Doctor Who Fic: The End
Title: The End
Author: Evilawyer
Summary: The moment has been prepared for.
Characters/Pairing: Ten/Eleven
Rating: NC-17 to be on the safe side
Time Frame: The end of The End of Time, Part II for Ten; sometime after the end of Series 6 for Eleven.
Disclaimer: The characters belong to the BBC.
Warnings - Includes nonconsensual sex (or rape, as it's also called) and BDSM (sans the B) in the sense of disempowerment and self-flagellating punishment rather than as titillatingly sexual. Although there are no doubt some people out there who may think of it the latter way regardless. Whatever. Not my place to judge.
He can do anything and he doesn't want to go, but what he wants doesn't matter this time. He feels the radiation destroying every cell in his body as he stands, silent and still. His naked arms wrap his naked body into a tight hug with one of the struts in the console room. "Poor TARDIS. She's seen so much," runs through his mind, but he's not the one thinking it. Now she has to see this.
Eyes. He feels eyes watching him. Their cold, ancient gaze burns swirling patterns into his back.
"I could break you in two, you know," a voice filled with dark, dangerous promise breathes in his ear as rough fabric scratches his back. "I should. You deserve it. We both know you do."
He shuts his eyes tight. "No," he whispers.
"You know what else I know?" Clothed hips grind against his buttocks; he feels the outline of a thick erection pressing into his flesh. "I know you'd love it."
His eyes snap open as he rallies up to a rage. "Leave me alone."
"Say that again," the voice demands. "I love it when you do that. Tall, dark hero, protecting his virtue." The voice spits the last word out with blistering scarcasm as the hips grind harder against him. "But I'll tell you one thing." The body behind him steps back. "You're one hero who's halo's more than a little tarnished. The thing about tarnished things is that, once they're tarnished, you can't get them to shine again. Not the way they used to."
"Go away," he says, but the rage has bled away.
The voice pays him no mind. "Did you really think you'd never have to face any of it? The things you've done? What you've become?
"I'm sorry," he blurts out as he's so often done in this lifetime. Blinding pain explodes in his body as a fist connects with his flank.
"You always say you're sorry. 'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry,'" the voice mimics before moving away. "It's all you ever say." There's a sound of pacing footsteps. "'Sorry' isn't something you say when you want to convince people you're sensitive and caring. 'Sorry' isn't a word you let fall out of your mouth when you don't have any idea how to help but can't pass up the chance to hear the sound of your own voice." The pacing stops; the voice moves closer, close enough to let clawing fingers dig into his sides. "You don't say 'sorry' when you've done something horrible, then merrily go on doing the same horrible thing you just apologized for." Sharp pain returns as punch, fast and hard, lands in the small of his back. "'Sorry' is what you say when you know you've done something wrong. When you know that you --- not circumstances, not coincidences, not events you assumed you could control but couldn't --- have hurt other people. 'Sorry' is supposed to mean something." Fingers roughly grab his hair and pull his head back. "'Sorry' out of your mouth?" The fingers release his hair with a shove as though they can't stand the filth they're touching. "It's just so much shit."
He's hurting and dazed and has no idea what to say to the madman behind him.
"Confusing, I know," the voice continues in the silence. "It's never occurred to you that saying 'sorry' might not work every time, has it? When you say 'I'm sorry', humans rush to forgive you so they can get on with pretending you never did anything wrong. Humans don't know the difference between forgiving and forgetting." He feels a growling breath at his ear. "I do." Hands glide down his sides and come to rest on his hips. The voice dips into a low caress. "Do you remember home? The twin suns shining on the silver leaves of the trees? The red grass waving on the lower slopes of Mount Perdition where you used to run? Always running, even then. Running from your monsters. Do you remember all the running?"
A tear slips down his face. "I remember."
"You're pretty when you cry," the voice muses interestedly before hardening to say, " but tears from you? The man who makes things better then runs away before the messy clean-up starts?" The body slips in closer to crush him against the strut. "You'll have to do better than tears if you want to convince me you remember anything."
