a/n: This chapter contains adult situations and lots of swearing. NSFW.

Chapter Thirty-Three – London, 25 August, 2007

At the sight of Rose in all of her feminine glory, John was instantly, suddenly, fully erect. His cock pressed desperately, almost painfully against the inside of his trousers, seeking release from its confinement.

He was aware he was staring but was completely unable to stop himself. Their relationship was still so new; he still wasn't used to seeing her like this: the creamy perfection of her skin, the fullness of her breasts, the curve of her hips. A little voice in the back of his mind whispered that he'd never tire of the sight, not if he lived to be ten thousand.

She was so, so beautiful.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to rein in his emotions and get his hormones under control. He was only partly successful. "Rose, we're going to be late for dinner."

"I'm not hungry," she said. Her voice was low, her tone seductive. "Are you?"

He chuckled ruefully. "No. I have to admit, food is the last thing on my mind."

Rose gave him a cheeky grin, the tip of her tongue peeking out from between her teeth. "Well then."

She pulled the pins from her hair, causing it to cascade down onto her shoulders, and crossed the room to stand in front of him. Her hands moved to the button of his trousers.

"I believe you are overdressed for the occasion," she said, rising to her toes and pressing her lips to his. He pulled her into his arms, one hand moving to tangle his fingers in her hair, the other to slide from her shoulder downward to cup her arse. As they deepened the kiss—slow, gentle, with mouths open and tongues gently touching—she unzipped him and slid her hand into his pants, carefully pulling them down just low enough for him to spring free. Her small hand encircled him; the touch of her fingers against his sensitive flesh caused his cock to jump. He groaned.

After a moment—a totally blissful moment—she let go of him and gently pushed him away. He began to pull off his jumper, but she stopped him, placing her hands over his. She shook her head.

"Changed my mind," she said. "Leave it on and sit down." When he didn't instantly comply, she pushed against his chest. "Sit. Down." Obediently he sat down on the edge of the bed, curious as to what she had in mind. She glanced around the room. She must not have seen what she was looking for because she frowned. She shook her finger at him. "Don't move."

Puzzled, he watched as she left the room. He felt stupid sitting there, undone and with a raging hard-on. To his relief she immediately returned, and to his surprise she was carrying his leather jacket. She held it out to him.

"Put this on."

As he slipped on the jacket, his mouth quirked in amusement. "I thought you said I was overdressed. Leather fetish?"

"Fantasy of mine." She knelt in front of him. "Of course this isn't the right venue, but it'll do."

"Where's the right—" he began, and then moaned as he felt her mouth on him.

All coherent thought fled. Hot, he thought. Wet. He dropped his hands onto the bed behind him, propping himself up and holding himself steady. He instinctively thrust upward. One of her hands moved to his hip to hold him still.

She tightened her lips around him and gently pulled backwards before releasing him and sitting up straight. Convinced this exquisite torture was over, he opened his mouth to protest, but the words died on his lips when she gently blew on him. The cool air after the heat of her mouth was shocking to his sensitive flesh, and a fresh wave of desire shot through him. He clutched at the sheets behind him; unable to control himself, he thrust forward again. Of its own accord his cock sought her mouth, desperate for relief.

She looked up at him and met his eyes. "Don't move," she scolded. He nodded, unable to speak.

She dropped her head, taking him deeper this time, before slowly pulling upward, oh so gently scraping her lower teeth against the underside of his cock as she did so, and then dipped her head again. And again. Unable to help himself, he pressed his hips upwards against her hand. She held him down, her fingertips curling under his trousers and into his hip, hard enough to leave a mark, reminding him of her order to stay still, and he forced himself to obey. A natural born leader in all things, he usually took the lead in their lovemaking as well; her taking charge like this was incredibly erotic.

She ran the tip of her tongue along the underside of his erection and upward, swirling around the head of his cock before again taking him in her mouth. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to remain still. She moved the hand on his hip to again cup his balls. As she ever so gently squeezed, she moved the other to grasp his shaft. Her thumb rubbed firmly up and down the back of his cock, from the base upward to where her mouth surrounded him.

