Beta: Miral-Romanov
Prompter: narnian23
Nights In White Satin
The burn of bittersweet alcohol down his chest coupled well with the endless images of explosions, broken buildings and cracked pavements, the memories of searing pain in his muscles and down his chest. John Smith lowered his shot glass and set it down on the bar a little more forcefully than he'd intended, waving his hand to get the bartender's attention to refill his glass.
The bartender, a pale, baby-faced kid at least half his age with a shiny mop of dark hair, frowned at him as he poured him another cupful of amber liquid from a crystal bottle. "Take it easy on that stuff, eh mate?"
"I'll take it easy when I'm dead," John muttered, swallowing the drink whole and slamming the glass back down onto the bar, and this time the loud clacking sound that pierced through the chattering ambience was on purpose. Cocking an eyebrow at the suit-wearing child that looked too young to so much as maintain an erection, let alone work at a pub, he added, "How old are you, anyway?"
"Twenty-two, sir."
A slight look of exasperation flickered over his face, though he tried to hide it with a good-natured expression, and John snorted into his glass— must be a question often asked. The bartender lumbered off to serve other people with the same goal in mind of getting so sloshed they didn't remember their own names, and the band in the corner that'd been partially muted by the rowdy chatter switched from the jazzy tune they'd been playing to the more than familiar bass guitar intro of a song that'd been on everyone's lips lately.
"Nights in white satin…"
"Ugh," John grimaced, draining his glass as quickly as possible as though that'd turn him deaf.
"Never reaching the end…"
There was nothing he hated more than being forced to listen to the modern tunes of today's youth; they had nothing on those of his era. Then he wrinkled his nose at his own thought— God, but he was old. Sitting at a bar by himself, trying to get pissed enough to forget the days he served in a war that'd been over for twenty years and having 'things were better back in my day' thoughts.
"Letters I've written,
Never meaning to send."
He was so lost in thought that he didn't notice somebody sidle onto the stool next to him until a voice called out across the bar, "Could I get a pint here?"
"Beauty I'd always missed
With these eyes before…"
John sent a sideways glance at the source, only to do what was probably a comical double take when his eyes took in what had to be one of the most stunning dolls he'd ever laid eyes on— and he'd gotten around. Tightly curled blonde locks tumbled over pale shoulders left exposed by the strapless, body-hugging red dress, which fell to about her knees and showed off a pair of fantastic legs. Her lips were painted crimson, matching her dress, and her eyes were the same colour as the liquid in the glass he was clutching onto for dear life, framed with thick black lashes and reflecting nothing but utter annoyance.
"Just what the truth is…"
The bartender heard her call and went visibly red at the sight of her, and John smirked at the expression on his face like a tentative teenager approaching a pretty girl in his class. Clearing his throat, the kid asked in a voice at least an octave deeper than what he'd used with John earlier, "Can I help you, ma'am?"
"Glass of jack, thanks," she said, leaning her elbows against the bar.
"I can't say anymore…"
The redness ebbed from his cheeks and he said with a frown, "That's a bit strong for you, don't you think—?"
"Do I look like I misspoke, little boy?" she snapped at once, making John smirk behind his hand and causing the bartender to go red again.
"Right," he mumbled, grabbing another shot glass and pouring a generous amount of the same thing John had been tossing back for the last half hour before practically fleeing her presence.
"'Cause I love you,
Yes I love you—"
"— Oh, how I love you," she finished on a mumble, toying with her glass before tossing the liquid back like she was no different than all the men in the pub.
Her voice was more than lovely, and the thought occurred to John that maybe the song wasn't so bad— at least, if she was the one singing it. He snorted to himself, turning his whole body away from her and staring at his glass moodily. She was probably barely older than the 'little boy' of a bartender, and he could be her father. She heard his noise and turned to him, and he cursed himself when he felt heat creep up the back of his neck. Gods, he wasn't any better than the kid.
"What's the matter— don't like my singin'?" she snarked.
He had to bite back a smile when he noticed how much she looked like a fierce kitten, but admittedly truthfully, "Actually I was thinkin' that I'd be able to tolerate the song if you were the one singin' it."
He watched in secret delight as colour blossomed over her cheeks, before she buried her face in her hands and mumbled, "'M sorry. Not exactly in the best mood tonight."