"Please," he pleads, but he doesn't know what he's pleading for. "Please ..."
"'Please' what," the voice asks as hands roughly roam over his body before pulling his hips back from the strut and into position. "'Please don't'?" The voice's body backs away slightly. He feels hands fumbling with a button, a zip and elastic. "I wouldn't do this if I didn't have to. If there was any other way to make you see and to get you to remember, I'd do it. But insulting you from dreams or making you look inside a room filled with your fear isn't going to work with you. Not yet. This is the only thing that might."
Penetration follows. Hard, brutal penetration that he's not ready for and that abrades flesh. Penetration that neither claims nor owns him because it wants his degradation, not him. Thrusting is next. Thrusting that's just as hard, just as painful and that takes no more account of him than did the penetration. The voice behind him emits a pained grunt two times but is otherwise completely silent; the quality of the silence speaks of inattention and indifference, not focus and desire. He'd beg for mercy but he already knows he'd be ignored, that there is nothing he can say that would make him visible to his tormentor's eyes. There is nothing in any of this that is about him, and everything about it narrows down sharply and clearly to one inescapable, fixed fact: There are moments he creates, moments he controls, and moments in which he is master of all he can imagine, but there are also moments in which he doesn't matter. In those moments, life and death turn and spin in their eternal dance and together hold sway over all. In those moments, he is nothing and nothing is what he must be.
It goes on until it stops, the pain never lessening from start to finish. In the aftermath, he clings to the strut, shaken and shaking, until he feels soft lips ghost kisses between his shoulder blades as hands circle around his chest to hold him close. "It's all right," the voice says tenderly as a hot cheek presses against his sweaty back. "You're done. Time to move on.” A kiss to his left shoulder, then the hands leave his chest to take his own hands to break their death grip on the strut. The hands turn him around. “Grieve and mourn and never forget, but move on,” the young-old face he's looking at --- his next face --- tells him.
He leans limply against the strut at his back while his future self steps away to fetch his clothes from where they are strewn across the console room floor. His future self returns to his side and gently guides him to stand away from the strut so he can help him put his clothes back on. When he's dressed again, he hangs his head in defeat. “I don’t want to go,” he forces out through the pain in his throat and tears in his eyes.
“I know,” his next self tells him. “I know you don’t. But it’s the end.”
He sobs out a chuckle at the irony of his words from his past life as they worm their way from his mind to his lips. "Everything has it's time and everything dies?"
"Yes." Such a cruel word. Yes.
"Time can be rewritten." In his head, it's an angry protest, but it comes out sounding like a desperate plea.
"No." Uncompromising finality rings multiple syllables into the word. "Not this time. It's what has to be. You've become self-centered. You do whatever you want to do simply because you want to do it. You've forgotten you're a cog in the wheel, one small part of something bigger. That's wrong. You have to remember that's wrong."
"I'm dying," the Doctor responds with a cracking wobble in his voice that destroys his effort to sound strong and rational. He ignores the look of pity his self-pitying declaration brings to his successor's eyes. "I won't remember it. I won't be able to."
"No, you won't," the Doctor agrees. The Doctor puts his hands to either side of his former self's neck and pulls him closer to press their foreheads together. "But I will." He squeezes his eyes closed. "Time keeps showing me that I won't always act like I remember it, but I will."
"I'm still afraid." The admission quakes the air around them. It has never been like this. So much fear at the thought of no longer being. So much dread at the knowledge that life all around will go on even though he won't.
His future self pulls back and looks at him. "I know that, too." His eyes smile at his past self. They're ancient eyes, wise and filled with the kindness that comes from wisdom but not necessarily kind. They are eyes that have seen so much and watched even more. "So am I." He lays a kiss to his weeping past's forehead, bestowing a benediction that brings no balm to either of them. "But the moment has been prepared for. Trust me."
The watching is complete. All that remains is for the past to await the fire while the the future awaits its birth out of the ashes.
