Warning: BDSM, sexual content
Rose has long since made a habit of meticulously mapping the Doctor's body down to the smallest detail. She could grasp his hand and name the origin of each tiny scar her caressing thumb ran across, whether she was personally present at the time of the injury or had pried the story out of him while curled up languidly beside him in the dark. She could catch a glimpse of the bare skin of his back and point out exactly where her fingernails had gouged a little too hard in a moment of passion a month ago, even though the residual marks would be nearly invisible to anyone who didn't know to look for them. And even blindfolded with her hands restrained behind her back she could still immediately locate that tiny stretch of his inner thigh that made him groan aloud so gratifyingly every time her lips found their way there.
But now – just like that, without warning – the marks of everything they've shared together and everything she knows shaped him even before they met are gone. Suddenly he's a new man, with no visible traces of the one she knows so well, and she has no idea where that leaves them.
Oh, there are enough glimmers of the Doctor lurking underneath the totally unfamiliar surface that she believes his claims are true. He is the Doctor. She does understand that, at least intellectually. But some part of her can't get beyond the fact that she still doesn't know him the way she always has, and still should.
The first time she touches this more-alien-than-usual body of his skin to skin, she tentatively traces constellations among his new freckles, not to mention that infamous mole, as if once she memorises them she'll know him again by extension.
It's not enough, though, and her gentle fingers turn slowly harsh in a mounting desperation to seek out something deeper, more conclusive. She's overcome by the need to see a web of marks littered over his skin and not just know the placement of them, but also intimately know how they got there and that she was the one to put them there. His body is an uncharted land, and she needs to lay her claim to every square inch before she's through.
She thinks he understands her almost frenzied possessiveness as she sucks bruises into the sensitive curve of his neck. He certainly doesn't protest against it, no matter how feverishly she bites and grasps at his skin. He seems to draw a whole lot more enjoyment from what she's doing than she would have expected, in fact; certainly more than he would have before the change. Perhaps a slightly masochistic streak is yet another of the many changes he's adopted.
If so, it's certainly one she can play along with.
A pair of handcuffs is uncovered from one of the draws beside the bed and locked in place to secure his wrists to the headboard. He relaxes into them as if they've rested around those wrists a hundred times, and he stares up at her with a mixture of trust and challenge, daring her to take it further.
The candles scattered within reaching distance of the bed (apparently this new regeneration has a bit of a romantic streak, she muses) are too tempting for Rose to ignore. She smiles wickedly down at him as she brandishes the first of the candles over his chest, watching as the liquid wax pooled at the top threatens to spill. She hesitates, her breath and his both catching with the anticipation, though she's not sure whether the Doctor has fully cottoned on yet to what she has planned. Then, without warning, Rose tilts the candle and the liquid dribbles over the edge.
The wax hits his skin molten, but then solidifies swiftly, changing into something both different and the same in little more than the blink of an eye. That mirror of what the Doctor himself has been through isn't lost on Rose.
The Doctor arches into instead of away from the searing contact, straining upward against the handcuffs. The wax raises an interesting welt on his skin and Rose admires the effect, knowing that she's hit on a solution that might satisfy what they both need.
The Doctor shivers as if from trepidation; a counterpoint to obvious signs of what she assumes is eagerness. She spares a moment to look him in the eyes and seek out a tiny nod of reassurance before she reaches for the next candle.
He grits his teeth and holds himself still with apparent effort as Rose manoeuvres her wrist around, painstakingly creating swirling letters. Once she's done and has flicked the hardened bits of wax away with the sharp tips of her fingernails, drawing a further series of flinches from the Doctor, the new reddened brand that's left behind is finally legible as her name.
"Property of Rose Tyler, is that it?" the Doctor asks as he looks down the length of his chest. "I suppose you think that means you can do whatever you like with me."
Straddling his thighs, Rose teases, "I certainly hope so."
She rakes her fingers down his chest, directly over the burns, and the Doctor arching his hips impatiently up against her is her only answer.
She reaches for the bedhead where his hands are cuffed and entwines their fingers momentarily, smiling at him, then releases her hold to grab onto the wood instead. Bracing herself, she sinks down slowly on him, and that expression of pleasure-pain that's gradually becoming familiar to her washes over the Doctor's face once more.
She learns how he likes it quickly, and actually, it's not so very different than before. He certainly remembers her tastes well enough to make up for any variance. His groans sound different – less bass, more drawn out – but they're no less heartfelt than they've ever been. Eventually Rose finds herself looking past his face, under the surface, and then it's just him and her together as they've always been since that first time she shoved him up against the TARDIS console and told him to stop pretending he didn't want it to be like this.
Much like that first time – when the Doctor had pressed his face to her neck and murmured that he loved her – when he speaks those words now and thereby assures her that it's still true for him no matter what the regeneration's changed, it taxes her control too badly for her to continue hanging on.
She slumps heavily against him numerous heartbeats later, their sweat intermingling against his burns and making him hiss, though not in protest. When she finally reaches up and fumbles the handcuffs unlocked, his hands clasp her more tightly against him, and she feels properly safe and certain for the first time since he sent her away alone from the Game Station.
By time she wakes up in the morning, the angry redness has faded slightly from his skin, but not nearly enough to erase the claim underlying it.
That's when she finally admits the truth of it to herself. She's been wanting to believe it since the moment he started hopping in place just after he regenerated – for who else could be mad enough to think that could really be the best way to prove his identity – but now she has tangible proof that it's still him in the ways that truly matter.
He's not just still the Doctor. He's also still the man she fell in love with.
And he's still hers.
~FIN~