Fic: Time; past (8/9)
title: Time; past
author: mimarie
characters Rose Tyler/Jack Harkness, The Doctor (ninth)
rating: NC-17 - adult themes and language
spoilers/warnings: nothing past DW S1. This was once canon-compliant, but has become slightly AU since Torchwood S1.
word count: c.7,000 (/c. 38,000)
summary: He won’t remember talking to her, buying her a drink, laughing, dancing, flirting. He won’t remember anything he said...
notes: This follows on from Time; present (which needs to be read first, or this will make very little sense).
Claimed for the 100_situations challenge. Prompt 69 - Bitter
Huge thanks to my wonderful betas aeshna-uk and jwaneeta, and to laurab1 for the cover art :)
part one: Time; present
part two: Time; past (one) // (two) // (three) // (four) // (five) // (six) // (seven)
Time; past
(8/9)
It’s still raining, and she still hasn’t got an umbrella, but there’s an arm around her shoulders and Jack's talking as they walk, kaleidoscope ripples splashing and sparking on the sulphur-bright pavements. Talking and smiling and laughing, trying to make her laugh as a rapid blue flash streaks his gesturing hand green, the squawk of sirens making her jump as a second car flashes past, followed moments later by a paramedic. And she’d be laughing too - only she’s already dragged him into the nearest shop doorway, and he’s grinning and slicking the water off his face, urging her further in with a snigger and a breathy ‘does that mean we’re criminals, baby?’ before kissing her breathless against the rattling steel of the security shutters.
Squashed into a corner and fed sloppy mouthfuls of tongue, the smell of piss and cider rising off the wet concrete is overwhelming. She’d breathe through her mouth, but it’s kind of busy right now, and she can barely move without something wet and sticky sucking at her boots, or, for that matter, her face. He’s enjoying this far too much. And she’s trying, she really is, but there are drips running into her eyes and trickling over her scalp; too-strong hands finding skin under shredded nylon and making her moan. More tongue and the hands have brought fingers - he’s not serious. Is he? Not here... And then a damp snigger becomes a wet blouse as the rain hits full-face and they’re walking again. Walking back to this fabled hotel room together, getting soaked through and trying not to look like she’s been attacked by a horny Time Agent who’s determined to cut her in half with a slice of sodden cotton.
Two streetlights and a bus stop, once around the Klingons - are they still here? - and twice around the revolving door (yes, the glass is cold, and no, she does not want to see if she can leave a bum-print, thanks all the same. She is not a spoil sport. Is he determined to get them arrested? Do them up. Not everyone wants to see his arse), then they’re past the wide-eyed blonde in reception, the coffee and new carpet scent of the foyer left behind in a swish of lift-doors and the increasingly familiar sound of her own breath being dry-humped out of her. Just for variety, this time, against a full-length mirror.
‘Ground floor; doors closing.’
That’s it then. No way out now. Not unless she can will the text to arrive in the next... how far are they going? All the way? No - the lift, can’t he just...
Oh, right, the top floor. Great: as far from civilisation as it’s possible to get. But it’s all right; the man with the key-card and the Cheshire Cat grin says it is, so it must be.
And why wouldn’t it be? She’s willing and he’s eager - too bloody eager...
‘Three’
‘Four’
“Don’t. What if someone calls the lift?”
“They won’t. Come back here.”
What - volunteer herself back between a mirror and a hard... thing? Well, if he puts it like that, but - no, it’s cold. And yes, she’s sure he is strong enough to hold her up, but, look, he can’t -
“- they might.”
“No, they won’t.”
“Yeah, but no, really - just -”
‘Nine’
“- wait.”
“Don’t worry. It’s all ours. Secured private access; came with the room.”
“Oh. Oh -”
‘Twelve’
‘Fourteen’
‘Fifteen’
‘Sixteen’
“- makes you wonder what people do up here, doesn’t it, babe. All that security... But you’ll love the view.”
“What? Oh - right... yeah?”
“It’s almost as good as this. Although you could make it better...”
‘Twenty-one’
‘Twenty-two’
“- and then if you just -”
“No, hang on - look, we’re -”
‘Twenty-four; doors opening.’
“- here and... Oh. Wow. I mean, just...”
“So, you think this’ll do us for the night then, honey?”
It might. Just possibly. And no, really - she doesn’t need holding up. It’s just that she wasn’t expecting it to be so big...
It’s not that funny. She’s serious. It’s bigger than her mum’s entire flat, and that’s just the ... what’s she supposed to call it; the lounge? Windows on three sides, the lift and a collection of doors filling the North-west corner - there’s even a bit that looks like it’s been paved, way over between the two sets of French doors and the terrace with the hot-tub and the palm trees.
It’s hard to think of anything to say - which is, oddly enough, pretty much how she felt the last time he waved a leather-and-steel themed penthouse under her nose. And this one has significantly more furniture in it and a lot less bare flesh, but it looks so... Expectant is the only word that comes to mind. Lights dimmed to a warm gleam on soft hides and silvered spars, the scent of strawberries growing stronger the closer they get to the window until, rounding an embankment of sofa, their trajectory intercepts a subtle trail of bottle, glasses, and small bowls filled with out-of-season soft fruits that seems - maybe he’ll prove her wrong; she’s got time, she can wait - seems to be leading directly to that inconveniently oversized bed. And she’s really, really not thinking about his taste in porn - because where would she start? - but even Jack would have to admit his suite-with-a-view looks like it’s expecting to see its occupant and his guest of choice out of their clothes with as little delay as possible.
It’s hardly a surprise. If it wasn’t for the way wet denim insists on clinging to itself it’d be halfway there already. But then, there’s nothing like a bit of forward planning, is there. Because, unless his wrist-strap can change his clothes for him too, it’s pretty obvious that after two hours softening her up without benefit of shag he wasn’t intending to waste any more time setting a mood for her replacement.
He’s not wasting any now: jacket, bag and assorted footwear discarded en route, breath warm in her ear, hands resting on her stomach - and she’d bet what’s left of her tights that they’re not there for the view, but all the same...
“Wow.”
“Oh yeah.”
“No, I mean really - just... wow.”
She’s seen the end of the Earth, alien planets and solar systems that no one down there even knows exist, but it’s Saturday night - here and now - and the man and woman staring back at her are floating in a sea of light. Landing lights and tail lights, blinking red warnings and the sweep of helicopters, erratic car and static streetlights, traffic lights and neon; a whole city in illuminated motion blurred across at least an acre of wet window. All the way out - past Stamford Bridge and the flattened ‘T’ of the Exhibition Centre, past skeletal gasometers, silvered and gleaming upholstery reflecting across the tree-lined expanse of the cemetery and the river’s distant dark curves; tower blocks and offices, glass and brick and steel...
And somewhere down there are two little, green-lit blue boxes; one now and one then. One of her, two Doctors and two more Jacks to add to the one who’s smiling at their reflection as he peels the wet hair away from her throat, neon streaks outlining the hand curving slowly over her abdomen.
“You’re right, honey - that is a beautiful view...”
“I know. I mean, I live here, but... I’ve never seen it like this before.”
“No - you.”
The smile grows a slow shrug, carrying hands to stroke down over her hips while his shirt slides damply to the floor, a brief flurry of sky-blue and then bare arms wrap around her, slow hands smearing light over her stomach and down until the denim runs out and he’s left stroking nylon, a thin, dark sheen tattered into rungs to be climbed, finger over finger, his gently determined advance driving her nerves before it, over bare thighs and under damp elastic, knotting her stomach around a mass of sluggish chips and tea.
It’ll be all right. It’s Jack and they’re alone now. No audience and no more distractions. He’s got his mirror and she can see that the world’s still out there - and he was wrong if he thought she couldn’t do this. Just because they’re from different times, it doesn’t mean their ideas are so very far off.
But all the same, there’s no point pretending if she doesn’t have to.
“I need to tell you something.” Her reflection looks nervous - which seems only reasonable considering that his reflection is wrist-deep in her blouse and skirt - her mouth curving unsteadily as the interruption draws his face up out of her throat, and she surrenders herself to his gaze, a pale flicker of motion becoming her hand, reaching up to stroke through short, wet hair. “And I know I should’ve told you this earlier, but...”
“What’s the matter, honey?”
“I’ve never done this before.”
“Yeah, babe? I - you...” So that’s what he looks like surprised. And it loosens his grip, which is worth knowing, because something had to. “Yeah? You mean - honey, are you trying to tell me you’re -”
“No. Not like that. I’ve had boyfriends, but I’ve never... I mean, I only met you today, y’know? And I just thought... I thought I ought to say, because...”
“It’s okay.”
The mirror-man’s smiling. He’s got a lovely smile - she knows someone with a smile just like that. His ‘thank you,’ sounds good too, and the shine in his eyes is so very familiar...