Author: Evilawyer
Summary: The moment has been prepared for.
Characters/Pairing: Ten/Eleven
Rating: NC-17 to be on the safe side
Time Frame: The end of The End of Time, Part II for Ten; sometime after the end of Series 6 for Eleven.
Disclaimer: The characters belong to the BBC.
Warnings - Includes nonconsensual sex (or rape, as it's also called) and BDSM (sans the B) in the sense of disempowerment and self-flagellating punishment rather than as titillatingly sexual. Although there are no doubt some people out there who may think of it the latter way regardless. Whatever. Not my place to judge.
He can do anything and he doesn't want to go, but what he wants doesn't matter this time. He feels the radiation destroying every cell in his body as he stands, silent and still. His naked arms wrap his naked body into a tight hug with one of the struts in the console room. "Poor TARDIS. She's seen so much," runs through his mind, but he's not the one thinking it. Now she has to see this.
Eyes. He feels eyes watching him. Their cold, ancient gaze burns swirling patterns into his back.
"I could break you in two, you know," a voice filled with dark, dangerous promise breathes in his ear as rough fabric scratches his back. "I should. You deserve it. We both know you do."
He shuts his eyes tight. "No," he whispers.
"You know what else I know?" Clothed hips grind against his buttocks; he feels the outline of a thick erection pressing into his flesh. "I know you'd love it."
His eyes snap open as he rallies up to a rage. "Leave me alone."
"Say that again," the voice demands. "I love it when you do that. Tall, dark hero, protecting his virtue." The voice spits the last word out with blistering scarcasm as the hips grind harder against him. "But I'll tell you one thing." The body behind him steps back. "You're one hero who's halo's more than a little tarnished. The thing about tarnished things is that, once they're tarnished, you can't get them to shine again. Not the way they used to."
"Go away," he says, but the rage has bled away.
The voice pays him no mind. "Did you really think you'd never have to face any of it? The things you've done? What you've become?
"I'm sorry," he blurts out as he's so often done in this lifetime. Blinding pain explodes in his body as a fist connects with his flank.
"You always say you're sorry. 'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry,'" the voice mimics before moving away. "It's all you ever say." There's a sound of pacing footsteps. "'Sorry' isn't something you say when you want to convince people you're sensitive and caring. 'Sorry' isn't a word you let fall out of your mouth when you don't have any idea how to help but can't pass up the chance to hear the sound of your own voice." The pacing stops; the voice moves closer, close enough to let clawing fingers dig into his sides. "You don't say 'sorry' when you've done something horrible, then merrily go on doing the same horrible thing you just apologized for." Sharp pain returns as punch, fast and hard, lands in the small of his back. "'Sorry' is what you say when you know you've done something wrong. When you know that you --- not circumstances, not coincidences, not events you assumed you could control but couldn't --- have hurt other people. 'Sorry' is supposed to mean something." Fingers roughly grab his hair and pull his head back. "'Sorry' out of your mouth?" The fingers release his hair with a shove as though they can't stand the filth they're touching. "It's just so much shit."
He's hurting and dazed and has no idea what to say to the madman behind him.
"Confusing, I know," the voice continues in the silence. "It's never occurred to you that saying 'sorry' might not work every time, has it? When you say 'I'm sorry', humans rush to forgive you so they can get on with pretending you never did anything wrong. Humans don't know the difference between forgiving and forgetting." He feels a growling breath at his ear. "I do." Hands glide down his sides and come to rest on his hips. The voice dips into a low caress. "Do you remember home? The twin suns shining on the silver leaves of the trees? The red grass waving on the lower slopes of Mount Perdition where you used to run? Always running, even then. Running from your monsters. Do you remember all the running?"
A tear slips down his face. "I remember."
"You're pretty when you cry," the voice muses interestedly before hardening to say, " but tears from you? The man who makes things better then runs away before the messy clean-up starts?" The body slips in closer to crush him against the strut. "You'll have to do better than tears if you want to convince me you remember anything."
