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Story: The Lady in the Fireplace
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
loveslashangst
Characters: Tenth Doctor, Rose Tyler, Reinette, King of France and (eventually) Ninth Doctor
Rated: Adult for slash, bisexuality, mature content, language, abuse of REALLY good champagne, and lots and lots of sex (multiple pairings/groupings)
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, 'cause if I did, Rose would be more BadWolf and less Angst, Ten would post a sign on the door sayin' "If the TARDIS is a rockin', don't come a knockin'", and half of their adventures through time and space would consist of finding new and unusual places to have a juicy shag.
Spoilers: AU, DURING "The Girl in the Fireplace". If you haven't seen the first three series of Doctor Who, you WILL be spoilered. I like to mess with canon. And you have my word that -- despite how this starts -- I'm a passionate Rose/Ten shipper.
Summary: OTP Rose/Ten with a lot of interesting liaisons along the way. So what exactly DID Ten do in Versailles? This French farce will have love, drama, sex, and eventually as close to a happy ending as I can manage. Be forewarned, though, I may take you places that would make RTD's head explode.
On with the show:
(In which Ten tries to ask Rose a question and she shows him her room.)
By the time the jeep pulls up to the beach, Rose has cycled through several alarming shades of green. The Doctor thanks the caretaker, sends his regards on to Feldimar (who -- despite being something of a highwayman -- does run a very nice little resort), and shoulders the rucksack.
(How can someone as slight as Rose could carry the thing? Must weigh tonnes.)
“All right, Rose?” he says.
She weaves a little. Nods, though without any enthusiasm and not very convincingly.
He slips a hand around her waist. Guides her back to the TARDIS (which is now cleverly disguised by a few fallen palm fronds). “Sorry ‘bout that trip back.”
She shakes her head no. “Beats walking.” She claps a hand over her mouth. Makes an alarming noise.
“Stay here.” He drops the rucksack. “I’ll be back.”
Nodding, she sits down. Puts her head down. Tries to breathe deeply.
(A comment about not wandering off might be hazardous to his health.) The Doctor digs the key to the TARDIS out of the rucksack. Unlocks the door. Skips inside, prepared for the short jog to the galley.
A tray holding a pot of ginger mint tea and two cups sits on the condole. The TARDIS even remembered the little pitcher of milk for Rose.
“Well done, thanks,” he says, delighted. (Love the new and improved TARDIS!) He takes the tray and carefully makes his way back out.
Rose turns another shade of green at the tea. “What’s that, then?”
“Ginger calms the stomach.” He pours her a cup. “Mint is soothing to the nerves. You bathe in it, so I figure it can’t hurt you on the inside too.” He adds just a little more milk. Folds her hands around the cup.
She smiles. Not her usual brilliant beam, but promising.
A few sips and she relaxes. “Better, thanks.” She blinks. “That really works, doesn’t it?”
He nods. Settles down beside her on the sand. Pours himself a cup. Sips. There’s something excessively British about tea on the beach, yet somehow it fits.
The sunset turns the sky to shades of oranges, fuchsias and pinks. (Nature: the greatest artist of all. He’s seen sunsets on a million worlds, yet no two are ever the same. One of life’s little joys.) He soaks in the moments, drinking them to the taste of ginger mint tea.
Rose sneaks her fingers into his. When he looks, she’s smiling that sweet, shy smile that makes his hearts hurt in a good way. “Thanks.”
He toasts her with his cup.
Giggling, she clinks cups with him. They drink.
“It’s been... like a honeymoon,” she says.
The word strikes him oddly. “I... I suppose so.” And for the umpteenth time since they arrived, he has that thought. It’s a stupid thought, really, because as much fun as this is he knows it’ll end. But still...
He looks at her. Bottle blonde from a council estate. Barely out of her teens. Nightmare for a mother. Limited formal education. Rash and impetuous and brave and selfless and goodhearted and empathetic and passionate and brilliant and powerful and more than a match for him.
Humanity Mark Two.
All things being equal, she might well be the love of his life.
“What?” she says. (He loves that high flush on her cheeks.)
“You.” He distracts himself by pouring them each another cup. The black sand is still warm from the day’s sun. Pleasant to sit on, though he’ll be washing it out of odd places for days.
A flirtatious look. “What about me?” She’s fishing for a compliment. Either that or coming on to him. Hard to tell the difference these days. (Not that he minds.)
And of course, his whole body responds to the least provocation. She’s got him trained, that’s for sure. But he doesn’t pounce the way he has every other day this week, for reasons he can’t fully put into words.
