singillatim | Be always on the watch, and pray that you may be able to escape all that is about to happen

It is possibly not the most romantic of thoughts to have, but the Doctor is the Doctor, and so while he's equally captivated by the sight of Thomas growing ever more aroused, and while he's absolutely enamored of the way it feels to have him in hand like this and to know every tingle of pleasure he feels is a direct result of his own touch, the Doctor also can't help but think about the way his own body responds, and the mechanism behind it. He feels so much pleasure just from this already and as that builds, he's growing warmer, more flushed; increased blood flow, hearts pumping faster, he thinks, his mind turning it over in utter fascination.

Having this now, it's unlocked this selfishness for more, so much more, to spoil him utterly in every way.

"Oh, not ever," he's quick to promise, now with his lips close to Thomas' ear, kissing the skin there, then down his neck again, ever more heated while he silently responds to the faster rocking of Thomas' hips, tightening his hold on him and moving his hand at a quicker pace to match. He hasn't stopped the movement of his hips, rocking a bit slower, though, more focused on the man he loves at the moment.

Thomas' jaw clenches and he so very much wants to kiss him, but he can't. He rests his forehead against the Doctor's shoulder, breath coming in shallow pants as he builds. He's warm, warm in a way that he doesn't feel anymore, warm from the inside as he's sure his heart is going to be right through his chest.

He's unaware that he's saying anything else, but soft words spill out anyway, begging him to keep going, to not stop, and then he's right there at the edge and there's no going back because the man that he loves, who loves him in return smells like woodsmoke and home, and Thomas lets himself fall right over that edge. He rocks into him with a few final erratic, desperate movements, pressing kisses along his neck and face.

He feels his own hearts beating faster still, even more now as Thomas lets go while he has his hand around him. There are so few pleasures that compare to this, to holding close the emotion of what they've confessed to each other, while this man he loves, this man who is...his, somehow, and miraculously, this man is lost to the pleasure from his touch and all this time he'd forgotten how this could feel. He hardly wants to move at all, and his other arm has in the meantime tightened around Thomas' waist to keep him close.

"You are beautiful to me, Thomas Jopson," he repeats huskily, pressing his face up close to his neck to breathe him in, to kiss, with such intensity still behind every touch of his lips, lingering and intent. "Every part of you."

Thomas flushes from the aftermath and the compliment, and he can't really say anything until he's back to himself, his heart beat slowing to something that doesn't feel like it's going to break a rib.

"Wait here," he tells him softly. "Don't move."

He pulls out of his lap, adjusts himself accordingly and hurries, with a little wobble on jelly legs, to the kitchen.

"Turnabout," he murmurs under his breath with the slightest, shortest bark of a laugh, when Thomas leaves the room. It amuses him for a moment to consider he's usually the one more likely to leave the room in a hurry, particularly after such intimacy. He's so curious and wants to follow him, but he's also not entirely sure he's capable of movement just yet. He was issued a directive and he takes it seriously — his curiosity about what waiting and not moving will bring overrides the need to follow after him, but only just.

But he does call out to him with a teasing lilt — "And why can't I move, exactly?"

Thomas comes back with a mug, steam forming at the top. "Because I want to ensure that you enjoy this without thinking of the cold."

He takes a drink of it, letting it burn his tongue slightly, then leans in to kiss him deeply, his lips no longer cold, his mouth warm from the drink.

Whatever he'd been about to say in response is muffled the moment Thomas kisses him. Really, it would have been nonsensical fluff anyway, and words are less important right now. Thomas does have a way of quite perfectly redirecting his priorities. So, there's only a soft hmph against his lips before he's responding to the kiss, parting his lips a little, enjoying this moment for as long as it can linger. He'd shifted a bit on the sofa when Thomas moved away, leaning forward with his legs tucked beneath him, and now he leans forward even more, chasing his lips eagerly with his.

Thomas pulls back and takes another drink, keeping the cup in his hand, before he's back to kissing him, free hand trailing down the front of his shirt to his trousers, unbuttoning them with deft fingers.

