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amberfocus 
A/N: Thanks to amyo67 for betaing all four drafts of this fic and to Lillibetm3 for general hand-holding when I got nervous and a couple of very good suggestions. And an extra special happy birthday to angelfireeast who has been so lovely to me since I joined LJ, has made all of my graphics for the Better with You series (Wolf Moon, Hunger Moon) and has done various other banners at the drop of a hat. Your friendship and talent is much appreciated, hon. This fic contains dark themes.
What Is Mine
He follows the sound of Rose’s voice, her fury and her curses and her screams. When he finds her he’s angry. He’s angry and he’s never let her see him like this, not like this, not even when he held a gun on her and demanded she step away so he could kill a Dalek, the destroyer of so much and so many. But he’s angrier than that now and she closes her eyes against his rage, against the violence she sees brewing, at the vengeance being stirred within his spirit because someone, anyone, dared to treat her like this.
She’s draped across the boulder like so much baggage, like so much refuse, like someone threw her away without thought, without emotion, without care. Like it didn’t matter to them that she was something so important, so precious, so beautifully alive, with a spirit that crashes against his, constant in its reassurance that she is there. His soul roars out in its need of her and his furious desperation to keep her whole, safe, alive, fills up every cell in his body. He resonates at a frequency that will bring only death if she’s been harmed.
She’s made enough fuss, enough uproar to bring him running more accurately than any directions have done and the moment when he realizes exactly what they’d planned to do to her, to his Rose--to his Rose--he is ready to kill every living thing on the planet. And mercy? Mercy is a word suddenly foreign, a word with no meaning, an emotion he will not allow to see the light of day if they’ve killed her spirit, torn her soul, ruined her heart. Vengeance will be his, his right to mete out, his right to take.
He tells himself this because he won’t think about the other thing, is not going to think about primitive species, stupid men, and their savage fertility rights. They didn’t want to sacrifice her, lay her on an altar and slit her throat or take her heart. Oh, no, this is a different kind of ritual altogether. One that involved taking a maiden and keeping her tied until she’d been impregnated, proving that fertility had returned to the species with the return of it to the land. And Rose just happened to be compatible to this future offshoot of humanity. But she fought—she fought—so hard she fought and he zeroed in on her as soon as he heard her, came as fast as he could.
He grabs the nearest weapon he can find, an axe, and he advances on the men who are shivering, shuddering, huddling against the broken wall at his obvious fury. They are like cowards in the only corner time has not destroyed as he progresses across the dirt floor of the ancient ruins, open to the air on two sides, the roof long since gone, the floor never having existed. Like some kind of avenging angel, or perhaps demon, who will smite them all, he moves steadily but like a predator, a predator that will cause the blood of the wicked to run red in the streets. As red as the crimson gown she’d worn for the gala, the gala held in their honor for fixing the climate control machine, bringing the rain, ending the drought, and restoring fertility to the land.
He should have known what being the queen of their festival meant, should have asked. Whispers in the shadows had alerted him soon after Rose had left his sight, women talking in low, hushed tones, fear-filled voices bringing him knowledge of an ancient ritual that came every so often and always left someone without choices, not a common slave but a woman of some standing. This time it was not to be one of them but the beautiful stranger. The words had filled his belly with dread, with the deepest fear he’d known since meeting Rose. He’d demanded a direction in which to go from the frightened women and used to obeying any command from a man of standing, they told him. He cursed himself as he ran, cursed these people even more.
He hadn’t paid enough attention when they’d queried him about whether or not Rose belonged to him. There was a caste system on this world and he’d taken it to mean they wanted to know whether or not she was owned by him and he’d said no. In this instance belonged to had meant something else entirely. They’d been seeking after whether or not there was a bond in place, a marriage, a betrothal, a pairing, whether or not he was responsible for her, her guardian, her protector. And he’d said no through a faulty quirk of translation because none of that had carried over. Anguish had filled him when he’d discovered just exactly what that disavowal of Rose might cost him.
These people had wanted fertility restored and he’d helped them and they had repaid him by stealing what was most important to him, the one thing he needed to survive, the only thing that kept him sane, kept him going after the horror of the war. The success of this rite would prove that life had fully been restored, to their stunted way of thinking. What he’d done wasn’t enough in their culture for them to believe that would happen, and the festival to thank them had been merely a front for them to get their hands on Rose, to do to her what they did not wish to take and do to one of their own daughters or sisters if it can at all be helped.
