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Thursday, June 3rd, 2010 11:43 pm
By: [livejournal.com profile] loveslashangst
Fandoms: Doctor Who (new), Ninth Doctor Era
Kinks: Written to the kink_bingo prompt “food”, but rated X for mature content, language, sexually suggestive behaviour, abuse of food (and a kitchen table), sex, and implied slash.
Title: Hungry
Summary: Nine’s gone off his feed. Only an act of mercy can help him find his appetite. Takes place a few days to a week after “The Empty Child/The Doctor Dances”.
Pairings: Ninth Doctor/Nancy, Jack/Rose, Nine/Jack (implied), Nine/Rose (implied)
Content Notes: Food is awesome. Sharing food is sexy. And you have my awesome beta [livejournal.com profile] ophymirage to thank for this. I would never in a million billion years have thought of Nine/Nancy on my own.



The Doctor pushes the peas around on his still-full plate. Navigates between the twin-lumps of mash. Arranges strips of roast beef in sine waves.

Rose and Jack are extra-chirpy tonight, smiling and flirting and laughing. He should join them, he supposes...

“Doctor,” says Jack in a tone that indicates he’s called the name more than once.

He glances up. Sets down his fork. “Sorry, what?”

“Should we make something else for you? Something more to your taste?” The blue twinkle in those eyes means Jack’s only half talking about food, which just ties the Doctor’s stomach into worse knots. He’s not in the mood for that either.

The dazzling grin fades from Rose’s face. “What’s wrong, Doctor?”

“Nothing.” Even if he himself knew, he’s not up for any more explaining. “’S nothing.”

Rose reaches out for his hand. Insinuates her fingers in his. “It’s all right. You can tell us.”

And good ol’ Jack takes his other hand, just as painfully earnest and caring as Rose.

For a moment, he considers it. No. He can’t do this. He gives each hand a squeeze. Stands. “Carry on without me.” He pins Jack with a pointed look. “I’m sure you’ll find something nice for dessert.”

The flush of lust is visible even beneath that perfect tan. Jack looks at Rose, who’s already blushing and returning that bedroom-eyed stare.

The Doctor makes a hasty exit, as he has no desire to watch the shag that will inevitably follow. He just doesn’t have the stomach for it.

Instead, he does what he always does when he has no idea what to do next. To the console room, and the heart of this lady he loves so well. The TARDIS is somewhat worse for wear of late, but even in the rags of her former glory, she’s still gorgeous. She welcomes him, the rhythm of the Time Rotor like the call of a dear friend.

Which unfortunately only makes him think of another girl in the faded rags of her former glory. A girl with twin braids and a level stare. A girl who protected those she loved. He shakes his head to clear the foolish notion away. Sets controls. Steers them toward their next destination.

His “dear friend” has other ideas, though, and the minute he opens the door, the stench of World War II London fills his nose. The Blitz. He tastes the air. The TARDIS has dropped him a day. No, maybe two days after their last adventure, which means that…

“Doctor.” And there she is. Nancy. Slim and straight and dignified in spite of all the blows life has dealt her. She melts out of the shadows, hardly more than a shadow herself. Twin braids. Pale face. If he knows her like he thinks he does, every morsel she finds goes to her son or to that ragtag mob of urchins she rules like a backstreet Queen Mum.

“Nancy,” he says. He should turn. Close the door. Leave. Go back to his own charges. No doubt they’re mid-shag by now, if Jack’s as quick on the uptake as he thinks. Rose’ll be up for it, he’s sure, as the Doctor’s left her hanging with a hunger of a different kind.

“You’re back,” she says, though he knows what she means is “why are you back?” Concern flickers across her face -- things weren’t so nice the last time he was here.

And in that moment, he’d move heaven and earth just to see those lines of worry smooth from her too-young face. He steps back slightly, an invitation. “Would you care to come inside?”

She does. Marvels silently. Says nothing, though he suspects she thinks more.

“How’s Jamie?” It’s not that he doesn’t care about her son, just that the question feels like the small talk it is.