“We really should leave soon,” he says. “Keep moving.”
“All right.” She grins. “Where to next?”
Her surety bothers him, again for reasons he can’t fully put into words. “Is it?” he says. “All right, I mean?”
She sets her cup back on the tray. “Yeah... I mean. Why wouldn’t it be?”
He brushes a stray lock of sun-bleached hair back from her cheek. Tucks it behind her ear.
He flicks his eyes toward the TARDIS. “All I can offer you is her.”
“All of time and space.” She shrugs. “Girl could do worse.” But there’s a guarded look to her. She’s trying to figure him out again. She could just read his mind, but thankfully she shares his respect for the privacy of others.
And he’s trying to figure himself out too. Why can’t he just relax and enjoy these things?
“Do you want more?” It kills him to ask. “A job? A house? Some kind of security?” He tries to smile. “A mortgage?”
She makes a face. “That’s not living.” She looks at him with a tinge of gold in her eyes. “Is that what this is about? You think I’m settling for less by being with you?”
In a weird sort of way, that’s exactly what he thinks. “I’ll break your heart.”
She puts his cup on the tray. “You’re worth it.” She climbs into his lap. “Now what’s gotten into you, Doctor?”
He runs his hands up her back. Kisses her because it’s easier than looking her in the eye. He focuses on that beautiful mouth. “Would you...?”
She catches his eyes with a level brown gaze. “Would I what?” A hint of that devilish sparkle. “Odds are I’ll say yes.”
He lets it be there in his gaze even as he tries to find the words. “Rose Tyler, would you--?”
A finger across his lips stills him.
She kisses him, very gently. “Yes. But not now. Not with what’s coming.” Her eyes go all determined. (He LOVES that!) “But don’t you go thinking that just because we’re separated I’m going to be all miserable and alone and victim-y. No writing in diaries or settling for less for me. Hell, no! I’m going to fight. Every day.”
Her eyes shine with defiant tears. “And I’m going to find my way back to you. No matter how long it takes. No matter what I have to do. And I’ll never forgive you if you don’t do the same.”
So of course, he has to kiss her until the heat of her threatens to burn him alive. He pulls her down. Rolls them onto the sand. Remembers odd particles in uncomfortable places. Pulls away a little.
She’s breathless. Nods agreement. “Inside?”
He grins. “Inside.”
He snatches the rucksack. (GOD the thing is heavy. Could dislocate a shoulder if he doesn’t watch it.) She grabs the tray. They sprint for the TARDIS door.
He catches her arm. They do a quick brush-down to try to get at least most of the sand off. Once inside, he sets the rucksack down. She sets the tray on the console. They pick up with the snog. She tastes like ginger and mint and home. Roaming hands. Smooth skin beneath his fingertips.
“No sofa,” she comments.
“Mmm-hmmm.” He’s loath to make any reply that involves having to remove his mouth from hers. God, he could eat her alive. (And hopefully will have a chance to in another moment.)
“Your room?” Her fingernails lightly scrape down his back.
He shakes his head no. Unties the back of her bikini top. “Messy. Bachelor for centuries. Not Romantic. Yours?”
Judging by the way she snogs him, that must’ve been the right answer. She pulls back. Snatches his hand. Sheds the bikini top one-handed.
Laughing, he follows her down the hallways and up the stairs. Kicks off the flip-flops. (Hopefully she’ll undress him the rest of the way as he intends to undress her.)
Pink. Her fixation with the colour never fails to amaze and appal him. Pink walls. Pink duvet. Pink pillows. Pink draperies on a four-poster bed. (It’s like Barbie’s nightmare boudoir.)
He shuts the door behind them. Pulls Rose into his arms. Her hand slips into the waistband of his shorts. Caresses the head of him. Grinning around the kiss, she reaches lower.
Shuddering sweetly at the knowing touch, he silently blesses his ninth yet again.
He’s flat on his back before he can defend himself. (Not that he’s seriously trying to resist her.) However, the fur-lined handcuffs do take him by surprise. (Pink, no less. The TARDIS does have a weird sense of humour.)
He stares at her. “New décor?”
She shrugs. “Thought you thought them here.”
He shakes his head no. “Not that I’m aware of. Do you always have handcuffs in your bedroom?”
She pauses in the act of securing his other hand. “Shall I stop?”
He grins. “Not at all.” He winks. “Carry on.”
Few things in life are quite so lovely as Rose pulling off his shorts with her teeth.
She slips off the rest of her bikini. Slowly. Gives him a knowing look. (She knows he can’t stop watching her.) Runs bare hands over her curves.
