When Alba woke up that morning, it felt like someone had wrung her body out like a wet washcloth and left her out to dry somewhere hot and unpleasant. Her head was pounding, her mouth was like a desert, and tasted funny yet again. She made a mental note to do everything in her power to stop from waking up in such a fashion, as it seemed she had been doing that a lot lately. Finally willing her eyes open, she could tell that it was still very early morning, as the sliver of sky she could see through the window from this vantage point on the bed was still more inky than pink with the coming dawn. Slowly, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, gasping when she caught sight of the angry bruises decorating her thighs and arms. She was totally starkers, and the events of the evening previous came rushing back to her about the same time the whiskey made a rush to exit her body.

She stumbled inelegantly to the ensuite, shoved the door open and crashed to her knees in front of the toilet just in time. She hadn't eaten anything that she could recall in the past however many hours, all she'd had was the alcohol, and she felt like it was tearing her insides up now. The whiskey burned twice as bad coming back up as it had going down, and she had to choke back a miserable little sob. When she was rather certain that she had entirely emptied the contents of her stomach, she sank down and let her forehead come to rest on the cool tile of the wall. Sitting there, her mind started doing the messy job of assembling the puzzle pieces of last night's happenings. She was remembering enough though that it had her stomach tied up in knots.

Starting with, "How do you like my whiskey dick now, whore?"

That much she remembered pretty clearly. The rest of it though was still a bit hazy. Shakily, she got to her feet and stood up in front of the bathroom mirror to examine the best piece of evidence she had: her body. The bruises and bite marks were like a map that told her what route last night had taken. Twin bite marks ringed each of her areolae, and a collection of similar marks peppered her throat and shoulders. Her hips, thighs, and arms bore bruises that looked mostly finger shaped, although there was one mark on her inner thigh that looked suspiciously like a hickey. She blushed, thinking of how it had gotten there.

As it had turned out...she had liked his whiskey dick just fine, much to her own chagrin. When initially he had laid her down in front of the fire, she had figured it would be over fairly quickly. Alcohol wasn''t exactly known to be a performance enhancing substance when it came to sex,, but she also hadn't known many men capable of getting a rager like that after consuming nearly an entire handle of whiskey on their own. Actually, she hadn't known any man capable of drinking like that and still getting it up afterwards. He was some kind of beast.

When he'd made the remark about skipping out on the foreplay, she'd initially been relieved. The sooner it was over, the better, and she was uncomfortable with the idea of him lingering over any specific part of her body for too long. She had known there would be no point in struggling against him-as thin as he was, he was all solid, sinewy muscle underneath and he had a vise-like grip. Rather than fight against him, she'd clenched her muscles tightly around him, rocked her hips against his own, and dug her fingernails into the scant meat of his shoulders. She'd scratched the skin there, lightly at first, later raking her nails across it hard enough to draw blood. And again, it seemed to only encourage him. He'd pounded into her with short, swift strokes and an expert angle that had left her gasping and clutching at him. He'd had that self-satisfied smirk on his face, of course, but once he'd caught on that she wasn't entirely hating the experience, he'd stopped, withdrawn, and kneeled above her.

"What the hell?" she'd blurted, to which he had only laughed at her.

"Payback. For playing hard to get," he said, stroking his fingers lightly across her inner thighs, which had felt like torture in her hyperaroused state. That was where most of the bites had come from-he'd licked, sucked and bitten all over her body then, everywhere except the one place she was dying to be touched. He did exactly the thing she hadn't wanted him to, which was to kiss his way across her body, taking his time as though he were memorizing every plane, every hollow. He'd kissed her inner thigh, dangerously close to the palce where she actually wanted him, his breath warm and tantalizing on her bare skin. When she had groaned, he'd only kept his attention focused there, biting and sucking, maddeningly close and yet not close enough. She'd been on the verge of begging, but she was damned if she would give him the satisfaction. He'd then gone on to spend what felt like forever blowing his warm booze breath on her clit, a feeling that had been both delicious and insanity-inducing.

"Oh, you are soooo bad at this," he'd smirked, moving to straddle her hips. The tip of his cock had just barely brushed against her, his fingers had traced circles around her nipples until they were diamond hard, and she'd known right then that he was, in fact, deliberately torturing her, probably still for the 'whiskey dick' comment more than anything else. She couldn't help but feel like even intoxicated, he was trying to show off for her maybe just a bit.

"B...bad at what?" she'd managed to stammer.

He had placed his palms down on either side of her and dropped slowly down over her so that their faces were less than an inch apart. "Bad at pretending like you aren't enjoying this and you want it to be over. You've already shown me your thorns Rose, now I think it's time you let me have the flower as well," he'd practically growled at her as he'd thrusted inside.