It’ll be all right. He’s the same man who’ll catch her falling; the man who’ll save her life. It’ll be fun - right? And she can’t just lie back and think of England: not having a good time while Jack’s naked is probably some kind of blasphemy.
“Why thank me? What for?”
“For coming back.” His shrug pulls at her blouse, the warm hand on her stomach sliding again as the lips on her throat move slowly, breath thickened with desire purring warm and soft through her hair. “And because you choose me. You trusted me enough to come back.”
“Yeah, well -”
“No, I mean it. You trusted me enough to spend the night with me, so I think I owe you a night worth remembering. Don’t you?”
“Well - yeah. I mean - I hope so.”
“I know so.” Smiling eyes meet hers in the window, warm breath trailing to her ear, hands smoothing and stroking as he’s turning her to face him; a pale reflection becoming the invitation of a solid, bare chest and tight, wet denim, an oddly angled silver button demanding its freedom under the perfect lines of his stomach as he’s exploring the curve of her backside - and does he realise how badly that oversized grin goes with his serious look?
“Now, I really need to get you naked, honey...”
Yeah, he probably does.
“Why’s that then?”
“You need to ask?”
“Not really - I just think you need to tell me.”
“Yeah? Well, I think you just want to hear it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He’s shining at her, laughing as she twitches away from a too-delicate touch, a bare stroke turning ticklish, and, in its turn, making that smooth, bare stomach too tempting to ignore - especially as she knows exactly where all his giggle-spots are...
It doesn’t take her long to turn him, less time still to back him up until he’s gasping his way along the glass, and she’s barely popped that dastardly button and settled into a decent grope before quick fingers and that delicious groan-and-gasp combination catch her, tugging and shoving and clutching and turning her, laughing into her mouth when she almost swallows his tongue as he’s kissing her flat to the window.
“Because...” Another twist and he’s backing, taking her with him, cold hands on the backside replacing the cold glass on her back. “Because, you gorgeous woman - you are soaked.”
“Yeah? Well, that’s your fault.”
“I know. But I meant your clothes, honey, they’re wet though. And I can’t have you catching cold...”
His half-step away makes her stumble but he doesn’t let go, wriggling wryly in his own wet denim as he’s tugging at hers, turning her to the window then closing the gap between them until she can feel every inch of him, a serious smile with laughing eyes demanding her attention.
They’re not getting it though, because that’s her there. Her with Jack’s hands on her, her mouth opening in a silent sigh as he kisses her throat; her hands finding his and guiding them higher and lower until his quiet ‘patience, baby,’ whorls out and away into the vast, expensively upholstered silence, leaving her skin to absorb the slow jag of unlocking metal teeth. Skin under her hands and stubble on her cheek; skin touching and turning her, holding her still; lips finding her lips as a single, quiet ping resounds through denim and stroking palms, losing itself in her hip.
“Persistent, your friends, aren’t they.” There’s a catch in his voice but he’s still smiling, laughing softly and pawing at her pocket before finally admitting defeat with a shrug. “Turn it off. They’ve had enough of you already. It’s my turn now.”
“Yeah. I’ll just, um...”
He’s grinning by the time she persuades her skirt to give up its hostage. And if he ever met personal space it probably ran away screaming - but it’s okay, because she’s trying not to grin now too. She doesn’t even need to open the message; it’s right there on the inbox.
Tardis: ☺
That’s it. That’s it. They’ve done it. Which means it’s time to say goodnight. Sad-but-resigned would probably be best - there’s no point aiming straight at the ego - only...
Look at him. He’s just so... happy. That nothing-like-subtle full-body line-of-sight blocking manoeuvre, the slow stroke down the arm, nudging her jaw with his nose, the puppy eyes as he’s pulling her hand up to kiss it; even the way he gives in with a grin and a shrug when she won’t let him unpeel her grip and starts kissing her knuckles instead, working a slow, meandering - and apparently engagingly scenic, from all the stopping and starting and smug purring noises - route up and around her wrist and forearm, heading resolutely for the inside of her elbow. So it’s just daft, really it is. Just daft to be feeling bad about leaving him like this. One night without a shag won’t kill him - and she couldn’t stay now, even if she wanted to. Which she doesn’t. What she wants is to go. There’s no point even thinking about it - it’s what got her into this bloody mess of twining, smiling, stroking, soft and hard and oh-so-tempting nearly-naked bloody gorgeous bloody man in the first place. She wants to go home, now, to him - to both of them. That’s what she wants. That’s all she wants. It doesn’t matter that the sad bit is a lot easier to do than the resignation. Because it is - it’s bloody sad, but she’s done everything she can now.
“Look, Jack -” Just say it and go. Step back - peel him off and step back - then just say it and walk out. “I’m really sorry, I know what I said, but I need to -”
“What’s that?”
She never saw him move - she wouldn’t even have noticed the smooth twitch of changing mental gears if she hadn’t known his face so well - but there’s a hand holding hers by then, carefully but resolutely unfolding well-kissed fingers from the bright square of the screen, his tightening smile vanishing as he twists around behind her, arms and his chest trapping her, his pulse thudding so hard into her spine that she can feel it in her lungs, a gentle, steel-cored grip holding her arm out in front of her like an unwanted condom.
She’s got to stay calm. He doesn’t know anything.
“Rose?” His purr’s gone deep, an undertone of growl falling in a shiver down her spine. “Tell me what it is.”
“It’s nothing. It’s - it’s just my friend. He... That’s what he does. When he needs me, y’know? But it ... It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just silly.”
Her laugh doesn’t even convince her. But it’s a smiley, that’s all; it can’t mean anything to him. His precious Time Agency surely never used smileys for ‘mission accomplished, come home and don’t forget the milk,’ did they? Unless he’s heard of the TARDIS. He’d have known though. Would he? Oh god - she was so close...
“Silly? Is that what you call it? I can think of a better way to describe it.”
The phone drops, bouncing unnoticed on the carpet as he finishes uncurling her fingers, turning her hand again, his spare arm tightening around her ribs, late-night stubble catching her hair. If it’s not the phone then what is it? There’s nothing else in her hand - nothing there but her hand: no rings, no watch, nothing but...
Bruises. Oh god. Jack...
“Let me see.” Urged gently towards the sofa, the sudden white light is blinding after the wet blur of the window, making her blink as she wobbles down into a soft, leather embrace. “Ringing you up, sending you messages, and... Honey, look at that.”
His fingers fit perfectly. But they would - how could they not? Such a gentle grip; so careful - circling her wrist as easily as the mottled bracelet of thumb and finger marks, pinch and grip and knuckle-prints overlapping each other in angry-looking layers.
He was so bloody happy.
“It was an accident. We were just playing around, play fighting. You - he wouldn’t hurt me, he wouldn’t. Really.”
“That was that him on the phone?”
“Yeah.”
Maybe she looks as sick as she feels. Maybe that’s why he’s looking at her that way.
“And that message just now; that was him too?”
“Well...”
And maybe if she throws up on him it’ll distract him long enough for her to get to the lift.
“And you’re really tense. I can feel it. Here...” A soft touch on her cheek breaks an even softer sigh, concerned eyes holding her as motionless as the fingers laced through hers as he strokes down to the hollow of her throat, dipping his head to follow his touch with kisses; lips and fingertips sketching her collarbone. “And here...” Another kiss and the leather under them creaks softly, the barest drag of tongue tracing the lacy extent of one bra cup, warm breath and smoothing, soothing fingers slipping inside. “So tense - right here...” A soft gasp at his pinch brings more kisses - always more kisses - squeezing and stroking, nuzzling her throat on his way to her ear. “Is there something you want to tell me, honey?”
“No. No - ‘course not. Really, it’s nothing.”
“No?”
“No. I just... I really think I ought to go. I know what I said, but him and me - it’s complicated, and I just -”
“Then I’ll un-complicate it.” A twitch of the brow triggers a full-blown shrug and he sighs, his jaw tightening as he’s leaning to kiss her again. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, he’s not going to hurt you anymore.”
“No. He doesn’t. Look... just leave it, okay?”
“I can’t.” Another sigh and then he’s shaking his head, gently folding her blouse closed with a regretful smile, saddened sympathy rippling across the neatly packed lines of his chest and stomach as he reaches for his shirt. “I just can’t do that. I really like you, honey, and I won’t stand for anyone hurting someone I like.”
“You can’t. I - I won’t tell you where to find him. It doesn’t matter, really.”
“Okay. Then I’ll trace the signal back.” That bloody wrist-computer. Does it make tea, too? “And then -”
“No, please...” He doesn’t protest when she flips the flap shut, a solitary eyebrow rising as she pulls the shirt out of his hand, letting her pull him close, letting her kiss him, kissing her back with a barely concealed restraint and a mouthful of uncertain, concerned noises that are doing nothing for her state of mind.
