It's Not a Game
Title: It’s Not a Game
Rating: M
Words: 2,502
Summary: “Rose, I… I did something bad.” He feels like a criminal and she merely looks at him with eyes that say she’s already absolved him of his transgressions. Despite that, he needs to tell her. - A relationship starting off on a different foot.
Author’s Notes: This is something that has been done for a while. I didn't want to put it out there until I finished the sequel. Let me tell you right off the bat - this isn't happy. My lovely beta (jer832) described this as film noire-esque. The sequel will have much more of a hopeful outlook. Despite this, I hope you tell me what you think. Comments are more than welcome - whether they are good or bad.
Inspired by Coeur de Pirate’s songs ‘Wicked Games’, ‘Place de la Republique’ and ‘C’était salemet Romantique’
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He storms out of their flat. He’s breathing heavily and he’s flushed and confused and his mind isn’t making any sense.
So he walks. He walks until his calves are burning and he has no idea where he is. The sky is much darker, he notes for the first time. He looks around and only sees warehouses. There’s the faint sound of thumping music, and he walks towards it knowing that there will be people there.
There’s a group of rough-looking young men standing around outside an open door. Each of them is laughing and passing a fag around as they share vulgar jokes.
“Aye, what about you, mate?” one calls. He looks up from his shoes and sees that they’re calling him over. His feet take him over to them and they hustle him in, lighting another fag and handing it to him.
“What about me?” he asks, taking a long drag and choking as he inhales. His old body would’ve been able to take some smoke, he thinks bitterly. This body is so useless. Even she thinks so.
“You ain’t look like none of us.” There’s a unanimous rumble amongst the men.
He takes a slow drag and manages not to cough this time. Yeah, he deserves a pat on the back for this accomplishment. Good for him. “I’m just… out,” he says, licking his chapped lips.
The men nod and begin to shuffle into a nearby building. Only when he enters does he notice that it’s some sort of nuddie club. There are scantily clad girls romping about and hanging off of the arms of much older men. He swallows as his eyes go to the center of the room where a big-breasted brunette is kneeling before some guy who has his head flung back. He finds himself unable to drag his eyes away. Something begins to stir in his groin, and he shifts uncomfortably.
One of his newfound companions gives him a wink and stalks after a passing girl who’s wearing far too much makeup.
He’s left standing there, unsure and aroused. He stumbles around a bit, overwhelmed by the sounds and smells in the club. Everywhere he looks there’s a half-naked woman going at it with a man or, in some cases, another woman. His mind is blank, and all he can feel is the heaviness of his arousal and the rhythmic tightening and loosening of his fists against his taut thighs.
Nails scratch his nape and run down his spine. He shivers at the unexpected sensation. A woman stands in front of him, and he licks his lips at the sight of her.
She’s so pale that she glows in the club light. Her rigout is a baby blue color with pastel pink bows in some shiny, satiny material. Her eyes are deep brown, and her blonde hair is wavy. “’m Sommer,” she says. Her hand creeps onto his body, and she touches his face in a manner that only one other person has ever done.
“I’m….. Vincent.” Sommer smiles at him in that way that people do when they don’t really care what you have to say. She purrs his name as her other hand reaches for his face. He sees her coming closer, but his mind doesn’t register what’s happening until Sommer’s lips are on his. She tastes like bitter, unripe kiwis and saliva. As her tongue dives into his mouth, he figures that she really doesn’t care what he has to say. She does, however, seem to care about this.
He finds himself responding - all of himself. His body is replying to Sommer’s provocative movements; his lower region stirring as she dances against him. Her sharp nails bite into his neck, and she moans warmly into his mouth as he cups her arse. She murmurs his name and moves back to suck his neck. His head falls back, and she begins to tug him to a separate room. He follows her like a little lost lamb.