"Please," he pleads, but he doesn't know what he's pleading for. "Please ..."
"'Please' what," the voice asks as hands roughly roam over his body before pulling his hips back from the strut and into position. "'Please don't'?" The voice's body backs away slightly. He feels hands fumbling with a button, a zip and elastic. "I wouldn't do this if I didn't have to. If there was any other way to make you see and to get you to remember, I'd do it. But insulting you from dreams or making you look inside a room filled with your fear isn't going to work with you. Not yet. This is the only thing that might."
Penetration follows. Hard, brutal penetration that he's not ready for and that abrades flesh. Penetration that neither claims nor owns him because it wants his degradation, not him. Thrusting is next. Thrusting that's just as hard, just as painful and that takes no more account of him than did the penetration. The voice behind him emits a pained grunt two times but is otherwise completely silent; the quality of the silence speaks of inattention and indifference, not focus and desire. He'd beg for mercy but he already knows he'd be ignored, that there is nothing he can say that would make him visible to his tormentor's eyes. There is nothing in any of this that is about him, and everything about it narrows down sharply and clearly to one inescapable, fixed fact: There are moments he creates, moments he controls, and moments in which he is master of all he can imagine, but there are also moments in which he doesn't matter. In those moments, life and death turn and spin in their eternal dance and together hold sway over all. In those moments, he is nothing and nothing is what he must be.
It goes on until it stops, the pain never lessening from start to finish. In the aftermath, he clings to the strut, shaken and shaking, until he feels soft lips ghost kisses between his shoulder blades as hands circle around his chest to hold him close. "It's all right," the voice says tenderly as a hot cheek presses against his sweaty back. "You're done. Time to move on.” A kiss to his left shoulder, then the hands leave his chest to take his own hands to break their death grip on the strut. The hands turn him around. “Grieve and mourn and never forget, but move on,” the young-old face he's looking at --- his next face --- tells him.
He leans limply against the strut at his back while his future self steps away to fetch his clothes from where they are strewn across the console room floor. His future self returns to his side and gently guides him to stand away from the strut so he can help him put his clothes back on. When he's dressed again, he hangs his head in defeat. “I don’t want to go,” he forces out through the pain in his throat and tears in his eyes.
“I know,” his next self tells him. “I know you don’t. But it’s the end.”
He sobs out a chuckle at the irony of his words from his past life as they worm their way from his mind to his lips. "Everything has it's time and everything dies?"
"Yes." Such a cruel word. Yes.
"Time can be rewritten." In his head, it's an angry protest, but it comes out sounding like a desperate plea.
"No." Uncompromising finality rings multiple syllables into the word. "Not this time. It's what has to be. You've become self-centered. You do whatever you want to do simply because you want to do it. You've forgotten you're a cog in the wheel, one small part of something bigger. That's wrong. You have to remember that's wrong."
"I'm dying," the Doctor responds with a cracking wobble in his voice that destroys his effort to sound strong and rational. He ignores the look of pity his self-pitying declaration brings to his successor's eyes. "I won't remember it. I won't be able to."
"No, you won't," the Doctor agrees. The Doctor puts his hands to either side of his former self's neck and pulls him closer to press their foreheads together. "But I will." He squeezes his eyes closed. "Time keeps showing me that I won't always act like I remember it, but I will."
"I'm still afraid." The admission quakes the air around them. It has never been like this. So much fear at the thought of no longer being. So much dread at the knowledge that life all around will go on even though he won't.
His future self pulls back and looks at him. "I know that, too." His eyes smile at his past self. They're ancient eyes, wise and filled with the kindness that comes from wisdom but not necessarily kind. They are eyes that have seen so much and watched even more. "So am I." He lays a kiss to his weeping past's forehead, bestowing a benediction that brings no balm to either of them. "But the moment has been prepared for. Trust me."
The watching is complete. All that remains is for the past to await the fire while the the future awaits its birth out of the ashes.