I Do Not Own Doctor Who.

Rated M for a reason: Non-con.

Dark.

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The Doctor (The ninth to be correct) kept his eyes locked on Rose, watching her every twitch and shudder. Every movement was noted and examined. If Rose had been awake she probably would have been uncomfortable with the keen gaze locked on her, the Doctor showing no emotion on his face. But she lay asleep in a chair in the TARDIS, exhausted after another narrow escape from trouble, unaware of everything around her.

She gave a soft moan, most likely of discomfort from sleeping in a chair, and shifted in her sleep. The Doctor gave the slightest shudder at the noise and wanted to pull it out of her again. He wanted to hear her moan and scream, pant and gasp. He wanted her withering under him, crying out his name.

He could see it all in his mind, how it would play out. She'd do something, something teasing that she always did, and one day he just wouldn't be able to resist anymore. He'd grab her by one of her delicate lily white wrists; mould his fingers around the fragile bone and flesh. She'd be startled by the action, more used to his hand slipping in hers and look up at him. He wouldn't even allow a question to flash through her eyes. When she had faced him enough he would lean over and kiss her. His lips would press against her, rough and demanding, heated from so much waiting.

In one little fantasy of his, she'd respond readily, pressing against him, breathless with the excitement she faced every battle with.

But in the most likely one, she'd try to pull back, confused. He supposed if he gave her a moment she would probably respond hesitantly, but it would only be the beginning of a long drawn out relationship, and by this time his patience would be all but gone. So he wouldn't let her pull back, he'd press forwards even quicker, holding her in place. He wasn't as strong as some of the aliens they had faced, but he was stronger then an average human male, and the average human male was stronger then the average human female. So it would be the easiest thing in the world to keep a tight grip on her wrist as he kissed her.

She'd probably struggle; lift her second hand to hit him. He could catch that easily, grip both in tight fists until she gave a slight cry of pain alerting him to the fact that they were at the point they would bruise the next day. He'd squeeze just a bit harder to show that her cry wouldn't affect him. She'd probably give this desperate little whimper against his lips that would taste delicious as he plunged his tongue into her mouth.

By this time she'd be trying to lean back, wiggling to escape, perhaps kick him. He'd pull back, biting her lips hard on the way. She'd gaze at him with fear in her eyes. Probably start babbling about how he didn't want to do this, maybe even suggest he was being controlled by some other alien. (Please, this isn't you!) He would smile at her, lick his lips of her saliva and whisper to her that mind control didn't work all that well on him. He would drag her towards his room, toss her in and watch her hit the ground with a cry of pain, hair fanning everywhere as he kicked the door shut behind him and commanded the TARDIS to lock it behind him.

She'd be dazed a moment, groan in pain as she lifted herself up. He'd step forwards and she'd suddenly realize it was a bad idea to be on the ground and scramble to her feet, a desperate expression overtaking her face. Her eyes would dart about looking for a way out, a weapon. His room was quite bare though, just a bed, a desk, a heavy chair, and a nightstand; nothing easily lifted. She'd back away as he walked forwards still smiling. She'd probably duck around him, go for the door in a burst of speed that had saved her life a few times in their adventures.

She'd give a cry of frustration as she found it locked and spin to face him, pressed against it. He would lean over her, place an arm on either side of her head and smile. (Take my jacket off for me.) (Doctor, please.) She'd beg, her tone trembling. (Take it off.) He'd say/demand. She'd shake her head trying to lean further away from him as he brought his face closer. (I could ask to take my pants off with your teeth instead.) He'd whisper, tone soft but gleeful.

She'd raise trembling fingers and slide his old weathered leather jacket off his shoulders, tugging it to let it drop from his arms to the floor. He'd smile, that grin she always saw when they were about to get into trouble or start an adventure. She might even relax a bit at the familiar expression, thinking perhaps it was a joke, a trick, that he was teasing her. (My shirt.) He'd whisper with a wide friendly smile. And she'd tense again, lower lip wobbling. (Please.) She'd whisper, eyes getting wet as she tried to blink back the tears. (Don't make me repeat myself.) He'd whisper, tone dangerous behind the smile.

She'd raise trembling hands again and tug his jumper over his head and arms. She might even take this moment of vulnerability to try and attack him again. But as said he was stronger then her. Her hands wouldn't be able to push him back and he'd drop the jumper to the ground and grab her wrists again, squeezing until the bones creaked and she went weak in the knees with a cry of pain and fright. He'd turn back to the bed, half dragging her as she stumbled from the grip he held. It would be an easy move to toss her onto the covered mattress, it would probably even draw forth another of those delicious little cries she saved for when she was truly frightened.