Sommer slams the door behind them and shoves him against it, kissing him viciously. Her teeth nip at his bottom lip, and he shrinks away until his head bangs against the door. Sommer pulls back and doesn’t spare him an apologetic glance or anything. Instead she tugs him towards a mattress that’s lying on the ground. She falls back and pulls him down on top of her. He flounders, unsure of what he’s supposed to do. He sees her eyes roll and suddenly she’s on top of him.
Once again, he’s at a loss. Sommer takes his hands in hers and puts them on her breasts. He pinches her nipples through the sheer material of her bra, and she rocks her pelvis into his. She reaches down and removes her knickers. Her hands then move to his trousers and she unzips them and shuffles his pants down just far enough that his cock is freed.
His eyes fly to Sommer’s, and he looks for some sort of reassurance, some sign that he’s alright and normal. He’s never done this in this body - and most definitely never as a human - and he’s so forlorn. All he hears is her voice, his love’s voice, saying she isn’t ready; she needs more time. And all he can feel is the ache that her words left in his fragile heart.
Sommer catches him looking at her and gives him a quick squeeze that makes his eyes roll back.
“Ya gotta johnny?” she asks him, poising her body above his cock. He looks at her confusedly, and she rolls her eyes at him again. She reaches towards her bra and pulls a square foil package out. She opens it, and something small falls out. Her fingers move to his cock, and she rolls it down his aching member. He flinches at the constricting feel but has no time to adjust before Sommer is mounting him.
Her body engulfs his cock. She’s hot, and she immediately begins to rise up and down on him.
“Oooooooh, Vincent,” Sommer husks. For a moment he wonders who she’s talking to until he remembers that he asked her to call him Vincent. Then she twists her hips and becomes tight around him and he closes his eyes. He listens to the sound of his blood rushing through his ears. He feels the springs from the mattress dig into his back and he’s getting a crick in his neck and she doesn’t smell quite right or feel like she fits him and he suddenly realizes what he’s doing, where he is, and that he wants someone with lighter eyes and darker hair and a special smile just for him….
-
‘I need time,’ she says, her eyes not meeting his. She twiddles her fingers and hugs her body with her arms. He wavers, lying there with his shirt off and his hair a mess from her fingers. ‘I can’t do this just yet.’
All he can register is the fact that she just rejected him.
-
Now he doesn’t care. He wants Rose. He needs her.
Despite that, his body, his stupid fucking human hormones, force him to meet her thrusts. He’s coming, and he clenches his jaw to keep from sobbing. Sommer lets out a loud moan of pleasure that he knows is fake, and he feels tears leak from his eyes. He quickly blinks them away and hoists Sommer off his lap with shaky arms. He pulls off the full condom and disposes of it in the trashcan that’s full of them. Bile rises in his throat; he swallows it down and fixes himself. He flings the door open and begins to make a rapid exit. Sommer yells after him about compensation.
He stumbles out of the club and into the muggy London night. The air is heavy, and it’s too dark for him to see very well. He blunders on anyway, knowing that he needs to get as far away from that place as he can.
He trips over trips over something and falls to the ground, his hands and knees catching his fall. Hot blood immediately wells on the cuts on his palms and he crawls to the alley wall. He leans against it and wipes his shaking hands on his trousers. His entire body is quivering, and it’s not from the cold. Something sour roils inside him, and he leans over and empties the contents of his stomach.
His shaking gets worse and he leans his head back against the brick wall. He lets his eyes drift closed, dreaming of a place where he is warm and loved.
-
When he wakes up it’s a bit brighter out. He stands on legs as wobbly as a colt’s and begins walking again.
He keeps going until he reaches the absurdly tall building that he and Rose reside in under stressed terms. As he exits the lift and sees the sun peek over the horizon, he wonders how he’s going to do this. Should he walk in and make tea? Or should he stay cool and act as if nothing happened? Or…
He looks down at his hands and wonders when he became so much like the things he’s always hated. He opens the door and makes it into the kitchen. There are dirty dishes stacked in the sink and two mugs sitting on the counter. One is empty and the other is full of ice-cold tea. It’s milky; just the way he likes it. His single heart - and resolve - breaks just a little bit at the implication, at the idea of Rose making cuppa and waiting for him before giving up.
