(no subject)
FIC. FIC WRITTEN ABOUT DAVID AND BILLIE. FIC WRITTEN ABOUT DAVID AND BILLIE BY MELISSA AND I.
SEE BELOW.
Occupied, NC-17,
The mechanics of shagging in a ridiculously tight space are never quite what they should be.
|
It’s on a red-eye from New York to Heathrow that they finally meet once again.
“Well,” Billie says. “Always nice to see you and your ridiculously gangly knees.” She drops her bag onto the floor in front of her seat, fumbling with her skirt so that she can sit comfortably.
“Not as nice as seeing you and your ostentatiously long scarves,” David responds sweetly, tugging the frayed end of her favorite shawl.
“What a very large word,” Billie drawls, poking her finger into the stubbled hollow of his cheek, “for such a very tiny man.”
David slants a narrow look her way. “Tiny?” he asks mildly. “Perhaps my girlish figure lendS to that theory,” he allows. “Especially around the waist. Where it counts, though--I’m anything but.” He waggles his brow. “Ten-inch not for nothing.”
Billie yawns. “Promises, promises.” David only smiles, leans over. Adjusts her seat belt for her, then tweaks her nose.
She watches him settle back into his seat before closing her eyes, letting the sound of his sigh wash over her as the plane readies to take off. She’s missed it, just sitting next to David. His elbow nudges hers and she opens an eye to see he’s got both of his closed too, the fringe falling over his face rumbling in time with the engine.
She thinks he’s missed it too. But she doesn’t say so. Instead, she links her pinkie with his, hands lying parallel on the armrest.
“Mind your freakishly pointy elbows, too,” she whispers primly, and smiles as he nudges her again.
|
The flight is very, very bumpy. He knows this partly because he’s there, experiencing it, but mostly because every time there’s the slightest bit of turbulence, Billie’s on his arm, swearing and clutching and being very, very close.
And that’s fine, really. She’s a nervous flyer, he knows that, always has been. It’s just that it’s been such a long time since he’s seen her that he’s forgotten what it was like to be around her like this; personal space a thing of the past, something Rose Tyler learned from Billie Piper and not the other way ‘round, and all this touching and gasping his name right into his ear like that is making matters a bit, well.
Hard. Pardon the pun.
David swipes a hand over his face as Billie again grabs at him. The plane lurches (and Christ, are they flying in a bloody tornado?) and her hand falls unceremoniously in his lap.
“Bill--” he chokes, and tries again, “Billie.” He twines his hand around hers, swiping a thumb over the delicate jut of her knuckles. For a moment, he is derailed by her fingers: slim, tipped with scarlet nails, a scar on her index finger from lighting her sister’s hair on fire in The Terrible Hairspray Accident of ‘93. And no ring.
It is her left hand. And there is no ring.
Something goes soft and speculative inside him as he considers this.
Billie’s hand remains where it is. So does his.
|
“Shopping around the pilot season, are you?” she asks, and if David hasn’t mentioned their hands in his lap yet, then she isn’t sure it’s her place to do so, either.
“Yup,” he answers, but his voice is low and rough, like someone’s dragging it out from him. “Didn’t think I’d run into you.”
“Happy surprise,” she shrugs, and then, rather experimentally, squeezes. There is a sharp intake of air, and Billie watches, fascinated, as David tips his head back and trembles, the line of his throat so elegant she can hardly bear it.
He swallows something that might be a shiver, and then grasps her wrist. His eyes open, and instead of the normal melting brown, the irises are black.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” he says deliberately.
Billie smiles as she gives him wide berth to stumble up, stumble out, and walk rather gingerly down the aisle.
Going to the bathroom. Well, then. So is she.
|
The mechanics of shagging in a ridiculously tight space are never quite what they should be.
Her leg shouldn’t be able to hitch up around his hip like that with the door right there, and his head should be hitting the corner of the mirror whenever she bites his neck but somehow, somehow she is and he’s not and oh, that’s her hand undoing his zip without running her elbow into the wall, isn’t it.
Leave it to Billie to defy the laws of physics. Especially when it comes to sex.
Down goes the zip of her expensive skirt, a shift and a shimmy take care of knickers already halfway off and then she has him in her hand and this time, he does bang his head. He hisses and she laughs at the half-hearted glare that’s thrown her way at the sound.
“Kisses make all things better,” she says, and proves it. Drags her lips from cheek to cheek without touching his mouth once, the feel of her hips against his as she slides her smooth cheek across his rough one making him so hard it’s almost embarrassing.
Almost, but isn’t, because she’s wet where he’s straining, all soft curves in his hands and smiles into his mouth and when he moves, she arches. Up and over and straight down onto him with a purr he feels in his toes. He brings the hand not clutching her waist around to the curve of her jaw, frames her face with his fingers as she gets a rhythm going, her sharp staccato grinds meet with his slow and steady thrusts that he’s only barely able to keep in control of, at the rate they’re going.
