The lovely lunarsilverwolfstar invited me to be part of Wank!Fest 2015 and I was assigned our new silver fox, 12! So, I decided to set his episode up in the Shades of Blue 'Verse right after the regeneration. I've incorporated some of the dialogue from 'Deep Breath' in the time-honoured tradition of grabbing our beloved characters and ripping them out of the Dark Lord's hands. =)

Everything had gone...confusing, all of a sudden. Yes, bloody confusing that was it.

Which was very inconvenient because it felt like he should know...stuff. Lots of stuff. Universes full of, ehm, stuff. Immeasurable amounts of...everything.

Like his name. And where, precisely, he was. And also how to fly this whatever-ever-it-was; he definitely should know that.

And, of course, he should also know her name, that woman out there in the...the big room, with the upy-down thing (- but no round things...there should be more round things. Shouldn't there? Wonder where the round things went… - ). He should know the name of the woman who'd kept asking him questions, whose touch had practically set him on fire (- no, no that had been him, he'd been burning earlier, burning with golden fire -). She had very gently guided him into this boring room with its boring bed ( - but bed isn't always boring; no, beds can be quite fun...he thinks - ), tenderly told him to sleep, and then disappeared to somewhere he's now forgotten.

He'd woken up a few moments ago ( - and that was strange, too. It seemed like he'd just been talking to her about pianos and Scots and then he'd...poof. Fallen asleep. He'd have to apologize to her later; it was quite rude to fall asleep while talking to a beautiful woman, after all. It seemed like he'd gotten in trouble for that before -).

As he looked around the room, he rather begrudgingly began to reassess his opinion of it. He'd been so focused on babbling to the woman about inventions and misunderstandings and boring beds, he'd not noticed much of it. He did, quite clearly, remember asking her that if it was a bedroom with a bed for sleeping, what possible use it had while awake and then she'd winked at him. Winked! That seemed mysterious and yet not mysterious, and he was once again caught between a rock and a flummoxed place.

Anyway, this room. This room had a bed and clothes and all sorts of bits and bobs and pictures and...fine. There was a lot more than just a bed. And it felt like it should be familiar, or felt like it would be familiar, or was familiar and oh, that mirror over there looked quite furious.

Or was that him? Did his face look like that? All...frowny?

But anyway, he should know things. No, more than that, even. It felt like he did know, he just couldn't quite...grasp any of it yet. It was all tenuous and fluctuating (- wibbly-wobbly? no, that wasn't him any more. Wasn't him the last time, either, come to think of it - ) and not quite formed into what it was supposed to be yet. But even if everything else was a bit floaty at the moment (- did he like pears? It seemed imperative that he have an opinion on pears -), there was a something else, a very thick, brilliant, golden, solid foundation, a connection that seemed to be made of the sternest stuff in the universe. It was grounding him and comforting him even in his confusion and it was binding him reassuringly to the mystery woman. Everything about him could change (- had changed, did change, would change, will change -) but as long as he had her, then he was ok. Everything was ok/would be ok/will be ok.

He hauled himself up out of the bed, moving toward a door that his brain was telling him was the loo, even if his memory wasn't relaying the message. Once inside ( - Correct, then. Good job, brain. And ooh, he rather fancied the look of that one synaptic vesicle there -), he stared into the mirror (- a much happier mirror than the one in the bedroom, good thing, too -), examining his body and his somewhat odd apparel. He was dressed in a white vest top of some kind and a pair of black boxer-briefs ( - which were the perfect pants for him. That was important, he remembered, somehow. These pants were given to him. She gave them to him and he needed to like them. Love them, even. - )

Clothes. He needed new clothes. And a big, long scarf! ( - No, no, moved on from that. Looked stupid. -) Perhaps the woman would come back soon and then they could go pick him out some new clothes. And then maybe she would put on the big, long scarf.

And absolutely nothing else.

Oh. Wasn't that an interesting thought - her, nearly naked, in only his scarf? ( - A voice from deep inside him sputtered in response with seemingly equal amounts of embarrassment and arousal and a deep desire to wear a floppy hat. And absolutely nothing else. -)

Pulling his attention away from clothes ( - had he been wearing this when he'd been in the other room - before the fire? He didn't think so. He could remember a bowtie, perhaps? -), he turned to examining his face. Had he seen this face before? It looked familiar, somehow. In the strange, odd caverns of his mind, an image of an angry red-haired woman in a toga shouted at him about something he couldn't control. No, that wasn't right, so he waved the memory away. He'd had a different face. He'd been stripe-y then. Stripe-y and sad because he had lost her.

