Ten/Rose, Rated M, Spoilers: TCI
Title: 69 Ways Regeneration Can Go Wrong
Author: christn7
Rating: PG-13? M?
Characters/Pairing: Ten/Rose, Jackie, Mickey
Author's notes: I might have missed the boat on this one, as there's now 71 of you watching, but since the number of people watching this comm hit 69, I thought I'd do something to celebrate. (It's a magic number, don't you know? *g*)
The prompt for this, thanks to Des, was:
I would suggest a story where the Doctor is so uh... steamed up, that he begins to see the number 69 everywhere...even in the most unfortunate or uncomforatble of times. Make it pure crack!, please? :-)
It also rather covers debs7's suggestion, so she can consider this hers as well. ;)
Many thanks to wendymr for BRing. This won't be cross-posted anywhere else. :)
--
69 Ways Regeneration Can Go Wrong
--
It’s always that little bit different, regeneration. He’s always that little bit different, and that’s understandable, when you stop to consider it; all those neurons, new and uncertain, firing in strange patterns, sparking thoughts and creating desires that he hadn’t had before. His new hands long to do new things, new lips wait to speak new words, a new tongue waiting to taste and devour. (And yes, he concedes, he probably has a bit of an oral fixation this time around.)
Often, it’s not that big of a change; he gets a new nose, a fondness for fur or a craving for celery and it’s not so bad. He dies and wakes but at least he’s living in the same world. Sometimes, though, it’s like he’s only just born and that’s when he can’t stop moving, everything and anything, all of it, a new experience yet to be had. Occasionally, he’ll get a heightened sense (like now, when the texture of flavour echoes in his mouth) and that’s usually pretty fun, though, he must admit, those regenerations tend to end up with the more quirky in the list of possible quirks.
Practice doesn’t make perfect, it seems, and he might be getting a little worse with age, but generally speaking, this whole act of getting new skin with a new burst of life and all those new neurons to train, it’s not too bad.
Rarely - very rarely - very, incredibly just-this-once-kind-of-rarely, something goes a bit wrong. Well, more than a bit, depending on your definition of the term. (And this, he’s already decided, is more than a bit.) He’s yet to turn into a woman, which would be pretty high on the scale of wrong, but he feels like he’s just discovered them, and that’s pretty bad, really, when you consider the fact that he’s sired children. It’s not like he hasn’t had more than his fair share of fun times with the fairer gender, either. (And the not-so-fairer gender. And the occasional entity, which is neither and both part of the aforementioned fairer gender, all at the same time. ) But this regeneration, skinny little thing that he is, with his hair and his teeth and that brand new mole, he feels almost like he’s going through puberty. He’s not, of course. Putting aside all the aforementioned fun times with the aforementioned fairer gender and all those children (child, one was more than enough), he’s pretty sure it’s not possible for one to go through puberty at the age of nine hundred and three.
And, more than that, it doesn’t seem to be women so much as a woman. (The one sitting just to his left, if he’s getting into specifics.)
“S’Gorgeous,” Rose says. (Yes, that’s the one.) Her voice is low and throaty and it makes his cock twitch beneath the fabric of his new trousers.
She’s probably talking about the Christmas cake, not paying him any attention at all, and it’s wrong (wrong, wrong, wrong), even he knows that, to be sitting at her mother’s table and thinking about kneeling between her legs.
He almost has control of himself (by thinking about Jackie’s roast potatoes, no less) but then Rose licks her lips and his gaze is trapped by the flick of her tongue. He feels a bit like a dirty old man, despite his shiny new face, as he imagines how her lips would feel, moist as they are, wrapped around his length, and it’s not right, he thinks, this silly little phase his body is going through.
He can’t seem to help it, though, this fascination he has with how she might taste; the question of whether she’d let him run his tongue up along the length of her thigh, until he reaches her, right there... He can’t help but think that she’d have let him before. (She’d definitely have let him before and now, well, he’s the same bloke in the end. Plus, she’d at least have something to fist her hands in with this body.)
He can smell her from where he’s sitting, perfume and soap and human sweat, (and that’s really inconsiderate of her) and before he’s realised exactly what it is he’s doing, he’s halfway across the table, face buried in the crook of her neck. He brushes his nose along her skin, inhaling hormones and pheromones and, heaven help him, his mouth waters with the almost-taste of her.
She’d be delicious, he decides, with her hips thrusting against his mouth.
“What the hell is he doing?”
Oh, right. (Oh, shit.) Her mother and her almost-ex-but-only-sometimes-boyfriend.
“I think he’s still a bit sick,” Rose says, and the cords in her neck tense against his cheek.
He’s decided that he’s insane, this turn around (and, more than that, he really should move), all before her hand has time to find his shoulder. He doesn’t, though, and she doesn’t push him away - it’s Mickey, her almost-ex-but-only-sometimes, who eventually pulls him off.
“Sorry,” he says, staring into the young man’s angry face. “New nose, you know how it goes.” (Brings out the poet in him, she does.)
That doesn’t seem to calm Mickey down (he can’t imagine why) and Jackie shoots daggers at him from across the table. He can’t help himself, though, driven to distraction as he is by the very thought of her. (And her tongue. And her taste, hot against his lips.)
Rose is watching him, and he’s hesitant as he meets her gaze. (Maybe she won’t let him. Humans and their silly, crazy little notions about loyalty.)
“New teeth,” he adds and she relaxes enough to grin. (Then again, maybe she will.) “New tongue,” he says, and her grin turns into a smirk. (And oh, she definitely will.)