He’s worried about her. He’s got her pinned down and as good as panting in his oversized shag-pad and he’s worried about her. And that’s good. That’s great - because she knew she was right about him; he really hasn’t changed - but she can’t let him screw it up now, not now they’ve got what he needs. She can handle this. She’s got to - it’s what she’s here for, right?
“Please, don’t. I don’t want him hurt, but I don’t want you to go either. I want you here. You know I do, you must do. Just stay here, with me.”
“How can I?”
“But -”
“But nothing. He hurt you. I can’t let that go. And I won’t hurt him - not really. I’m just going to teach him that he can’t get away with mistreating my friends. Leaving marks where anyone can see them. He might give someone ideas. They might think you like it.”
“What? It’s not like that. He - we - we just - just...”
“Just what? If you really want me to stay then I think you ought to tell me. Don’t you?”
It’s just a smile. Just fingers brushing her cheek, a stray hand raising all the hairs on her neck as it moves casually lower, parting the cloth he just folded so carefully together as it goes, the soft smile refusing to let her look away. It’s a good smile: one of his best. She’s not seen him smile like that in a long time. Not since the last time she first met him, anyway.
“I mean, you don’t like to play a little rough - do you honey? Because if that was the case, I wouldn’t have anything to worry about.”
Head tilted, lips slightly parted, eyes lighted with a genuine desire to help, the ensemble softened by the merest soupçon of dimple - a real ‘trust me, honey - I only want what you want. Honestly, if you needed me to go beat your friends up then getting my end away would be the last thing on my mind - but all the same, don’t you think I’d look better screwing you than your relationships? Come on; look how close you are to getting me naked...’ smile.
He must practise. No wonder he spends so long in the bathroom - and she thought he was just wanking...
“Is that it, honey?”
“No. Well. I mean - not really rough...”
Smooth-tongued, twisting bastard... She was right: he hadn’t changed at all. He’s exactly the man who’ll catch her falling simply to seduce her for a con - and he knew it. He knew it -
‘Did I hurt you?’ That’s what he said. ‘I won’t let you do this for me. I could hurt you.’
“Really?” That eyebrow’s gone up again; entirely unrehearsed genuine surprise shining from every angle of an oh-so innocent smile. “So I shouldn’t be worried then? When you said play-fighting, you mean you just... like to play?”
“Well. I mean...”
‘And I’d love it,’ he said. ‘But you’re not a player. Don’t go. It doesn’t matter - I don’t need to know.’
“It’s okay. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I just want to give you what you want. Is that what you want, honey? Do you want to play?”
It’s just Jack. Still just Jack; exactly the same and a different man entirely.
‘Come home,’ he said, ‘Rose, please, you can’t do this for me -’
“Honey? Are you going to play with me? I know all kinds of good games...”
“I might. It depends...” That’s it; smile for the pretty, half-naked bastard. “But you’re not tying me up, right? I’m not doing nothing like that.”
“No? You sure? I’ll let you do me. We can do anything you want. Anything...” And the pretty half-naked bastard will get a little more naked and smirk right back. “Oh, you are good. You nearly had me there. But I knew you couldn’t be as innocent as you look.”
“Can’t I?” It’s a game. That’s all it is. “That’s a shame. And I was doing so well...”
“Oh, you are, baby. But I want to play too. And if you’re going to be naughty then I’ll just have to be teacher...”
It’s just a game. He’s Jack, and they’re playing a game of Truth or Consequences. She had her turn earlier, so now it’s his go. It’s going to be fun. It is. See? He gets to purr overheated syrup-of-filth in her ear and paw her clothes off, and all she has to do is wriggle and giggle and try not to squirm all the way off the sofa and out the door - because he’s really good at pretending to be a kinky, lying, manipulative bastard and if she calls him on it she’ll spoil all the fun.
But there’s fun and there’s fun - and he’s got really big hands, so no, really, thanks all the same, but she’ll give that a miss. Seriously. No - that’s enough - she’s a good girl, see?
“Yeah? Shame. Maybe later, eh, honey? Okay, so tell me - no - show me. Come on baby; show me where you want me.”
That’s easy: in the TARDIS kitchen - sitting at the table with greasy, green fingers, and a smile on his face. Teasing her and laughing at her. Kissing her like he means it, not just like he wants it. Letting her explore, letting her find out what he likes - so she can do it again, later.
“Honey? You know if you’re teasing me here I’m going to have to - fuck -”
Is it that late already? Wow. It’s been doing that a lot today. Yeah, she knows - but that’s such a poor, tense-looking tendon… Is it feeling better now? Yeah? Good. He likes that, doesn’t he. Yeah, she can tell. It’s all those groany noises: dead giveaway. No, she’s fine, just getting her breath - and there too? Okay. And there? Yeah - and maybe if he could just shove over a bit? No, just a bit of a cold. She’s fine. It’s nothing. Yeah, if he could move a few of those hands. Just three or four, that should do. Thanks. That’s it - let her get a better angle. There’s no rush, is there? They’ve got all night...
It’s not enough though, not for him. Not now - he’s insistent. Hasn’t she waited long enough? He knows he has -
“Here.” A quiet rip and a wriggle and then a deft stroke drags her gaze down to his hands as his jeans drop the last few inches to the floor.
It’s just another game. All she’s got to do is pretend that he’s him. He’s the one shaking, not her - because he’s excited; because it’s Jack and he wants her because she’s her - and she’s just going to climb on and enjoy the ride, and then, when it’s over...
“Come on - sit on me. Fuck me.”
But he’s too strong to be so impatient: hard-soft hands hauling her down to meet rising hips, her knees squeaking on the leather, lifted and dragged and held up as a single efficient stroke spreads her open, an invasion of groan-flavoured tongue smothering her yowl at the sudden, shocking stretch. He’s thick. Really. Thicker than she realised and it burns. Thick and blunt and mercilessly solid, stretching all the way in, smoothing wetly back out. Slow and deliberate, broad shoulders flexing in her grip as he rises again, pulling her down and then lifting her up, catching her on the down-stroke and wriggling deeper. Holding her down - one, two, three and then breathe and release - grinding the numb sting of friction to a pounding throb before letting her go again, a rough ‘that’s it - ride me’ rolled over the point of a nipple and sucked until there’s nothing in the world but a bass-beat backing to the stretch and slide and puff and squeak of skin in skin on skin on skins, harsh breathing and a familiar dark head ducked busily low, making her sweat and pant - making it good -
She can do this. She wants to - because this is Jack and it’s good. It’s Jack and they’re in the lounge with the TV on low and... No. It’s the night she met him. She’s never seen him before today and they’re trying out the captain’s chair in his Chula ship in the middle of the London Blitz. It’s all right - it’s right; just her and Jack. It’s what she wanted. It’s good: sharp and real, soft and wet and hard and rough... It’s Jack: moving inside her and under her - Jack’s fingers and hip bones, Jack’s mouth and his eyes...
“That’s right - look at me. I want to watch you come.”
It’s Jack. It’s good and it is, it’s him, it is - is -
“Jack...”
“That’s it, baby - louder.”
It doesn’t take long and even then he’s right behind her. It doesn’t matter. He’s got nothing to prove; her heart knows the difference but her body’s too far gone to care.
He’s still there when her eyes open. Still half hard inside her, his head lolled comfortably back, watching her as she tries to hide a shudder under a yawn and a laugh; a lazy grin touching half-closed eyes and making them shine.
“Long day, baby? It’s okay, me too - but I don’t think we’re ready to go to sleep just yet.” Bare thighs flexing, his leisurely stretch lifts her knees off the sofa, curling an arm round her as a sudden switchback folds her in half, ignoring her dizzied shriek when her hair brushes the floor to lean further, rooting in a jingling pocket, rustling and rattling something she can’t turn far enough to see.
His eyes are still shining when he sits them back up, the lolling length of him settling sloppily as he catches her in a long, wet, thorough kiss, the increasingly familiar combination of sex and vodka flavoured with something new and faintly bitter. It’s like sweet sherbet with extra lemon and a twist of iced pan-scourer, but whatever it is it’s making her tongue tingle, making her mouth dry with the need to lick her lips - making her mouth water even as the shiver trickling down through her stomach freezes solid.
“What was that? You gave me something - Look, I never -”
“It’s nothing. It’s fine - just relax, baby. I’ve got you.”
“No. No, there was something there - I can taste it. I can feel it, it’s - oh, god...”
It’s fizzy. Her blood’s fizzy - singing through her skin at every touch, ringing and singing in her ears, dragging her focus down to the heat of the body under her, the hand on her back and the one in her hair - all those follicles, she never knew she had so many - the hairs on his thighs like trace glints of static on her backside, sweat prickling over muscle and flesh - the double-thud of two pulses inside her louder than the soft rasp of breath on her cheek, eyelashes scraping her temple as perfect, sensible syllables pour smoothly into her ear, overflowing across her throat and down, flooding each tremble and making it shine.
