Fic: Intermission

[doona_rose]

Title: Intermission
Summary: Rose and the Doctor try a little domesticated bliss at the movie theatre. The inevitable occurs. Established relationship. PWP. Yes, I known, it’s just more pr0n.
Pairing: Rose/Ten
Rating: M…big time.
Spoilers: The Doctor has a companion called Rose. That’s all I spoil.

A/N: Thanks to phase_shifter86 for the visualization. Thanks to my boss for taking his girlfriend to see a movie and giving me ideas. Thanks to my grandparents (yes, I’m going to hell) for taking me to the most boring movie ever. Thanks to chicklet73 for lauding me massively, giving me a big head and a high and an edit. And thanks for the rather impromptu final decision on the title goes to seti_drd

This is smut. You know I like writing smut. You know you all like reading smut. Thus, you shall read, enjoy and, if you feel so inclined, tell me about it. Hooray!



“Remind me why you’re doing this?” she asks, tugging on his hand and leading him into the dimly lit room.

He grins, ducking his head and sticking his other hand in his pocket. “Because you always say I’m not domestic enough for you.”

Grinning back, she doesn’t deny it, just leads the way to the back row of the cinema and picks them out two seats in the middle. A few minutes later, the film starts. A further ten minutes and it’s firmly established that the film is rubbish and that the Doctor’s far more interested in drawing intricate patterns across her hand.

The back of his hand lies flat on the armrest, his fingers occasionally threading through hers, palms pressed flat together, measuring out the difference and texture. Then only the tips of his fingers touching, writing letters and making shapes across sensitive skin that she should be trying to ignore. Tracing higher, a forefinger moving up the underside of her wrist and then back, his eyes flickering up to meet hers at the feeling of her pulse quickening. She doesn’t break eye contact as he lifts her hand; leading it to his lips, kissing the back and then turning it, kissing the palm, licking the wrist, nipping, her swallowing hard, mouth dry from the concentration. Her eyes refocus on his but now his gaze has dropped and all she can see are his lashes.

Beautiful, long, the same shade of brown as his hair and flickering in the dull light as his eyes moves over her hand. But this is distracting and she’s meant to be watching the film: with a tug, she draws her hand back into her lap, his fingers interlacing on the way and coming to rest against her thigh.

She turns her gaze back to the screen, watching but not seeing because the heat and weight of his hand is penetrating the denim and his thumb has started moving back and forward across the skin. Fingers flexing beneath hers, she watches as his hand slides away, regrets the loss for a second and then becomes confused as his hand wraps around her wrist, guiding, lifting her arm, pressing it into the back of her chair so that the armrest between them is clear.

Lips half way to his ear, planning on questioning his action, when his fingers nimbly flick the button of her jeans open. The question dies on her lips and she stares, stares at eyelashes and mussed up hair and when he looks up his eyes are dark enough to convince her he’s not as innocent as his lopsided grin implies.

Finding her tongue again, she moves her lips closer, whispering. “What are you doing?” But a sultry tone that says not to stop has made its way into her voice and his only reaction is to grasp the zipper between thumb and finger and drag it down, the sound seeming to echo. Rose’s eyes flick up and flitter over the few people scattered around the theatre; nothing seems to imply that they’ve been noticed and a second later she forgets she was meant to be looking.

He’s staring straight ahead, she notices that as her eyes fall shut and her teeth close over her bottom lip, he’s actually looking at the screen as though nothing’s amiss.

Bastard.

Such talented hands, fingers, the way he flicks his wrist just so and within the smallest moment, so small, she doesn’t know the sequence of events, he’s touching her. Wriggling her hips to grant him more space to work, shifting until jeans and underwear have moved down her hips: nothing revealed but his hand taking advantage of the unseen space with quicker, longer movements.

Fingers stroking, pressing, caressing; friction and momentum changing as he feels the first involuntary movement. Her hips have raised and now it’s not calculated manipulation, wanting to feel more of him, it’s a base need that’s bypassing all the rational parts of her mind.

He grins and takes his eyes from the screen, turning his head to look at her, slumped in the chair, takes in the expression of controlled pleasure and the way one hand is gripping at the fabric. He looks her over, from where her head is pressed back into the chair to where her jeans are pulled tight across his own hand, her legs now parted as far as the chair will allow. When he looks back at her face, he’s a little startled to find that she’s glaring at him, startled even more when she draws a leg up, knee closest to him almost beneath her chin now and then her hips start to grind against his fingers.