He struggles against the handcuffs. “That’s not fair.”
A low, sexy laugh. She straddles him, mouth millimetres away from his. “My dear Doctor,” she murmurs, “what has ‘fair’ to do with anything?”
He tries to kiss her. She dodges, laughing. Fingertips whisper down his body. Tease the head of him. Slip lower.
He presses into her touch. “Rose.” Her name rolls on his tongue like fine wine.
“Scoot down,” she murmurs.
He obeys. His arms are now extended, each wrist still comfortably lashed to a post. To his delight, she straddles his head. The scent of her sex is intoxicating. He takes a long, slow taste. Savours the way he can undo her with nothing more than lips and tongue. (Though he wishes for his hands. Then she’d really be at his mercy.)
There is no sweeter music than the sound of Rose’s pleasure as she rides his mouth.
“Enough,” she says at last. She’s breathless and flushed and DAMN these cuffs! He’d like nothing better than to roll them over and find that angle she loves. (The one that makes HER scream like a girl.)
She rests for a moment. Sits on his chest. Gazes at him. He smiles up at her, savouring the lingering taste of her. She grins. Moves down. Straddles his hips. He can feel the heat of her.
“Yes, PLEASE!”
She dodges when he presses up. Gives him an unyielding glare. “Patience.”
She’ll only torture him more if he persists. He waits, adoring and condemning her in turns. Not being able to use his hands only intensifies everything.
She eases onto him. Teasing... Gradual... Tight... Slick... Perfect... His breath catches. His hearts race. She takes her time. Tunes that beautiful resonance with his. (Heaven is a lover who knows him better than he knows himself.)
“Never gets old, does it?” she purrs.
He shakes his head no. (Fair odds his voice won’t work.) Her hand slips down. Finds the right fold at the base of the shaft. He just about faints. Fights the furred cuffs. Moves with her, loving every stroke. She catches his eyes. Holds him in a gold-tinged gaze. Builds them both until the room crackles and sparks with temporal energy.
“Ready?” He’s amazed his voice still works.
She nods. Her whole body is taut, waiting. He pulls her into his mind. Lets her feel what he feels. And for an unguarded moment, dares to imagine what it would be like if he were able to keep her.
Link to All Previous Chapters
Author:
loveslashangstCharacters: Tenth Doctor, Rose Tyler, Reinette, King of France and (eventually) Ninth Doctor
Rated: Adult for slash, bisexuality, mature content, language, abuse of REALLY good champagne, and lots and lots of sex (multiple pairings/groupings)
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, 'cause if I did, Rose would be more BadWolf and less Angst, Ten would post a sign on the door sayin' "If the TARDIS is a rockin', don't come a knockin'", and half of their adventures through time and space would consist of finding new and unusual places to have a juicy shag.
Spoilers: AU, DURING "The Girl in the Fireplace". If you haven't seen the first three series of Doctor Who, you WILL be spoilered. I like to mess with canon. And you have my word that -- despite how this starts -- I'm a passionate Rose/Ten shipper.
Summary: OTP Rose/Ten with a lot of interesting liaisons along the way. So what exactly DID Ten do in Versailles? This French farce will have love, drama, sex, and eventually as close to a happy ending as I can manage. Be forewarned, though, I may take you places that would make RTD's head explode.
On with the show:
(In which Ten tries to ask Rose a question and she shows him her room.)
By the time the jeep pulls up to the beach, Rose has cycled through several alarming shades of green. The Doctor thanks the caretaker, sends his regards on to Feldimar (who -- despite being something of a highwayman -- does run a very nice little resort), and shoulders the rucksack.
(How can someone as slight as Rose could carry the thing? Must weigh tonnes.)
“All right, Rose?” he says.
She weaves a little. Nods, though without any enthusiasm and not very convincingly.
He slips a hand around her waist. Guides her back to the TARDIS (which is now cleverly disguised by a few fallen palm fronds). “Sorry ‘bout that trip back.”
She shakes her head no. “Beats walking.” She claps a hand over her mouth. Makes an alarming noise.
“Stay here.” He drops the rucksack. “I’ll be back.”
Nodding, she sits down. Puts her head down. Tries to breathe deeply.
(A comment about not wandering off might be hazardous to his health.) The Doctor digs the key to the TARDIS out of the rucksack. Unlocks the door. Skips inside, prepared for the short jog to the galley.
A tray holding a pot of ginger mint tea and two cups sits on the condole. The TARDIS even remembered the little pitcher of milk for Rose.