“Give it a second, let it settle. It’s just a little pick-me-up. You don’t want to fall asleep and miss all the fun, do you?”
She can’t see him - she’d have to open her eyes for that - but she can see that smile. It’s so sincere it hurts to even imagine it; broad and shiny, promising her the only thing she’ll believe from whoever he is right now: that whatever he’s planning to do to her, he’ll make sure she enjoys it - whether she likes it or not.
“Trust me, babe, I wouldn’t do anything nasty to you - nothing you don’t beg me for, anyhow.”
“No - but, I mean -”
Another kiss swallows anything else she might have said; sharp-tasting and increasingly delicious, pulling her under, drowning her senses in skin and saliva. And what would she have said anyway? She’s got to concentrate. It’s just Jack. That’s all she needs to know. His name is Jack, he’s a gorgeous, lying, manipulative, sexy bastard that she met earlier tonight - and it’s going to be fun...
“I think it’s time we did this properly, don’t you? No -” Breathing heavily as he finally lets her lean back, fingers clamp into her hips, holding her down, his jaw set and grinning. “- don’t move. Just squeeze me.”
“What?”
“Squeeze me. Come on, baby, let me feel those muscles working. That’s it - tighter.”
He can’t be serious - he just came. But then so did she, and the fat, wet grind and slide of slowly swelling flesh finding every single hyperactive nerve-ending as it grows inside her isn’t exactly turning her off. He is: he’s hard. Harder. A thickened throb filling her completely as he shifts, wriggling deeper, his head falling back, his eyes rolling up in such a blissed-out expression that she can’t help but hope... Could he, just maybe, have passed out?
“That’s it.” No such bloody luck. “Now, I guess we’ll need a new one of these, and then...”
It’s all a bit of a whirl after that. Maybe she ought to be trying to remember detail - but that’s asking too much, especially when she’s not even sure if she can count anymore. One condom dropped sloppily on the glass-topped table. Two rips in the little foil packet under her nose and two friction-burnt knees - soft carpet, but not so good in action. They should complain to the management. When she’s finished chewing the sofa she might think about that again. Maybe, if he’d give her a chance to breathe. Face down - face up - where was she? One wet condom and two sore knees - nice smooth plaster on the ceiling, sweaty leather squeaking under her shoulders and a very familiar head between her thighs...
One and two and... It doesn’t tally and she’s certain it won’t - not with a bastard-fast tongue lapping up the evidence, a casual hand stroking a suspiciously wet but mercifully drooping erection as he’s kneeling at her feet.
It’s okay, he says, just lay back, baby. That’s it - wider - oh baby, that’s good -
Can’t he even remember her name? It’s Rose. Don’t you know me?
She can’t say it. She can’t tell him. He doesn’t know her and he can’t. Not now. This is all it is.
This, and champagne it seems. Well, she could do with a drink...
He wasn’t joking though. Really, that wasn’t a joke? Well, yeah - with a thing on the shower head - but... Doesn’t he know that you’re not supposed to do that with bottles? Really, she’s sure you’re not. No - not even if you’ve scraped all the foil off. Yes, it does look kind of the right shape, but really... Really? But surely not and shake it. Where’s he planning to put that thumb? Oh god - that’s going to make such a mess and this sofa looks really expensi -
“Jack - bloody god.”
“That’s it; wider. Let me see you. Is that good? It looks good. Yeah? Here - let me -”
No. He can’t have it back. Not now, not so fast. Why so fast? Didn’t he want to watch her come? No, really, he can’t stop now... What he’s doing? Yes, it looks like a lovely strawberry, but what - no, don’t take it away -
“You like that? It’s okay. I’ll give you some more. But I’m thirsty, baby, and you’ve got all my champagne. I tell you what; I’ll swap you my strawberry for your bottle - yeah, just like that, hold still now - then we won’t spill anything before I get a taste...”
That’s more than a taste. But she’s not complaining - he can take as long as he wants, because soft fruit might not have been her weapon of choice, but concentrating on not-squashing it is easier than not-thinking about the way he’s purring as he laps, slow and deep, lapping and humming, making fizzy blood roar as he laps and then laps and then sucks -- the wet, satisfied slurp accompanied by a pop louder than the champagne cork managed as an eager mouth catches a hot, fizzing gush.
If that’s how the bottle felt then she’s putting in for a transfer. He really wasn’t joking. All those bubbles; inside and outside and just everywhere... More? Why the hell not. It’s not like she’s got anything else to be doing right now, and it’s a big bottle - really, big - she wouldn’t want it to go flat before they finished it.
“Don’t worry.” A tepid trickle hits her stomach, pooling in her belly button and running lower. It’s still fizzy - still fizzing - as it meets glass coming the other way, the hollowing shock of suction and slosh knotting her tongue around a groan. “There’s another one in the cooler.”
“Good. That’s good.” Go her - three whole words. “’Cos that’s - oh god - good, really, just...”
“And you’re delicious. Here - taste -”
He’s trying to kill her - he can’t keep stopping like that, and then... Oh. Right.
It’s okay. It’s just a bottle. She’s drunk out of a bottle plenty of times before - although it’s generally been Coke or Liebfraumilch, not Cristal. And she can’t help wincing at the taste, but she’s starting to get used to it now - and it’s not like she can wipe the neck first, no matter where it’s been. He’d be far too disappointed.
“Oh yeah, that’s it, honey. You’ve got such a beautiful mouth... can I get some of that? Move over - let me up there. Look at what you’re doing to me...”
Again? Already? Isn’t he tired?
It doesn’t look like it from this angle. And is it her, or is she doing all the work again?
No, she’s not complaining. Because she’s got manners, that’s why - unlike some people, she doesn’t talk with her mouth full. Yeah? Oh yeah, so long as he can manage not to bite her when she... Yeah, like that; does he like that? No, it’s a big sofa; she’ll probably manage to stay on, thanks. But if he could just.... Aw, is he getting champagne in his eyes? That’s a shame. Never mind, he’ll live - just as long as he can breathe under there...
And that’s funny - although it’s not - because he tastes like the bottle but without the fizz. ‘I’ve got another one right here,’ her arse. He’s a lying, cheating, silver-tongued - long silver-tongued, clever-tongued, long-fingered... Yes, just like that. More. Yeah, she’ll suck, but only if he does - bastard. And why would he be tired? She’s not - not anymore - and his night is at least four hours younger than hers, not to mention the fact that he’s got himself a willing, warm, and increasingly sticky body with all the requisite holes.
What - all of them? Now hang on a minute...
Only as far as he’s concerned, ‘but I’ve never done that before,’ isn’t so much a refusal as a challenge. Because of course he wouldn’t dream of doing something she doesn’t like - but look how well they’re doing on new experiences tonight already. And really, how does she know if she hasn’t tried? It’ll be good - amazing - and he’s got everything they need...
He’s a real fucking boy scout. That is, when he’s not playing fireman or pharmacist. No, she’s fine, really - and it’s not that far to the bed. She has got legs, remember? Those things he keeps losing his face between?
“I wouldn’t want you getting too tired to enjoy me. That’s it, honey. Just relax and let me in. You’re gonna love this.”
But such a good boy scout - Baden-Powell would’ve been proud of him - making sure she’s well-prepared, promising her how good it’ll be and making sure it is.
It is. It shouldn’t be, not like this. But it is. It’s fucking fantastic. Fantastic fucking this stranger with Jack’s face and his body: sheets rucked under her cheek and a pillow under her stomach, stretched wide and filled rigid, Jack’s filthy tongue tingling on her spine, Jack’s voice telling her how incredible she looks - and what is it with him and mirrors?
“That’s so tight... You’ve got to see yourself like this. Come on, get up. Grab that chair...”
If she’d known him here first then she’d be filing tonight under ‘compare all sex with, ever’ because being worshipped and defiled in turn - at the same time; in triplicate just as soon as he can wedge the wardrobe doors at the right angle - by a gorgeous stranger might actually be one of the most exciting things she’s ever done.
If she’d known him here first.
But she didn’t. Doesn’t. No more than he does her.
Jack was right about everything but the thing that mattered most: he won’t hurt her - how could he? He isn’t even here. And she can’t say no, any more than she can complain, because when her mouth’s not full he’s making her pant so hard she can hardly breathe, let alone talk.
