Warnings: Sex, bloodplay, kind of borderline darkness

Timeline: Set not long after 'Girl in the Fireplace'.

Author's Notes: I wrote this sometime last year and didn't initially post it here because it contains relatively explicit sexual content. However, having just reread it, I think it actually just scrapes in under the rating threshold for this site, so here it is.

Staring up at the canopy above me instead of at the way her face is contorted in pleasure is the only way I can temporarily stop myself from coming.

Her fingernails dig in as she undulates above me, intensifying the sting of an already open gash. At this moment my blood seems to run just as hot and red as any human's (which must partly explain how she's so easily reduced me to this). That blood now slides freely down the curve of my shoulder to stain the bed sheets, adding to the intricate designs of the fabric even as it ruins them. In a few hundred years, these could have been priceless antiques on display in a museum. Now they'll have to be burned, for I dare not leave any trace of a Time Lord's genetic material in human hands.

Except hers. Her hands are welcome to every (until now) unchartered inch of this body.

She takes advantage of that unspoken permission, tracing her fingers exploratively down to my chest until her palm settles on a slightly less slick patch of skin, gaining extra purchase so that she might more forcefully ride me. A trail of blood, a singing redness glistening even in the low candle light, marks the path her fingers have travelled. I finally meet her eyes and find that same captivating glitter in them, like the hard edge of a diamond softened by the fact that she's Rose and she's doing this almost as much for me as for herself.

She's seen through me and my claims of 'all right' and has decided to make me admit, at least to myself, that it's a lie. I certainly can't deny that what I'm feeling now, in this moment, is a very long way from being merely 'all right', though it's also very different from the isolation and sadness about which I'd originally tried to deceive her. She's stripped all that away, her gaze and touch cleansing fires burning the desolation from my flesh. It's a thousand times more intense than if the flames of all the candles in the room were brushing over me, and I gasp, but don't protest. I want it, painful or not. At this point, I want whatever she wishes to bestow on me. I want more than she ever can give me, and we both know it now. I've finally made it clear.

But right here, in this room, feeling my blood rush and finally knowing I can act on it the way I've wanted to for so long, I can pretend it's enough after all.

The candlelight catches her face just so, and the sudden clarity of the pleasure she's feeling and the way she's clearly watching mine in turn nearly topples me over the edge. I hang onto myself by grabbing onto her, flipping her onto her back. The bed is tiny by the standards of her time, and we separate for a long moment while I reposition us. My knees find a grip on the mattress even though my feet hang clear over the bottom edge.

She grins up at me, baring those teeth that have left their uneven traces all over my skin. I lean down for a quick kiss and then exhale sharply into her mouth as I thrust back inside her. We share a mutual groan loud enough to wake the household if it wasn't so expansive and ultimately empty. In an attempt to quiet myself, I bring my mouth down to her neck and lightly suck at her soft skin, not quite willing to mark her with the bruised outlines of my teeth the way she's done to me. I don't need to. She's shown me well enough how thoroughly she belongs to me. It's only her who insists on such demonstrative physical reassurances.

It's only her who insists on having it put into words, as well. I wish she wouldn't. The claiming marks are one thing, but there are some things I just can't give her.

"Please," she prevails, when I can tell that what she really wants to do is demand. "Say it." She knows I'm at the limits of my control by now, and obviously hopes that means I'll slip and tell her what she so badly wants confirmed.

I don't.

I remain wordless, if nowhere near silent, as I crest.

The strength bleeds out of my muscles and I find that her breasts are comfortable under me. I feel wild as I shudder in her arms. I still have enough of my extensive faculties even in that moment of weakness to realise that I'm actually leashed, though, and I'm well aware who holds the other end of that tie.

That's precisely why I can't tell her what she wants to hear. She's broken through my facade of restraint well enough for one night – or even one lifetime – without me admitting how I love her as well. That, as with all knowledge, is power. I can't surrender it to her just yet. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to.

I know where this is ultimately headed, and I must keep as much of myself as I can if I hope to live through it.

Though Rassilon only knows why I'd want to stick around once she's gone.

She whimpers, bringing my attention firmly back to her state of need. I remember that while I can't give her the words, there are certainly a few things that I can do to compensate, showing her at least some of how I feel.

I love the taste of myself mingled with her. She praises my tongue, obviously forgetting the many times she's voiced consternation over my new tendency to lick things.

My breath catches afterwards when I spy blood marking her thighs, but I breathe freely again when I realise it's only mine, dripped from my scratches and smeared as I took care of her. Satisfied that she's more than fine, I pull myself up the bed. The sight of the 18th century covers once again reminds me that we shouldn't be here, though I suppose that sense of the forbidden has hardly stopped us from doing anything before.

As her head finds a pillow on my chest and the traces of blood that are still wet stain her blonde hair, I feel regret. Not that I've finally allowed myself this – allowed myself her – or even that it happened quite this way, when I try so hard to always keep myself in check around her. Not that. But at least part of me wishes I hadn't let her talk me into doing this here.

What had once been Jeanne Antoinette Poisson's bed is stained with sweat and blood and semen and who knows what else, just the way Rose had clearly intended. We've left our mark here just as clearly as Rose has displayed the evidence of her possession all over me. I can't help but think I've dishonoured not only Reinette's memory but Rose as well. I should not have let her make this moment between us about jealousy, or about claiming me back from a ghost who never really owned me in the first place. It should have been flower petals and silk sheets and touches that don't hurt almost as much as they please.

"Dunno how we're gonna explain this stopover to Mickey," Rose murmurs sleepily.

I think of her doing this same sort of thing with him in years past and suddenly do more than distantly understand her jealousy; I share it.

It may not show in a relatively lasting pattern on her skin as on mine, but I believe that there's still something new and visible that halos around her, marking this time together. I doubt Mickey will need this lost time explained at all once he catches sight of her. If I wasn't already practically liquefied from gratification, the thought that he'll be reminded how she's mine now would still be enough to satisfy me.

I can't deny, then, that there's a part of me after all that doesn't regret a thing. That part likes the fact that, just as much as she's brought me to this point, I've also driven her, and that the leash between us is a two-way hold. And that part is more than happy to lie back for now and revel in the feel of her lips forming a sated smile against my skin.

~FIN~