If he lives to be 90, hell, if he lives to be 900, he is always going to remember this moment.
Making out with Rose Tyler in the teacher's lounge during the homecoming dance -- it's destined to become one of those stories he tells, and retells, a testament to his glory days, and he is living it right now.
She's pressed up against him so close, her hands in his hair and her tongue in his mouth, and she's forgiven him, or she's going to, and they're gonna be okay, things are gonna be okay, and, oh, god, oh, fuck.
It's so much all at once, all the guilt from the week, all the anxiety and the fear and the hope, it's all sloshing around in his body, the way beer gets too foamy, the way soda cans explode, the way his cock gets hard and his fingers get greedy.
He's got one hand on her ass, slick, soft leather, and warm, soft Rose, and he's using it to keep her pressed against him, her breasts and her hips and her mouth.
The other hand is easy to lose track of, instead he gets fleeting snatches of input from his senses -- this is Rose's hair, this is Rose's cheek, this is Rose's bare back, and that's the clasp of her bra.
His fingers fumble there, stall out, his hand up the back of her shirt, waiting for permission or denial or anything.
Then Rose is shuffling backward, but keeping him with her, until she's backed up against the edge of the desk, leaning but not seated, and oh, fuck, he's between her legs.
He arches into her, scattered, urgent rutting that creates so much friction on his cock that he can't even keep kissing her, instead his mouth is just pressed to hers, unmoving, as he forces himself to slow down, not to thrust and thrust and thrust until he comes in his pants.
She's not helping though, or she's helping too much, these fucking devastating noises breathed out against his lips as she winds her arms around his hips, her hands finding his ass and breaking his rhythm, re-positioning him, changing the pace and the angle, friction and friction and friction.
He drops his head, his mouth pressing against her neck as he slants himself over her, and she reciprocates, but her mouth is so much more active, there's licking and sucking and biting and kissing.
She brings a hand up to move his collar out of the way and then she just fucking latches on, and he groans against her, and oh god, oh god, oh god, his hips are still working, and she has to stop, this has to stop, or he'll do it, he'll fucking come inside his boxers and, stop, stop, stop, his hips are still moving, moving, moving.
When the suction breaks between her mouth and his neck, he hears it, a wet sound that he cheers with a grunt, and he wants to keep it up, wants to pound his cock against her, she's so hot and soft and where -- where are his fucking hands?
It's so much effort to locate one, to find it still curled into the skin of her back and that's it, he's unclipping her bra, his fingers flubbing only once before he gets it, the elastic tension giving way, and his hand smoothing over skin and ribs and around to the front.
There's a split second where she stops, like she's waiting on him, and then he's there, palming her breast in a way that sizzles right to the very base of his cock, and oh, jesusfuckingchrist, there's a skill to this, he's sure he has it, but it's gone right now, completely evaporated.
All that remains is the way Rose's nipple is puckered, the way she bucks into him when he pinches it, the sexy as hell little moan she makes, and he wants to suck on it, he wants to fuck her, he wants to never, ever leave this moment.
His other hand is there then, and he backs up on reflex, making room between their bodies and, thank god, it eases some of the pressure on his cock, and it gives him a chance to look at Rose.
Her face is flushed and her mouth is wet and she's smiling at him, panting, she looks happy and shy and embarrassed and aroused, and he probably looks like a fucking idiot, but he's touching Rose's breasts and it doesn't matter, nothing matters except how his hands looks moving under her shirt, the outline of her bra where it's bunched up near her neckline, the way her nipples feels against his palms, his fingertips, everything soft and pliant and warm.
She's so responsive, everything he does, she's so active, and he's never asked what it's like for girls, the hormones and the need and the blood on fire, he doesn't know if they get like that, but Rose seems as urgent as he does and it's amazing, it's sparking and fizzing and so, so hot.
His right hand slips away, smoothing down her ribs, her stomach, the top of her hipbone, and then he flips it around and curls his fingers into her waistband, right over the button of her pants.
He moves his other hand out from under her shirt, too, resting it low on her hip, his fingers pressing into the leather covering her ass, and then he looks at her.
"Can I ...?"
Rose bites her lip and looks down at his fingers on the button.
"Yeah," she breathes.
"Yeah?" His fingers tighten, thumb edging the front to lever near the snap.
She nods. "Yes."
In a swell of movement, he's got the button open and her fly down, moving the hand on her hip around to the desk behind them and his other hand, oh god, his other hand --
He stands up a little straighter, shifting slightly to the side, until he can get his palm flat on her stomach.