"Couldn't've guessed." Wincing at his own rudeness, especially since she'd extended her apologies instead of brushing him off like most beautiful women would've, he stopped hunching over the bar and extended his hand. "John Smith."
She quirked the side of her mouth upward in a half-smile, shaking his hand, and God, her fingers were so tiny compared to his. "Rose Tyler."
Rose Tyler. Somehow with her crimson outfit it suited her perfectly. Once again he had to suppress a snort at his own sappy thoughts. Despite his better judgement, and the voice in his head shouting that she probably didn't want to continue talking to a worn-out old soldier like him, he said casually, "So, what's a lovely lass like you doing in a dingy pub tossin' back hard alcohol like it's nothing worse than milk?"
"Tryin' to get shit-faced," she said, not quite reverting to her snarky tone but steel sneaking in nonetheless. "Why, are you here for a different reason?"
"S'pose not," John muttered, although that was only half-true.
She seemed to see through his words, regarding him with a contemplative look— he tried not to think about how her makeup made the expression on her face look like she was giving him bedroom eyes. "What's your story?"
"Who says I've got one?" he replied, frowning slightly.
"Everyone's got one," she said, shrugging one pale shoulder and playing idly with her glass.
"I could be just another grotty old man getting wasted 'cos I need booze in my system to function," John muttered, staring at his glass again.
"Yeah, 'cept you're not," Rose said matter-of-factly.
"How d'you know?"
"You're dead sober, and you don't have the shakes."
"Not every alcoholic gets the shakes."
"True. But you've also been playing with that shot for about fifteen minutes instead of drinking it," she pointed out. "That and three others would've been gone by now. Now enough deflecting." She set down her glass, turning fully towards him. "What exactly is John Smith trying to forget?"
He glanced at her, trying not to let astonishment shine through his carefully schooled mask. She seemed to notice it anyway though, waiting patiently for him to respond. "I'm a soldier, Rose," he grunted, scowling at the collection of bottles behind the bar instead of looking at her. "I've got plenty to forget."
"In World War II?" He nodded, and she mimicked his expression. "My parents died in the Blitz. I was five."
John sent her another sideways glance of shock, admitting quietly, "'M surprised you were even alive during the war."
Rose cocked an eyebrow at him. "Don't look that young, do I?"
Young enough to be my daughter, he thought, but instead of voicing that he instead said, "Young enough."
Her nose wrinkled adorably. "Like him?" she grimaced, jerking her head in the direction of the bartender.
John couldn't help but grin like he hadn't in a long while. "Why, don't you think he's fit?"
"He's barely out of primary school!" Rose exclaimed, looking so horrified he just had to laugh. "It isn't funny," she added, swatting his arm and scowling without any actual edge.
He obediently silenced himself, though his grin lingered. "So how old are you then, Rose Tyler?"
"Thirty-two," she revealed. Ah, he thought, not quite so young as to be his daughter, unless he would've become a father at twelve— which was admittedly possible, on a strictly biological standpoint. "How about you, John Smith?"
"Guess," he said, because he really didn't want to admit that he was so old that he actually knew the lyrics to elevator music.
"At least forty," she said, "'cos you said you served in the war."
"Enlistment age was eighteen in '42," John reminded her.
"Could've lied about your age," Rose pointed out. "One of my mate's siblings did."
"I didn't," he told her, before admitting grudgingly, "Forty-five. I was twenty when I enlisted."
"I was close," she shrugged. Setting down her glass once and for all and placing a note next to it, Rose slid off of the barstool, but before he could question why he felt a slight pang of disappointment at her departure she looked at him expectantly and said, "Walk me home?"
In any other case he would have snorted at her and asked her if she was barmy, being the rude sort, but instead his heart leapt at the prospect that she still wanted his company. Pushing his glass aside and stuffing onto the bar a handful of notes without even bothering to see the amount he'd left, John hopped off of his stool before obediently setting off out of the bar, glad when she looped her arm around his (and when he triumphantly discovered he hadn't drunk enough to impair his ability to walk properly).