She builds up speed and he does too, can’t help himself when she’s looking at him like that, like she might just love him; when she’s got her hands on his chest and in his hair and then down his back and the only thing he can think besides yes and fuck and Bills is that she’s not wearing her ring.
He breaks when she kisses him, finally. Cups her head in his hands and comes with a groan she stifles with her tongue, feels her slip a hand between them and rub before she comes, too, sucks his bottom lip into her mouth and nips his name along his teeth as she shudders.
He can feel her from head to toe, every slick line of her body presses to his, her every breath heaving into his mouth, her hair tangled between his fingers and her laughter tattooed into the crook of his neck.
“God,” she expounds, wonder like a balloon floating through her voice.
“Nah,” he says, because he can’t help himself. “Time Lord.”
A smack, and perhaps he deserves it, a little bit.
|
Getting back to their seats is, erm, not the most graceful endeavor ever undergone.
David goes first, because he has less to clean up. He splashes water over his flushed, pink face and lets loose most of his nervous giggles into Billie’s shoulder. A tug at the collar of his (now wrinkled) t-shirt and a rueful snap of his belt buckle, and he is swinging out the door of the bathroom, whistling a jaunty tune.
Billie emerges from the bathroom minutes later, her hair scraped back into a messy knot, her face devoid of any makeup, and her walk so languid that a smug smile unfolds across David’s face. She plops into the seat next to him with a whoosh of soap-scented air, and the grin that splits her lips is moonbream bright.
“Did we,” she begins, voice quiet and fingers walking up the plane of his denimed thigh, “just shag in an airplane loo?”
David’s fingers duel with hers, an intricate dance as he ponders her question. “I think,” he proposes, as his index finger fells her pinkie, “that we did.”
He stares at Billie’s prone hand, the smooth expanse of golden skin and delicate lines. The heat from her palm bleeds through his jeans.
“Next time, let’s pick somewhere a bit more spacious, yeah?” she suggests, and for all the casual inflection in her words, David hears what Billie is really saying.
“Next time,” he croaks. “Yeah, okay. Next...next time. Perfect. More spacious. I can do that. Like the TARDIS, heh heh. Bigger on the inside? Get it--”
“David, shut up.”
“Right.”
They hold hands for the rest of the flight, and when they disembark, though its on two different paths, for the first time, David feels as if maybe--just maybe--they are heading in the same direction.
|
When he gets home, he finds her knickers in his bag.
SEE BELOW.
Occupied, NC-17,
The mechanics of shagging in a ridiculously tight space are never quite what they should be.
|
It’s on a red-eye from New York to Heathrow that they finally meet once again.
“Well,” Billie says. “Always nice to see you and your ridiculously gangly knees.” She drops her bag onto the floor in front of her seat, fumbling with her skirt so that she can sit comfortably.
“Not as nice as seeing you and your ostentatiously long scarves,” David responds sweetly, tugging the frayed end of her favorite shawl.
“What a very large word,” Billie drawls, poking her finger into the stubbled hollow of his cheek, “for such a very tiny man.”
David slants a narrow look her way. “Tiny?” he asks mildly. “Perhaps my girlish figure lendS to that theory,” he allows. “Especially around the waist. Where it counts, though--I’m anything but.” He waggles his brow. “Ten-inch not for nothing.”
Billie yawns. “Promises, promises.” David only smiles, leans over. Adjusts her seat belt for her, then tweaks her nose.
She watches him settle back into his seat before closing her eyes, letting the sound of his sigh wash over her as the plane readies to take off. She’s missed it, just sitting next to David. His elbow nudges hers and she opens an eye to see he’s got both of his closed too, the fringe falling over his face rumbling in time with the engine.
She thinks he’s missed it too. But she doesn’t say so. Instead, she links her pinkie with his, hands lying parallel on the armrest.
“Mind your freakishly pointy elbows, too,” she whispers primly, and smiles as he nudges her again.
|
The flight is very, very bumpy. He knows this partly because he’s there, experiencing it, but mostly because every time there’s the slightest bit of turbulence, Billie’s on his arm, swearing and clutching and being very, very close.
And that’s fine, really. She’s a nervous flyer, he knows that, always has been. It’s just that it’s been such a long time since he’s seen her that he’s forgotten what it was like to be around her like this; personal space a thing of the past, something Rose Tyler learned from Billie Piper and not the other way ‘round, and all this touching and gasping his name right into his ear like that is making matters a bit, well.
Hard. Pardon the pun.
David swipes a hand over his face as Billie again grabs at him. The plane lurches (and Christ, are they flying in a bloody tornado?) and her hand falls unceremoniously in his lap.