Where did these faces come from, anyway? They just popped up and zap! New man. He considered that as he flexed his facial muscles wildly, contorting them into different shapes. The eyebrows were a bit...angry. Was he cross now? He'd been cross before, often, in fact. She'd loved him even back when he'd been cross. She'd told him so.

He ran his fingers through the thick, grey hair that capped his head, which made it stand on end. The grey hair made him distinguished, right? She'd said that about a fellow once. George something-or-other. Called him a 'silver fox'. Was...was he a fox now? She was a wolf, he knew that. The Wolf. He would be a fox to her Wolf. Wait, was being a fox different than being fox-y? He was still slim, that had stayed.

Would she like it? She would like it.

Right?

Wait...would who like what?

He pulled off the vest top and then resumed his study of the body in the mirror, running a hand over new muscle and new skin. Nothing was quite as defined as he thought it once had been, but there was nothing to complain about either. He reached into the shower to turn on the water, taking a moment to admire the door-less floor plan. Showerheads on either side cascaded warm water toward the center and the room immediately began to fill with steam. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of his pants and drew them down his legs, hopping out of them gingerly when they hit the ground.

Stepping under the water, he continued to watch himself in the large mirror opposite the shower, observing that the glass didn't steam up along with the rest of the room. It wasn't a difficult feat to accomplish with the application of a bit of elementary science, but he was grateful for the view it provided and the errant thought that perhaps that had been precisely the point fluttered through his mind, along with a few fleeting visions of two bodies tangled together in this very shower. For a few moments, he simply observed himself in the mirror, watching as the water hit his body and sluiced off, studying how his muscles shifted under skin and memorizing dips and planes.

He picked up a flannel and some soap from the handy, waist level shelf in the shower (- some analytical portion of him noted that it was slightly higher than before and that, perhaps, he was slightly higher than before. And that this shelf, just wide enough for a person to perch on, was making him think some remarkably racey things about the woman from the big, glow-y room).

Those thoughts, combined with the rather fantastic (- No, that had been him before, as well. But even before the sad stripey-ness And the happy stripey-ness. What would he say now?, he wondered vaguely. - ) feel of the soapy fabric sliding across his tingly new nerve endings, led him to begin contemplating the steadily growing, not insubstantial portion of himself that he'd not yet really examined. At first, his hands remained in semi-respectable territories ( - except for, perhaps, flicking over nipples and hipbones perhaps more than necessary- ), but he did eventually drop the pretense and the flannel. Long, light fingers caressed the underside of the hard length stiffly resting on his abdomen. To his surprise, a long, very colourful utterance of a word he'd not used in quite some time grated out from deep in his chest and he stopped his hand, the flesh beneath it rippling.

Apparently he was going to like words again, this time. That one in particular. He said it again, just out of curiousity, immensely pleased when the object of his focus twitched in his loosely-circled hand and then rippled again. He lowered his other hand then, using them both, calculating and weighing and comparing to...something. He was long and thick and he really quite fancied the way he looked sliding in and out of his own hand like that, rippling and thrusting. He also thought that he would really like the way it would look sliding in and out of her hands. Or, even better, sliding in and out of her.

Oh! The shelf.

And the mirror.

His eyes fell shut then, giving up the observation portion of his experiment to instead focus on the physicality of the actions, experimenting with pressure and strokes and speed. So far, he was exploring more than he was driving for the finish line and he was quite happy with his progress so far. He wasn't sure how long he'd stood like that, stroking and caressing and swearing, until the brilliant golden light in his mind twinkled a bit brighter, gently prodding him to open his eyes, which he did...

To find the beautiful woman sitting primly on the counter opposite of him, her legs crossed and her bemused eyes focused intently on his naked form. He was very aware that he should probably feel embarrassment at being caught in the middle of this very intimate act but, oddly enough, he didn't. He felt happy, he felt excited, oh, fuck ( - there was that word again. He bloody loved that word - ), he felt very, very aroused by the luscious, dark gaze of her whisky-brown eyes, but he didn't feel embarrassed.