But it still hurts. All of it: Every kiss, every smile and caress; every proof of the man she’s going to know - the man he’ll be. Every joke she can’t make. Every guilty second panting under his fingers and tongue - under him and on him - every thrust, every bite, every ‘baby’, and every single time she comes.
next (9/9)
author: mimarie
characters Rose Tyler/Jack Harkness, The Doctor (ninth)
rating: NC-17 - adult themes and language
spoilers/warnings: nothing past DW S1. This was once canon-compliant, but has become slightly AU since Torchwood S1.
word count: c.7,000 (/c. 38,000)
summary: He won’t remember talking to her, buying her a drink, laughing, dancing, flirting. He won’t remember anything he said...
notes: This follows on from Time; present (which needs to be read first, or this will make very little sense).
Claimed for the 100_situations challenge. Prompt 69 - Bitter
Huge thanks to my wonderful betas aeshna-uk and jwaneeta, and to laurab1 for the cover art :)
part one: Time; present
part two: Time; past (one) // (two) // (three) // (four) // (five) // (six) // (seven)
Time; past
(8/9)
It’s still raining, and she still hasn’t got an umbrella, but there’s an arm around her shoulders and Jack's talking as they walk, kaleidoscope ripples splashing and sparking on the sulphur-bright pavements. Talking and smiling and laughing, trying to make her laugh as a rapid blue flash streaks his gesturing hand green, the squawk of sirens making her jump as a second car flashes past, followed moments later by a paramedic. And she’d be laughing too - only she’s already dragged him into the nearest shop doorway, and he’s grinning and slicking the water off his face, urging her further in with a snigger and a breathy ‘does that mean we’re criminals, baby?’ before kissing her breathless against the rattling steel of the security shutters.
Squashed into a corner and fed sloppy mouthfuls of tongue, the smell of piss and cider rising off the wet concrete is overwhelming. She’d breathe through her mouth, but it’s kind of busy right now, and she can barely move without something wet and sticky sucking at her boots, or, for that matter, her face. He’s enjoying this far too much. And she’s trying, she really is, but there are drips running into her eyes and trickling over her scalp; too-strong hands finding skin under shredded nylon and making her moan. More tongue and the hands have brought fingers - he’s not serious. Is he? Not here... And then a damp snigger becomes a wet blouse as the rain hits full-face and they’re walking again. Walking back to this fabled hotel room together, getting soaked through and trying not to look like she’s been attacked by a horny Time Agent who’s determined to cut her in half with a slice of sodden cotton.
Two streetlights and a bus stop, once around the Klingons - are they still here? - and twice around the revolving door (yes, the glass is cold, and no, she does not want to see if she can leave a bum-print, thanks all the same. She is not a spoil sport. Is he determined to get them arrested? Do them up. Not everyone wants to see his arse), then they’re past the wide-eyed blonde in reception, the coffee and new carpet scent of the foyer left behind in a swish of lift-doors and the increasingly familiar sound of her own breath being dry-humped out of her. Just for variety, this time, against a full-length mirror.
‘Ground floor; doors closing.’
That’s it then. No way out now. Not unless she can will the text to arrive in the next... how far are they going? All the way? No - the lift, can’t he just...
Oh, right, the top floor. Great: as far from civilisation as it’s possible to get. But it’s all right; the man with the key-card and the Cheshire Cat grin says it is, so it must be.
And why wouldn’t it be? She’s willing and he’s eager - too bloody eager...
‘Three’
‘Four’
“Don’t. What if someone calls the lift?”
“They won’t. Come back here.”
What - volunteer herself back between a mirror and a hard... thing? Well, if he puts it like that, but - no, it’s cold. And yes, she’s sure he is strong enough to hold her up, but, look, he can’t -
“- they might.”
“No, they won’t.”
“Yeah, but no, really - just -”
‘Nine’
“- wait.”
“Don’t worry. It’s all ours. Secured private access; came with the room.”
“Oh. Oh -”
‘Twelve’
‘Fourteen’
‘Fifteen’
‘Sixteen’
“- makes you wonder what people do up here, doesn’t it, babe. All that security... But you’ll love the view.”
“What? Oh - right... yeah?”
“It’s almost as good as this. Although you could make it better...”
‘Twenty-one’
‘Twenty-two’
“- and then if you just -”
“No, hang on - look, we’re -”
‘Twenty-four; doors opening.’
“- here and... Oh. Wow. I mean, just...”
“So, you think this’ll do us for the night then, honey?”
It might. Just possibly. And no, really - she doesn’t need holding up. It’s just that she wasn’t expecting it to be so big...
It’s not that funny. She’s serious. It’s bigger than her mum’s entire flat, and that’s just the ... what’s she supposed to call it; the lounge? Windows on three sides, the lift and a collection of doors filling the North-west corner - there’s even a bit that looks like it’s been paved, way over between the two sets of French doors and the terrace with the hot-tub and the palm trees.
It’s hard to think of anything to say - which is, oddly enough, pretty much how she felt the last time he waved a leather-and-steel themed penthouse under her nose. And this one has significantly more furniture in it and a lot less bare flesh, but it looks so... Expectant is the only word that comes to mind. Lights dimmed to a warm gleam on soft hides and silvered spars, the scent of strawberries growing stronger the closer they get to the window until, rounding an embankment of sofa, their trajectory intercepts a subtle trail of bottle, glasses, and small bowls filled with out-of-season soft fruits that seems - maybe he’ll prove her wrong; she’s got time, she can wait - seems to be leading directly to that inconveniently oversized bed. And she’s really, really not thinking about his taste in porn - because where would she start? - but even Jack would have to admit his suite-with-a-view looks like it’s expecting to see its occupant and his guest of choice out of their clothes with as little delay as possible.
It’s hardly a surprise. If it wasn’t for the way wet denim insists on clinging to itself it’d be halfway there already. But then, there’s nothing like a bit of forward planning, is there. Because, unless his wrist-strap can change his clothes for him too, it’s pretty obvious that after two hours softening her up without benefit of shag he wasn’t intending to waste any more time setting a mood for her replacement.
He’s not wasting any now: jacket, bag and assorted footwear discarded en route, breath warm in her ear, hands resting on her stomach - and she’d bet what’s left of her tights that they’re not there for the view, but all the same...
“Wow.”
“Oh yeah.”
“No, I mean really - just... wow.”
She’s seen the end of the Earth, alien planets and solar systems that no one down there even knows exist, but it’s Saturday night - here and now - and the man and woman staring back at her are floating in a sea of light. Landing lights and tail lights, blinking red warnings and the sweep of helicopters, erratic car and static streetlights, traffic lights and neon; a whole city in illuminated motion blurred across at least an acre of wet window. All the way out - past Stamford Bridge and the flattened ‘T’ of the Exhibition Centre, past skeletal gasometers, silvered and gleaming upholstery reflecting across the tree-lined expanse of the cemetery and the river’s distant dark curves; tower blocks and offices, glass and brick and steel...
And somewhere down there are two little, green-lit blue boxes; one now and one then. One of her, two Doctors and two more Jacks to add to the one who’s smiling at their reflection as he peels the wet hair away from her throat, neon streaks outlining the hand curving slowly over her abdomen.
“You’re right, honey - that is a beautiful view...”
“I know. I mean, I live here, but... I’ve never seen it like this before.”
“No - you.”
The smile grows a slow shrug, carrying hands to stroke down over her hips while his shirt slides damply to the floor, a brief flurry of sky-blue and then bare arms wrap around her, slow hands smearing light over her stomach and down until the denim runs out and he’s left stroking nylon, a thin, dark sheen tattered into rungs to be climbed, finger over finger, his gently determined advance driving her nerves before it, over bare thighs and under damp elastic, knotting her stomach around a mass of sluggish chips and tea.
It’ll be all right. It’s Jack and they’re alone now. No audience and no more distractions. He’s got his mirror and she can see that the world’s still out there - and he was wrong if he thought she couldn’t do this. Just because they’re from different times, it doesn’t mean their ideas are so very far off.
But all the same, there’s no point pretending if she doesn’t have to.
“I need to tell you something.” Her reflection looks nervous - which seems only reasonable considering that his reflection is wrist-deep in her blouse and skirt - her mouth curving unsteadily as the interruption draws his face up out of her throat, and she surrenders herself to his gaze, a pale flicker of motion becoming her hand, reaching up to stroke through short, wet hair. “And I know I should’ve told you this earlier, but...”
“What’s the matter, honey?”
“I’ve never done this before.”
“Yeah, babe? I - you...” So that’s what he looks like surprised. And it loosens his grip, which is worth knowing, because something had to. “Yeah? You mean - honey, are you trying to tell me you’re -”
“No. Not like that. I’ve had boyfriends, but I’ve never... I mean, I only met you today, y’know? And I just thought... I thought I ought to say, because...”
“It’s okay.”
The mirror-man’s smiling. He’s got a lovely smile - she knows someone with a smile just like that. His ‘thank you,’ sounds good too, and the shine in his eyes is so very familiar...