"Fantastic," he breathed.

Her mouth and hands worked in tandem, quicker and quicker and quicker, rubbing and stroking and licking and squeezing, dipping her fingers to massage that sensitive flesh between his scrotum and anus before returning to his balls, and, oh, now she'd begun sucking too, harder and harder and harder. The tension built and built, higher and higher and higher, starting in his balls and spreading outward to his cock, to his stomach and thighs and chest and calves and oh, he was close, so very, very close. As she took him deeper, one of his hands moved to thread his fingers through her hair, needing to keep her there, exactly there, keep her doing what she was doing, while his mouth moved of his own accord, in turn praising and cursing and calling on the names of deities he didn't believe in and please don't stop, don't ever stop, only to be replaced by nonsense syllables, words in a nonexistent language, a language he didn't understand, that no one could understand, that no one would ever understand.

And then with a shout he was coming, and coming and coming and coming, coming so hard he could see stars, galaxies, the turn of the universe.

Once it was over, John collapsed on the bed and closed his eyes, chest heaving, his lungs desperate for air, his heart threatening to pound right out of his chest. "Rose Tyler," he gasped. "That was… bloody fantastic."

"What's the matter, old man?" she asked cheekily. "Did I wear you out?"

He opened his eyes and shot her a look. She grinned at him with her tongue caught between her teeth.

"Nope. Impossible to wear me out," he said, mindful that the fact he was still trying to catch his breath was contradicting his words. "I'll show you who wears out who." The effort to hold his head up became too much, and he dropped it back on the bed. "Just give me a mo."

She laughed as she crawled up onto the bed.

He forced himself to a seated position, not easily because his arms were still shaking, and automatically began to undress. He stopped almost immediately, his jacket only half off, and glanced at her.

"All right with you if I take this off now? Or is there more to this fantasy that I don't know about?"

"You can take it off," she told him.

He quickly shucked his clothing and joined her on the bed. "So, what's with me wearing my jacket?"

"Well," she began as he, now naked himself, lay down next to her. "That's what you wore when I first met you. Your leather jacket and that jumper."

He stared at her, puzzled. They'd met at the garage, and he never wore jumpers to work.

No, that wasn't right. They'd met the night Henrik's had exploded two years ago. She'd told him that; they'd first met a couple of years ago, in that part of his life he couldn't remember. It was unsettling, her remembering something that had happened to the two of them that he couldn't.

"So you wanted to jump me when we met?" His voice held more than a trace of amusement.

"Well, no, not that minute. We were sort of busy at the time, escaping the… the building blowing up and all."

"Yeah, I suppose that would put a damper on things." He paused, remembering something else she'd said earlier. "So you never answered, where's the right venue?"

"What?"

"Right before… well, before… you said that this wasn't the right venue. So where is?"

She hesitated, biting her lip and looking away from him. "Well, sometimes when you're fixing the… a…a car, or working on a… a sink, or something… and you're lying on your back, halfway under it, and I think, well…" She blushed. Truly, properly blushed. She turned the color of her namesake.

He smirked. "Think I'm sexy, do you?"

She met his eyes. "Well, yeah. Would think that was obvious considering… After all, I don't do that with just anyone, y'know. Only dead sexy mechanics with gorgeous blue eyes and big ears."

"And leather jackets?"

She rolled her eyes. "Well, that goes without sayin'." She cocked her head and looked at him. "So, what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Any fantasies I should know about?"

His mind immediately flashed to a fantasy he had, one that had begun as a recurring dream, so vivid that it was now haunting his waking hours as well.

He was in a cave—but it wasn't a cave that had ever existed in reality. The round, cavernous room looked more grown than created by geologic processes. Its coral walls glowed a golden orange and were covered in odd, round indentations. Tall branched pillars emerged from the floor and arched high overhead, appearing to hold up the curved, vaulted ceiling.

Perhaps the strangest thing of all was the large, six-sided, mushroom-like structure that dominated the center of the room. Like all dreamscapes, it made no sense. It was covered in switches and levers, flashing lights and glowing dials. A bicycle pump, serving no discernable purpose, was built into one of the panels, and, incongruously, an old-fashioned telephone receiver was set in the center of another. A towering glass column, glowing a greenish-blue, rose from the direct center of the mushroom and stretched towards the ceiling.