It’s so unfair that after all that work he’s the first one to make a sound. A little moaning gasp of surprise as she catches his hand tight between taut denim and slick, hot flesh and it’s now an undeniable fact that he revels in being able to do this to her, that just the touch of her wet and hot is enough to make him gasp.

The sound escaping his lips gives her an idea. Some image that penetrates the haze of her mind and she begins to resurrect the synapses needed to put her plan into action.

Leaning over, he lets his lips graze up her neck and whispers: “I told you you should’ve worn a skirt.”

The husky quality destroys most of the control she’s pulled back together. The sudden knowledge that follows a second later - that this was planned from the very moment he asked her to wear the black frilly skirt and she said no - shatters the rest and the way she’s been moving her hips - constant, rhythmic - falters for a moment and she just grinds down hard, once, slow.

He grins close enough to her cheek for her to know it.

Gritting her teeth, the semblance of pacing returns and while he’s busy letting his lips trace out the line of her jaw, she reaches across, hand darting over the thin cotton of his shirt until she finds the top of his trousers, fumbles because his lips have stopped moving against her skin, his fingers no longer stroking, just his palm pressing, and there’s a low hiss escaping his lips.

He’s hard and the thin cotton in stretched so tight it’s making it difficult to get the clasp undone, he’s straining to get closer and being able to feel him - lips and fingers - pressed to her is making it hard to concentrate but then, ah yes, she yanks the zip undone and tugs at the waistband of his underwear, pulling it down and away, freeing him, and capturing his lips, tongue dipping into his mouth, tasting shock and elucidation, almost as an afterthought because there’s a low growl there that someone might hear.

They’re in a movie theatre, exposed, aroused and all control lost to the person in the other chair. It shouldn’t feel this good.

Carefully, because his whole body is rigid, on edge, and she needs to judge this just right, she traces out what’s left bare. From one hip to the other, lets a finger run either side of the bone twice for each, then up, dipping just beneath the shirt to swirl around his belly button, mimicking what she knows he likes her to do with her tongue. Moves down, hand flat against his lower abdomen, fingers curved to fit the contours of his body, down to the dense hair that denotes she’s close, further and her fingers trace his length: slow to the point of exploration.

Her hand withdraws and he breaths a sigh of relief, considers going back to work, considers lifting his palm away, moving his fingers properly against her, moving them inside her. Contemplates kissing her, licking along her neck, across a shoulder…

From nowhere he hears the sound of saliva on flesh, sticky, wet sounds and it makes his brow furrow and his eyes move to the screen. It shows an almost empty road so that can’t be it. He looks to Rose, on the brink of being scared of what he’ll see, of being certain that if he’s sees what he thinks he’s going to see, he’ll come right there and then.

And there she is, tongue lapping at her own palm and as soon as he’s seen, as soon as their eyes connect and she’s seen his jaw drop, her hand moves away, moves to his lap where her fingers are immediately curling around him, feeling his hips buck out of the seat, into her grasp looking for friction and achieving nothing and she watches him with delight.

Then she moves, a smooth stroke, wet and fast and his fingers slip inside her because he needs the connection on some level, needs to take her with him each and every time and he knows that that makes sense but is too busy pressing two long fingers inside her.

Surprisingly her stroke doesn’t falter at first, she’s so intent on giving back that she blocks so much of what he’s doing and manages to keep her hand steady for a minute before he curls a finger just right and her hand falls away from him, clutching at his thigh instead as he grins and leans in, clearing his mind, perfecting the motion, leaving a trail of hot, wet kisses down her neck.

She hates that he’s done that, taken control without giving any back, feels a little bit guilty that this is the only way it can be because the way he touches her makes everything inside her unworkable. Resists him, does her best not to let her hips move, her spine arch, her body work to take his fingers in deeper, to press against his thumb just there where he’s rubbing tiny, unforgiving circles. And how, how, does he know her body this well?

Resists until with a nip of her earlobe, he’s speaking in such a hushed low tone that it’s a vibration that runs its course through her body. “Stop holding back.”

Muscles loosen at his command and before she even knows she’s agreed, she can feel her body slackening and sinking into the chair, against his hand that slows down for just long enough to make her comply and then regains pace, moves surer and deeper and inside her his fingers feel impossibly, perfectly long and powerful, touching, curling, pressing against each and every nerve ending while his lips move against the skin of her neck, teeth tracing until he knows she’s so close it’ll take little more…

Fingers stroking into her again and she presses down as hard as she can, wanting release. His teeth bite down as hard as he dare as he strokes one last time, fingers inside her as she comes and he feels it a second before he hears it, a deep moan that’s going to be audible to every person in the theatre if it raises in pitch so he quickly pulls her lips to his, kissing her as her hips continue to rock, swallows the rest of the sound and concentrates on letting her come down from the high.