He comes to a stop, rocking back on his heels before the rock, the pure white rock that looks even now as if it is running bright red with her blood, her most precious life’s blood, in the drape of her dress against stone. It is only illusion, silk that lays against granite, not the vital fluid that thrums through her veins, that powers the little human body, flushes the skin pink and warm, and keeps her so very much alive and with him.
One sharp swing of the axe severs the rope running around her left wrist and the stake stabbed deeply into the soil. A second stroke splits the strands holding her right wrist in place. “Rose.” The word is guttural, comes from low in his belly and his eyes skate down her body searching for injury, searching for any sign that damage done to his girl is permanent. He is beyond an eye for an eye. If they’ve hurt her they are dead.
He does not smell rape on her, does not smell the bodily fluids of these men violating her, though the scent of interrupted male arousal lingers strongly in the air, and with it their intentions, telling him that this ritual is not just a necessity to their culture but an enjoyment. A new flush of anger courses like quicksilver, burning veins and arteries, heating blood so normally kept cool. Again rage fires through him, synapses in his brain working overtime as he calculates the worst possible way to inflict his damages upon them.
When he looks into her eyes he does not see a victim, he still sees a fighter, a woman unbowed and angry. She seems free from harm, but he can tell that her heart beats too quickly, the stench of fear clinging to her skin. His Rose should never smell this frightened of anything, of anyone, and that they have brought her to this brings a renewed rush of fury boiling through his veins. She trembles as she rises, her shoes lost in the chaos, her feet now bare as they strike the soil, her toes digging into the dirt as she steadies herself, her hand reaching out slowly. She touches his arm, slides down leather until she finds flesh and wraps her hand inside his.
His eyes cling to hers seeking reassurance from her that she is unharmed, that these monsters were thwarted, that she won’t have nightmares for days because he allowed her out of his sight for too long. She tries to smile, to reassure him, but her lips are quivering and the words are stuck in her throat, a throat torn raw from screaming.
“She is not yours to take,” the Doctor says in a deadly voice.
“You said she didn’t belong to you,” claims an older man from behind the protection of his cronies.
“I said I did not own her,” the Doctor corrects. “But she is mine.” Rose draws in her breath sharply at his words, at the possessive tone in which they ring out. He turns his eyes on her, his expression softening as her hand tightens reflexively within his grasp. “Are you all right?” he asks so softly only she can hear it. She gives him a tiny nod, but even with her reassurance he’s not sure he can believe she’s not damaged by this, not sure she’s unscathed by the actions of these vile men. He searches her face desperately wanting to believe but not quite able. "Did they?" he murmurs. She shakes her head no. His hand clutches hers tighter.
“It is an honor to be chosen,” the old man says.
“I doubt any woman thinks so or you’d have chosen one of your own,” the Doctor snaps as his fury is refueled.
“We would have given her back to you when we were finished.” One of the young ones speaks and it is to his arrogance and his ego that he thinks he has the right to open his mouth and defend this indefensible horror, that the idea of giving her back afterwards should clear away the devastation of their intentions. He should not have spoken, for this reminds the Doctor of the presence of the others and he turns eyes on them that show bleak prognoses for their futures. His hatred for this portion of the human psyche threatens to overwhelm him.
“She is not yours,” he says and his voice rings out strong and clear and loud. “She is not yours to take or to give back.” He advances on them, Rose’s fingers falling out of his, the axe still grasped in his hand. “She. Is. Mine.”
The man steps away from the Doctor’s fury, tries to hide behind men who have suddenly become as solid as the wall behind him. “You. Do not. Take. What. Is. Mine.” And they shudder in the thunder that is his voice, in the storm that darkens his eyes. Each word brings him forward another step, heavy boot prints in the dust marking his momentum towards them. “You. Do not touch. What. Is. Mine.” The words are ground out, threatening, past mere warning, past the point of extending mercy. He raises the axe.
“Doctor.” The word is barely above a whisper, hoarse and scared, but desperate, desperate for him to stop, echoing in the aftermath of his bitten off words. “Doctor, no.” Her words fall quietly in the sudden silence, drop like icicles against paving. He stills. “Doctor, please. Take me home. Take me to the TARDIS.”
He glances at her, sees her fear, not for herself any longer but for him, for what he might do, for what he might have to live with if he carries this any further forward. His eyes move back to the cowering men. They have not moved while he looked way. He glares down at them, smells the sharp, acrid smell of urine as one of them wets himself in his fear.