Then he moves slowly, slowly downward, until his finger meet the top of her underwear, it feels lacy, and if there were any blood left not in his cock, it's damn well there now.
He scratches the edge of his nail against the lace and Rose is nearly vibrating in front of him, her entire body tense and waiting and then she arches her hips the tiniest bit.
It's like a reflex, his hand moves immediately, slipping underneath the fabric of her underwear, past short, textured hair and down, down, down until his fingers find soft, wet heat.
Rose gasps and he forces himself to go slow, rubbing at her gently, making everything slick as he slips his fingertips back and forth, back and forth.
It's a tight space, but there's enough room for him ... if she wants ... he could ... with the pad of his middle finger, he presses into her gently, just the slightest bit.
"Oh, fuck," Rose pants and he moves in deeper, up to the first knuckle, and it's so easy, so fucking easy, just to curl his finger, everything wet and hot, and his finger, his finger feels so thick, and she feels so tight, and then he's inside of her, he's got a finger inside of her, and Rose is breathing in his ear, pleading, needy noises he feels low in his stomach.
He pulls back a little, starting a shallow movement in and out, in and out, in and out, and he can hear her, hear how wet she is every time his finger moves, and then she's grinding down on him, lining up the base of his finger until she's sort of like, god, riding his hand, his finger stroking inside of her and the top of his palm pressed to her clit and there's not enough space to get another finger inside of her now, not enough space to do anything but follow her rhythm, to let her fuck herself on his hand.
He wants to talk to her, to tell her how pretty she looks, how good she feels, but all he can manage is encouragement.
"Yeah, yeah, yes, that's it, oh god," and he's talking into her hair, and everything feels sweaty and hot and he can smell her, running his tongue over his teeth in his mouth, he wants to go down on her, he wants to lick her and kiss her and tongue-fuck her and really fuck her, and, "Oh, god, yes."
She's got one hand braced on the desk behind her, but she moves to wrap the other around his forearm, squeezing it so tight and he hates this fucking suit, he hates all his clothes, he just wants her to touch his skin, and it's like she senses it or something because suddenly her hand is wrapped around the back of his neck, her nails curling into his skin.
His hips have found her side, he's rubbing against her in time to his hand and if this goes on for much longer, he's gonna come, he really is this time, can feel it building in his balls, sweat breaking out at his temples, and, "Rose, come on, please."
Suddenly her hand is off his neck, and in his hair, wrapped tight around the strands and clenching and pulling and she's talking, she's pleading, "Fuck, god, fu --"
It snaps off into a groan, a long, broken noise she muffles in the shoulder of his suit as she shudders and tenses into him.
He works her down as gently as he can manage, slow, comforting strokes, until his finger stills entirely. He won't be able to pull it out of her at this angle, she's gonna have to move, but she's sort of slumped, and he's not gonna, like, rush her.
When she shifts a few moments later, he gets the hint, slipping his hand out of her, and her underwear, leaving behind a damp trail up her lower abdomen.
His fingers are slick, his fucking lucky middle one most of all, and he's itching to lick them, but he doesn't want to weird Rose out, so instead he lets his hand sort of ... dangle at his side, surreptitiously brushing his fingers against his pants.
A second later though, he wipes his mouth on accident (... on purpose) and gets a taste anyway.
Rose is staring at him, flushed, her fly unbuttoned and her shirt bunched up, and he’s so hard, his cock tenting the front of his pants, embarrassing and insistent and when she reaches for him, palms him through the fabric, he nearly shoots off.
Instead he scrambles backward, he doesn’t even know why, just that if she touches him, if she rubs and grips and strokes, if she unbuckles his belt, if any part of Rose touches any part of the Doctor, it’s going to be messy.
And she just — she wasn’t even talking to him an hour ago, he doesn’t deserve this. As much as he wants it.
She’s looking at him funny — confused and glassy-eyed and … hurt?
“Don’t you want …?”
He positions himself near the couch before he speaks.
“I do,” he says, and oh god, is that his voice? It sounds so thin.
“Then why are you over there?”
He shrugs, one hand reaching down to adjust himself in his pants, hopefully under the cover of a couch pillow. “I don’t know.”
Rose sizes him up, licking her lips as she tilts her head in consideration. “Idiot thing or scared thing?”
The laugh he lets out surprises him, but then he’s shaking his head, smiling. “Both, I think.”
She nods, looking down at her open fly, and then buttoning herself up. Her hands reach behind her back to re-hook her bra and it leaves a big patch of her stomach bare. There’s a tiny shine of wetness there, and his cock throbs when he notices it.