It’ll be all right. He’s the same man who’ll catch her falling; the man who’ll save her life. It’ll be fun - right? And she can’t just lie back and think of England: not having a good time while Jack’s naked is probably some kind of blasphemy.
“Why thank me? What for?”
“For coming back.” His shrug pulls at her blouse, the warm hand on her stomach sliding again as the lips on her throat move slowly, breath thickened with desire purring warm and soft through her hair. “And because you choose me. You trusted me enough to come back.”
“Yeah, well -”
“No, I mean it. You trusted me enough to spend the night with me, so I think I owe you a night worth remembering. Don’t you?”
“Well - yeah. I mean - I hope so.”
“I know so.” Smiling eyes meet hers in the window, warm breath trailing to her ear, hands smoothing and stroking as he’s turning her to face him; a pale reflection becoming the invitation of a solid, bare chest and tight, wet denim, an oddly angled silver button demanding its freedom under the perfect lines of his stomach as he’s exploring the curve of her backside - and does he realise how badly that oversized grin goes with his serious look?
“Now, I really need to get you naked, honey...”
Yeah, he probably does.
“Why’s that then?”
“You need to ask?”
“Not really - I just think you need to tell me.”
“Yeah? Well, I think you just want to hear it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He’s shining at her, laughing as she twitches away from a too-delicate touch, a bare stroke turning ticklish, and, in its turn, making that smooth, bare stomach too tempting to ignore - especially as she knows exactly where all his giggle-spots are...
It doesn’t take her long to turn him, less time still to back him up until he’s gasping his way along the glass, and she’s barely popped that dastardly button and settled into a decent grope before quick fingers and that delicious groan-and-gasp combination catch her, tugging and shoving and clutching and turning her, laughing into her mouth when she almost swallows his tongue as he’s kissing her flat to the window.
“Because...” Another twist and he’s backing, taking her with him, cold hands on the backside replacing the cold glass on her back. “Because, you gorgeous woman - you are soaked.”
“Yeah? Well, that’s your fault.”
“I know. But I meant your clothes, honey, they’re wet though. And I can’t have you catching cold...”
His half-step away makes her stumble but he doesn’t let go, wriggling wryly in his own wet denim as he’s tugging at hers, turning her to the window then closing the gap between them until she can feel every inch of him, a serious smile with laughing eyes demanding her attention.
They’re not getting it though, because that’s her there. Her with Jack’s hands on her, her mouth opening in a silent sigh as he kisses her throat; her hands finding his and guiding them higher and lower until his quiet ‘patience, baby,’ whorls out and away into the vast, expensively upholstered silence, leaving her skin to absorb the slow jag of unlocking metal teeth. Skin under her hands and stubble on her cheek; skin touching and turning her, holding her still; lips finding her lips as a single, quiet ping resounds through denim and stroking palms, losing itself in her hip.
“Persistent, your friends, aren’t they.” There’s a catch in his voice but he’s still smiling, laughing softly and pawing at her pocket before finally admitting defeat with a shrug. “Turn it off. They’ve had enough of you already. It’s my turn now.”
“Yeah. I’ll just, um...”
He’s grinning by the time she persuades her skirt to give up its hostage. And if he ever met personal space it probably ran away screaming - but it’s okay, because she’s trying not to grin now too. She doesn’t even need to open the message; it’s right there on the inbox.
Tardis: ☺
That’s it. That’s it. They’ve done it. Which means it’s time to say goodnight. Sad-but-resigned would probably be best - there’s no point aiming straight at the ego - only...
Look at him. He’s just so... happy. That nothing-like-subtle full-body line-of-sight blocking manoeuvre, the slow stroke down the arm, nudging her jaw with his nose, the puppy eyes as he’s pulling her hand up to kiss it; even the way he gives in with a grin and a shrug when she won’t let him unpeel her grip and starts kissing her knuckles instead, working a slow, meandering - and apparently engagingly scenic, from all the stopping and starting and smug purring noises - route up and around her wrist and forearm, heading resolutely for the inside of her elbow. So it’s just daft, really it is. Just daft to be feeling bad about leaving him like this. One night without a shag won’t kill him - and she couldn’t stay now, even if she wanted to. Which she doesn’t. What she wants is to go. There’s no point even thinking about it - it’s what got her into this bloody mess of twining, smiling, stroking, soft and hard and oh-so-tempting nearly-naked bloody gorgeous bloody man in the first place. She wants to go home, now, to him - to both of them. That’s what she wants. That’s all she wants. It doesn’t matter that the sad bit is a lot easier to do than the resignation. Because it is - it’s bloody sad, but she’s done everything she can now.
“Look, Jack -” Just say it and go. Step back - peel him off and step back - then just say it and walk out. “I’m really sorry, I know what I said, but I need to -”
“What’s that?”
She never saw him move - she wouldn’t even have noticed the smooth twitch of changing mental gears if she hadn’t known his face so well - but there’s a hand holding hers by then, carefully but resolutely unfolding well-kissed fingers from the bright square of the screen, his tightening smile vanishing as he twists around behind her, arms and his chest trapping her, his pulse thudding so hard into her spine that she can feel it in her lungs, a gentle, steel-cored grip holding her arm out in front of her like an unwanted condom.
She’s got to stay calm. He doesn’t know anything.
“Rose?” His purr’s gone deep, an undertone of growl falling in a shiver down her spine. “Tell me what it is.”
“It’s nothing. It’s - it’s just my friend. He... That’s what he does. When he needs me, y’know? But it ... It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just silly.”
Her laugh doesn’t even convince her. But it’s a smiley, that’s all; it can’t mean anything to him. His precious Time Agency surely never used smileys for ‘mission accomplished, come home and don’t forget the milk,’ did they? Unless he’s heard of the TARDIS. He’d have known though. Would he? Oh god - she was so close...
“Silly? Is that what you call it? I can think of a better way to describe it.”
The phone drops, bouncing unnoticed on the carpet as he finishes uncurling her fingers, turning her hand again, his spare arm tightening around her ribs, late-night stubble catching her hair. If it’s not the phone then what is it? There’s nothing else in her hand - nothing there but her hand: no rings, no watch, nothing but...
Bruises. Oh god. Jack...
“Let me see.” Urged gently towards the sofa, the sudden white light is blinding after the wet blur of the window, making her blink as she wobbles down into a soft, leather embrace. “Ringing you up, sending you messages, and... Honey, look at that.”
His fingers fit perfectly. But they would - how could they not? Such a gentle grip; so careful - circling her wrist as easily as the mottled bracelet of thumb and finger marks, pinch and grip and knuckle-prints overlapping each other in angry-looking layers.
He was so bloody happy.
“It was an accident. We were just playing around, play fighting. You - he wouldn’t hurt me, he wouldn’t. Really.”
“That was that him on the phone?”
“Yeah.”
Maybe she looks as sick as she feels. Maybe that’s why he’s looking at her that way.
“And that message just now; that was him too?”
“Well...”
And maybe if she throws up on him it’ll distract him long enough for her to get to the lift.
“And you’re really tense. I can feel it. Here...” A soft touch on her cheek breaks an even softer sigh, concerned eyes holding her as motionless as the fingers laced through hers as he strokes down to the hollow of her throat, dipping his head to follow his touch with kisses; lips and fingertips sketching her collarbone. “And here...” Another kiss and the leather under them creaks softly, the barest drag of tongue tracing the lacy extent of one bra cup, warm breath and smoothing, soothing fingers slipping inside. “So tense - right here...” A soft gasp at his pinch brings more kisses - always more kisses - squeezing and stroking, nuzzling her throat on his way to her ear. “Is there something you want to tell me, honey?”
“No. No - ‘course not. Really, it’s nothing.”
“No?”
“No. I just... I really think I ought to go. I know what I said, but him and me - it’s complicated, and I just -”
“Then I’ll un-complicate it.” A twitch of the brow triggers a full-blown shrug and he sighs, his jaw tightening as he’s leaning to kiss her again. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, he’s not going to hurt you anymore.”
“No. He doesn’t. Look... just leave it, okay?”
“I can’t.” Another sigh and then he’s shaking his head, gently folding her blouse closed with a regretful smile, saddened sympathy rippling across the neatly packed lines of his chest and stomach as he reaches for his shirt. “I just can’t do that. I really like you, honey, and I won’t stand for anyone hurting someone I like.”
“You can’t. I - I won’t tell you where to find him. It doesn’t matter, really.”
“Okay. Then I’ll trace the signal back.” That bloody wrist-computer. Does it make tea, too? “And then -”
“No, please...” He doesn’t protest when she flips the flap shut, a solitary eyebrow rising as she pulls the shirt out of his hand, letting her pull him close, letting her kiss him, kissing her back with a barely concealed restraint and a mouthful of uncertain, concerned noises that are doing nothing for her state of mind.