"Feeling better, I see," she commented, her gaze lazily flickering over him and her tongue settling into the corner of her cat-got-the-canary grin. His eyes zeroed in on that small gesture, still titillating after all these years (centuries?) and his hand began to move faster, the rippling almost constant, inspired by the warm, heavenly ambrosia of arousal filling his mind from the golden connection.

"Whoa, slow down there, cowboy," she laughed, sliding from the counter. "I need to catch up. That is for me, isn't it?"

He nodded, slowly, his own tongue moving out to lick these new lips, longing to feel hers on them. He hadn't, yet ( - he still wasn't certain precisely who she was, exactly, but she was safe and she was familiar and she wasHISand he should be kissing her. He should always be kissing her -). Forcing his hand to slow once more, he focused on watching her disrobe in front of him, her jeans sliding down her legs along with a flash of pink knickers and her jumper and bra discarded in seconds. Once more, a murky flash of someone boring in a dusty orange robe tried to tell him that he should be ashamed to be naked and aroused, especially in the same room as someone else naked and aroused, but what seemed like hundreds of years of comfort with her quickly crushed it down, along with several other voices, prim and proper, gruff, lilting, and rather posh, all drowning out any reluctance. And then she was back on the counter, her own hand disappearing between her legs and any thought of impropriety went flying away, replaced by bucking need.

He was entranced with watching her bring herself higher and higher, her delicate fingers dancing across the bud he felt he know very, very intimately, in and out of the glorious, shimmering arousal he could smell from across the room, especially in the steamy heat. His own hand began to work in tandem with hers, moving faster and faster with the burning desire to finish along with her and when she made a particularly lovely loud sound, he answered with a long, low curse again. Her head shot up and, grinning impishly at him, she offered the curse back to him, in Gallifreyan.

With that, he was across the room in an instant, her knees pried apart and in his hands, his swollen, desperate cock lined up with her sodden entrance, before either of them could draw another breath. He waited until her dark eyes were locked with his and the bond between them was stretched, taut and trembling, and then he shoved into her desperately. His instant release came like a tidal wave along with hers, her clenching, tight walls drawing out his pleasure immeasurably as he shouted her name.

Once the gratifying blaze of their bond had quelled to the normal, bright, happy buzz, he collapsed against her, his head resting on her shoulder as they both panted, heavily.

"Remembered who you are then?" Rose asked cheekily, her hand moving up to massage the back of his head. "And who I am?"

"Yes," he mumbled against her skin, muffling the words with a long, drawn out kiss to her shoulder. He eventually raised his head, letting Rose's arms rest against his shoulders as he looked down at her.

"Good," she replied, eyeing him closely.

"Lucky thing you know how to pilot the TARDIS!" the Doctor tried, lightly. Oh! So he was Scottish this time 'round. Huh. "Otherwise we might have crashed anywhere!"

Rose's legs around his waist tightened momentarily, the slight worry in her eyes and in her mind giving away her concern. "I know you said something like that might happen and I could feel you in there, through the bond, but...it was still a bit scary when you forgot everything and started yelling about your kidneys."

He pulled her tight against his chest and pressed a kiss into her hair. "I'm sorry I frightened you, Rose. It's just...I haven't regenerated from old age like that in...well, a very, very long time. Not since my first body, as you know. Haven't been able to hang onto an incarnation long enough for that to happen. And this is hardly the first time I've had a bit of amnesia coming out of a regeneration."

"Well, I'm glad you're getting better at keeping them," Rose said, giving him a small smile.

"So the new model meets your approval?" he teased, waggling what he thought were going to be very interesting eyebrows at her.

"Mmm, passed the alpha test," Rose replied, rolling her hips against him and bringing his attention back to the fact that his length was still buried within her. She squealed against his neck as he hefted her up off the counter and began to move with her from the loo back toward their bedroom. "And Scottish. That is going to fun."

After he proved to her, once again, that this body was going to be quite adept at both love-making and swearing, the two of them lay tangled together in the sheets, their legs intertwined and the Doctor running one of his new, long fingers over Rose's bare shoulder. "I never really forgot, you know," he said, quietly. "I could never forget you, not in a thousand years, not in a million, not ever, Rose Tyler. Forever, Rose."

"Forever, Doctor," she murmured in reply, brushing her lips against his shoulder before the two of them fell asleep, together.