It was raining — not heavily, just spitting mildly, barely enough to be classified as rain — but it was clearly soaking through Rose's crimson dress, however slowly. A tiny voice shouted at him in his mind that this was supposed to be his cue to be the gentleman and give her his jacket, so he shrugged it off and draped it over her shoulders without asking. It was practically twice her size and she seemed to be drowning in it, but Rose shrank into it gratefully, giving his arm a squeeze in thanks.
"Why'd you get so dolled up just to go to get sloshed at a dingy pub?" John wondered aloud, glancing at her dress and then looking away hurriedly with a furious blush when he saw how the damp fabric clung to every curve a little too well.
"My mates bullied me into goin' out for a girl's night at the theatre," Rose muttered, making a face. "Pretended I had a headache so I could leave."
"Did you also leave the oven on?" he quipped, and for a moment he worried he'd been too rude, but she laughed properly for the first time since he'd met her, and he found himself wanting to hear it again.
"S'pose it was kind of transparent," Rose said, leaning her head against his arm. He pretended the action didn't make him bite back what probably would have been a stupid grin.
"What was playing?"
"The Glass Menagerie."
"I don't blame you for leavin' even a little," John remarked, prompting another laugh from her and a triumphant smile on his end.
"It was a bit dry," she admitted. "At least, the parts I was paying attention to."
"To Tennessee Williams' credit, A Streetcar Named Desire was better," he remarked.
"Bit dark, that one," Rose contributed. "Wish it'd had a better ending."
Instead of making himself out to be a dismal old man by pointing out that it was a very realistically depressing ending, he grunted out an indifferent, "S'pose."
They came to a stop in front of a rain-soaked porch belonging to an estates flat, ducking underneath an iron balcony for shelter from the rain. He fidgeted awkwardly, expecting her to shrug off his jacket, hand it back to him and bid him goodbye forever. Instead, she unlocked the door, turned around, met his eyes with a determined, blazing look and said, "Come inside."
His mouth fell open in shock and he stared at her, her firm expression never wavering. Did she mean for a cuppa or something, or—?
Apparently sensing his uncertainty, Rose suddenly stood on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his open mouth, hands splaying on either side of his chest. Okay, so he hadn't jumped to conclusions. He had no idea why she'd want anything to do with the likes of him, but quite frankly he didn't much care. Ducking his head down to her height to kiss her back, John pressed her into the door with his hips and curled his hands around her arse, a silent warning that she'd better be serious. She answered him by fumbling with the door handle, opening the door and pulling him into the darkened flat with the belt loops on his jeans.
John had the sense of mind to search for the door with his hand, shoving it shut and cutting off the cold draft that'd been wafting in. Rose's hands left his shoulders for a moment, and he frowned into the kiss for a moment until he heard the strangely satisfying thud of his jacket hitting the floor and her arms went around his neck again. Despite the extremely dim lighting in the flat, she led him backwards without parting their mouths and with little effort through a doorway, only stumbling once. The backs of his knees hit what felt like the side of a mattress, before Rose suddenly pushed gently on his chest so that he fell back onto her bed.
His eyes flew open in shock when she crawled atop him and straddled his hips. The moonlight streaming through the window allowed him to see the silver-tinted flush of her cheeks and the rumpled look of her, which he smirked inwardly at in triumph. His hands smoothed over her bed sheets, the fabric soft, and he frowned at it.
"White satin sheets?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow.
She blinked confusedly at first before a smile bloomed on her mouth. "Must be a sign," she shrugged, and his gut flooded with warmth.
John tugged her back down to his level, capturing her bottom lip between his and fingering the zipper on the back of her dress. When he'd first slunk into the pub, he hadn't expected he'd be here an hour later, in a stunningly gorgeous woman's bed with said woman on top of him, her tongue in his mouth and her hips grinding against his. He hissed when her thigh rubbed against him just right, cock giving an interested twitch, and to level the playing field he hooked his finger around her zipper and tugged it down, managing to unzip it quickly without it catching on the fabric.
Before he could push her dress off, Rose grabbed his hands firmly and shoved them above his head. He frowned at being unable to touch her anymore, but when she released his wrists it was just to grab the hem of his jumper and tug it upward.
Fear tore through his gut as his chest was revealed, but he held himself back from shoving her away and covering himself back up, planting his clenched fists firmly on either side of the bed. Rose, feeling him tense up like a statue underneath her, gave the exposed part of his abdomen a soothing caress with her thumb before gently pulling it over his head.