“Fine,” she says. “He’s fine. Safe. I left him sleeping with the others. We’ve found new quarters.”

“Good.” He wishes she could read his thoughts so he could dispense with spoken words altogether. “That’s good.”

She takes another step closer to the console. “Did you want to show me something else, Doctor?”

He lets his breath go all at once, though he wasn’t even aware he’d been holding it. “This way.”

He’s planning even as he walks. He doesn’t wait for her to follow, knowing that curiosity will get the better of her.

He leads her back to the kitchen. Is relieved to open the door and find that once again, the TARDIS has read his mind. (And that he was right about Rose and Jack adjourning to one bedroom or the other.) He closes the door quickly before Nancy can see what’s now inside.

“Handkerchief?” he says.

She gives him an odd look, but obligingly digs a slightly dingy one out of her pocket. He holds it by the ends, twirling it until it’s wrapped into a neat blindfold.

She doesn’t object when he puts it on over her eyes. Doesn’t object when he ties it behind her head. Waits with quiet patience for him to explain.

“When was the last time you ate your fill?” he says.

“Can’t remember.” Well, at least she’s being honest. “Why?”

“I know you,” he says. “Won’t eat until the others have their share. Well, in my house, we play by my rules. Rules are, if you can identify the dish, there’s servings enough for all.”

To his delight, she moistens her lips with a little pink tongue. Then she half-smiles. “You know I can smell them from here. Tell you everything you’ve got laid out.”

He does know. “Your nose have special powers?” he teases. “Just play along.”

Her return grin warms him to the core.

She places a slender hand on his arm. Lets him lead her into the room. The table’s cleared of the leavings of the previous meal, but is now heaped to overflowing with every dish the British have ever invented, plus a few extras. Bangers. Mash. Bubble-and-squeak. Spotted dick. Gravy and more gravy. Roast beef. Ham. Mushy peas. Puddings. It’s enough to feed her mob for a month. No clue how he’ll manage to get it all containered and ready to go, but he has a funny feeling the TARDIS has ideas about that too.

Nancy’s stopped halfway into the room. Her weight’s shifted to the balls of her feet. Her mouth is slightly open as if she’s dining just on the scents in the room. His stomach unknots and the first real smile of the evening finds its way to his mouth.

“I like this game,” Nancy says.

He offers her a chair. Tucks a cloth into the collar of her threadbare dress. Kisses her forehead. Goes off to fetch knife, spoon, and fork, more cheerful by the minute. Pulls another chair over to rest beside the table. Sits. “Let the testing begin.”

She opens her mouth obediently. He dips a spoonful of champ into gravy. Feeds it to her, careful not to drip. She laughs, almost spattering him with potatoes and green onion. Manages to swallow the mouthful. “That’s too easy. ‘S champ, and a lovely one.” He rewards her with another mouthful. Loves the smooth movements of the muscles in her throat as she swallows.

She plays along through the courses. Opens her mouth obediently each time. Chews thoughtfully, as though this really were a test and both of them didn’t know what he was feeding her. It’s hypnotic, watching her. The bunch and relaxing of muscles in her jaw. The clean lines of her throat. Her voice, clear and strong. This wasn’t supposed to be erotic. This kind of wanting, this hunger, wasn’t supposed to be on the menu.

She takes the glass of milk he offers. Cleanses her palate. Looks blindly to him as if she can sense him watching. Opens her mouth, just slightly. Waits for him to do what he will.

He fights for control. Is about to turn away when a hand touches his shoulder. Fists in the knit of his jumper. Pulls him closer.

His nose bumps hers, then she finds his mouth. Kisses him. And for a moment, he gives in to wanting. Cups her head in his hands. Devours her with lips and tongue. She’s delicious. Wanting. Open.

His hands find their way to one of her braids. He begins to unplait it. Smiling, she does the same with the other. He runs his hands over her freed hair. Combs fingers through it. It slips through his hands, heavy silk. And all he wants is to kiss…

He pulls back, realizing. “Sorry. I’m sorry. This isn’t why I brought you here.”

