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Here, everybody, have a stream-of-consciousness PWP. Unbetaed. Happy Monday?
Story: Counting to Nine
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sapote3
Rated: NC17
Pairing: Nine/Jack/Rose
One was the shirt that she dropped on the ground, purple polyester - she was used to using the TARDIS as her personal clothesline - as she backed away across the decking to the alcove where he slept. Her skin was creamy white, and he looked up at her and thought human.
Two were the sets of hands on her, Jack's ridiculous tender open palms against her square ribcage, against the pink upward swells of her breasts, and the Doctor's hands went still on her back as he watched Jack's mouth whisper silent words into the curves of her side. Jack was more careful than he expected; easy, competant. Jack looked up at him, eyes dark, and -
Three was the way their mouths met, the slow drag of lips, his mouth against Rose's temple, the way her breath caught as Jack's mouth opened against hers, as he turned to the Doctor and -
Four was the number of hearts beating in the bed when the Doctor slid inside her, Jack's hands stroking up his sides and down between them, his own breath a sobbing in his ears, and he met met Rose's eyes and -
Five was the slow count under his breath, the careful thrust because it had been so long since he'd done this, and her breasts were soft and heavy against his chest, and Jack kissed her hard, ran his hands up the Doctor's back, his erection rubbing into her thigh, into the movement of their legs as she wrapped around him -
Six rising gasps, her face pinching with concentration, with immediacy, and she threw back the pale curve of her throat and tightened around him, unlikely and present and there with him, with both of them, and Jack's fingers paused and moved again between them and she turned her face into Jack's shoulder and laughed, coming hard around him.
Seven bolts held the bed in place, and he heard each of them squeak under the strain, his arms barely holding him up in the slick slide and scent and press of Rose's ankles crossed up around his shoulderblades and - there, and Jack's hand is on the back of his neck, somehow, when he comes.
Eight strokes of his hand, with Rose pillowed up against him dazed and gleaming, with his breath still catching in his lungs. Jack was braced up over him, eyes squeezed shut, and he twisted his wrist and watched Jack's face tense and his shoulders stutter as he spurted into the Doctor's hand.
Nine long breaths until they fell asleep, the two of them, curled up around the Doctor as the TARDIS spun through space, and he watched them with bemused eyes, and kept count.
Story: Counting to Nine
Author:
sapote3Rated: NC17
Pairing: Nine/Jack/Rose
One was the shirt that she dropped on the ground, purple polyester - she was used to using the TARDIS as her personal clothesline - as she backed away across the decking to the alcove where he slept. Her skin was creamy white, and he looked up at her and thought human.
Two were the sets of hands on her, Jack's ridiculous tender open palms against her square ribcage, against the pink upward swells of her breasts, and the Doctor's hands went still on her back as he watched Jack's mouth whisper silent words into the curves of her side. Jack was more careful than he expected; easy, competant. Jack looked up at him, eyes dark, and -
Three was the way their mouths met, the slow drag of lips, his mouth against Rose's temple, the way her breath caught as Jack's mouth opened against hers, as he turned to the Doctor and -
Four was the number of hearts beating in the bed when the Doctor slid inside her, Jack's hands stroking up his sides and down between them, his own breath a sobbing in his ears, and he met met Rose's eyes and -
Five was the slow count under his breath, the careful thrust because it had been so long since he'd done this, and her breasts were soft and heavy against his chest, and Jack kissed her hard, ran his hands up the Doctor's back, his erection rubbing into her thigh, into the movement of their legs as she wrapped around him -
Six rising gasps, her face pinching with concentration, with immediacy, and she threw back the pale curve of her throat and tightened around him, unlikely and present and there with him, with both of them, and Jack's fingers paused and moved again between them and she turned her face into Jack's shoulder and laughed, coming hard around him.
Seven bolts held the bed in place, and he heard each of them squeak under the strain, his arms barely holding him up in the slick slide and scent and press of Rose's ankles crossed up around his shoulderblades and - there, and Jack's hand is on the back of his neck, somehow, when he comes.
Eight strokes of his hand, with Rose pillowed up against him dazed and gleaming, with his breath still catching in his lungs. Jack was braced up over him, eyes squeezed shut, and he twisted his wrist and watched Jack's face tense and his shoulders stutter as he spurted into the Doctor's hand.
Nine long breaths until they fell asleep, the two of them, curled up around the Doctor as the TARDIS spun through space, and he watched them with bemused eyes, and kept count.
no subject
Yes, but it's so deliciously complicated. Did the remind the Doctor how to dance, or, in fact, prod him into remembering? And is Rose really controlling the situation, or is the Doctor just letting her take the lead? Maybe it's just Eccleston's presence, but I never get the feeling he's not really in control here, especially when he winks and says, "I'm sure of it, Rose. I'm absolutely certain of it. But the question is, with who(m)?" And then, I seriously expected him to reach out and pull Jack into a jitterbut after the blackout to the credits.
Mickey. Sigh. Rose keeps him on a string, Jack is condescending...ironically, I think the Doctor comes around a bit after WWIII and at least deigns to participate in banter with Mickey. The insularity is an unattractive trait of many of RTD's creations, although it didn't bother me so much with these three because they hit the right "temperature" with me and Mickey did get to tag along - it was the show that made fun of him with the cleaner's trolley and the bucket, etc.
It's really no good me getting inspired to write at this time of night...
no subject
Hmm. Anyway. Yes.
I feel like Nine sort of expected everyone to be an idiot, and allowed himself to be pleasantly surprised. This may be an over-critical reading of the character.
Yay for nightwriting. I mean, I wrote this thing in the middle of the night, and people seem to think it turned out well.
no subject
You mean the one he could have used to melt the bars and not bothered to resonate the concrete?
I feel like Nine sort of expected everyone to be an idiot, and allowed himself to be pleasantly surprised. This may be an over-critical reading of the character.
Being that this is Christopher Eccleston and he never plays just one level with three or more will do, I always felt that he put on an air of expecting everyone to be an idiot while internally expecting them to be wonderful and being terribly disappointed when they didn't live up to it ("stupid apes!"); then he could use "I thought so all along," as an excuse.
I wrote this thing in the middle of the night, and people seem to think it turned out well.
That it did - of course, I can't write before 2pm and really hit my stride between 8pm and 2am. So sometimes the fanfic happens between 2 and 4. AM.