In all their adventures she'd rarely cried or screamed when frightened, just silent tears and sad faces. Because she had always had this small hope, knowing he'd be on his way to rescue her, try his hardest to save her. She'd known there was a chance, that he and the TARDIS would be on their way. But now, now it was him doing this, he was the enemy breaking her. She couldn't hold out hope for the man who always saved her because that man was the danger now. He would be able to draw all these wonderful sounds from her.

She'd roll over on the bed ready to scoot off but he would already be there pinning her down by her wrists, trapping her legs between his. He'd kiss her again, more languidly but just as passionate. She'd make these small noises of protest, try to struggle away. She'd twist her head to the side and he'd kiss down her neck, nipping at the soft tender flesh till she cried out. Her shirt would be easy to pull off, despite her struggling. He'd sit up a bit more to tug her pants off as she scooted further away from him, unwittingly helping the endeavour. She'd probably try to cover herself a bit more but wouldn't fully be able to leaving her sitting in her underwear, hair mussed from the struggling and panting from fear, whole body trembling.

She'd make an absolutely delicious sight.

(Beautiful.) He would whisper. (Absolutely stunning.) She would give a soft whimper as he advanced, reaching out the tug gently on a lock of blonde hair. He'd kick his pants off, but before discarding them, he'd pull out the rope, or the ties, or the similar item that he usually had handy, then he'd lean over her half sitting form, hands moving to her sides. She'd suddenly realize what was happening again and lash out. He'd dodge instead of trapping her this time and laugh perhaps. She'd try to kick him off the bed but he would be an unmovable rock. Then he'd grab her arm before she could hit him and wrench it, making her release a noise of pain and make her other hand dart to his, trying to get him to release her arm.

A quick, simply movement and the restraining device would be around the arm he was holding. Another practiced move and the tying device would be through the headboard and around her other wrist. A tug and the rope would snap her hands together up to the headboard, trapping them. (Oh god, please Doctor. Please don't do this!) In his fantasy he hoped she'd start crying now, silent crystal tears down her pale cheeks. He'd lean up and lick them away, the salt tasting wonderful on his tongue.

His hands would slide across her warm skin, the outlines of ribs and bone beneath them. She was lithe and toned, and he would feel it under his fingertips as they danced to her back. Her bra would be a simple thing to remove, he'd unsnap it one snap at a time until it was loose, then he'd undo the shoulder straps before sliding a finger under the top and tugging it away, tossing it over his shoulder with a lazy flick. Her breasts, he already knew, weren't large but they weren't small either and he'd probably take a moment to just look at what she had kept so hidden beneath her clothes, teasing him with glimpse of cleavage. (You're brilliant.) (Please, please, please!) He'd lean over and kiss them, hands cupping them gently despite her twisting beneath him.

Each little twist and jerk would send tingles up his body, getting him even more aroused at her visible struggling. She'd struggle more when she realized that, unable to help herself. He'd laugh and rub against her, hands slipping from her breasts to her back and down lower, to grab her pert little ass. She'd try to escape the hold by arching up away from his hands only to press against his erection. He'd rub against her enjoying how undone she could come from that move, as if it was finally, truly kicking in what was happening.

His fingers would slip under her pretty little lace panties and he'd tug them down quickly, like a band aide. She'd clench her legs, but he would've already slipped between , making them clamp to his legs. She'd still be begging him, pleading with him. (Please!)(You sound so eager! Pleading and begging, while you lay here, open and ready for me. Almost as if you want it) (No! Stop, Doctor, please stop!)(No need to protest I know you don't want this like this, and that makes it all the sweeter.)

She'd make this wounded little noise in her throat and tilt her head back, eyes clenching as if she was trying to pretend she wasn't there. His boxers would only be a hindrance at this point and he'd kick them aside. His fingers would slide across her skin, finding her opening. (The only thing more I could ask for, would be for you to be a virgin, but you've had to many boy toys for that. Lucky they were clean, I'd hate to get an Ape disease from such a fun time).

He wouldn't be able to hold back, and truly he didn't care if it hurt her because that was what he wanted. It would be one quick thrust to bury himself deep inside of her. The babbling pleads spilling from her lips would be cut off by a sharp, pained scream, tears gathering at the corner of her eyes. He'd be merciful, give her one moment to adjust as he leaned up and drank in her scream through a kiss. She'd arch against him, pressing those beautiful breasts into his chest, arms tugging at the ropes holding her tied. He'd reach up and undo the knots with a simple tug. (Only needed you tied down while my hands were busy, but you'll be to …occupied to try and attack me again. Your hands are useless anyway.) He'd gasp, moaning softly at the pleasure thrumming through him.

He would pull back and snap forwards again, unable to wait for her to adjust any long. Each thrust would draw forth another noise from her, moans, pants, screams, cries. It would be music to his ears. Her hands would look for a purchase and find it either on his arms or his back, pretty sharp nails digging into his skin. He'd continue on at a dizzying pace, fuelled by her noises and the soft flesh beneath him. At some point the screams would stop to be come a soft sobbing as she frantically tried to hold on, unable to do anything else.