She brushes his lips with hers. “Yes, it is.”

“I wanted to help,” he insists.

“And you will.” She nibbles his lower lip. “You are.”

Rose and Jack are almost certainly in one of the bedrooms, shagging each other’s brains out. Knowing Jack, they’ll be at it for hours. Knowing Rose, she’ll pace him easily. He has time. If he wants it.

When he glances back at the table, the food’s already packed up. Containered in odd, mismatched bowls that won’t look the least bit out of place in 1941. He smiles at the neat piles at the end of the table, which has suddenly gotten longer. And stretched up to the perfect height
.
The TARDIS has even laid out a dish of sticky toffee for them. It steams, pointedly delicious and sinful and inviting.

“Doctor.” Nancy’s taken the blindfold off. She stands. Catches fingers in her skirt. Hikes it up, one little gather at a time. When it’s just below her waist, she straddles him. Sits solidly in his lap, too thin and too strong all at once. She teases his mouth. Tastes. Puts her arms around his shoulders. Looks at him, seeking. “I’m ready for dessert,” she murmurs.

So is he, and both of them know it. His hands find their way to her waist. Trail slowly up her back. “Haven’t had any in ages, me,” he says.

“Then maybe it’s time you did.” She kisses him, slow and deep. Melds her mouth with his. Warms him with her own heat. Human. So much hotter than he is. They burn so brightly and briefly. Such courage and will to survive.

He buries himself in the sensations of her. Smooth skin. Soft hair. Hungry mouth. Salt and heat and the traces of milk. He hardens slowly, an achingly blissful sensation.

His stomach growls.

She pulls back, laughing softly. “There’s a request if ever I heard one.” Mouth still a few teasing millimetres away from his, she reaches past him. Scoops up some of the sticky toffee. Holds it at his lips. He takes each finger, one at a time. Cleans them. Savours the rush of sweetness. Swallows.

Smiling, she gets another scoop. Dots his nose with it. Kisses it away. “Lose the manky jumper,” she murmurs.

“’S not manky,” he says, though he’s already reaching for the hem.

“Yes, it is,” she says, kissing him. She helps him pull it off. “But I don’t mind.”

She paints his chest with sweeps of sponge cake. Dots with toffee sauce. Licks. Laps. Suckles first one nipple, then the other. He’s hard as iron now, and loving every minute of it.

“Thought it was my turn for dessert,” he teases.

She grins. Unbuttons the collar of her dress. Strips it up and off in one smooth motion. She’s too thin. He’s half-tempted to keep her here just to put some curves on her spare frame.

She smiles at him. Puts her arms around his shoulders. Teases his mouth with hers. “I was hoping you’d come back.”

Apparently, he was too. He lifts her. Lays her down on the table. Drifts sticky fingers over her bare skin. Follows them with a hungry tongue. Works her to a slow boil. Eats his fill off her lovely white skin until the plate is empty.

She shimmies out of her knickers.

The smell of her hits stomach and groin at the same time. Aroused. Hot. Wet. Reeking of pheromones and open invitation. She parts her knees. He falls to his in front of her. Pulls her close by the hips. Buries his face in her. She arches with a surprised cry. Grinning, he devours her. She’s sopping with salty musk. He licks. Sucks. Tongues her. Dines sumptuously. It’s been too long since he’s done this.

She’s moaning. Her hand catches at the back of his head. Presses him closer. He adds a finger, drawing her whole clit into his mouth. She sobs. Shudders. Two fingers now. Three. She’s panting. Writhing on his hand. Crushing his face into her sex.

“Please…” she begs. “Doctor, please…”

He undoes his flies. Lets his trousers fall to his ankles as he stands. Bends over her, cock brushing the molten fire of her quim. She stretches up to kiss him. Bites at his mouth. Pulls him down and onto her. He thrusts carefully forward. She braces her feet on the edge of the table. Forces him deeper. Deeper still. So deep. He swallows her cries of pleasure. Rests his forearms on either side of her head. Begins to move within her.