He just stares at the mug with blank, weary eyes. His hands reach for the kettle. He fills it with water and goes to his pocket for his sonic. He tries to hold in a sickened heave when he remembers he doesn’t have it. So he puts the kettle on the stove and turns the heat all the way up. He watches the flame lick at the bottom of the kettle, burning blue then red as water droplets run down the sides.
Before the kettle can whistle, he pours the water and adds his tea and milk. He stands at the counter and holds his tea with shaking hands. Hot liquid slips over the edge and burns his hands, making him drop the mug. He can feel his whole body trembling as he leans down and picks up the large shards. He places them on the counter and puts his hands under the faucet. Cold water runs over his reddened hands and he swallows thickly.
Hot tears bite at his eyes, and he shakes his head and squints to keep them at bay. Only when he feels a warm hand on his arm does he open his eyes. Rose is standing before him in fuzzy socks and a t-shirt - his t-shirt, he notes - and is looking at him with the largest, saddest eyes he’s ever seen. Her cheeks are splotchy from crying.
She moves closer and turns off the faucet, reaching for him. He recoils from her touch and turns the faucet back on. He pays no mind to her frowning face.
The cold water becomes increasingly frigid, gnawing at his skin. He can see Rose shift out of the corner of his eye and angles his body away from her. Like a morbidly curious boy, he is unable to keep himself from looking over his shoulder at her. She’s leaning on the counter, head bowed. A lump grows in his throat as he watches her steel herself and approach him once more. Her face is wet, and he hates himself so fucking much.
There’s a loud choked sound, and he is alarmed when he realizes that it came from him. Rose moves towards him, and her small hand captures his. She switches off the water, and for the second time that day he finds himself being led into a bedroom. But this time it’s Rose’s and that’s okay because he belongs there. Or at least he should….
Rose lays him down on her bed and crawls in beside him. Her thin arms wrap around him, and he clings to her like a small child would cling to their mother after a nightmare. And he is a small child. He is lost and confused and dealing with his hormones and temper and Rose deserves better than that. She deserves the universe, but the best she gets is a wreck of a sorta Time Lord.
He cries into her chest and she soothes him with gentle touches and kisses to his hair. He knows he smells like sick and sex, but she doesn’t mention it. She just rocks him and murmurs to him softly.
“I love you,” Rose whispers once he’s quieted to small hiccups. “I love you and you’re perfect. You’re my Doctor.” She kisses his forehead and he can feel something wet on his face. He frowns and looks up. Tears are coursing down her face and, once again, he has no clue what to do. All he knows is that he’s in pain and she’s in pain because of him. He doesn’t like that one bit.
“Rose,” he starts, his voice so hoarse that it’s little more than a whisper. She shakes her head and kisses his temple.
“No.” Rose’s eyes are flashing, intense with emotion. “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry. You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” She strokes his sweat-matted hair with the gentlest of touches. “My beautiful man; my Doctor,” she murmurs it in that quiet, soothing voice that makes him think she’s an angel. The best he can do is just watch her, look up at her in complete awe because she’s so amazing and he doesn’t deserve it.
“Rose, I… I did something bad.” He feels like a criminal and she merely looks at him with eyes that say she’s already absolved him of his transgressions. Despite that, he needs to tell her.
“It’s alright, Doctor.”
He shakes his head. “I… I had sex with someone.” He watches Rose close her eyes and bite her lip. He feels fear well up in him. “It was awful,” he adds.
“I forgive you.” Air rushes back into his lungs, his weak, human lungs and he snuggles back into her. Rose holds him tightly. “And I’m sorry it was awful. You, my Doctor, deserve to be loved properly.” She presses a lingering kiss to his hair and breathes him in. He can’t imagine that he smells too pleasant, but she doesn’t seem to mind or at the very least, she doesn’t complain. “I vow to do my best to love you the way you’re worthy of being loved.”
He doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he just shakes his head and kisses the nearest patch of skin he can find.