooth motion he ran his hand up then back down again, spreading the fluid over his length. Pleasure surged through him as the pressure built and built and built. The room was silent but for the sound of flesh moving on flesh and the harsh gasps that escaped him. His face contorted in ecstasy as his fingers squeezed the tip on an upstroke then slid down and repeated the motion.
Rose, he thought. She was there, it was her hand on him, not his own. Her breath sounding so loud in the silence of the room. Her lips whispering her love for him.
All of John's mind and attention were focused on the woman in his dreams. There was the sound of a dog barking off in the distance, but it could be Rose crying out in ecstasy. Wind sighed in the trees, sounding so much like a breath of pleasure leaving Rose's lips. She was there beside him, touching him. Kissing her way down his stomach, those red lips wrapping around his-- his cock, he thought, feeling a delicious thrill go through him at the word, even just in his mind.
Rose's lips wrapped around his cock. Wet lips sucking his flesh.
His hips began to buck under the strain.
He slowed his strokes, not wanting it to end just yet. This was... exciting. Thrilling in a way it'd never been before.
His jaw clenched tight, grunts leaving his lips, sounds he didn't recognize as coming from him. Sounds that reminded him of an animal. Just grunts, guttural in their nature. His control was dissolving with each groan, each hiss. Thrusting into his hand with wild abandon, he moved it rapidly up and down, feeling his body tighten. Feeling his control slipping further with each image of Rose's mouth and hands on him.
Her fingers were on his thighs, nails scraping lightly, teasingly, before flattening out and rubbing up and down as her mouth followed the same motion on his cock. He watched his length disappear between her lips, feeling the pressure build up more and more.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, began to drip down his temples. He brushed his thigh with his free hand, slowing down his strokes, forcing himself to stop thrusting. It was hard, so hard, and he wanted to be inside of Rose. Inside her warm, wet body.
That he didn't know how that felt only frustrated him.
His imagination kicked in and supplied sensations, enflaming him to higher degrees of arousal.
She was on top of him now, his cock buried deep inside of her hot, wet center--silky smooth in texture--gripping him with every thrust. Her back arched as she leaned back, supporting her weight on one hand behind her. She moved on him, hair cascading down her back and tickling his fingers as he slid his hands up her sides, drawing her forward to kiss her beautiful lips.
His hand moved more frantically, searching, wanting, needing release now. His body throbbed, pulsing in time with each stroke, his mind seeking more and more titillation; on the hunt for newer, better fantasies. Fantasies that weren't just fantasies. But that was all that he had.
Professor John Smith was not one to bed women when he felt the need. He pushed it aside, moved on, and forgot about it.
He did not bed young women.
But, oh, how he wanted to bed this woman. This temptress of his dreams.
Panting through parted lips, he desperately sought the mounting pleasure, savoring it as he'd savor her if she were real. The incredible feelings heightened as he thought of her being with him, by his side forever. Never leaving him. Always loving him. Forever.
Mounting pressure grew and grew.
"Doctor," she whispered, her voice husky, compelling, alluring. Her hips urged him to give in, to let go as she moved on him, circling, then rising, squeezing him and clawing his chest.
John shuddered. The memory of her voice was almost enough to push him over the edge. If he concentrated enough, he could almost imagine her saying <I>his</I> name, not the Doctor's. Could almost imagine her urging him to come. For her. Only for her. He clutched the sheet tighter in his fist, trying to keep from jerking his hips so frantically. Grunts were emerging from his lips, merging with moans and gasping breaths.
He wanted, needed, had to hear her say his name.
There was something inside of him, something that held him back, though he wanted to give in, wanted to spill his seed inside of Rose's body. She wasn't here; there was just cold air greeting his thrusts, his own hand encircling him.
A strangled sob left him, torn from his throat. He couldn't hear her voice, couldn't feel her here, couldn't see her.
She didn't exist. She was no one.
Her voice would never whisper his name, never caress the vowels like they did the Doctor's in his dreams, would never ever tell him she loved him.
At this point though, even that realization wasn't enough to stop him. He thrust harder into his hand, grunting out noises he was ashamed to admit were coming from his own lips. Sweat dripped from his forehead. His body tensed, tightened, hips lifting off the bed.
Eyes squeezed shut, he felt his control snap.
His hips jerked once, twice and then-- then-- oh--
"Rose!"
--and then he was coming hard. In great pulsing waves of pleasure. Spasms rippled through him and he hastily aimed his shaft upwards so that his seed coated his stomach, leaving no trace on his bedclothes. No trace for the maids to find.
His hand continued to lightly stroke his length, riding out the uncontrollable shudders left behind in the wake of his orgasm.
He lay panting in his bed, one hand still clutching the damp sheet beside him. Forcing his fingers to let go, he stared at the ceiling, stared at the white and wood and shadows and moonlight mapping a pattern across the surface. Rose's smile was still there in his mind, still burning across his eyes as his body started to relax.
Slowly, the fire of arousal and climax left him. The cool night air hit his sweat-drenched body, drying it. His cock-- he shied away from that word now. His shaft went soft, and the sticky liquid that'd shot from it left a wet trail behind.