“Please,” she says. “I need to be safe. I am…I need to be…made yours.” His head snaps around and his eyes fasten on hers, her eyes so wide and open and full of something he’s only seen mere glimpses of before. What he sees there is enough to send a different kind of fire raging through his blood, a fire powerful enough to transcend any other.
“You want…?”
“You,” she says in a gravelly voice and the sudden whiff of her pheromones hits him like a punch to the gut. They are deliberate, targeted only to him, only for him.
The men forgotten, he strides back to her side and grabs her hand, all but pulling her out of the room in his haste and it is only when she protests his pace a few minutes later as sharp bits of gravel and shells tear at her soles, that he remembers her feet are bare, her legs bruised. He throws the axe, embedding it deeply, sharply, so far into a nearby tree that legends rise up as men try for generations to pull it free and fail, as this ritual withers and dies on the vine.
“I’ll carry you,” he says. If she expects to be swept up into his arms she’s mistaken for he cannot move quickly carrying her like that. Instead he bends low and heaves her over his shoulder and resumes his race back to the TARDIS. She makes no sound of protest but he’s almost sure he hears her laughter, her joy in this turn of events suddenly bubbling over.
It soothes him, soothes him that she can laugh at his eagerness after what could have happened this day, what could have happened but did not. His Rose is safe and she has requested, told him, said the words and he saw it in her eyes. She needs to be his as badly as he needs to make her his. As her desire for him fills the air around him, as his nostrils take in her growing arousal caused by his rescue of her, from his hauling her back to his cave, he realizes that her body is readying itself for him and it is all he can do not to initiate things on the rough forest floor.
He has covered the ground well and the familiarity of blue paint, yellow lettering, rough wood comes into view. He sets her down and she stumbles a bit, clutches his sleeve, warm leather curling into her fingers as he reaches for his key, as her body molds into his, as he unlocks the door and pushes it open. He startles her by picking her up again, realizing the harsh grating of the TARDIS floors would be agony on her tattered feet.
The Doctor kicks the door shut behind him, carries her through the console room and into the nearest room he can find with a bed. It’s not his, nor hers, but it’s clean, the spread simple and brown, the sheets cotton, stark white, and crisp. He sets her down upon it and again the image of crimson lain against the purity of the cloth sends him reeling, before he reminds himself sharply that it is merely an image, there is no blood here, Rose is not in any lasting way damaged.
“Your feet,” he says. “I should fix them.”
“Later,” she says, her breath coming far faster than it should be, her pupils huge, her heart racing so quickly he can hear the undercurrent of her blood as it pounds, the backbeat as it pulses. “They only hurt when I’m standing on ‘em. Done enough waiting for you. Don’t want to wait anymore.” His eyes widen, darken at her words and their meaning and he stares.
Her hair has splayed across the pillow, it’s spun-gold strands spread, waiting for his fingers, waiting for him to breathe in the smell of her shampoo, like jasmine and vanilla and the distinctive scent that is Rose, only ever Rose, that has filled his nostrils too many times and driven him to distraction, when he thought he shouldn’t want, when he thought he couldn’t have.
His movements are methodical as he shrugs the supple black leather from his shoulders, lets it fall to the floor, a heavy thump alerting them both it has reached its destination. She watches him, her breath caught for a moment and he thinks somehow she sees him as beautiful and not battered, treasured and not worthless. His hands move to his jumper and the rough wool catches under his work-roughened fingers as he pulls it off and watches as her eyes grow wide.
She is drinking him in, her eyes feasting as if he were a banquet and a small shudder of anticipation shivers through his skin. If her eyes can do this to him, her touch will surely bring him to his knees. Her eyes range the expanse of skin he has laid bare to her, glide over well-formed, lean muscles of deceptive strength. He pauses a moment then moves on, his hands going to his belt buckle, the clinking of metal jerking her eyes back into focus, a focus that sharpens and lands upon his fingers as they open the clasp and the thick sound of leather being pulled free of denim rips through the room.
He bends then and unlaces his boots, frees his feet of them, removes his socks and then stands back up. His hand returns to his waistband and Rose’s breath hitches and she closes her eyes briefly, just for a moment, but they quickly flutter open as if she doesn’t wish to miss a single moment, as if she finds pleasure in simply watching him disrobe. The belt falls with a heavy metallic thunk and then the quieter sound of metal teeth zipping slowly down has her biting her lip. He eases the denim down his thighs.