Why — why is he doing this to himself?
It doesn’t even make any sense, he wants her, he wants her a lot, but it just seems like … oh, fuck it, he doesn’t know.
He just — he needs to make it up to her a little bit first.
A little bit more.
“And you’re sure?”
He swallows, forcing himself to nod.
“Forever?” she says.
“For now. Let me just — can I dance with you? Can we go dance with everybody?”
He feels nervous, and scared, and a little bit overwhelmed, they moved so fast, not just tonight, but this whole thing, and he is sure — he is completely sure, but god, he just watches movies, this is real life.
This isn’t fooling around with the neighbors, you-show-me-yours-I’ll-show-you-mine games, this is a girl — a woman — he likes a lot, and he can’t even fucking think straight right now.
“Yeah,” Rose says, and somehow her smile calms him down. “You can dance with me.”
The walk back down the hall is only a little bit awkward. Turns out that weird, existential panic works gangbusters on an erection and he’s able to move with only slight discomfort.
When Rose takes his hand, and he realizes it’s the one that had been in her pants, he feels a lurch in his boxers, but the thing stays down, which is sort of a triumph.
They'd spent a few moments trying to straighten themselves out, hair, clothes, general, like, rumpled-ness, but he's not entirely sure it worked.
Rose still looks like she'd been thoroughly fooled around with and he can't imagine he's faired much better -- something that's confirmed when they finally make it to the gym and Jack leers at them from the dance floor.
Jack's dancing with Donna and when she catches sight of the Doctor and Rose, she smiles, and then shakes her head, exasperated or something.
Rose uses her grip on his hand to tug them to the other couple, joining in on the weird, hopping-dancing they're doing to a heavily-edited version of the Thong Song.
Donna's hand taps at something on his neck, right above his collar, and then she turns to Rose with her eyebrows raised. Rose grins at first, but her cheeks go pink and she ducks her head with a shrug.
"Good for you," Donna mouths at him.
They dance like that, in a group, for a few more songs -- "Big Pimpin'" -- "Gettin' Jiggy With It" -- "Livin' La Vida Loca" -- music with apostrophes where G's should go, and he's making an ass of himself, but Donna's laughing and Rose is laughing, and Jack's wearing a fucking cone bra, and it feels good --
It feels great. Sweaty and happy and great.
When the music finally, finally changes to something slow, it's that Jerry Maguire song, the Bruce Springsteen one -- "Secret Garden," that's the name of it -- and he moves to ask Rose, but she shakes her head.
He feels his stomach plummet -- how -- what -- had he misinterpreted ...?
Then she's tugging him down by the shoulders before gesturing to where Donna's walking off the dance floor.
"Ask Donna," she says, right in his ear.
"What?" He pulls back to look at her and Rose nods, confirming he heard her correctly.
His eyes shift to Donna at the edge of the dance floor, she's turned to face the crowd, and when she spots the Doctor looking, she smiles, quiet and proud and, god, Donna. What would he do without Donna?
"I'll get the next one," Rose says. "I think you owe her this one."
He grins at Donna and then turns back to Rose. "Yeah, I do."
Giving Rose a quick hug, he jogs over to Donna and extends a hand.
"Donna, will you dance with me?"
"What?" Donna slaps him on the shoulder, "No! Go dance with your girlfriend!"
He opens and closes his hand a few times, emphasizing that he wants her to take it, and shaking his head. "No, I wanna dance with you."
She squints at him, trying to figure out the gag, but he's insistent. "Please?"
Rolling her eyes, she relents -- "Fine" -- but he doesn't miss the tiny smile she directs at the ground.
Leading her to the middle of the dance floor, he sets his hands loosely on her waist and she links hers behind his neck. There's plenty of room for the holy spirit between them, if they went to Catholic school and he weren't an atheist, but it's comfortable, it's friendly.
In the seventh grade, they opened a Bath and Body Works in the mall and Donna's smelled like apples since.
He can smell it now, the apples, and there's a way his mom smelled, too, not like apples, but something else.
There are traces of it around the house still sometimes, he'll catch it moving something from the corner of a closet, opening a box in the garage, and it always smells like home, like being safe, and loved.
Donna's not his mom, Donna would probably slug him if he ever said that, but it's ... Donna is family.
What he said to Rose, that wasn't completely true, he's not alone -- Donna hasn't left, he doesn't think she will, and Rose saw that, Rose knows, and just -- he is 18 years old, he is at the homecoming dance, and he feels like maybe he's found his place.