He’s worried about her. He’s got her pinned down and as good as panting in his oversized shag-pad and he’s worried about her. And that’s good. That’s great - because she knew she was right about him; he really hasn’t changed - but she can’t let him screw it up now, not now they’ve got what he needs. She can handle this. She’s got to - it’s what she’s here for, right?
“Please, don’t. I don’t want him hurt, but I don’t want you to go either. I want you here. You know I do, you must do. Just stay here, with me.”
“How can I?”
“But -”
“But nothing. He hurt you. I can’t let that go. And I won’t hurt him - not really. I’m just going to teach him that he can’t get away with mistreating my friends. Leaving marks where anyone can see them. He might give someone ideas. They might think you like it.”
“What? It’s not like that. He - we - we just - just...”
“Just what? If you really want me to stay then I think you ought to tell me. Don’t you?”
It’s just a smile. Just fingers brushing her cheek, a stray hand raising all the hairs on her neck as it moves casually lower, parting the cloth he just folded so carefully together as it goes, the soft smile refusing to let her look away. It’s a good smile: one of his best. She’s not seen him smile like that in a long time. Not since the last time she first met him, anyway.
“I mean, you don’t like to play a little rough - do you honey? Because if that was the case, I wouldn’t have anything to worry about.”
Head tilted, lips slightly parted, eyes lighted with a genuine desire to help, the ensemble softened by the merest soupçon of dimple - a real ‘trust me, honey - I only want what you want. Honestly, if you needed me to go beat your friends up then getting my end away would be the last thing on my mind - but all the same, don’t you think I’d look better screwing you than your relationships? Come on; look how close you are to getting me naked...’ smile.
He must practise. No wonder he spends so long in the bathroom - and she thought he was just wanking...
“Is that it, honey?”
“No. Well. I mean - not really rough...”
Smooth-tongued, twisting bastard... She was right: he hadn’t changed at all. He’s exactly the man who’ll catch her falling simply to seduce her for a con - and he knew it. He knew it -
‘Did I hurt you?’ That’s what he said. ‘I won’t let you do this for me. I could hurt you.’
“Really?” That eyebrow’s gone up again; entirely unrehearsed genuine surprise shining from every angle of an oh-so innocent smile. “So I shouldn’t be worried then? When you said play-fighting, you mean you just... like to play?”
“Well. I mean...”
‘And I’d love it,’ he said. ‘But you’re not a player. Don’t go. It doesn’t matter - I don’t need to know.’
“It’s okay. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I just want to give you what you want. Is that what you want, honey? Do you want to play?”
It’s just Jack. Still just Jack; exactly the same and a different man entirely.
‘Come home,’ he said, ‘Rose, please, you can’t do this for me -’
“Honey? Are you going to play with me? I know all kinds of good games...”
“I might. It depends...” That’s it; smile for the pretty, half-naked bastard. “But you’re not tying me up, right? I’m not doing nothing like that.”
“No? You sure? I’ll let you do me. We can do anything you want. Anything...” And the pretty half-naked bastard will get a little more naked and smirk right back. “Oh, you are good. You nearly had me there. But I knew you couldn’t be as innocent as you look.”
“Can’t I?” It’s a game. That’s all it is. “That’s a shame. And I was doing so well...”
“Oh, you are, baby. But I want to play too. And if you’re going to be naughty then I’ll just have to be teacher...”
It’s just a game. He’s Jack, and they’re playing a game of Truth or Consequences. She had her turn earlier, so now it’s his go. It’s going to be fun. It is. See? He gets to purr overheated syrup-of-filth in her ear and paw her clothes off, and all she has to do is wriggle and giggle and try not to squirm all the way off the sofa and out the door - because he’s really good at pretending to be a kinky, lying, manipulative bastard and if she calls him on it she’ll spoil all the fun.
But there’s fun and there’s fun - and he’s got really big hands, so no, really, thanks all the same, but she’ll give that a miss. Seriously. No - that’s enough - she’s a good girl, see?
“Yeah? Shame. Maybe later, eh, honey? Okay, so tell me - no - show me. Come on baby; show me where you want me.”
That’s easy: in the TARDIS kitchen - sitting at the table with greasy, green fingers, and a smile on his face. Teasing her and laughing at her. Kissing her like he means it, not just like he wants it. Letting her explore, letting her find out what he likes - so she can do it again, later.
“Honey? You know if you’re teasing me here I’m going to have to - fuck -”
Is it that late already? Wow. It’s been doing that a lot today. Yeah, she knows - but that’s such a poor, tense-looking tendon… Is it feeling better now? Yeah? Good. He likes that, doesn’t he. Yeah, she can tell. It’s all those groany noises: dead giveaway. No, she’s fine, just getting her breath - and there too? Okay. And there? Yeah - and maybe if he could just shove over a bit? No, just a bit of a cold. She’s fine. It’s nothing. Yeah, if he could move a few of those hands. Just three or four, that should do. Thanks. That’s it - let her get a better angle. There’s no rush, is there? They’ve got all night...
It’s not enough though, not for him. Not now - he’s insistent. Hasn’t she waited long enough? He knows he has -
“Here.” A quiet rip and a wriggle and then a deft stroke drags her gaze down to his hands as his jeans drop the last few inches to the floor.
It’s just another game. All she’s got to do is pretend that he’s him. He’s the one shaking, not her - because he’s excited; because it’s Jack and he wants her because she’s her - and she’s just going to climb on and enjoy the ride, and then, when it’s over...
“Come on - sit on me. Fuck me.”
But he’s too strong to be so impatient: hard-soft hands hauling her down to meet rising hips, her knees squeaking on the leather, lifted and dragged and held up as a single efficient stroke spreads her open, an invasion of groan-flavoured tongue smothering her yowl at the sudden, shocking stretch. He’s thick. Really. Thicker than she realised and it burns. Thick and blunt and mercilessly solid, stretching all the way in, smoothing wetly back out. Slow and deliberate, broad shoulders flexing in her grip as he rises again, pulling her down and then lifting her up, catching her on the down-stroke and wriggling deeper. Holding her down - one, two, three and then breathe and release - grinding the numb sting of friction to a pounding throb before letting her go again, a rough ‘that’s it - ride me’ rolled over the point of a nipple and sucked until there’s nothing in the world but a bass-beat backing to the stretch and slide and puff and squeak of skin in skin on skin on skins, harsh breathing and a familiar dark head ducked busily low, making her sweat and pant - making it good -
She can do this. She wants to - because this is Jack and it’s good. It’s Jack and they’re in the lounge with the TV on low and... No. It’s the night she met him. She’s never seen him before today and they’re trying out the captain’s chair in his Chula ship in the middle of the London Blitz. It’s all right - it’s right; just her and Jack. It’s what she wanted. It’s good: sharp and real, soft and wet and hard and rough... It’s Jack: moving inside her and under her - Jack’s fingers and hip bones, Jack’s mouth and his eyes...
“That’s right - look at me. I want to watch you come.”
It’s Jack. It’s good and it is, it’s him, it is - is -
“Jack...”
“That’s it, baby - louder.”
It doesn’t take long and even then he’s right behind her. It doesn’t matter. He’s got nothing to prove; her heart knows the difference but her body’s too far gone to care.
He’s still there when her eyes open. Still half hard inside her, his head lolled comfortably back, watching her as she tries to hide a shudder under a yawn and a laugh; a lazy grin touching half-closed eyes and making them shine.
“Long day, baby? It’s okay, me too - but I don’t think we’re ready to go to sleep just yet.” Bare thighs flexing, his leisurely stretch lifts her knees off the sofa, curling an arm round her as a sudden switchback folds her in half, ignoring her dizzied shriek when her hair brushes the floor to lean further, rooting in a jingling pocket, rustling and rattling something she can’t turn far enough to see.
His eyes are still shining when he sits them back up, the lolling length of him settling sloppily as he catches her in a long, wet, thorough kiss, the increasingly familiar combination of sex and vodka flavoured with something new and faintly bitter. It’s like sweet sherbet with extra lemon and a twist of iced pan-scourer, but whatever it is it’s making her tongue tingle, making her mouth dry with the need to lick her lips - making her mouth water even as the shiver trickling down through her stomach freezes solid.
“What was that? You gave me something - Look, I never -”
“It’s nothing. It’s fine - just relax, baby. I’ve got you.”
“No. No, there was something there - I can taste it. I can feel it, it’s - oh, god...”
It’s fizzy. Her blood’s fizzy - singing through her skin at every touch, ringing and singing in her ears, dragging her focus down to the heat of the body under her, the hand on her back and the one in her hair - all those follicles, she never knew she had so many - the hairs on his thighs like trace glints of static on her backside, sweat prickling over muscle and flesh - the double-thud of two pulses inside her louder than the soft rasp of breath on her cheek, eyelashes scraping her temple as perfect, sensible syllables pour smoothly into her ear, overflowing across her throat and down, flooding each tremble and making it shine.