A moment later he steps out of them; then black, cotton, boxer briefs join them at the top of the pile of discarded garments. He has felt naked before her figuratively but it was never like this. This he does not fear and the slow, gentle smile that graces her mouth tells him that she likes very much what he has placed before her. When he meets her eyes he sees avarice sparking there.
He never stopped to think when she said she needed to be made his that maybe it should end in some way other than this. He has not paused in his single-minded pursuit of reaching this moment since the words that fell from her lips flamed into life embers that she had kindled months ago. He is sure, sure this is what she wants, sure this is what he wants and sure this is what they need, and when the tip of her small, pink tongue comes out and wets her lips as she stares at his masculinity, it assures him even further why doubts were never necessary. She wants him as much as he wants her and probably has for just as long.
He lowers himself to the bed, crawls to where she has centered herself and stretches his lanky frame to run alongside her gently curving one. She turns into him and he reaches for her hands, unwinds the remnant of rope from her wrists and tosses it aside. He kisses along each one, where skin has been rubbed raw, and then he allows her to touch him. The brilliant silk of her gown slides against his naked flesh, the warmth from one of her bare arms settles onto his back and her other hand reaches up to cradle his jaw.
She brings her mouth to his, whispers against his lips, “Make me yours,” and he breaks, the last shred of his self-control snapping out of existence. His tongue demands entrance, entrance that she immediately grants him and his hand slides from one silk covered hip, across her waist and up to her breast. She arches into him, her hips brushing his erection, her smooth legs finding the coarse hairs on his own and rubbing against them.
The kiss he gives her is almost brutal in its need to take from her every single thing she offers, all that she will grant him on this day she gives herself to him. He knows he bruises her lips, knows maybe he should hold back after her fright, knows that the powerful thrusts of his tongue might be too much, but she does not complain. Her hand simply moves to the back of his head and she encourages him into a kiss that is deeper yet, that seeks out and discovers every possible secret she’s kept hidden until now. He isn’t fully sure that the sound she makes is a growl, but he thinks it must be.
His hand strokes the length of her body again then settles down to knead roughly at her breast, calloused hands delighting at the sensual fabric covering her skin, delighting in the nipple that pebbles up under the silk and teasing it until it stands tall and firm beneath his fingers. She moans into his mouth as she bucks into him. He drags his hand back down her body, finds the slit in the crimson gown and uses both hands to tear it open.
Rose gasps against him and he pulls away, his desire to see her nearly naked form overruling for the moment his need to touch. He sighs at her beauty then rolls her towards him pulling the rest of the dress away from her body and reaching around to unfasten the red strapless bra she’d worn beneath it. He buries his face in her breasts while his hand reaches down and tugs hard on the matching red knickers. They tear as easily as the dress and he flings them after it.
The scent of her arousal overwhelms him and he aches to taste her, but it will have to wait for another time because he needs to have this now, needs to bury himself inside her body, needs to claim her once and for all as his so no man or group of men will ever presume to take her from him again. His mouth finds her nipple and he circles it quickly bringing little cries from Rose’s lips, little mewls of pleasure and his hand reaches between thighs that she quickly, easily, simply spreads for him.
He finds that she is dripping wet and he buries two fingers inside her without warning. They slide in easily and just as easily come out, glistening with her fluids. He brings them to his mouth, takes this moment to taste her and she sucks in her breath hard and her eyes find his and she says, “I’m ready. Feels like I’ve been ready for you forever.”
He is on her so fast he literally takes her breath away, but he can’t, won’t, hold himself in check any longer. Not when his need to have her is this strong. Her need to have him is just as strong as her hand reaches down and grasps him. It is his turn to cry out as she guides him to her entrance, nestles the head against it and says, “Please.”
He pushes into her, pushes hard, and fills her to capacity. Her eyes are wide, startled, but her words encourage him on. He needs this first time to be hard and fast and he hopes she understands, hopes that she knows that gentleness can come later, that tenderness will be had, but for now, for now he just needs. He pulls out of her and quickly thrusts back in, setting up the rhythm he desires so swiftly that she barely has time to catch her breath. Her hands reach up for him seeking to remove the space between their torsos and he falls down to her, feels her arms wrap about him and he shoves his underneath her back, holding her to him tightly, her breasts pushing firmly into his chest, rubbing against his skin and making him all the harder.