It's between these two women.
He squeezes Donna's side lightly, grinning at her, trying to tell her without telling her, and she slaps lightly at the back of his head like she understands.
"Do you remember when we saw this movie?" she says, lifting a hand briefly to gesture at the music.
"Jerry Maguire? Yeah, you cried, Donna Noble."
"Did I? I must've gotten the idea from you."
He gasps. "How dare you -- I thought we weren't going to bring that up, uh, ever?"
She smirks but doesn't answer, and he lets himself lead her in a slow, swaying circle, listening to those few soft chords build and loop, over and over again.
"What do you think, Doctor?" she says after a moment. "Does Rose Tyler complete you?"
He shrugs. "I don't know. I think I was ... I think I was more complete than I thought."
"Yeah," Donna says. "You were."
"And anyway, I've got a quirky, red-headed sidekick, just like the movie. Go on, ask me if I knew the human head weighs eight pounds. Does your neighbor have three rabbits?"
"I'm gonna kill you," she says, but it's muffled in his shoulder as he pulls her into a hug.
She returns it tightly, and over her shoulder he can see the entrance to the gym, see the guy that just walked in -- it's Shaun, in a “Temple Family Reunion” t-shirt, his head swiveling as he looks for Donna.
"I think someone's gonna try and cut in," he says, trying to keep the grin from his voice.
Donna pulls back. "Oh, is Rose ...?"
"Not for me, for you." He turns them so Donna can see the door, feeling it in her frame the second she spots Shaun.
"Oh my god," she says, and she sounds delighted, just absolutely ecstatic.
"Go!" the Doctor says, giving her a light shove toward the door.
She doesn't need any further encouragement, leaning up to press a quick kiss to the Doctor's cheek before basically, like, skipping away to Shaun.
Shaun grabs her up in a hug and the Doctor nods his head at him behind Donna's back. It's a friendly gesture ... for now. Hopefully it'll stay that way.
Before his mind can tumble down the path of all the things he'll do to Shaun if he hurts Donna, the song ends, moving on to another slow one, and he catches a flash of blonde hair out of the corner of his eye.
He turns, expecting to see Rose, but instead he's greeted by the sight of Reinette, dressed up like ... he can't even tell -- Marie Antoinette?
Lately his strategy has been to literally run from Reinette, but if he runs now, Rose is gonna see him, the whole school's gonna see him, and he just -- he doesn't want to run anymore.
"Hey, Reinette," he says.
"Hi, Doctor, I was just wondering if you'd seen Louis?"
Whatever he'd been expecting, it hadn't been that. "What?"
"Louis, my boyfriend, he's dressed like a king ...?"
"You're going out with Louis?"
Reinette gives him a funny look. "Um, yes. Since like fifth grade."
All right, sure, technically he knows that, they really have been together forever, but he just assumed, with her kissing him and all --
She seems to catch on, her eyebrows raising in comprehension. "Oh, that, yeah, we usually break up like once a month, keeps things interesting, and, well ... dra-ma. I did try to tell you, and, like, apologize, but you kept running away. I didn't realize you and Rose were going out exclusively, and -- oh! There he is!"
In a flash, Reinette's darted away, leaving him standing in the middle of the dance floor looking dumb for a few seconds.
This time when he sees blonde hair, it is Rose, and she doesn't look entirely happy.
"What was that?" She winces to herself, almost like she hadn't meant to say that, or maybe not quite that way.
"Reinette was looking for Louis. She, uh, she apologized, sort of. Said she didn't know you and I were exclusive."
Rose's face twitches, it's a split second, and then she's got it back under control.
He waits for her to say anything else, but she doesn't, leaving them both standing in the middle of the floor while some boy-band croons in the background.
It seems like he should say something, ask her to dance, do a dance, anything, and so he takes a deep breath. "I knew though, or I knew what I wanted, or what it was, like, without saying it and -- I'm sorry. Again. Still."
She nods, beginning to shift on her feet in time to the music, and he takes his cue.
"Do you wanna da-- no, you know what? Do you wanna be my girlfriend, exclusively?"
Her grin is so bright it sends his stomach flipping.
"Yes," she says, and he scoops her up in a hug that lifts her feet off the ground.
When he sets her back down, she laughs. "That was pretty cheesy."
"Yeah? You ain't seen nothing yet," he says, and bows deeply, in invitation to dance.
The rest of the dance passes in a blur.
He slow dances with Rose and fast dances with Rose, drinks punch with Rose, makes out with Rose under the bleachers, it's Rose, Rose, Rose, and Rose.