He gathered his control and sanity to him like a mantle. As the feelings returned, they were followed a little too closely by embarrassment. His face burned as he righted his pyjama bottoms.
The barking dog down the way--no longer sounding like a woman in the throes of passion--stirred him into action. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, settling his bare feet on the cold wooden floor. Holding the open edges of his shirt away from the evidence of his weakness, he felt his shoulders slump.
His body didn't want to move; it was pleasantly relaxed, yet tensing further with every second that ticked by.
Shoving himself up, he padded across the room on silent feet by way of minimal light from the moon, and poured some water into the basin on the side table. His fingers snatched the flannel from beside the pitcher and dipped it into the chilly water. Wringing it out, he listened to the water dripping and splashing into the bowl. It was that sound that finally snapped him completely out of the haze he'd been drowning in since awakening. Settling the cold, wet cloth on his stomach, he ignored the muscles that quivered beneath his skin at the contact and scrubbed away all traces of his shame.
If only his mind could be so easily scrubbed.
He buttoned his top again, wincing at the memory of tearing it open. A few of the small buttons were missing. His gaze returned to his bed, knowing the small discs were somewhere over there, thrown aside in his haste to touch himself. His face burned with the knowledge that he'd have to have the shirt mended by one of the maids. He made a decent living, but he couldn't simply throw good clothing away. Would he be able to face Martha after that? Would she know?
He felt as if the entire school knew of his transgressions.
It was going to be difficult facing Joan tomorrow. Maybe he should just avoid her. What would she think if she knew he was touching himself, pleasing himself to thoughts of another woman?
'An eye for the pretty ladies' she'd teased him a few weeks ago.
If she knew what he did while alone at night in his rooms, she wouldn't tease him, she would be disgusted. And rightly so.
Sighing, he tossed the flannel into the fireplace. The wet cloth kicked up ashes and caused a sparkle and hiss to escape the embers still burning below the grate. He knelt down and grabbed the poker to stir the dying embers, and coax them back to life as he considered throwing his pyjamas in as well, no matter the money issue. Ultimately, he decided against it. He could spin a tale about being late for class and undressing in a hurry.
Adding another log to the small flames, he returned to bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress. It wouldn't do to spend his time whinging over what he'd done. Still, most of his brain was preoccupied with doing just that. To distract himself, he reached down under the mattress, pulling out his journal. This wasn't the Journal of Impossible Things. Joan had that one.
This journal was his alone. He would never show another living sole the pages contained within. It was all about Rose Tyler, the Doctor's companion.
And lover?
No, he thought. Not that. They were friends... good friends, but not lovers. It was obvious, from the dreams, that the Doctor had more willpower than John did. He kept his distance from the beautiful woman he lived and traveled with. He didn't touch her except to hold hands and hug. This confused John. The Doctor had Rose with him. He loved Rose Tyler so fiercely, and yet... he never told her. Never acted on it. Her shorter lifespan certainly played a part in the Doctor's distance, but was that all? Why not declare himself?
Why not marry her?
Dismissing those thoughts with a sigh, he reminded himself that the Doctor and Rose were fictional characters.
Cracking open the small journal, he flipped to the back pages. There was a sketch he'd done of Rose weeks before. Not just her face this time. Her whole body was represented among the ink-smudged pages. She was tastefully dressed and he'd captured her in a moment of thoughtfulness. She wore a gown that reminded him of days gone by: dark material, off the shoulder, beautifully accentuating her figure. There were feathers in her upswept hair and a smile on her lips. As with the other drawings of her--the numerous ones for this journal, and the single one in the other journal--he'd written words around her, surrounding her figure with phrases that came to him in snatches of dreams.
She is my s--
Those words haunted him simply because he didn't know what he meant to say. Each time, he felt compelled to write them out, but nothing suitable or satisfying came to mind. Rose Tyler simply was... his.
Well, the Doctor's.
Rose Tyler rested her head on her hand and looked down at Professor John Smith on his small bed in his small rooms. He was slowly coming back to himself. Her eyes moved over him, taking in his partially bare body, exposed to her in the moonlight from the window. His chest was pale, covered with a light smattering of hair. It rose and fell, his harsh breaths escaping between slightly parted lips. A bead of sweat slid from his temple to his shoulder as he continued to lightly stroke his cock. His seed was on his stomach, well away from his bedclothes.
Wouldn't do for one of the maids to find dried semen on his pyjamas.
She'd seen him like this a few times now and, even though she'd gotten over her embarrassment at watching him--essentially the Doctor--masturbate, she still felt like a voyeur. But she couldn't not watch. It just wasn't in her to turn away anymore.
The first time she'd seen him wake up hard, she was lying beside him, watching him sleep. As sudden as a heartbeat, his eyes had snapped open, staring straight into hers, but not seeing her. She'd seen shame on his face, but didn't understand why. After a minute of harsh breathing, he'd reached down and grabbed himself, and she saw the evidence of his arousal. He'd only squeezed roughly a few times and then rolled over toward her and gone back to sleep, still hard.