Rose stood in front of him, wearing the dress she'd worn to the wedding. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her hungrily, a starving man at a feast. As she dropped her head backwards, he devoured her, lips and teeth and tongue tracing the column of her neck from her jaw to her collarbone.

Without moving his lips from her throat, he walked her backwards until her back rested against one of the pillars, pressing himself tightly against her, pushing his erection hard against her belly. She moaned and pressed back, writhing against him, wrapping a leg around his hips and shifting to rub her core against his cock. She slipped her hands under his leather jacket and into his trousers, cupping his arse and holding him in place. He ground against her. After a moment, after a fantastic, glorious moment, he let go of her and broke away.

At her questioning look, he shook his head and pulled her away from the coral strut, spinning her until she stopped, face forward, against the mushroom-shaped thing. Her skirt hiked, revealing the fact that she wasn't wearing knickers. She looked over her shoulder at him and gave him a cheeky grin.

He unfastened his trousers, releasing his throbbing shaft.

Still looking at him, she rested her hands on the edge of the top of the mushroom-thing. She was gorgeous: her blonde hair trailing down her back; the tip of her pink tongue peeking out from between her teeth; her ripe, round, perfect arse naked and tempting. The blue-green light from the column reflected off her skin, giving her an alien yet familiar appearance. He stepped between her legs, spread wide and inviting, and in one hard thrust, plunged himself into her to the hilt. She cried out, a sound that went straight to his groin.

Leaning over her, he rested one large hand next to hers for leverage and cupped her soft, warm breast in the other—marveling at how perfectly it fit in his palm—before pulling partway out and pushing himself back into her softness. She pushed back against him.

"Harder," she moaned. "Faster."

He didn't need to be told twice. He plunged into her, harder and harder, over and over and over, panting against the back of her neck. Swearing, she urged him on, and he moved his hand from her breast to her clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts.

"Mine," he growled and moved his lips to her skin, licking and sucking before biting down, marking her as his and only his for all to see.

She screamed in ecstasy, carrying him over, and after one final thrust, he stiffened over her, pulsing into her…

"John?"

He jerked back to the present, his cock already half hard, fueled by the vivid fantasy and the naked, willing woman in his arms.

"Yeah?"

She poked him in the side. "You didn't answer me. Any fantasies?"

"Oh, yeah," he said. "But, like you said, wrong venue."

He pressed against her, rubbing his growing erection against her thigh; her eyebrows shot up. "Already?" she asked.

He gave her a wicked grin. "I'm very impressive. And I'm going to show you just exactly how impressive I am."

Her eyes lit up. "Yeah?"

"Absolutely." His eyes twinkled. "At least twice. Maybe more if you're a very good girl."

He lowered his head to hers, capturing her lips with his.

And Rose's phone rang.

He groaned.

"It's probably just Mum. Ignore it," she said, and pulled his head back to hers.

The phone rang half a dozen times before stopping. And then started again. Rose sighed.

"Your mum has the worst timing," John told her.

"Tell me about it."

To their relief, the phone stopped ringing again, but before he could kiss her again, his phone began to ring. They exchanged worried looks. He abruptly sat up, grabbed his jacket off the floor, and pulled his mobile out of his pocket. He glanced at the small display screen.

"It's the garage," he said in surprise. He flipped his phone open. "Hello?" He listened for a moment. "We'll be right there." He disconnected. Rose was already half-dressed in a T-shirt and knickers.

"What is it?" she asked as she pulled on her jeans.

"Abhirati's alone in the garage," he said, pulling on his jumper and a pair of jeans. "And her waters just broke. She's in labor."

~oOo~

One floor down and one flat over, the credits for The Quiet Man rolled on the small telly in the corner of the living room.

"I love that movie," Gladys said.

"You just fancy John Wayne," Irene answered.

"And what's wrong with that? He was a proper man: tall, broad-shouldered, handsome…"

"Bit too American for my taste." Irene stood. "I could murder a cuppa. Want one, Gladys?"