(Except when it's Jack, and, of course, of course, the one time the yearbook photographer shows up is the one time he's dancing with Jack Harkness in his cone bra and ponytail.)
When the DJ puts on "Closing Time," Donna finds him, teasing him about needing a ride home, but then Shaun's at her side, car keys in hand, and she doesn't even try and keep up the joke, grabbing Shaun's arm and pulling him toward the door.
Jack's got an arm slung around Ianto's shoulder, and with a wink at the Doctor and Rose, they, too, are sauntering out the door.
It leaves him standing next to Rose, in a quickly emptying, Halloween-themed gymnasium.
"I guess I'll walk you to the bus stop then?" he says, tone teasing.
"Of course," Rose says. "My mom will be surprised to see home though, she'd given me permission to crash at Jack's."
The Doctor feels heat pinprick across his skin.
Rose nods. "Yeah, she loves Jack ... and I may have told her it was a big sleepover."
"And is your mom the type to call and check on you?"
She nods again. "Yep, and Jack is the type to cover for me one hundred percent."
"Oh, that's awesome."
Rose gets wandering hands on the drive home, severely wandering hands, dangerously distracting wandering hands.
Hands that start on his thigh and work inward and upward.
Hands that feel warm and soft and heavy through his thin suit pants.
Hands that get him hard and then tease him.
Rose Tyler's hands.
When they pull in his driveway, he barely gets the car in park before he's leaning across the center console, fingers in Rose's hair as he pulls her toward his lips.
There's not even, like, a sequence to events, he's just reflexively kissing Rose with his mouth open, with his tongue against hers, with grabbing hands and wet noises. A dark Halloween night, everything chilly, crisp, smelling of leaves and Rose, and his skin feels hot and cold at the same time.
She's so fucking squirmy, and he's so fucking into it, massaging her breasts through her shirt, pressing down on her hand when it cups his cock through his pants, everything urgent and reflexive and noisy.
When he moves his mouth down to her neck, pressing wet, sucking kisses along her throat, Rose groans.
"In the house," she says, "Let's go in the house."
He's out of the car and around to her door so fast that she hasn't even unbuckled her seatbelt. He flings the door open, and reaches across her to release it, kissing her again as he pulls her up and out of the car before slamming the door behind her.
She turns fully into him, wrapping her arms around his neck, and he's got his wrapped around her waist, and if he dry-humps her right here, right in his front yard, who would the neighbors even tell?
Rose pulls away him from with a noise he feels in his fucking teeth, and then she's scampering up the drive, down the path to his front door.
He follows her immediately, or follows his stupid, insistent cock, the one literally pointing at her, and he can't even touch her as he unlocks the door, keeps dancing away from her hands, because if he doesn't get them inside the house, he's probably going to die. He will come, he will explode, and he will die, all on the porch.
It's a struggle, but he finally fits the key into the lock and gets the door open. He lets Rose enter before him, reaching an arm out to slap the foyer light on and watching as Rose pulls off her shoes.
The sight is sort of mundane, but it makes him slow down and take a breath. He does the same, tugging off his shoes, and kicking them toward hers, and then he shuts the door, locking it behind him.
"Are you hungry or anything? Thirsty?" he says, following the weird, latent reflex to be polite to a guest in his home.
"Water, I guess, please?" she says.
He nods, leading her into the kitchen, flipping lights on as he goes. He gets out a glass -- Mayor McCheese again -- and pours her some water, handing it to her before pouring one for himself.
The situation in his pants has mostly settled, and he feels a little bit more level-headed, or, well, clear enough to realize he's hungry. He hadn't eaten before the dance, too anxious about what was going to happen, and it's catching up to him now.
"Is it cool if I make some Bagel Bites?" he asks, pulling the freezer door open to make sure he has some.
"Yeah, of course."
"Cool," he says, turning the knob on the over to preheat. "Do you want some?"
She laughs. "Yeah."
They eat Bagel Bites on the couch, and she watches Saturday Night Live literally next to him. Not on the phone, not in her bedroom, but next to him, on the couch, in his house.
It's so surreal, that this is his Saturday night now, this is his life, with his girlfriend, that it starts to make him nervous again.
Which is why he's so grateful for Rose.
When the show flips to commercial, before what he knows will be Weekend Update, Rose looks meaningfully at the stairs.
"Do you have a TV in your room?"
"Do you wanna watch the rest up there?"