He’s sure he’s crushing her but she’s urging him on, her hips rising to meet his thrusts as he plunges and withdraws. He has never felt such pleasure, has never been so focused on one thing, on his penis driving into her, on her wet, tight, walls encasing him, almost burning him with their sweet heat. She is muttering words under her breath now and he catches, “Yes,” and “More” and “Faster,” and “Yours,” as they tumble from her lips. She calls out to God, says the Doctor’s name, begs him to take her harder, make her his, make her only his, forever his. And then she loses her coherence for a while, simply cries out from each impact of his pistoning hips as he slams into her, striving for the more, faster, harder that she asks for, that he wants.
He feels fingernails digging into his back, smells when she draws blood and redoubles his efforts. He’s growling out nonsense and muttering words in Gallifreyan and she’s suddenly talking again, repeating one word over and over again, “Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine.”
And yes, yes he is. He is hers. He is completely hers. And she is his, forever his, always his, he will never let her go, he will fight with death itself to keep her by his side. He drives into her wildly, he can feel the sensations from the friction begin to overwhelm him and he’s panting and sweating and still, still needing, needing so very, very much and she screams. She screams his name and she jerks and shudders and bites her lip so hard she draws blood. And it feels so good, so right, so perfect as she clamps down hard on his penis and the pressure that has been building up inside him bursts and he comes inside her, his voice roaring out his pleasure in the one word that means more to him than any other in this universe, “Rose!”
His body stutters to a halt atop her and she reaches up for his head and kisses him desperately and before he can even think to withdraw from her body she wraps her legs around him, locks him tightly against her, holds his weight on her and explores his mouth with everything she has left in her. Her franticness finally loses its edge and she slowly changes the nature of the kiss, gentles it, turns it into a soft plundering of treasures, no longer a mad rush.
At last she breaks the kiss and he rests his forehead against hers, breathing steadily, finding his equilibrium again. “Mine,” he says clearly and intently, letting her know without any doubt that she is his. She nods against him and slowly allows her arms and legs to release him. He eases up off her, his softening penis slipping gently from her body. He falls onto his back then reaches for her, pulling her into him.
She smells of sweat and salt and sex and him and he thinks she’s never smelled better. He likes his scent all over her, likes that he can tell just by breathing that she’s his, just by breathing what they’ve done. Her scent is just as strong on him, just as telling. He smiles and tugs her even closer, his arms tightening almost fiercely about her. “Mine,” he repeats again.
“Yours,” she affirms softly. Her hand reaches out, slides over first one heart, then the other. “Mine,” she says in a whisper.
“Yes.” He is. Has been from the start. “Yours.”
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Date: 2009-01-19 08:34 am (UTC)I-- I-- *dies on the floor*
That was *so* worth waiting up for!
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Date: 2009-01-19 08:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-19 09:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-19 09:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-19 09:40 am (UTC)*is dead*
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Date: 2009-01-19 09:46 am (UTC)*melts*
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Date: 2009-01-19 10:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-19 10:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-19 10:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-19 10:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-19 10:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-19 10:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-19 10:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-19 10:15 am (UTC)*zones back in* Ahem. Good show, m'dear, good show!
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Date: 2009-01-19 10:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-19 10:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-19 12:07 pm (UTC)But it still manages to get me hot and bothered. It's not just hot, it's volcanic.
I'm so glad that you write Nine. ;)
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Date: 2009-01-19 12:36 pm (UTC)Bunk.... over there..... I'll be in it.... wow.....
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Date: 2009-01-19 01:43 pm (UTC)Is overwhelmed with guhness.
Bit Hot Now. *braves cold shower*
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Date: 2009-01-19 02:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-19 02:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-19 02:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-19 02:47 pm (UTC)That was...yeah, I have no words.
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Date: 2009-01-19 04:42 pm (UTC)this was beyond hot.
someone else said they love it when your friends have birthdays... me too 'cause we *all* get a birthday gift even if it's not our birthday. WOOHOO !
This so perfectly portrayed Nine's brain at work... the oncoming storm who shows no mercy when those he loves are in jeopardy. and also teaches him a little bit of a lesson to be more explicit in his phraseology...
i love the 'throw her over his shoulder cave man style' BWAA!
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Date: 2009-01-19 06:19 pm (UTC)That was fantastic!
God, I miss Nine!!!!