It probably doesn’t help that when he withdraws his fingers a second later, pulling his hand from her pants, he has the audacity to flick just the tips back over sensitized flesh in just such a way that she lets out a squeak.

They’re both aware when someone a few rows forward turns to look at them suspiciously. She tries to look bored as she fumbles to get her jeans done up and he just grins and waves until the man looks back to the screen and they both grin and muffle their giggles.

Still dazed and short of breath, she watches as he licks his fingers clean. One at a time into his mouth, tongue quite obviously swirling around and his face a picture of innocence. It isn’t fair so she slaps him lightly across the arm, he just grins and licks his lips for good measure.

Biting her lip, she leans across and lets her hand move back to his lap, fingers instantly curled around his length and feeling him straining beneath her. All an act: the carefully reined control, the indifference, the cheekiness. Because she’s beginning to understand just how much he loves touching her, watching her, feeling her. She doesn’t quite understand it, but she knows it’s there and here’s the evidence.

As she starts to stroke, intent on returning the favor, his hips jerk upwards, the grasp just right and one glance at his face, angular tension evident, is all she needs to know he’s dangerously close already. It makes her move faster.

A hand darts down to wrap around her wrist firmly and he forces her to stop, pulling her hand away and looking at her, his eyes dark and unfocussed and maybe she understands why he loves watching her, maybe it makes him feel like she’s feeling right now.

“Stop it,” he warns in a whisper.

“Why?” she asks, looking not at his face but quite pointedly to where the flash of lights from the screen is making the sheen of sweat and saliva that covers every inch of visible skin more inviting than ever.

“Because if you make me come, it will be messy, I assure you. And it will be noticed. And then we’ll both get arrested and imagine having to explain that to your mother when she has to bail us out of prison.”

That makes her falter, talk of her mother always does and he knows that. Then she glances back down and decides she doesn’t really care. Her hand darts out again, makes it half way before he captures it, gives her a stern look and drops it unceremoniously back into her lap.

“Later?” she asks hopefully

“Oh, indeed,” he reassures and is quietly relieved when she gives a curt nod, a last glance over him and turns her eyes back to the movie.

Stretching and cursing his own body a few minutes later, he shakes his head as though to clear it and reaches down, moving to gingerly pull his underwear back up and zip up his trousers. Her hand alights on his wrist and his eyes flicker up in confusion.

“Don’t.”

Eyes widen with shock. “What?” it’s high pitched and for a moment their gazes turn to the theatre, looking to see if they’ve been discovered.

“Just…” her eyes flicker down and there’s a sly smile about her lips. “Don’t.”

He presses his teeth and lips together but he finds himself complying even as the blood rises in his cheeks. A second later and it seems she’s looking back at the movie and so is he, his pants undone, underwear yanked away to leave him hard and exposed and knowing she must be looking at him every few seconds is not helping the situation at all. It isn’t fair that she plays these games with him because at this rate he’s not going to be able to leave the cinema with any sense of decorum at all.

Eyes on the screen, catching up with the plot, ignoring every image of her watching him, tracing him with her eyes because the thought inevitably leads to thoughts of her tracing him with other things - fingers, lips, tongue. He swallows and stares harder at the screen, scrunching his eyes up and begging his body to relax.

And as soon as he begins to drift away from being completely focused on the woman beside him, she knows, takes advantage and slides from her chair, hands on his knees, pushing them apart as wide as she can as she kneels between his legs and looks up at him like sin and he scrambles for clarity.

“Rose,” he half-yelps, half-whispers. It comes out scratchy and hysterical and she hushes him with a finger to her lips and a breath that he’s sure was meant more to caress across his skin than to indicate any sort of silence.

Her hands slide higher, up from behind his knees over his thighs, resting at the crease where they join to his hips and he’s dumbfounded to find how far down in his seat he’s slipped. She smirks and he’s never seen her lips look so full, so inviting, so unbelievably fuckable and his body jumps at that thought because it’s so wrong, so especially wrong here where it might all be seen but…

“At least this way it won’t be messy,” she purrs.