Once, in a store, as a kid, he pressed the button for an air-horn, the thing went off in his hand, and he heard ringing for weeks. It was literally years ago now, but suddenly that ringing is back, jangling on repeat in his ears as he feels himself nod.
Rose stands, stretching up on her tiptoes and he can see her stomach again before she reaches a hand down to help him up off the couch.
He keeps hold of her hand to walk her up the stairs, turning the lights off as he goes. It's not like he's not hoping something will happen in his room, but, really and truly and honestly, if she just sleeps next to him, he thinks he'll be all right with that.
No, he knows he will.
"You're, um, you're gonna sleep here, right?" he says, when they reach his bedroom and he gets the light on.
"Yeah, if that's cool with you." She's tugging at the bottom of her tanktop, shifting a little nervously on the carpeting.
"It is," and the ringing in his ears grows louder. "Do you want a t-shirt to sleep in? I have boxers, too."
"That'd be great," she says.
He rifles through his drawers, grabbing her a white undershirt and a pair of flannel boxers. It's sort of his favorite pair, his lucky pair, a blue and brown plaid pattern, and seeing Rose in them is going to elevate them to, like, Hall of Fame status.
She takes the clothes from him and he points her in the direction of his bathroom across the hall, offering up face wash and stuff, whatever she wants, really.
While she's gone, he puts his pajamas on. He briefly considers sleeping in the same thing as her -- boxers and a t-shirt -- because it’s what he normally sleeps in, but it seems weird, so he digs out a pair of pajama bottoms.
They're plaid, too, so he still matches her, but it's not, like, underwear.
He hears the toilet flush and the tap going and then she's back in his room, face scrubbed clean, hair up in a ponytail, and wearing his clothes.
She looks fantastic.
(She is clearly not wearing a bra.)
(She looks fantastic.)
"I'm just gonna --" He gestures across the hall to the bathroom and she nods.
He pees, and then brushes his teeth, noticing the brush was dry, but that his mouthwash had been moved, before washing his face.
It's only a few minutes before he’s back in his bedroom. Rose has turned the TV on to the right channel, but she’s sitting sort of awkwardly in his desk chair, and the bed is untouched.
“Um,” he clears his throat, “you don’t have to sit there. You can —” He moves to the head of the bed, unfolding the comforter and the top sheet. No one’s checked that he’s made his bed in years, but he still does it almost every morning, and he’s grateful for that reflex now. He slips under the covers on the side he usually sleeps on and gestures to the other side, “— if you want.”
She bites her lip, but then grins, standing from the desk to shuffle over to the bed before doubling back to turn the light off.
It leaves them in just the flickering of the TV as she slides in next to him, and his brain starts shoving shit at him, the same flickering light in the movie theater, the feel of Rose’s breasts in the teacher’s lounge, the way her hair smells, just a thousand stupid, rapid-fire reminders, and he grits his teeth, clamping down on all of them.
Weekend Update is wrapping up, but neither of them are paying attention, not really, both of them propped up on pillows in his bed, legs under the covers and a desert of mattress and sheet between them that he wants to cross, but isn’t sure how.
“I can’t believe you have a TV and a computer and a queen-size bed,” she says, turning to look at him.
He shrugs, sort of feeling embarrassed now that he takes all that stuff for granted.
“Well, you’re, uh, welcome to use any of them whenever you want,” he says, and then tries to figure out if that was dumb or not.
She tilts her head, considering. “So I can use your bed whenever I want?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
“Is that, like, to sleep or …?” Her tone is teasing and her mouth is wet and he’s decided the way to cross the desert is just to fucking cross it.
“Yeah, I think some sleeping,” he says. “Eventually.”
Then he leans toward her, as slow as he can manage it, which isn’t really very slow at all, but she meets him in the middle, fitting herself against him and kissing him.
Whatever restraint he’d had at the school is completely shot, he’s obviously not gonna insist or anything, but if she reaches for his pants again, there is no power in the galaxy that will make him stop her this time.
They slip down on the pillows after only a few moments, kicking the covers clear off the bed and shifting until Rose is on her back and he’s on top of her — he is on top of her, his body between her legs and one forearm braced on the mattress under her back.
It leaves with him a hand free, and while his hips start up some manic rhythm, his hand touches everything it can reach, but mostly her breasts.
He touches her breasts a lot.
Rose’s tongue in his mouth and his tongue is in her mouth, and everything is grainy, slipping friction and hot, wet movement, her teeth on his lip and little gasps of breath between gaps in the kiss. She’s got one hand in his hair and one hand up the back of his t-shirt, and, oh, of course, she’s so smart, he can go under her t-shirt.
