Sweet as Sugar
folder
1 through F › Doctor Who
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
43
Views:
11,322
Reviews:
19
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
1 through F › Doctor Who
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
43
Views:
11,322
Reviews:
19
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Dr. Who, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
28
Sweet as Sugar Chapter Twenty Eight
Disclaimers Apply
A/N Foxfeather is a busy busy Goddess of many things. *G* And thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing as you can. Links to the previous chapters below:
“This is impossible.”
“Never say anything is impossible. Only,” the Doctor paused, fishing the sonic screwdriver out of his pocket, “improbable. Ah, here we are!” He pressed the working end of the device against a hidden panel and, as Rose watched, pushed a door open that had, until a moment before, simply appeared to be part of the plain stone wall. The Doctor inhaled deeply, marshaling his roiling emotions. Centuries of practice, he thought with a shade of bitterness. This is not Gallifrey, he reminded himself flatly, stepping through the door and into a dark, dry space that was too small to be properly called a room but really too large to be referred to as a closet. The Rani made this, he continued, only dimly aware of Rose’s presence behind him, her human warmth spilling across his perception, the scent of her skin stirring thoughts he worked hard to keep under wraps. “She’s done a fair approximation,” he finally murmured, running his fingers along the stone wall. “This is exactly what it looked like…”
“Exactly what what looked like?” Rose asked softly. She was not quite sure what to think—she understood that this was a recreation but… it seemed like the Doctor could not care a whit about his home planet being revived. She tentatively laid a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to turn and face her through a simple touch. She felt the tension in his body, the heat radiating off of him like a blast furnace as he gazed down at her in the blue glow from the sonic screwdriver. “Doctor, is it so bad, your home being recreated?” She had seen Earth destroyed more times than she cared to remember, through disease and war and planning committees, and she knew that she would have been doing naked cartwheels down the High Street of every town in Britain if she had been able to recreate, even for a moment, her home world each time she had seen it denuded and ruined to the point of being unlivable. “Is it so terrible? The Rani…”
“The Rani,” he said sharply, “did not do this out of the goodness of her heart. You don’t understand, Rose…”
“Then explain it to me!” Her voice came out as sharper than she intended, cutting through the Doctor’s growing imperious tone, something he had carried over from his last incarnation, she thought with only the faintest hint of longing for the first face of his she knew. Her grip tightened on his shoulder and she closed the distance between them automatically, not realizing that she had taken that half a step forward until she brushed against him, her lack of proper clothing suddenly obvious and embarrassing. She did not move away, though, not even when the Doctor’s eyes flared darkly, pupils overwhelming iris, making his gaze black as the shadows dancing around them. “Explain to me why this is so horrible, Doctor. Gallifrey is back… Your home, your world…”
“The TARDIS is my home,” he said softly, anger leeching out of his voice and leaving it flat. “It’s my world now. Gallifrey burned. Gallifrey burned while I watched,” he continued, his eyes closing halfway, leaving onyx colored slits fixed on Rose’s upturned, dirty face. “To recreate it… that violates the laws of the Time Lords…”
“You’ve never been one for rules,” Rose murmured, unable to raise her voice above a whisper. Her heart lurched in her chest, her breath seemingly coming in short bursts. She was keenly aware of his physical presence in a way that had rarely occurred to her: the very maleness of him seemed to bely the fact that he was and always would be The Doctor, her friend and companion, her protector and protected. She had thought of him in visceral ways before, many many times before if she were to be honest with herself, but something in that moment, that instant in time, made her entirely aware of his being.
“The Rani,” he breathed, the words barely given voice, “did not rebuild Gallifrey to be kind, to have home.” So close, he thought, her lips were so close. He remembered their taste, how they felt. He knew how she kissed, how her body swayed into his when she parted her lips, he knew that, even without Cassandra or the energy of the TARDIS corrupting her, Rose would fairly hum with the energy thrumming through her, that he could easily be overwhelmed by her kisses. He shuddered—physically shuddered—to think of what would happen to him if there were more, if her kisses became touches, if her touches became sighs and arching bodies. In the darkness of the TARDIS’s nightcycle, he had allowed such thoughts to roam freely, when she could not see him curl into himself, bite his lip and indulge in activities he was far too old for, far too jaded. Her voice snapped him out of his blindingly rich reverie. “She did this for her own purposes, to be god over the ones who destroyed her,” he murmured, unable to give the words the anger they deserved. “Rose…”
“Doctor,” she agreed, her eyes closing. She wanted this, wanted it so badly she could taste it. She remembered kissing him with Cassandra in her body, she barely remembered kissing him after the Daleks and often wondered how much of that memory was purely fantasy, reconstructing the event based on what she wished had happened. Cassandra was right, she thought with a mixture of embarrassment and pleasure. I have been looking and I do like it. She did not realize that she was kissing him until he sighed, his body shuddering slightly against hers. His hands came to her hips and the screwdriver clattered to the floor as he pulled her flush against his body, letting her feel the raging arousal that was causing him so much grief, distracting him from more important (supposedly more important) things like finding the door which led to the antechamber of the great hall. Rose murmured her pleasure, her fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, her lips parting for him as he pulled her closer, moving so they were against the wall behind him. She heard a tiny whimper and realized, cheeks blazing with embarrassment, that it came from her own throat as the Doctor’s hands moved up her spine, his light touch eliciting frissons of electric pleasure that wrapped about her limbs like liquid fire. She felt as if she was falling, falling into him, she thought wildly, wanting to laugh with it. This was them, not possessed and not dying. A sudden, hard thud made her gasp, teeth splitting lips and breath catching in throats. “OW!”