He would come with a cry, no name on lips and slump over her pretty little body. For a few moments he would pant, trembling from the pleasure, the glee, the adrenaline in his veins. Then he'd roll off her and pull one of the sheets over him, leaning happily into his pillow. Her soft cries would die down to whimpers that would sound like soft background music. He'd face her after a while and run his hands up her idly, the tinges of arousal rising again.

He'd probably spend all night taking her again, and again, and again, until even the whimpers had stopped and she just lay limp beside him, blood coloring the sheets around her. She'd probably look at him, hair tangled, skin bruising, and lips swollen. He imagined she'd look at him, still and silent, broken, defeated. She gaze at him with her pretty eyes, but unlike all the other times it wouldn't be with a smile and a question, or happiness, or excitement, or disapproval, or sorrow. She'd gaze at him with pretty eyes filled with tears and fear, too broken to even ask why.

He'd probably keep her around for a while after that, still pulling her around on adventures, practically flaunting her in front of the other aliens. Showing off his cute little pet that none of them had ever broken, even with threats of pain and death, but that he had broken with touches and kisses. It would show them all that he was so much better then they could ever be, a way of showing off.

Maybe, if he was lucky, she'd temporarily fix herself enough to confront him (Why?). Maybe she'd bandage herself up until she was more then just an empty shell, to a ghost of her former self. Maybe she'd become at least part of the strong, teasing, beautiful, woman that was always just a bit better then the other selfish, arrogant, stupid apes calling themselves humans. Maybe she'd look at him with eyes that were sparking, trying to start her fire again.

He'd grab her as soon as she had fixed herself up as much as she could, and do it all again, ravage her like he would have been doing every night, but with more words and more gentleness. He'd smile and whisper to her about how brainless humans were, but how she had been different, just a little bit better. It would have proved nothing if he had broken another human, but she was just a bit better then them and it proved more when he broke her. (Of all the toys I've picked up, you were the most brilliant. Stronger, more beautiful, better. I have dreamed of breaking you since I found you.)

It would be just as delicious as the first time, to see her second, self built fire go out, to break her again just as she's fixed herself up. After that he'd probably drag her back home, introduce her to the mindless ape called her mother again. He'd take her back to her home, broken. Her mother would scream at him, tell him he told her he would protect her daughter, never let anyone harm her. And he would smile and give his cheerful 'yup'. Because he hadn't lied. He hadn't let anyone else destroy her, kill her. He'd been the one to do that, not them.

Her boy toy would probably try to attack him and if he was lucky he might even be able to kill the stupid little ape. And it'd be quite easy. He wasn't as half as good as Rose and the Doctor had broken her, so the ape would be like an ant underfoot.

He'd probably keep her after that too. Maybe even leave her be for a while, which would be hard considering how tempting she was. See if she could rebuild herself again. When she did he'd break her, destroy her again. And again, and again, and again. Until she died she would be his, his beautiful, broken, toy. (The broken ones are always the most beautiful.)

The Doctor stood from his seat, breaking the fantasy. He gazed at Rose, sleeping in the chair, unbroken and whole. Stepping closer to her sleeping, unaware form, he leaned over, resting his hands on the arm rests and leaning in close enough to feel her breath against his lips. The Fantasy had made him eager, made him want to do it right now. She stirred, perhaps instinctively knowing there was danger. He leaned back slightly as her eyes fluttered open and looked at him. She smiled softly, pretty eyes filled with warmth. He thought they would look even prettier filled with hollow pain.

"We at another place?" She asked softly, voice willed with anticipation and excitement.

"Yup." He answered cheerfully pulling back even farther and standing straighter.

She stood and stretched, beaming at him. When she turned to go for the door he licked his lips subconsciously and raked his eyes down her figure.

"You coming?" She asked as she opened the door, peering over her shoudler at him.

He held himself back from grabbing her and taking her then and there. He would have plenty of time to do that later. He wanted to hold off a bit longer. The longer he let her ripen, let her grow to trust him, like him, the more delicious it would be when he took her, broke her, destroyed her.

And he would, break and destroy her that was. He'd do it with a smile on his face. But he was patient.

"Let me get my coat." He grinned, fingers grabbing the old weather leather and he imagined her trembling hands on his shoulders tugging it off for him.

He ignored the ghosts of his fantasy and headed out after her, taking her hand and grinning at the smile she gave for the action, eyes filled with a soft shy trust. He would be patient, wait for his web to tighten about her. He was lucky she could not read what was in his grins or she would long have since run. But he had been alive nine hundred years and he knew how to draw sweet little flies into his web. And he was not letting this one escape him.

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END

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