A dozen sarcastic responses had leapt into her mind, but she'd bit them back, knowing that at that stage of the game those sorts of comments could very well be fatal. The man was unbalanced when he wasn't engaged in coitus, she couldn't imagine how he'd react to an ego blow while engaged in the act. It wasn't a theory she was particularly interested in exploring either, so she just kept her mouth shut, squeezed tight around him, rocked her hips, and sighed and moaned appropriately. She'd told herself it was for his benefit, but she hadn't actually been acting too hard. Still, when her orgasm came it came as a surprise-nearing his own finish, he had picked up his pace, and whether it was the increased friction, the angle, or what, she had gone tumbling over the edge after him, biting her tongue in ecstasy and shame. He had collapsed against her chest, breathing in harsh, shallow gasps. She'd hoped he'd been so caught up in his own climax that he hadn't noticed hers, but no such luck. When he had lifted his head off her chest to look at her, he'd had the Cheshire cat grin on again.

He hadn't lingered, instead had pulled out of and off of her. He'd walked, actually more like sauntered, over to the doorway and had turned back to look at her. His glasses were askew, and he had used just a finger to straighten them before giving her another one of those smiles that were less creepy and more inviting.

"I have work at seven in the morning. I'll take a full English at six tomorrow, make enough for two if you'd like. Bonsoir, mon petit rosé."

It had taken what seemed like monumental effort to peel herself up off the floor, but she had, and she had somehow also put out the fire, deposited his clothes in the laundry room (which she'd discovered was off of the humungous kitchen), and then collapsed back into her own bed, with no regard whatsoever for the time. It was some miracle of God that had roused her now-the antique alarm clock on the table, if it was accurate, said it was still thirty til six in the morning. She shuffled out of the ensuite, threw on another night gown, and make her way to the kitchen.

She wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry when she opened his fridge and found it almost completely empty, save for what looked like dozens of jars of condiments of questionable edibility and a couple Tupperware containers that had graduated to science experiment status. The thought of a full English breakfast had sent her stomach turning, and it looked like she was saved from it after all, at least for that day. She supposed he couldn't hold the empty fridge against her, but she was still mildly nervous all the same. She did find butter and a loaf of bread on the counter, and one sad little lemon in the fridge, next to a jar of orange marmalade that didn't expire until the following year.

"Right. Toast and tea it is," she mumbled blearily to herself, opening his pantry to look for the tea. He had to at least have tea, right? She fished around, pulled out bags of rice and cans of beans, and finally found a few tins of Earl Grey stashed behind the sugar and flour. She just hoped to Christ the man had a sodding kettle in his giant, restaurant kitchen.

She was relieved to find that he indeed had several kettles, including a fancy electric one that plugged in, and had a temperature gauge for all the different types of tea. She eyed the thing suspiciously before pushing it to the back of the cabinet and grabbing the kettle that looked most like the one her mum used at home.

When he finally stumbled into the kitchen, she was sitting at the table, staring down at the city as her tea grew cold. "Turns out you had nothing in, so no full English. Sorry. There's tea, and toast though, if you'd like."

He grunted something unintelligible in response to her, and she just sighed, taking a sip of her tea. He joined her at the table a few minutes later with a steaming mug, but no toast. She had nothing to say to him, wouldn't know where to even begin, so she just stared into her tea instead until she felt her skin crawling. When she looked up he was staring at her, aghast.

"Did I do…?" he asked, reaching out to touch her bruised shoulders. She jerked back before he even had a chance, wincing in anticipation. "Oh. I guess that's my answer then…"

She stared back at him for a moment, but finally spoke softly. "You've had your breakfast, Doctor. If you don't mind...I'd like to be excused to take a bath. Please."

He took his glasses off, rubbed his eyes, and held his head in his hands. "What exactly happened last night? I remember having a drink with you in the library, and talking, but other than that…"

"Seriously? You don't remember at all?" she asked, incredulous.

"No. No I don't. I was drunk," he said, narrowing his eyes at her as though she were the one who had done something wrong.

"Oh, well that's just brilliant. You sure were lucid enough when you were raping me last night!" she cried hoarsely, the tears that had been threatening to spill over finally pricking hotly at the corners of her eyes.

His mouth, which was already a bit thin to begin with, pressed itself into a razorline. He got up, set his mug in the sink, and walked to the door. On his way out, he muttered something at her that might have been an apology, but might have been wishful thinking on her part.

As she watched him go, she poured herself a fresh mug of tea. When she heard what she assumed was the front door slam shut, she allowed herself to completely lose it and break down.

A sex fiend would've been easier. At least that would've been straightforward…, she thought to herself. She couldn't even begin to wrap her mind around the Doctor, whether or not he wanted to fuck her, fight her, save her, kill her or wed her. She didn't know that she even believed half the things he'd told her, about taking care of her mother and letting her go free with payment. She had been raised being told that if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.

With a calming resolve, she realized that she didn't intend to find out. She took the sharpest kitchen knife she could find from the block, and took it with her back to the bedroom.

She had a bath to take.