A few nights later, he'd done it again. This time, he stroked himself a few times before seeming to notice what he was doing. Propriety had taken over and he'd stopped almost immediately. A week after that, he didn't stop after a few touches. She'd left his room that time. Driven, she was sure, partially by jealousy and partially by her need to give him privacy.
She'd gone to the other side of the school to sit with Martha as she slept. Stayed there, unseeing, as she thought of the Doctor touching himself with images of Joan running through his mind. Wasn't John falling in love with the nurse, after all? Wasn't he dreaming of her?
After what she thought was a safe amount of time, she'd left Martha and Jenny's room and returned to John's bedroom only to walk through his door just as he was coming. She'd been frozen in place, watching his hips arch up, eyes squeezed shut, mouth parted in ecstasy. And then he'd called her name. Rose. Not Joan. Not Martha. But Rose. A figment of his dreams.
He'd come hard, looking like it might be the first time ever. And she wondered. For John Smith it probably was.
Was it also a first for the Doctor?
He'd insisted, in his other body, that he'd euphemistically danced before in his nine-hundred-years. But she didn't know that for sure, did she? He'd never tried-- wanted to... never-- they'd just not been like that.
She hadn't been able to look away after that, though she thought maybe she was being just a bit rude; more than toeing the line of decency. If she ever got back to the Doctor, ever became a real, live girl again... this was never ever going to be mentioned. Under penalty of death.
Sighing at the memories, she settled her free hand on his hair, combing through the strands. They remained still, not moving under her ministrations.
When he sat up, she watched him clean his stomach off. Watched the shame settle in. Felt a rush of anger for him. He shouldn't be ashamed of touching himself. She never had been. It was a human thing to do, and the Doctor was human for the time being. He should be able to enjoy everything that entailed. Not just the negative things about it.
Sitting up as he settled on the bed beside her, she peered over his shoulder as he ran a finger over a sketch of her. It was the drawing he'd done of her from their first trip to Cardiff.
She smiled and laid her head on his shoulder as best she could and settled more comfortably beside him. The familiar words his thumb brushed over caught her eye and she shook her head.
"She is my... what, Doctor?" This was a question she'd asked herself and the Doctor many times since the first time she'd spotted the words, nearly two months before. "Saint?" A smirk lifted her lips. "Saint Rose. I could learn to live with it." She tossed him a wink.
He didn't return it, of course. He never did.
Because he couldn't see her, or feel her, or hear her.
Rose Tyler didn't exist in the world. Well, not the way most people did. She was incorporeal. No touch.
And Professor John Smith was unaware of her presence. The Doctor was as well. Martha Jones too. Every single person on Earth... no, in the universe, was unaware that Rose Tyler was among them. But Rose didn't let that get her down. Not anymore. After all, it was just a matter of time before she was made flesh and blood again.
One-and-a-half years. Eighteen months. Five-hundred-and-forty-seven days. Give or take.
It wasn't an exact science. Mostly just Mickey's quick guesswork, and she wasn't even sure she'd heard him right before she was... sucked through the void. And maybe time had passed while she was in there. She had no real memory of it, just a feeling of emptiness that was worse than this no-life she was stuck in now.
Sighing, pushing all thoughts of her current state out of her mind, she continued thinking up things she could be to the Doctor. "Stupid ape?" She paused and raised her head, glaring in mock sternness at the Doct-- John Smith. "That's probably it." She affected a Northern accent. "'That Rose Tyler, she's my stupid ape!'" Lifting her left foot to the bed, she settled her chin on her knee. "Or maybe saltpeter." She looked him over critically. "You have got that oral fixation, after all... always licking things. Could be that. Although, I never got so much as a single lick, and that's just a shame." She giggled and nudged his shoulder with her arm.
He didn't move. Didn't feel her touch. Her arm went right through his. She pulled back and pretended like it hadn't happened.
John's brow furrowed and he scratched the back of his neck in a move so familiar that Rose felt a wave of fondness sweep through her. "Saltpeter?" he mumbled, scoffing to himself before flipping to a blank page.
Rose sat up straighter, staring at him. "What?" When he remained silent and started to write in his journal, she jumped to her feet. "Say it again," she pleaded. "Doctor?" If her heart could beat faster, it would. If she could feel anything physical at all, she'd be flushed with excitement. As it was, all she could feel was the emotion, not the physical reaction. Still, she imagined she could feel her heart racing and her palms sweating.
He continued to sketch and scribble in short strokes, frowning in concentration as he worked. But he didn't look up at her or acknowledge her in any way.
Rose sat down slowly, trying to touch his leg. His hair. His arm. Her fingers went through him each time. There was no contact, same as always. Maybe it was just serendipity.
Maybe.
She watched him work for another ten minutes before lying down again, back against the wall, facing John Smith's back. One day soon, he'd be the Doctor again, and they could leave this place for the TARDIS and alien planets. And some time after that, she'd be returned to normal. Whether that was in this universe or not, she didn't know.
But she had hope. After all, she'd got here somehow, hadn't she?
7-1-08