It only takes a second to move his hand down and past the hem of her shirt before he’s back, this time skin on skin, a whole handful of naked breast, the perfect texture of her nipple, and he’s moved his other hand from behind her back before he can even think about it.
With both hands free, he pushes her shirt up and when Rose levers forward a little, they work together to strip it off entirely. It’s a good idea, a great idea, and he takes a second to tug his own shirt off before swooping back down to take a nipple in his mouth.
She’s squirming under him, twisting her hips back and forth, clawing at the back of his head as he tries a few different pressures, swipes his tongue against her, sucks, and, oh, god, she has a whole other one and he needs to taste that one, too, his hand picking up the slack, massaging the breast he abandoned.
His mouth is wet, her skin is wet, there’s sweat and spit and when she yanks him up by the hair to kiss him again, he can barely tell any of the parts of his body apart, they all feel like one hot, vibrating mess.
She works a hand down the back of his pajamas, slipping past his boxers, too, and then she’s squeezing his ass, but also pulling him into her, and trying to catalogue everything, trying to parse the things that she’s doing — pulling — from the things he’s doing — thrusting — is proving completely useless.
He lifts his mouth from hers again, moving to kiss at her neck, back to her breasts, down her stomach, licks and nips and sucks, so much smooth, pale skin, and she’s got little freckles and moles, he can only just see them in the light from the TV, but every time he finds one, he puts his mouth on it.
When he reaches the waistband of her shorts, he’s about to ask permission, but then she’s got her thumbs there, pulling them down all by herself, shimmying her legs underneath him until he helps pull them off of her feet.
He tosses them somewhere, the floor, the desk, the moon, it doesn’t matter, because, ohfuckohfuck, she’s taken her underwear off, too, which means Rose Tyler is naked on his bed.
Moving back toward the head of the bed, he braces himself on his forearm again, leaving a hand free to meander down her body. But it’s less meandering and more like when he’s late to class and a hall monitor tells him not to run, so he walks, as fast as he possibly can, to get there instead.
He plays with her breasts again, but it’s more in passing greeting, and he presses his mouth to hers before moving his hand to stroke against her inner thighs.
Her legs spread open, deliberately, and this time he does go slow, he fucking forces himself, and he edges his fingers up, up, up, until he’s rubbing against her, and she’s wet and warm and soft and when he presses his finger into her this time, she moans.
She breaks the kiss, and she fucking moans.
He moves his finger slowly, pushing it deep and then pulling it back out, learning what she likes, trying to remember what had worked in the teacher’s lounge, but it’s a lot to keep track of, and he ends up just experimenting, trying to find his way. He adds a second finger, stretching her a little bit, he can feel it, the way it’s a tighter fit now, and, ohhhh, Christ.
There’s not even a pretend kiss going on, he’s just watching himself finger her, and she’s watching him, he can see her out of the corner of his eye, and, “Rose, can I … with my mouth?”
He sees her eyes widen, something like alarm or panic, and he snaps to face her, stopping his hand half inside of her.
“I don’t have to — I mean, not if you don’t want … I don’t have to,” he’s stammering, rambling, and Rose is shaking her head, and nodding, and what does that mean?
“I just — I’ve never had … that,” she says.
“Do you want … that?” He’s trying not to flip through all the boys he knows she’s dated, trying not to think angry thoughts about his idiot gender and their fucking ridiculousness.
She shrugs, the movement scrunching up into the pillow. “I don’t know. I mean, yeah, but — but you don’t have to, or… what if it’s weird?”
“Do you want to try? And I’ll stop if you don’t like it? Or no? You can say no.”
He’s torn between a thousand different emotions, excitement that he’ll get to be the first, fear that she won’t like it, hope that she’ll say yes, and then she’s nodding.
“Okay,” she says, letting out a breath. “Yeah, let’s try it.”
He grins at her. “You’re sure?”
Slowly, he pulls his fingers from her, wiping them on the sheet beside them, as he moves down her body.
When his torso’s between her legs, he looks up at her again.
“I’m gonna … start, okay?”
“Yeah.” She seems to be looking for a place to put her hands, they’re fluttering around his head, her stomach, the mattress, so he grabs one and puts it on the side of his head.
It’s insanely hard to concentrate, he wants to just dive in, literally face first, but he moves slowly, kissing up one thigh, but abandoning the other, because he’s so close now, and fuck it, with the very tip of his tongue, he licks up to her clit.