The Doctor blinked muzzily, staring up at Rose who lay atop him. “Found it,” he said after a moment, a smile splitting his face. “We found the first crack!”
Disclaimers Apply
A/N Foxfeather is a busy busy Goddess of many things. *G* And thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing as you can. Links to the previous chapters below:
“This is impossible.”
“Never say anything is impossible. Only,” the Doctor paused, fishing the sonic screwdriver out of his pocket, “improbable. Ah, here we are!” He pressed the working end of the device against a hidden panel and, as Rose watched, pushed a door open that had, until a moment before, simply appeared to be part of the plain stone wall. The Doctor inhaled deeply, marshaling his roiling emotions. Centuries of practice, he thought with a shade of bitterness. This is not Gallifrey, he reminded himself flatly, stepping through the door and into a dark, dry space that was too small to be properly called a room but really too large to be referred to as a closet. The Rani made this, he continued, only dimly aware of Rose’s presence behind him, her human warmth spilling across his perception, the scent of her skin stirring thoughts he worked hard to keep under wraps. “She’s done a fair approximation,” he finally murmured, running his fingers along the stone wall. “This is exactly what it looked like…”
“Exactly what what looked like?” Rose asked softly. She was not quite sure what to think—she understood that this was a recreation but… it seemed like the Doctor could not care a whit about his home planet being revived. She tentatively laid a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to turn and face her through a simple touch. She felt the tension in his body, the heat radiating off of him like a blast furnace as he gazed down at her in the blue glow from the sonic screwdriver. “Doctor, is it so bad, your home being recreated?” She had seen Earth destroyed more times than she cared to remember, through disease and war and planning committees, and she knew that she would have been doing naked cartwheels down the High Street of every town in Britain if she had been able to recreate, even for a moment, her home world each time she had seen it denuded and ruined to the point of being unlivable. “Is it so terrible? The Rani…”
“The Rani,” he said sharply, “did not do this out of the goodness of her heart. You don’t understand, Rose…”
“Then explain it to me!” Her voice came out as sharper than she intended, cutting through the Doctor’s growing imperious tone, something he had carried over from his last incarnation, she thought with only the faintest hint of longing for the first face of his she knew. Her grip tightened on his shoulder and she closed the distance between them automatically, not realizing that she had taken that half a step forward until she brushed against him, her lack of proper clothing suddenly obvious and embarrassing. She did not move away, though, not even when the Doctor’s eyes flared darkly, pupils overwhelming iris, making his gaze black as the shadows dancing around them. “Explain to me why this is so horrible, Doctor. Gallifrey is back… Your home, your world…”
“The TARDIS is my home,” he said softly, anger leeching out of his voice and leaving it flat. “It’s my world now. Gallifrey burned. Gallifrey burned while I watched,” he continued, his eyes closing halfway, leaving onyx colored slits fixed on Rose’s upturned, dirty face. “To recreate it… that violates the laws of the Time Lords…”
“You’ve never been one for rules,” Rose murmured, unable to raise her voice above a whisper. Her heart lurched in her chest, her breath seemingly coming in short bursts. She was keenly aware of his physical presence in a way that had rarely occurred to her: the very maleness of him seemed to bely the fact that he was and always would be The Doctor, her friend and companion, her protector and protected. She had thought of him in visceral ways before, many many times before if she were to be honest with herself, but something in that moment, that instant in time, made her entirely aware of his being.
“The Rani,” he breathed, the words barely given voice, “did not rebuild Gallifrey to be kind, to have home.” So close, he thought, her lips were so close. He remembered their taste, how they felt. He knew how she kissed, how her body swayed into his when she parted her lips, he knew that, even without Cassandra or the energy of the TARDIS corrupting her, Rose would fairly hum with the energy thrumming through her, that he could easily be overwhelmed by her kisses. He shuddered—physically shuddered—to think of what would happen to him if there were more, if her kisses became touches, if her touches became sighs and arching bodies. In the darkness of the TARDIS’s nightcycle, he had allowed such thoughts to roam freely, when she could not see him curl into himself, bite his lip and indulge in activities he was far too old for, far too jaded. Her voice snapped him out of his blindingly rich reverie. “She did this for her own purposes, to be god over the ones who destroyed her,” he murmured, unable to give the words the anger they deserved. “Rose…”
“Doctor,” she agreed, her eyes closing. She wanted this, wanted it so badly she could taste it. She remembered kissing him with Cassandra in her body, she barely remembered kissing him after the Daleks and often wondered how much of that memory was purely fantasy, reconstructing the event based on what she wished had happened. Cassandra was right, she thought with a mixture of embarrassment and pleasure. I have been looking and I do like it. She did not realize that she was kissing him until he sighed, his body shuddering slightly against hers. His hands came to her hips and the screwdriver clattered to the floor as he pulled her flush against his body, letting her feel the raging arousal that was causing him so much grief, distracting him from more important (supposedly more important) things like finding the door which led to the antechamber of the great hall. Rose murmured her pleasure, her fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, her lips parting for him as he pulled her closer, moving so they were against the wall behind him. She heard a tiny whimper and realized, cheeks blazing with embarrassment, that it came from her own throat as the Doctor’s hands moved up her spine, his light touch eliciting frissons of electric pleasure that wrapped about her limbs like liquid fire. She felt as if she was falling, falling into him, she thought wildly, wanting to laugh with it. This was them, not possessed and not dying. A sudden, hard thud made her gasp, teeth splitting lips and breath catching in throats. “OW!”
The Doctor blinked muzzily, staring up at Rose who lay atop him. “Found it,” he said after a moment, a smile splitting his face. “We found the first crack!”