“Give it a second, let it settle. It’s just a little pick-me-up. You don’t want to fall asleep and miss all the fun, do you?”
She can’t see him - she’d have to open her eyes for that - but she can see that smile. It’s so sincere it hurts to even imagine it; broad and shiny, promising her the only thing she’ll believe from whoever he is right now: that whatever he’s planning to do to her, he’ll make sure she enjoys it - whether she likes it or not.
“Trust me, babe, I wouldn’t do anything nasty to you - nothing you don’t beg me for, anyhow.”
“No - but, I mean -”
Another kiss swallows anything else she might have said; sharp-tasting and increasingly delicious, pulling her under, drowning her senses in skin and saliva. And what would she have said anyway? She’s got to concentrate. It’s just Jack. That’s all she needs to know. His name is Jack, he’s a gorgeous, lying, manipulative, sexy bastard that she met earlier tonight - and it’s going to be fun...
“I think it’s time we did this properly, don’t you? No -” Breathing heavily as he finally lets her lean back, fingers clamp into her hips, holding her down, his jaw set and grinning. “- don’t move. Just squeeze me.”
“What?”
“Squeeze me. Come on, baby, let me feel those muscles working. That’s it - tighter.”
He can’t be serious - he just came. But then so did she, and the fat, wet grind and slide of slowly swelling flesh finding every single hyperactive nerve-ending as it grows inside her isn’t exactly turning her off. He is: he’s hard. Harder. A thickened throb filling her completely as he shifts, wriggling deeper, his head falling back, his eyes rolling up in such a blissed-out expression that she can’t help but hope... Could he, just maybe, have passed out?
“That’s it.” No such bloody luck. “Now, I guess we’ll need a new one of these, and then...”
It’s all a bit of a whirl after that. Maybe she ought to be trying to remember detail - but that’s asking too much, especially when she’s not even sure if she can count anymore. One condom dropped sloppily on the glass-topped table. Two rips in the little foil packet under her nose and two friction-burnt knees - soft carpet, but not so good in action. They should complain to the management. When she’s finished chewing the sofa she might think about that again. Maybe, if he’d give her a chance to breathe. Face down - face up - where was she? One wet condom and two sore knees - nice smooth plaster on the ceiling, sweaty leather squeaking under her shoulders and a very familiar head between her thighs...
One and two and... It doesn’t tally and she’s certain it won’t - not with a bastard-fast tongue lapping up the evidence, a casual hand stroking a suspiciously wet but mercifully drooping erection as he’s kneeling at her feet.
It’s okay, he says, just lay back, baby. That’s it - wider - oh baby, that’s good -
Can’t he even remember her name? It’s Rose. Don’t you know me?
She can’t say it. She can’t tell him. He doesn’t know her and he can’t. Not now. This is all it is.
This, and champagne it seems. Well, she could do with a drink...
He wasn’t joking though. Really, that wasn’t a joke? Well, yeah - with a thing on the shower head - but... Doesn’t he know that you’re not supposed to do that with bottles? Really, she’s sure you’re not. No - not even if you’ve scraped all the foil off. Yes, it does look kind of the right shape, but really... Really? But surely not and shake it. Where’s he planning to put that thumb? Oh god - that’s going to make such a mess and this sofa looks really expensi -
“Jack - bloody god.”
“That’s it; wider. Let me see you. Is that good? It looks good. Yeah? Here - let me -”
No. He can’t have it back. Not now, not so fast. Why so fast? Didn’t he want to watch her come? No, really, he can’t stop now... What he’s doing? Yes, it looks like a lovely strawberry, but what - no, don’t take it away -
“You like that? It’s okay. I’ll give you some more. But I’m thirsty, baby, and you’ve got all my champagne. I tell you what; I’ll swap you my strawberry for your bottle - yeah, just like that, hold still now - then we won’t spill anything before I get a taste...”
That’s more than a taste. But she’s not complaining - he can take as long as he wants, because soft fruit might not have been her weapon of choice, but concentrating on not-squashing it is easier than not-thinking about the way he’s purring as he laps, slow and deep, lapping and humming, making fizzy blood roar as he laps and then laps and then sucks -- the wet, satisfied slurp accompanied by a pop louder than the champagne cork managed as an eager mouth catches a hot, fizzing gush.
If that’s how the bottle felt then she’s putting in for a transfer. He really wasn’t joking. All those bubbles; inside and outside and just everywhere... More? Why the hell not. It’s not like she’s got anything else to be doing right now, and it’s a big bottle - really, big - she wouldn’t want it to go flat before they finished it.
“Don’t worry.” A tepid trickle hits her stomach, pooling in her belly button and running lower. It’s still fizzy - still fizzing - as it meets glass coming the other way, the hollowing shock of suction and slosh knotting her tongue around a groan. “There’s another one in the cooler.”
“Good. That’s good.” Go her - three whole words. “’Cos that’s - oh god - good, really, just...”
“And you’re delicious. Here - taste -”
He’s trying to kill her - he can’t keep stopping like that, and then... Oh. Right.
It’s okay. It’s just a bottle. She’s drunk out of a bottle plenty of times before - although it’s generally been Coke or Liebfraumilch, not Cristal. And she can’t help wincing at the taste, but she’s starting to get used to it now - and it’s not like she can wipe the neck first, no matter where it’s been. He’d be far too disappointed.
“Oh yeah, that’s it, honey. You’ve got such a beautiful mouth... can I get some of that? Move over - let me up there. Look at what you’re doing to me...”
Again? Already? Isn’t he tired?
It doesn’t look like it from this angle. And is it her, or is she doing all the work again?
No, she’s not complaining. Because she’s got manners, that’s why - unlike some people, she doesn’t talk with her mouth full. Yeah? Oh yeah, so long as he can manage not to bite her when she... Yeah, like that; does he like that? No, it’s a big sofa; she’ll probably manage to stay on, thanks. But if he could just.... Aw, is he getting champagne in his eyes? That’s a shame. Never mind, he’ll live - just as long as he can breathe under there...
And that’s funny - although it’s not - because he tastes like the bottle but without the fizz. ‘I’ve got another one right here,’ her arse. He’s a lying, cheating, silver-tongued - long silver-tongued, clever-tongued, long-fingered... Yes, just like that. More. Yeah, she’ll suck, but only if he does - bastard. And why would he be tired? She’s not - not anymore - and his night is at least four hours younger than hers, not to mention the fact that he’s got himself a willing, warm, and increasingly sticky body with all the requisite holes.
What - all of them? Now hang on a minute...
Only as far as he’s concerned, ‘but I’ve never done that before,’ isn’t so much a refusal as a challenge. Because of course he wouldn’t dream of doing something she doesn’t like - but look how well they’re doing on new experiences tonight already. And really, how does she know if she hasn’t tried? It’ll be good - amazing - and he’s got everything they need...
He’s a real fucking boy scout. That is, when he’s not playing fireman or pharmacist. No, she’s fine, really - and it’s not that far to the bed. She has got legs, remember? Those things he keeps losing his face between?
“I wouldn’t want you getting too tired to enjoy me. That’s it, honey. Just relax and let me in. You’re gonna love this.”
But such a good boy scout - Baden-Powell would’ve been proud of him - making sure she’s well-prepared, promising her how good it’ll be and making sure it is.
It is. It shouldn’t be, not like this. But it is. It’s fucking fantastic. Fantastic fucking this stranger with Jack’s face and his body: sheets rucked under her cheek and a pillow under her stomach, stretched wide and filled rigid, Jack’s filthy tongue tingling on her spine, Jack’s voice telling her how incredible she looks - and what is it with him and mirrors?
“That’s so tight... You’ve got to see yourself like this. Come on, get up. Grab that chair...”
If she’d known him here first then she’d be filing tonight under ‘compare all sex with, ever’ because being worshipped and defiled in turn - at the same time; in triplicate just as soon as he can wedge the wardrobe doors at the right angle - by a gorgeous stranger might actually be one of the most exciting things she’s ever done.
If she’d known him here first.
But she didn’t. Doesn’t. No more than he does her.
Jack was right about everything but the thing that mattered most: he won’t hurt her - how could he? He isn’t even here. And she can’t say no, any more than she can complain, because when her mouth’s not full he’s making her pant so hard she can hardly breathe, let alone talk.
But it still hurts. All of it: Every kiss, every smile and caress; every proof of the man she’s going to know - the man he’ll be. Every joke she can’t make. Every guilty second panting under his fingers and tongue - under him and on him - every thrust, every bite, every ‘baby’, and every single time she comes.
next (9/9)