"Do we have any more Jaffa Cakes?" Gladys asked hopefully.

"I think you ate the last one at lunch, love, but I'll look."

As Irene left the room, Gladys took the DVD out of the player and put it away on a small bookshelf next to the television. The shelves were filled to capacity with their favorites, John Wayne movies (Irene was right—she did fancy him) and musicals for her, romantic comedies for Irene. She searched for a moment, looking for something else to watch. Nothing looked appealing. Perhaps something interesting would be on telly this evening, she thought. She turned off the DVD player. A commercial came on the screen, loudly advertising a baldness remedy. She winced.

"Why are the commercials always louder than the shows?" she complained. She picked up the television's remote control from an end table and pressed a small button near the top. Instead of decreasing, the sound surged, exploding out of the television's speaker. Flustered, she jabbed at the button again, only succeeding in increasing the volume to deafening, earsplittingly painful levels. Below her, someone pounded and yelled in protest.

Irene rushed back into the room. She took the remote from Gladys's shaking hands and pressed the correct button. The television quieted. "Are you all right?" she asked.

Gladys's lower lip quivered. "I can't even manage to work the telly properly anymore."

Irene wrapped her arms around her sister. "It's all right, love. It could happen to anybody, pressing the wrong button like that. Done it myself. Doesn't mean anything."

Gladys nodded, pretending to believe her, but she knew the truth. She was getting worse, slowly to be sure, but she was definitely getting worse. Oh, it wasn't pressing the wrong button on the remote control; Irene was right, anybody could do that. No, it was the confusion she sometimes felt, the nervousness that would come, and how flustered and scared she'd get when it happened. They both knew the time was coming when Irene wouldn't be able to care for her anymore, but they never talked about it, as if ignoring the situation would make it go away.

As Gladys sat back down in her favorite chair, the one closest to the wall, Irene changed the channel. Some young aspiring pop star came on the screen, singing a romantic ballad.

"There you go, Gladys. You like this one." She paused and watched the screen for a moment. "Lovely voice she has, doesn't she?" Gladys nodded. "Now you just sit and watch and I'll be back in just a minute." She picked up her pocketbook.

"Where are you going?" Despite trying to keep her voice steady, anxiety crept in. The incident with the volume control had shaken her more than she'd realized.

"We're out of milk, thought I'd go get a pint and some of your Jaffa Cakes. Won't be more than a tick." Irene paused, and a worried expression came across her face. "Are you going to be all right? I can go tomorrow instead."

Gladys shook her head. The shop was on the ground floor of a building just across the courtyard; you could see it from the walkway outside the flat. "You go ahead. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?" When she nodded, Irene looked relieved. She picked up her pocketbook. "Be back before you know it."

As the door closed behind her sister, Gladys leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. The young woman truly did have a wonderful voice, she thought, so soothing. And she got so tired by the end of the day. She felt herself drift off…

"Well, look what the cat dragged in. Where the fuck 'ave you been?"

Gladys jerked awake. Chuck's voice came, clear as a bell, through the thin wall separating their flat from his. He sounded like he was in the same room; he must be sitting right against the wall just as she was. That was the problem with these flats. You could hear everything that went on next door. The flat she'd shared with her last husband had been so much better than this one. But he'd squandered all their money, and when he died, she'd been forced to move in with Irene. Even with the little pension she and Irene received, they couldn't afford better. Frankly, they were lucky to have this one.

Someone answered, but this time the voice was muffled. She couldn't make out a single word, not even if the speaker was male or female. She frowned, worried that Rita had come back. It wouldn't surprise her; women did that every day, returned to their abusive, cheating boyfriends, no matter how badly they'd been mistreated, believing that somehow he'd changed, somehow this time would be different. She ought to know; her third husband had done the same thing, and it had taken her ten years before she'd thrown him out.

If only Harold had lived, she mused wistfully. How different her life would have been. She'd met her first husband in school; it had been love at first sight for both of them. They'd only been nineteen when they'd married. Unfortunately, they'd never had any children. They had plenty of time, he'd said, but then he'd died; cancer had taken him much too young, leaving her a widow before she turned thirty. He'd been gone forty-five years now; the pain of losing him had faded, but she still missed him terribly, every single day.