She meets him at the crest of every thrust. Forces him in as far as he’ll go. It’s heaven. He shifts his angle. Finds just the right spot to have her writhing. Devouring his mouth. Shuddering her pleasure. Hot and wet and alive. He holds back a bit at first, not wanting to hurt the lovely little thing. She glares at him as if sensing his thoughts. Cups his arse with both hands. Pulls him into her. Harder. Harder. Deeper. More. He pushes up. Holds her hips. Fucks into her. And she takes it. Builds with him as he speeds his strokes. Begs him for it.

He means to pull out. Not tax her with any worries (unfounded in his case as he’s sure they’re not genetically compatible) of babies or diseases or whatnot. But she locks her legs around his hips. Locks her gaze with his. She wants this. Wants him. Will not let go until she’s satisfied.

She kisses him, seeking. “What are you?”

“I’m just passing through.” He could come like this. Hard to explain, but he aches for…

And the energy’s already gathering in the air around them.

She won’t let him pull back. “You’re not human, are you.” It’s not a question.

He shakes his head no.

She half-grins. “I suppose you’re the Angel of Mercy?”

He snorts at the thought, focusing on the point where his body joins with hers. “Angels aren’t in the habit of shagging girls into the kitchen table.”

She pulls him down. Runs her hands up his back, her legs still tight around his hips. “Angels don’t know what they’re missing.”

Sod control. Sod explanations. He speeds. Kisses her. She cries out. Builds with him. Closes her eyes in bliss as his form begins to destabilize. Won’t be long, at this rate. The energy builds in his core. Flows outward, at first in wisps and particles. Gathers, like a lesser Regeneration. Quantum energy. The stuff Time is made of. She marvels. Shouts. Draws him in and in and in. He’s heating now. The golden light envelops them both. Soon. Soon.

She screams in ecstasy as he comes apart, exploding inside, around and through her.

He comes back to himself slowly, coalescing. Drawing the energy back. Back to this body. Back to this moment. Back to this lover.

She’s breathless beneath him. Body slack. Face relaxed. Arms half-forgotten above her head. She reaches up just enough to brush his lips with hers. Falls back, boneless and well-fucked.

He kisses her deeply. Slowly. Tries to tell her with every movement of his mouth how much he needed this. How much he needed her.

“I know,” she says between kisses. “I know.”

Eventually, he withdraws. Begins to put himself back together, manky jumper and all. In time, she joins him. Dons her knickers and dress. Sits beside him. When they stand, she kisses him one more time.

“Shower?” he offers. “Or bath, if you’d rather?”

She shakes her head no, smiling. “I want to remember this. Remember you.”

She helps him stage the food to the door. Rousts out the urchins, who come in a precision team. Moving the food proves to be more fun than chore. When the last of her ragamuffins has disappeared into the night, Nancy bids him farewell at the TARDIS door with only a brief kiss of thanks. No drama. No regrets.

He fancies she walks away with a bit of a spring in her step.

He heads straight for the shower, dumping his clothes hastily. Wouldn’t do to go to Jack and Rose smelling of another girl.

Jack is leaning on the vanity, still catching his breath, when the Doctor steps out. Jack draws the condom off. Ties it. Chucks it in the bin. Looks at the Doctor with unapologetic eyes.

Amused and annoyed, he reaches for a towel. “So how many helpings have you had?”

“Three,” Jack says. “I left Rose sleeping and satiated. That’s quite a girl you’ve found; not often I meet someone who can keep up with me.”

“Rose is fantastic.” He makes quick work of towelling off. Endures Jack’s frankly appraising gaze with good humour.

“What about you?” Jack says. “I take it you found something to suit your appetite?”

So he knows. There’s a strange comfort in that. “I did.”

“Good,” Jack says. “And now?”

“I plan to eat my dinner at home,” he says, and is surprised to find the words true. “That is, if my dinner wants to be eaten.”

A happy shudder of anticipation runs through Jack. “Yes, please.”



Crossposted to [livejournal.com profile] betterwiththree, [livejournal.com profile] dwfiction

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