"Clever," he manages to say at last, a bit delayed, the word husky and brief on his tongue. He can only think of the heat of Thomas' lips, and that growing heat in himself again. He hasn't been touched quite like this before, and it's such a shift for him to consider letting it go further, but he wants this, he wants him.

These sorts of thoughts so rarely cross his mind, it's not a need for him the way it is for many humans. Yet, everything continues to change with Thomas, and it will be very obvious when he unbuttons his trousers that the Doctor is relieved to be free of the tight fabric around him now.

He pulls back and settles onto his knees in front of him. "I have thought about this for a while," he admits, finishing the drink and setting it aside. The hand that had been wrapped around the cup coaxes him out of his trousers, then he takes him into his mouth.

It's been a while since Thomas has done this, but there are skills that he will never forget. This is one of those skills.

His thoughts tumble about loosely in his head with seemingly no coherency, the moment he feels his mouth on him.

This is —

This —

God, this feels—

His lips part and he gasps, and it's only then he realizes he hasn't actually been saying any of that out loud, those were only thoughts in his head, though his flushed skin, his soft noises, and the tight gripping of the fabric of the sofa might perhaps fill in where evidently words have left him. This, this is entirely new, and he had no idea it could feel like this at all. It's incredible, and one hand comes out for a moment just to grip at the back of Thomas' head, while he manages to gasp his name at last, "Thomas, Thomas..."

His name is so sweet on his lips, and Thomas moans deep in his throat, running his tongue along the underside. His heart is hammering still in his chest and he takes him deeply, finding his rhythm.

There's nothing but static in his mind, nothing but the feeling of being filled, of enjoying him and listening to him enjoy himself.

He can't say anything, obviously, but he closes his eyes, hands on the Doctor's knees.

That Thomas had thought about this far before this moment finally clicks with him and just adds to the pleasure of this, the importance of this moment for him. To the Doctor, it's finally letting go of so much, all the time he's spent completely walled off to feeling the depths of emotion he's truly capable of feeling. Here and now, with Thomas, it's incredible.

Thomas is beautiful to him in every way, and even as the pleasure builds and he stiffens, he tries to keep touching him as much as he can. He keeps his hips nearly still, with only the slightest trembling as his nerves alight with pleasure. His only movement is the trail of his fingers through Thomas' hair, down his cheek, to his shoulders. He's learning as he goes, what feels good, and this absolutely does. He's sensitive, as it turns out, and he knows he won't last long.

"That's, uh..." He laughs breathlessly, biting his lip. "That's very, very good..." Eloquent!

That breaks his concentration and he laughs to himself. It throws off his rhythm a little, but he gets back to it, cheeks hollowed out as he pulls back, still trying not to laugh.

He just - loves this man so goddamn much. He curls his tongue around the tip, teasing and sucking him down again, learning him as best he can. What makes him squirm, what makes him gasp, what makes him talk and - what makes him not talk? It's Thomas' favorite game.

It's a curious thing for the Doctor, the euphoria of pleasure engulfing him at the same time there's simply a persistent hum of emptiness in his mind, as though all of his thoughts, all of his endless wondering about everything has simply gone quiet; this seems to be a running theme, though, when he's with his Thomas. The power this man has over him is really quite something, and he's taken it up so many notches so suddenly. Never would he have ever thought it could feel like this, or that anyone would want to do this, or more to the point, that he would want and welcome this.

The moment his tongue is on him like that, the Doctor gasps again, louder this time as it takes him by surprise in the most pleasant of ways. He watches Thomas as long as he can until the intensity of pleasure building makes his head tip back a little, his eyes close, his cheeks flush ever so slightly. "That — that's...yes," he moans, biting his lower lip again, reaching out to anchor to Thomas again, with a hand grabbing at his arm, fingertips digging in just a bit. "Thomas, I'm..."

Almost there. Evidently, he can't manage to really talk coherently or finish sentences. He feels he should warn him, though, when he's right there on the edge, when he knows he can't hold on any longer. "— almost." Right there, nearly gone.

