Worth the Monsters, Part 1/1
Title: Worth the Monsters
Author: radiantbaby
Characters/Pairings: Ten/Belle de Jour, implied Ten/Rose (x-over with Secret Diary of a Call Girl)
Word Count: 423 [in Word]
Genre: PWP
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Ten visits Belle de Jour in the alt!verse, but its only a pale comparison to who he really wants to see.
Beta: persiflage_1
Disclaimer: All your Doctor Who are belong to us Sadly, I own nothing related to Doctor Who et al. I am just playing around in their sandbox for a bit of fun.
Author Notes: This was written about 2 weeks or so ago for the kinkmeme [sizeofthatthing], but I've decided to post a few of my stories publically and this is one of them. Thanks so much as always to the magnificent persiflage_1 who checked for typos and such from when I'd originally posted it! Any other mistakes are all mine. Feedback is happy-making, so please leave a word or two [even if I am a bit slack in responding, your comments always make my day].
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Sometimes he visits her. At least, that is what he tells himself when he lays back in opulent hotel rooms on silken sheets as she rides above him.
He can’t see the real her anymore. If they even come into contact - even just share one small touch - their universes will fold and collapse. Sometimes he thinks that his hearts already have.
He found her by accident, just wandering the streets of this strange version of London, walking so self-assuredly through roads and alleyways. At first he thought it was his lost Rose, so he hid in corners, trailing her as she moved through the city. He soon found out she was not, but simply a woman of great resemblance.
She was a call girl called Belle.
Weaving coincidences together through the threads of their lives, he finally crossed paths with her as a patron. He still remembers the first time he was with her, trembling so much that she had to soothe him like a skittish horse. She let him call her Rose, let him speak to her as if she actually was his dear friend, let him do things to her that he only dared do in dreams when he was with the real Rose…
“Is this how you like it, Doctor?” she asked sultrily as she rode his cock above him, affecting a more working-class accent to help with the charade. She was good and sometimes he forgot it wasn’t even the same person.
“Tell me I’m worth the monsters.”
“You’re worth the monsters, Doctor,” she responded, rolling her hips sensuously against him. He squirmed below her in pleasure, jerking and rutting against her almost like an animal, though trying to keep his own internal monsters at bay.
It was often like that. She started out on top of him and he watched as she moved and swayed above him, almost as out of reach as Rose truly was.
Sometimes he wouldn’t even let himself touch her skin, her breasts, from that vantage point, punishing himself for his part in losing her.
Sometimes he wouldn’t be able to control himself and he would pull her nipples between desperate pinches and pulls, grab at her breasts almost frantically, and work her clit with trembling long fingers.
Then he would flip her over, pushing fast and hard against her as he spoke to her in his native tongue, telling her all the things that he could not say to her in reality, words on windy beaches that had caught tightly in his throat...
Author: radiantbaby
Characters/Pairings: Ten/Belle de Jour, implied Ten/Rose (x-over with Secret Diary of a Call Girl)
Word Count: 423 [in Word]
Genre: PWP
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Ten visits Belle de Jour in the alt!verse, but its only a pale comparison to who he really wants to see.
Beta: persiflage_1
Disclaimer: All your Doctor Who are belong to us Sadly, I own nothing related to Doctor Who et al. I am just playing around in their sandbox for a bit of fun.
Author Notes: This was written about 2 weeks or so ago for the kinkmeme [sizeofthatthing], but I've decided to post a few of my stories publically and this is one of them. Thanks so much as always to the magnificent persiflage_1 who checked for typos and such from when I'd originally posted it! Any other mistakes are all mine. Feedback is happy-making, so please leave a word or two [even if I am a bit slack in responding, your comments always make my day].
---
Sometimes he visits her. At least, that is what he tells himself when he lays back in opulent hotel rooms on silken sheets as she rides above him.
He can’t see the real her anymore. If they even come into contact - even just share one small touch - their universes will fold and collapse. Sometimes he thinks that his hearts already have.
He found her by accident, just wandering the streets of this strange version of London, walking so self-assuredly through roads and alleyways. At first he thought it was his lost Rose, so he hid in corners, trailing her as she moved through the city. He soon found out she was not, but simply a woman of great resemblance.
She was a call girl called Belle.
Weaving coincidences together through the threads of their lives, he finally crossed paths with her as a patron. He still remembers the first time he was with her, trembling so much that she had to soothe him like a skittish horse. She let him call her Rose, let him speak to her as if she actually was his dear friend, let him do things to her that he only dared do in dreams when he was with the real Rose…
“Is this how you like it, Doctor?” she asked sultrily as she rode his cock above him, affecting a more working-class accent to help with the charade. She was good and sometimes he forgot it wasn’t even the same person.
“Tell me I’m worth the monsters.”
“You’re worth the monsters, Doctor,” she responded, rolling her hips sensuously against him. He squirmed below her in pleasure, jerking and rutting against her almost like an animal, though trying to keep his own internal monsters at bay.
It was often like that. She started out on top of him and he watched as she moved and swayed above him, almost as out of reach as Rose truly was.
Sometimes he wouldn’t even let himself touch her skin, her breasts, from that vantage point, punishing himself for his part in losing her.
Sometimes he wouldn’t be able to control himself and he would pull her nipples between desperate pinches and pulls, grab at her breasts almost frantically, and work her clit with trembling long fingers.
Then he would flip her over, pushing fast and hard against her as he spoke to her in his native tongue, telling her all the things that he could not say to her in reality, words on windy beaches that had caught tightly in his throat...