“Well done, thanks,” he says, delighted. (Love the new and improved TARDIS!) He takes the tray and carefully makes his way back out.
Rose turns another shade of green at the tea. “What’s that, then?”
“Ginger calms the stomach.” He pours her a cup. “Mint is soothing to the nerves. You bathe in it, so I figure it can’t hurt you on the inside too.” He adds just a little more milk. Folds her hands around the cup.
She smiles. Not her usual brilliant beam, but promising.
A few sips and she relaxes. “Better, thanks.” She blinks. “That really works, doesn’t it?”
He nods. Settles down beside her on the sand. Pours himself a cup. Sips. There’s something excessively British about tea on the beach, yet somehow it fits.
The sunset turns the sky to shades of oranges, fuchsias and pinks. (Nature: the greatest artist of all. He’s seen sunsets on a million worlds, yet no two are ever the same. One of life’s little joys.) He soaks in the moments, drinking them to the taste of ginger mint tea.
Rose sneaks her fingers into his. When he looks, she’s smiling that sweet, shy smile that makes his hearts hurt in a good way. “Thanks.”
He toasts her with his cup.
Giggling, she clinks cups with him. They drink.
“It’s been... like a honeymoon,” she says.
The word strikes him oddly. “I... I suppose so.” And for the umpteenth time since they arrived, he has that thought. It’s a stupid thought, really, because as much fun as this is he knows it’ll end. But still...
He looks at her. Bottle blonde from a council estate. Barely out of her teens. Nightmare for a mother. Limited formal education. Rash and impetuous and brave and selfless and goodhearted and empathetic and passionate and brilliant and powerful and more than a match for him.
Humanity Mark Two.
All things being equal, she might well be the love of his life.
“What?” she says. (He loves that high flush on her cheeks.)
“You.” He distracts himself by pouring them each another cup. The black sand is still warm from the day’s sun. Pleasant to sit on, though he’ll be washing it out of odd places for days.
A flirtatious look. “What about me?” She’s fishing for a compliment. Either that or coming on to him. Hard to tell the difference these days. (Not that he minds.)
And of course, his whole body responds to the least provocation. She’s got him trained, that’s for sure. But he doesn’t pounce the way he has every other day this week, for reasons he can’t fully put into words.
“We really should leave soon,” he says. “Keep moving.”
“All right.” She grins. “Where to next?”
Her surety bothers him, again for reasons he can’t fully put into words. “Is it?” he says. “All right, I mean?”
She sets her cup back on the tray. “Yeah... I mean. Why wouldn’t it be?”
He brushes a stray lock of sun-bleached hair back from her cheek. Tucks it behind her ear.
He flicks his eyes toward the TARDIS. “All I can offer you is her.”
“All of time and space.” She shrugs. “Girl could do worse.” But there’s a guarded look to her. She’s trying to figure him out again. She could just read his mind, but thankfully she shares his respect for the privacy of others.
And he’s trying to figure himself out too. Why can’t he just relax and enjoy these things?
“Do you want more?” It kills him to ask. “A job? A house? Some kind of security?” He tries to smile. “A mortgage?”
She makes a face. “That’s not living.” She looks at him with a tinge of gold in her eyes. “Is that what this is about? You think I’m settling for less by being with you?”
In a weird sort of way, that’s exactly what he thinks. “I’ll break your heart.”
She puts his cup on the tray. “You’re worth it.” She climbs into his lap. “Now what’s gotten into you, Doctor?”
He runs his hands up her back. Kisses her because it’s easier than looking her in the eye. He focuses on that beautiful mouth. “Would you...?”
She catches his eyes with a level brown gaze. “Would I what?” A hint of that devilish sparkle. “Odds are I’ll say yes.”
He lets it be there in his gaze even as he tries to find the words. “Rose Tyler, would you--?”
A finger across his lips stills him.
She kisses him, very gently. “Yes. But not now. Not with what’s coming.” Her eyes go all determined. (He LOVES that!) “But don’t you go thinking that just because we’re separated I’m going to be all miserable and alone and victim-y. No writing in diaries or settling for less for me. Hell, no! I’m going to fight. Every day.”
Her eyes shine with defiant tears. “And I’m going to find my way back to you. No matter how long it takes. No matter what I have to do. And I’ll never forgive you if you don’t do the same.”
So of course, he has to kiss her until the heat of her threatens to burn him alive. He pulls her down. Rolls them onto the sand. Remembers odd particles in uncomfortable places. Pulls away a little.
She’s breathless. Nods agreement. “Inside?”
