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You wake up slowly, in increments. You fall back asleep a few times, for a few seconds, stuck in a dream, but the sensations are getting too much to ignore, but even then it feels like your mind isn't all there. It's hot, too hot, and there's something heavy on top of you, and you feel... good?
Your eyes blink open, you're lying on your back and looking up at the ceiling. Well, you would be, if nothing were obscuring it. It's dark in your room in the Tardis, but can make out the rough shape of what is on top of you. Or, more exactly, who.
You try to ask what's going on, but it comes out as more of a confused whine, that immediately gets shushed gently, like you're a scared animal that needs to be calmed down. To be fair, that is kind of what you feel like.
"Shhh, shh, it's okay. You're okay." A rough voice whispers in your ear. It's the Doctor. Of course it is. "You've just been so pent-up lately, and you never do anything about it, and I knew you wouldn't let me help if I asked, you never do, so this is the only way."
Your mind is still too sluggish to understand what exactly is going on, but an instinct deep inside of you makes you try to push him away. In your weakened state, you don't manage to make him budge an inch, and he's able to easily grab both of your wrists with his unoccupied hand, securing them above your head.
"Why are you pushing me away? Don't you want to feel good? You know you want to."
A particularly intense sensation of heat and pleasure causes you to moan, which is when you realize that his other hand is between your legs. Has been between your legs this entire time. Caused you to wake up in the first place. But why do you still feel so...
"See? Isn't this nice? We should do this more often. You're so sweet when you're like this."
You somehow think «like this» means more than just lost in pleasure, or having just woken up. "What–" You inhale sharply when he changes the angle of his hand, interrupting your thoughts. "Did you–?"
He still seems to know what you're trying to say. "I did put something in your drink earlier, yes. But don't worry, it doesn't have any lasting effects, and you won't remember this. So just give in, okay? Let yourself feel good. You won't have to feel guilty about this later."
"Wh– Whyy–" You? Guilty? He should be the one to–
"I do. I always feel guilty. All the time. Every time. You deserve better. Better than me." He lets out a hot, shuddering breath against your neck. "But I just want to take care of you! And you're too proud to let me." You make another small, involuntary noise as he presses an open-mouthed kiss to your jaw. "But like this, you don't have to feel like you betrayed yourself, after, even when you give in."
You can barely get out a single word in this state, how did he–?
"Your thoughts are so loose, like this. Open. Can you blame me for indulging? It's just so intimate. I wish you'd let me do this every day." He sighs, dreamily.
Right. Timelord telepathy. If you could concentrate, you'd think a few terrible insults for him to hear, but like this, all you can think about is how you wish he'd move his hand like that again.
"Oh? Like this?" You turn you head to cry out against your pillow, and he bucks his hips against you in response, moaning against your cheek.
"Knew you wanted to feel good." He captures your mouth in a kiss you can't reciprocate, your jaw hanging slack in pleasure. "Don't worry about me, I'm feeling good just being here with you."
He presses his face to your cheek, where you can feel him smiling against you. "Now, how many times do you think you can come this time? Think we can break your record?"