“Bill--” he chokes, and tries again, “Billie.” He twines his hand around hers, swiping a thumb over the delicate jut of her knuckles. For a moment, he is derailed by her fingers: slim, tipped with scarlet nails, a scar on her index finger from lighting her sister’s hair on fire in The Terrible Hairspray Accident of ‘93. And no ring.
It is her left hand. And there is no ring.
Something goes soft and speculative inside him as he considers this.
Billie’s hand remains where it is. So does his.
|
“Shopping around the pilot season, are you?” she asks, and if David hasn’t mentioned their hands in his lap yet, then she isn’t sure it’s her place to do so, either.
“Yup,” he answers, but his voice is low and rough, like someone’s dragging it out from him. “Didn’t think I’d run into you.”
“Happy surprise,” she shrugs, and then, rather experimentally, squeezes. There is a sharp intake of air, and Billie watches, fascinated, as David tips his head back and trembles, the line of his throat so elegant she can hardly bear it.
He swallows something that might be a shiver, and then grasps her wrist. His eyes open, and instead of the normal melting brown, the irises are black.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” he says deliberately.
Billie smiles as she gives him wide berth to stumble up, stumble out, and walk rather gingerly down the aisle.
Going to the bathroom. Well, then. So is she.
|
The mechanics of shagging in a ridiculously tight space are never quite what they should be.
Her leg shouldn’t be able to hitch up around his hip like that with the door right there, and his head should be hitting the corner of the mirror whenever she bites his neck but somehow, somehow she is and he’s not and oh, that’s her hand undoing his zip without running her elbow into the wall, isn’t it.
Leave it to Billie to defy the laws of physics. Especially when it comes to sex.
Down goes the zip of her expensive skirt, a shift and a shimmy take care of knickers already halfway off and then she has him in her hand and this time, he does bang his head. He hisses and she laughs at the half-hearted glare that’s thrown her way at the sound.
“Kisses make all things better,” she says, and proves it. Drags her lips from cheek to cheek without touching his mouth once, the feel of her hips against his as she slides her smooth cheek across his rough one making him so hard it’s almost embarrassing.
Almost, but isn’t, because she’s wet where he’s straining, all soft curves in his hands and smiles into his mouth and when he moves, she arches. Up and over and straight down onto him with a purr he feels in his toes. He brings the hand not clutching her waist around to the curve of her jaw, frames her face with his fingers as she gets a rhythm going, her sharp staccato grinds meet with his slow and steady thrusts that he’s only barely able to keep in control of, at the rate they’re going.
She builds up speed and he does too, can’t help himself when she’s looking at him like that, like she might just love him; when she’s got her hands on his chest and in his hair and then down his back and the only thing he can think besides yes and fuck and Bills is that she’s not wearing her ring.
He breaks when she kisses him, finally. Cups her head in his hands and comes with a groan she stifles with her tongue, feels her slip a hand between them and rub before she comes, too, sucks his bottom lip into her mouth and nips his name along his teeth as she shudders.
He can feel her from head to toe, every slick line of her body presses to his, her every breath heaving into his mouth, her hair tangled between his fingers and her laughter tattooed into the crook of his neck.
“God,” she expounds, wonder like a balloon floating through her voice.
“Nah,” he says, because he can’t help himself. “Time Lord.”
A smack, and perhaps he deserves it, a little bit.
|
Getting back to their seats is, erm, not the most graceful endeavor ever undergone.
David goes first, because he has less to clean up. He splashes water over his flushed, pink face and lets loose most of his nervous giggles into Billie’s shoulder. A tug at the collar of his (now wrinkled) t-shirt and a rueful snap of his belt buckle, and he is swinging out the door of the bathroom, whistling a jaunty tune.
Billie emerges from the bathroom minutes later, her hair scraped back into a messy knot, her face devoid of any makeup, and her walk so languid that a smug smile unfolds across David’s face. She plops into the seat next to him with a whoosh of soap-scented air, and the grin that splits her lips is moonbream bright.
“Did we,” she begins, voice quiet and fingers walking up the plane of his denimed thigh, “just shag in an airplane loo?”
David’s fingers duel with hers, an intricate dance as he ponders her question. “I think,” he proposes, as his index finger fells her pinkie, “that we did.”
He stares at Billie’s prone hand, the smooth expanse of golden skin and delicate lines. The heat from her palm bleeds through his jeans.
“Next time, let’s pick somewhere a bit more spacious, yeah?” she suggests, and for all the casual inflection in her words, David hears what Billie is really saying.
“Next time,” he croaks. “Yeah, okay. Next...next time. Perfect. More spacious. I can do that. Like the TARDIS, heh heh. Bigger on the inside? Get it--”
“David, shut up.”
“Right.”
They hold hands for the rest of the flight, and when they disembark, though its on two different paths, for the first time, David feels as if maybe--just maybe--they are heading in the same direction.
|
When he gets home, he finds her knickers in his bag.