It may be wrong, colossally so, but he doesn’t think they’ll be staying for dessert.
Author: christn7
Rating: PG-13? M?
Characters/Pairing: Ten/Rose, Jackie, Mickey
Author's notes: I might have missed the boat on this one, as there's now 71 of you watching, but since the number of people watching this comm hit 69, I thought I'd do something to celebrate. (It's a magic number, don't you know? *g*)
The prompt for this, thanks to Des, was:
I would suggest a story where the Doctor is so uh... steamed up, that he begins to see the number 69 everywhere...even in the most unfortunate or uncomforatble of times. Make it pure crack!, please? :-)
It also rather covers debs7's suggestion, so she can consider this hers as well. ;)
Many thanks to wendymr for BRing. This won't be cross-posted anywhere else. :)
--
69 Ways Regeneration Can Go Wrong
--
It’s always that little bit different, regeneration. He’s always that little bit different, and that’s understandable, when you stop to consider it; all those neurons, new and uncertain, firing in strange patterns, sparking thoughts and creating desires that he hadn’t had before. His new hands long to do new things, new lips wait to speak new words, a new tongue waiting to taste and devour. (And yes, he concedes, he probably has a bit of an oral fixation this time around.)
Often, it’s not that big of a change; he gets a new nose, a fondness for fur or a craving for celery and it’s not so bad. He dies and wakes but at least he’s living in the same world. Sometimes, though, it’s like he’s only just born and that’s when he can’t stop moving, everything and anything, all of it, a new experience yet to be had. Occasionally, he’ll get a heightened sense (like now, when the texture of flavour echoes in his mouth) and that’s usually pretty fun, though, he must admit, those regenerations tend to end up with the more quirky in the list of possible quirks.
Practice doesn’t make perfect, it seems, and he might be getting a little worse with age, but generally speaking, this whole act of getting new skin with a new burst of life and all those new neurons to train, it’s not too bad.
Rarely - very rarely - very, incredibly just-this-once-kind-of-rarely, something goes a bit wrong. Well, more than a bit, depending on your definition of the term. (And this, he’s already decided, is more than a bit.) He’s yet to turn into a woman, which would be pretty high on the scale of wrong, but he feels like he’s just discovered them, and that’s pretty bad, really, when you consider the fact that he’s sired children. It’s not like he hasn’t had more than his fair share of fun times with the fairer gender, either. (And the not-so-fairer gender. And the occasional entity, which is neither and both part of the aforementioned fairer gender, all at the same time. ) But this regeneration, skinny little thing that he is, with his hair and his teeth and that brand new mole, he feels almost like he’s going through puberty. He’s not, of course. Putting aside all the aforementioned fun times with the aforementioned fairer gender and all those children (child, one was more than enough), he’s pretty sure it’s not possible for one to go through puberty at the age of nine hundred and three.
And, more than that, it doesn’t seem to be women so much as a woman. (The one sitting just to his left, if he’s getting into specifics.)
“S’Gorgeous,” Rose says. (Yes, that’s the one.) Her voice is low and throaty and it makes his cock twitch beneath the fabric of his new trousers.
She’s probably talking about the Christmas cake, not paying him any attention at all, and it’s wrong (wrong, wrong, wrong), even he knows that, to be sitting at her mother’s table and thinking about kneeling between her legs.
He almost has control of himself (by thinking about Jackie’s roast potatoes, no less) but then Rose licks her lips and his gaze is trapped by the flick of her tongue. He feels a bit like a dirty old man, despite his shiny new face, as he imagines how her lips would feel, moist as they are, wrapped around his length, and it’s not right, he thinks, this silly little phase his body is going through.
He can’t seem to help it, though, this fascination he has with how she might taste; the question of whether she’d let him run his tongue up along the length of her thigh, until he reaches her, right there... He can’t help but think that she’d have let him before. (She’d definitely have let him before and now, well, he’s the same bloke in the end. Plus, she’d at least have something to fist her hands in with this body.)
He can smell her from where he’s sitting, perfume and soap and human sweat, (and that’s really inconsiderate of her) and before he’s realised exactly what it is he’s doing, he’s halfway across the table, face buried in the crook of her neck. He brushes his nose along her skin, inhaling hormones and pheromones and, heaven help him, his mouth waters with the almost-taste of her.
She’d be delicious, he decides, with her hips thrusting against his mouth.
“What the hell is he doing?”
Oh, right. (Oh, shit.) Her mother and her almost-ex-but-only-sometimes-boyfriend.
“I think he’s still a bit sick,” Rose says, and the cords in her neck tense against his cheek.
He’s decided that he’s insane, this turn around (and, more than that, he really should move), all before her hand has time to find his shoulder. He doesn’t, though, and she doesn’t push him away - it’s Mickey, her almost-ex-but-only-sometimes, who eventually pulls him off.
“Sorry,” he says, staring into the young man’s angry face. “New nose, you know how it goes.” (Brings out the poet in him, she does.)
That doesn’t seem to calm Mickey down (he can’t imagine why) and Jackie shoots daggers at him from across the table. He can’t help himself, though, driven to distraction as he is by the very thought of her. (And her tongue. And her taste, hot against his lips.)
Rose is watching him, and he’s hesitant as he meets her gaze. (Maybe she won’t let him. Humans and their silly, crazy little notions about loyalty.)
“New teeth,” he adds and she relaxes enough to grin. (Then again, maybe she will.) “New tongue,” he says, and her grin turns into a smirk. (And oh, she definitely will.)
It may be wrong, colossally so, but he doesn’t think they’ll be staying for dessert.