He held his breath, heart thudding rapidly in a panic and staring at her with blazing eyes. Letting his jumper tumble off the side of the bed, she smoothed her hand slowly over the long since healed, pale pink shrapnel wounds licking up his left side and stretching towards the middle of his chest like tree branches, disappearing down his hip and into his jeans. John shut his eyes for a moment when she leaned over and placed a kiss over the angriest-looking part of the scar, only opening them when she straightened up and shimmied her way out of the dress.
His mouth fell open in shock when the red fabric pooled around her waist, revealing an identical scar blossoming up her stomach and hips, covering the underside of one breast. It was stretched taut, like she'd gotten the injury when she was small and then grew as it was healing.
It was his turn to reach out and touch like a curious child, tracing the outlines of the scar and recognising the hasty stitching done by emergency field medics. She met his eyes, looking nervous but nowhere near as terrified as he'd been earlier, which relieved him for some reason.
"I'm so glad I met you," he told her quietly, gripping her scarred hip firmly but gently.
She smiled down at him, and it was lovely. "Me too."
Rose kissed him again, this time a sweet and slow meeting of the lips instead of the messy, desperate snog from before, wriggling her bum to get her dress off. He took the liberty of trailing his hand up her side and curling his hand around her half-scarred breast, tweaking the nipple between his thumb and index finger; she made a noise that went right to his cock, making him groan and wish he could free himself from the prison of his trousers.
"Let me," she said as though she could read his thoughts, and his stomach jerked when he felt her fingers fumbling with the button on his jeans.
"Ah," he grunted when her fingers accidentally brushed against him. Flushing scarlet at his own sensitivity, he confessed, "It's been a while, I—"
"Shh," she shushed him gently. "I'll take care of you."
And then, to his utter astonishment, she worked his pants down to his knees, leaned over and closed her mouth over the head of his erection, sucking lightly. His head collided with the headboard, jaw clenching and hips jerking upward uncontrollably.
"Rose— unh, Rose!" he cried out, tangling his fingers in her hair. "Fuck…"
Rose caressed his hip with one hand to try and calm him a little, easing him further into her mouth and curling her tongue underneath his length. He called out to the ceiling, grabbing a fistful of satin bedding with his fist. She made a tiny whimpering noise around his cock, and her paired rocking motion made him open his eyes, where he saw her hand had slipped into her white lace knickers, thrusting into herself.
"Oh God," he groaned. She was fucking touching herself while greedily sucking him off.
He tried to tug her upwards so they could do this thing properly but Rose's gloriously naked body suddenly seized up, making tiny whimpering noises around his cock and holy shit she was fucking coming. It triggered his own orgasm immediately and he shouted loud enough to probably be heard by people outside the flat, thrusting and pulsing into her mouth before sinking into a breathless mess into the sheets with a sob.
Lifting herself up, Rose crawled up the bed so she could clamp herself to his side, the wetness on her thighs gleaming in the moonlight. He felt like he could sleep for nine hundred years, but since he felt like he owed the universe to this utterly stunning woman who, for some reason, had decided to look twice at him, he pushed aside his own exhaustion and carefully pulled the sheets over the both of them before settling down comfortably. She hummed out a pleased sound when he started tracing light circles over the scar on her hip.
"How is it I manage to find the one person who could understand me?" she wondered aloud, before cringing and adding, "Eurgh, was that cheesy?"
"A bit," he grinned, "but I was gonna say the same thing, so I forgive you." He sobered for a moment, brows furrowing and hesitation plain on his face. "What's gonna happen tomorrow?"
"What d'you mean?" Rose frowned, propping herself up on her elbows.
He avoided her eyes hastily. "With us."
She hummed, bottom lip jutting out in contemplation, and he pretended not to stare at it. "We could get chips?" she suggested finally, tongue poking out at the corner of her mouth.
His own silly grin emerged. "Sounds fantastic."
A/N: As some of you may know, this was kind of meant to be Nine's story in my Forever and More series, but a little different. I was asked by narnian23 to write it, and at first I wasn't going to cos I thought it'd be too much like April In Paris, but I think I managed :) Hope you enjoyed! The lyrics used were from 'Nights In White Satin' © Moody Blues. You should check out the song, it's AMAAZING.