There is no force in the world that would make Thomas pull back at this point. He stays there on his knees, leaning into him, his entire body made for the Doctor now. He would do anything for him, and this, making him feel that good, is only the start. He's said his feelings to him, he's shown him now.

He moans deeply, gripping his trousers with tight fingers, encouraging him silently to finish, to let himself go.

And let go, he does. With another sharp gasp, a tight grip on Thomas' arm, his other hand clutching at the fabric of the sofa, and a moan of Thomas' name as he fully loses himself. There is no other thought, there's only this, only them. He breathes unevenly, starting to settle a bit now, feeling weightless almost. And so incredibly good, and in love.

God. Yes. They'd said that, hadn't they?

He loves him, he's in love with this man, and they've done this, and he only wants more of everything, every moment that could possibly await them here.

"Well," he laughs a little huskily, so much affection in his voice as he reaches down to fondly weave his fingers through his hair. "You're incredible, Thomas Jopson. I didn't know — that was...that was very." He should finish the sentence. "I've never experienced that before and you absolutely know what you're doing."

Of course he talks too much. Enough that Thomas can't help a small chuckle to himself as he sits back, quite impressed with himself. It really doesn't ever get any more difficult, he tells himself with a grin.

He brushes his hand past his mouth and joins him on the couch again, stretching his legs out as far as they can go. He does enjoy being on his knees, but it takes a toll.

"I thought the tea would work," he remarks softly, looking down to his hands. He's suddenly shy, suddenly a little unsure.

"Far more than the tea worked." He smiles a little playfully, a little fondly, as he settles from the disruptive euphoria of it all. Delightfully disruptive, really. When he can think to move, he tidies himself up, sorting his trousers, smoothing a hand over his sweater and his hair.

He doesn't entirely pick up that Thomas is a little unsure, though he is himself a little unsure of what to say or do next, so he leans into the absurd and cheeky response. "Is this all because you were very impressed by how well I stirred that pot earlier? Had I known, I might have offered sooner," he teases like a besotted idiot who's extremely clumsy when he even just attempts to flirt. He reaches out, though, resting a hand on Thomas' knee.

For a moment, Thomas simply stares at him, and then he starts to laugh, nudging him gently with his arm before leaning on him completely.

"Yes, it was the pot stirring, sir. Truly, you were a wonder at it. If I had known it was so simple to find your talents, I would have tried that earlier. You would have been stirring pots at least a month ago."

Or before that.

Thomas has been wanting this for a while.

"Well, I just had to warm up for it, you know, takes a bit of effort," he smirks a little, more than willing to poke fun at himself for this. Or it takes quite a lot of effort with him, he knows. Technically, it's taken many years and then more months of knowing Thomas to get him to this night, this moment where he could actually speak to his feelings out loud.

"I'll have to really impress you with trying my hand at a sort of...close approximation to bolognese or the like. Loads of stirring there."

He smirks, then sits up and pulls him into a kiss, deliberately not worried about the cold of his skin any longer.

"Loads?" he mutters. "More than this? I don't know if that is a good idea for you."

"You suggest otherwise?" He raises a playful eyebrow, quick to kiss him back. Though realistically, of course, Thomas is right. It doesn't mean he can't be a little stubborn and teasing about it.

"Oh never, sir," he grins. "But I do suggest it. For your own good."

It's mostly nonsense teasing now. "But for now, we should clean the kitchen."

He smiles a little, playful, and moving on to the focus at hand. "Then might I suggest something for your own good?" His tone is light, soft. Not quite teasing because he's serious, but he'll not force Thomas one way or another, of course.

He pats Thomas' knee lightly, then stands slowly; finding his footing after that takes a moment. "We should not clean the kitchen, but I absolutely should. A two person job is easily a one person job if that one person is me." He also just — wants Thomas to have a moment to rest. He's done a lot in the kitchen, and he's done a lot...well. He's done a lot tonight.

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