Oh, no, no. Oh fuck she’s not playing fair. It creates electricity out of thin air and he feels everything move towards inevitable surrender as she licks her lips and he sees her tongue, sees it and wonders how hot and wet and like rough velvet it might feel. “Rose,” he tries again, only to hear himself begging.

And she shouldn’t, shouldn’t, move quickly, if she’s got any sense she should take this slow because he’s going to last seconds; the images his overactive imagination is generating are making his hips angle up, tilting until his backside is off the seat and his hands are gripping at the armrests like it’s all that’s left tethering him to reality.

And then she’s crawled the little bit higher, what fleeting eye contact they’d had disappearing as she lets her hair brush over his skin once before tucking it behind her ears. He bites his lip and moves higher in the air, entreating her closer and closer and oh fuck this is going to be over in such a short time.

Then it’s her mouth, velvety and hot like he’s used to but there’s so much more control, every flick of her tongue registering - position, pressure, reaction - the tilt of her head and he feels the inside of her cheek as a hand wraps around what’s not already hotly encased. Oh god help him, she’s not playing far, tongue swirling around the very tip as she pulls away and presses a wet, sloppy, playful kiss there and looks up.

What’s she doing? Checking if this is okay? Gauging how far he’s gone? Being a complete and utter tease? He’s turning himself inside out, bracing himself on the chair and raising his hips higher and higher as she dares to pout at him and just that look, under the softest stroke of a hand, has him slamming his eyes shut and pulling his muscles rigid because if he doesn’t concentrate…

A hand on a hip and she pushes him back into his chair. She might have said ‘relax’ or he might have imagined it but his mind is reeling a second later with expletives and accusations he’d voice if he could open his mouth without yelling.

Her lips again, slipping over and down, taking him inside her mouth unhesitatingly and then sucking as her tongue strokes the underside, her hand keeping time and fuck this is not good. Fuck if she does not stop right now…a hand escapes the material of the armrest, winds into her hair and involuntarily, tilts her head until her lips rest just so and the tiniest whimper moves through his throat. He brought that one upon himself.

Now she’s grinning, she knows she’s won because she knows his body, knows the tell tale signs and knows she could walk away now and he’d come no matter what. So she’s grinning in triumph and it’s so blatantly obvious from the way her lips are curving around him. Needs to tell her anyway, needs to warn her. “Rose,” it’s not low or gravelly, it’s embarrassingly high and he thinks, thinks, the same guy has turned around and cast them a glance. Doesn’t care. “Rose,” he tries to bite out.

“Mmm-Hmmm?” It vibrates, a standing wave that goes from vibrations in her throat to her lips and into him. He bucks up wildly, pressing deeper into her mouth and curses her even as he feels everything inside him tremor: electricity racing through nerves and the flood of hormones as coherent thought ceases and he feels himself tighten, plateau just for a second as he tries to resist with one last thread of gentlemanly control.

She doesn’t back off. Keeps her lips tight around him, a hand on his ass, the other wrapped around; she’s sucking ever so slightly, gentle, suppliant pressure and a second later he’s coming. Hand in her hair tightening to the point of pain, muscles spasm and she feels hot liquid hit the back of her throat and swallows. He bucks again and again and she keeps her lips around him, refuses to let him go, to let a drop escape, just sucks and strokes and swallows until his whole body falls limp back into the chair, lips tight, pulled away with a quiet pop and he just slumps there, eyes half open and his expression completely sated.

He tries to glare at her once he has the energy but she just licks her lips and smiles at him like the cat that got the cream.

He really wishes he hadn’t just thought that.

With nimble fingers she pulls his trousers back up, carefully doing the zipper up and making a mental note to lead him to the shower as soon as they get back. Not messy, she’s avoided that, but a little sticky. She grins again and crawls up until she’s leaning over him, standing now with her fingers intertwining with his.

He shocks her one last time, payback for the last however many minutes it’s been, by darting forward and pressing his lips to hers, slipping his tongue into her mouth and letting it slide over hers, undeniably tasting everything before he smoothly leans back, resting his head against his chair and smirking at her startled look.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” he whispers as she slides into her seat beside him, legs drawn up and her body angled so she can hold his hand up between them and press her lips to his knuckles.

There’s a brief pause as she recovers from the kiss and then she just smiles and hums in reply, drawing it out. “Mmmm-hmmm.” Giggles at him as his head falls back, the blood rising in his cheeks and he presses a palm to his face.

A/N: Yep, so I crossed a few more lines I never thought I'd cross. Surprise, surprise. I'm interested to hear what you all thought and, of course, welcome the constructive along with the lauding.