She'd have to have a little talk with Rita, she thought. The young woman needed to find her own Harold; she shouldn't settle for a wanker like Chuck.

"In the kitchen, where else would it be? Maybe I should keep it in the bathroom?" Even through the wall, Gladys could hear heavy sarcasm in Chuck's voice. There was a pause, and then, "Get me one too."

After another pause, Gladys heard a thump and the sound of a sofa creaking. In her mind's eye she could see someone drop down on it to sit next to Chuck.

"Gimme a fag." To her relief, it wasn't Rita; the voice was medium in pitch, not particularly high or low, but was clearly male. He'd be a tenor if he could sing, she thought. He sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn't place him.

"Get it yerself. They're right in front of you." That was Chuck.

"You live like a pig," the unknown man said.

"You don't like it, there's the door. Move back in with your mum."

"And put up with the whinging? 'Where've you been? Did you get a job yet? Are you eating right? Have you changed your underwear?' Fuck that."

There was another pause. "So, where have you been?" Chuck asked eventually.

"Up North. Liverpool."

"What the fuck's in Liverpool?"

"Nothin'. Not a single bloody thing. Spent weeks lookin' for a job, but couldn't find a damn thing. Instead it was all, 'Thank you very much for your interest.'" The voice put on a heavy, overly-posh accent. "'Unfortunately we do not have anything that is suitable for your qualifications, but we'll be certain to contact you if anything becomes available.' It's all that bitch Rose's fault. If it wasn't for her…"

"That's nothin'. Every time I turn around, that fuckin' twat of a boyfriend of hers is there, watchin' me. An' it's all your fault. He thought it was me threatenin' her…"

"Bitch deserved it, and you know it. You told me yourself that if it wasn't for the two of 'em, Rita'd still be here."

"Yeah," Chuck answered grudgingly.

"One of these days that slag's gonna get what's comin' to her." Gladys shivered at the implied threat. "Where the fuck's the remote? God, you live like a pig. How can you find anything in here?"

Suddenly the television next door blared with random bits of conversation and songs as someone flipped through the channels. It finally settled on some sort of match; the sounds of a crowd cheering drowned out her own TV. As she reached for the remote control, she heard the front door open.

"Gladys, I'm back," Irene called. "They didn't have the Jaffa cakes, so I got a box of assorted biscuits. Would you like some?" She entered the room, heavily laden with more than just biscuits and milk. "I also bought… What happened? What's wrong?" she asked sharply.

Gladys shook her head, unable to articulate the feeling of foreboding that had come over her. She gestured at the wall. "I heard… they were swearing up a storm."

"Is Rita back?"

"No, it sounded like two men: Chuck and someone else."

Irene pursed her lips thoughtfully and stared at the wall. "It was probably nothing. Maybe Chuck had his telly on too loud."

"I don't think so… Maybe…" Gladys said slowly. Suddenly she wasn't certain what she'd heard. "There was an awful lot of cursing."

"Maybe he had that political show on," Irene suggested. "You know, the one with that foxy older gent that swears all the time."

Gladys smiled. "He may have a foul mouth, but he's dead sexy."

"Isn't he though? I wouldn't kick him out of bed." Irene looked at the wall and frowned. "Chuck's not watchin' it now, though, is he? Sounds like American football's on. Oh, well. How 'bout that tea, love?"

Irene didn't wait for an answer. As she left the room, Gladys grabbed the remote and turned up the volume. To her disappointment, the girl was gone. Now it was a young man dancing some sort of new-fangled dance. He was on the floor, spinning like a top. She tilted her head to the side as she watched, not quite sure what to make of it. It was odd, but he seemed good at it.

Another cheer came from the television in the flat next door, pulling her attention away from the dancer and back to the conversation she'd overheard. She stared at the wall, trying to remember the details of the conversation she'd overheard. Her memory was so bad these days. She was forgetting something, she just knew it. She just hoped it wasn't something important.