She groans, a loud, breathy groan, and he grins to himself, repeating the motion, firmer, and with more of his tongue. He does it a few times, lapping at her slowly, and then … not quite as slowly.
It’s all sort of a blur then, he tries everything he can think of, stroking inside of her with his tongue, tapping out a rhythm on her clit, sucking and licking and she’s grinding down on him, keening, and he sticks with the circuit, working his mouth against her, deeper and harder and faster, everything’s so wet, and she tastes like a girl, she smells like a girl, and she sounds close, she sounds really close, and then she yanks at his hair and fucking shouts, rocketing up off the mattress, until she’s half-sitting in front of him, squirming toward him and away from him at the same time.
He tries another swipe, and that does it, she bucks backward, and he smiles, pulling away to wipe his mouth on her thigh before looking up at her.
She’s staring at him, looking incredulous, nearly laughing, and it’s somehow a good thing, somehow makes him feel proud.
“Yeah?” he says.
“Oh, yeah,” she confirms.
“Cool,” he says.
She tugs him up then, getting hold of his shoulder until he slips back up her body, and the friction from his pants and the mattress and her legs, it’s like a firework the way his cock makes itself known, and he has to take a moment to pull himself together.
It doesn’t last for long though, because then Rose’s hands are at his waistband, shoving meaningfully at the elastic, and he pulls back, shifting awkwardly until he can kick his boxers and pants off.
When he lays back down on top of her, and it’s all naked skin against naked skin, and when his cock naturally settles between her legs, he almost comes. Right there, right then, he almost comes.
It’s only through some miracle of time and space that all the variables don’t quite match up and he keeps it together. He kisses her again, just to distract himself, but when it leads to rutting against her, the angle getting precarious, he pulls back.
“I, um —”
Rose runs a hand through his hair, tracing his cheekbone with her thumb. “Do you have a condom?”
“I think so,” he says, shifting his torso off to the side of her to rummage in his nightstand.
They’re not where he thought they were — in the drawer, and he’s sort of pawing around in it helplessly, hoping to hit on one, so it takes him by complete surprise when Rose wraps a hand around his cock between their bodies.
He groans, going completely still, waiting for her to do it again, oh, god, please do it again.
She does, she tightens her hand, and strokes him up and down, rubbing her thumb under the head, trying a few quick moves like she’s learning him, and he’s not able to move at all, his entire body feels heavy and wanting and tense.
“Here, come here, roll over,” she says, moving her hand to tug at his shoulder and maneuvering him until he’s lying on his back.
Then she’s scooting down the bed, stretching out on her stomach on the mattress near his knees, and angling her head over — oh, fuck, she’s gonna —
Her mouth fits over his cock in one smooth movement, her hand coming up to grip the base of it, and then she’s sucking at him, bobbing her head, tightening her fingers, and just, oh, god.
It’s so hot, her mouth is so hot, and wet, and sucking, and he feels every cell in his body arrow toward his cock, everything poised in that exact direction, waiting and sparking and moving, and he feels it build so quickly, the way she tightens her mouth and slips her tongue around him, and he’s gonna —
“Rose, Rose —“
She shakes her head, a tiny movement, but he catches it, and then he’s lost, hurtling, his balls drawing up and he’s whining, grunting, groaning, pleading, and oh, fuckfuckfuckfuck —
He shouts, coming in a series of spurts he feels down every vein of his body as Rose sucks at him, collecting everything and then swallowing it all down, and he collapses against the bed, going boneless into the mattress.
“Holy shit,” he breathes, when Rose’s head appears in his hazy line of vision.
“Yeah?” she says, an echo of his earlier.
“Oh, yeah,” he parrots back.
He lifts his arm, letting her settle her head against his chest, and then curls it around her shoulders. She fits herself against him, throwing an arm across his stomach and a leg over his own.
There’s maybe a minute where he’s awake to enjoy the feeling of her against him, and then he falls asleep.
The next morning, he sneaks downstairs and makes Rose some Eggo’s and a glass of orange juice. He sets the Cinnamon Toast Crunch out, too. And some Triscuits. And a thing of cookies. Because he has no idea what Rose eats for breakfast, but he’s excited to find out.
(She eats the waffles, and the juice, but sneaks a cookie when she thinks he’s not looking.)
When she reminds him that Henrik’s is closed, he’s even more excited, because they’ll get to spend the day together. He gets to spend the day with Rose. With his girlfriend.
She asks what he had planned, what he’d do if this were a normal Sunday, and he almost lies, but then he doesn’t.
He takes her to the video store.