He grins. “Inside.”
He snatches the rucksack. (GOD the thing is heavy. Could dislocate a shoulder if he doesn’t watch it.) She grabs the tray. They sprint for the TARDIS door.
He catches her arm. They do a quick brush-down to try to get at least most of the sand off. Once inside, he sets the rucksack down. She sets the tray on the console. They pick up with the snog. She tastes like ginger and mint and home. Roaming hands. Smooth skin beneath his fingertips.
“No sofa,” she comments.
“Mmm-hmmm.” He’s loath to make any reply that involves having to remove his mouth from hers. God, he could eat her alive. (And hopefully will have a chance to in another moment.)
“Your room?” Her fingernails lightly scrape down his back.
He shakes his head no. Unties the back of her bikini top. “Messy. Bachelor for centuries. Not Romantic. Yours?”
Judging by the way she snogs him, that must’ve been the right answer. She pulls back. Snatches his hand. Sheds the bikini top one-handed.
Laughing, he follows her down the hallways and up the stairs. Kicks off the flip-flops. (Hopefully she’ll undress him the rest of the way as he intends to undress her.)
Pink. Her fixation with the colour never fails to amaze and appal him. Pink walls. Pink duvet. Pink pillows. Pink draperies on a four-poster bed. (It’s like Barbie’s nightmare boudoir.)
He shuts the door behind them. Pulls Rose into his arms. Her hand slips into the waistband of his shorts. Caresses the head of him. Grinning around the kiss, she reaches lower.
Shuddering sweetly at the knowing touch, he silently blesses his ninth yet again.
He’s flat on his back before he can defend himself. (Not that he’s seriously trying to resist her.) However, the fur-lined handcuffs do take him by surprise. (Pink, no less. The TARDIS does have a weird sense of humour.)
He stares at her. “New décor?”
She shrugs. “Thought you thought them here.”
He shakes his head no. “Not that I’m aware of. Do you always have handcuffs in your bedroom?”
She pauses in the act of securing his other hand. “Shall I stop?”
He grins. “Not at all.” He winks. “Carry on.”
Few things in life are quite so lovely as Rose pulling off his shorts with her teeth.
She slips off the rest of her bikini. Slowly. Gives him a knowing look. (She knows he can’t stop watching her.) Runs bare hands over her curves.
He struggles against the handcuffs. “That’s not fair.”
A low, sexy laugh. She straddles him, mouth millimetres away from his. “My dear Doctor,” she murmurs, “what has ‘fair’ to do with anything?”
He tries to kiss her. She dodges, laughing. Fingertips whisper down his body. Tease the head of him. Slip lower.
He presses into her touch. “Rose.” Her name rolls on his tongue like fine wine.
“Scoot down,” she murmurs.
He obeys. His arms are now extended, each wrist still comfortably lashed to a post. To his delight, she straddles his head. The scent of her sex is intoxicating. He takes a long, slow taste. Savours the way he can undo her with nothing more than lips and tongue. (Though he wishes for his hands. Then she’d really be at his mercy.)
There is no sweeter music than the sound of Rose’s pleasure as she rides his mouth.
“Enough,” she says at last. She’s breathless and flushed and DAMN these cuffs! He’d like nothing better than to roll them over and find that angle she loves. (The one that makes HER scream like a girl.)
She rests for a moment. Sits on his chest. Gazes at him. He smiles up at her, savouring the lingering taste of her. She grins. Moves down. Straddles his hips. He can feel the heat of her.
“Yes, PLEASE!”
She dodges when he presses up. Gives him an unyielding glare. “Patience.”
She’ll only torture him more if he persists. He waits, adoring and condemning her in turns. Not being able to use his hands only intensifies everything.
She eases onto him. Teasing... Gradual... Tight... Slick... Perfect... His breath catches. His hearts race. She takes her time. Tunes that beautiful resonance with his. (Heaven is a lover who knows him better than he knows himself.)
“Never gets old, does it?” she purrs.
He shakes his head no. (Fair odds his voice won’t work.) Her hand slips down. Finds the right fold at the base of the shaft. He just about faints. Fights the furred cuffs. Moves with her, loving every stroke. She catches his eyes. Holds him in a gold-tinged gaze. Builds them both until the room crackles and sparks with temporal energy.
“Ready?” He’s amazed his voice still works.
She nods. Her whole body is taut, waiting. He pulls her into his mind. Lets her feel what he feels. And for an unguarded moment, dares to imagine what it would be like if he were able to keep her.
Link to All Previous Chapters
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