Advent '10 Fic: The Doctor Still Dances
Title: The Doctor Still Dances
Author: heddychaa
Characters: Amy/Rory/Eleven
Rating: R
Genre: Sexy fluff
Wordcount: ~1170
Warnings/Contains: Sexual scenes, crossdressing
Disclaimer: Doctor Who and Torchwood's characters, concepts, and events belong to their respective owners, including but not limited to Russell T Davies, Steven Moffat, and the BBC.
Summary: “Oh, I like this!” Amy says, straightening the lapels, touching and twisting the shiny buttons that run down the chest. It’s old and looks like it should be musty, but it smells lovely, warm and masculine and sexy. “Shall I wear it open or closed, do you think?”
A/N: Advent fic 16, this one for martinius, who requested "I want Amy/Rory/Doctor with Amy and Rory making a decision together to sort of ambush the Doctor and take him into their bed." This was a fun one! Hope you like it! :) Thank you to azn_jack_fiend, _lullabelle_, and count_to_seven for the support and beta for all of this month's stories!
The Doctor Still Dances
Amy tucks her hair up into the cap, straightening it primly by the brim. She turns to Rory, puckering her lips in a kiss.
“How do I look?” she asks, and he just treats her to one of his patented Thoroughly Distressed Expressions in reply.
“Like something out of a fetish magazine,” he answers, finally, and ducks when she swings to slap him on the shoulder.
“Don’t be silly. That’s Nazi stuff, red arm bands and the like. This is RAF. Nothing wrong with RAF.” In illustration, she does a twirl on her toes, arms extended so that the dark green sleeves of the flight suit dangle from her hands. She doesn’t bother with the cravat, choosing instead to leave the flight suit half-zipped to reveal a bit of cleavage and collar bone.
“But they’re a man’s clothes, aren’t they,” Rory keeps on, “I think that automatically qualifies them.” Only someone like Rory, Amy thinks with a mixture of frustration and fondness, could come up with the idea of a Fetish Qualification Service, holed up somewhere bureaucratic and putting forward motions to vote on what does or doesn’t qualify as ‘Kinky’. Fuzzy handcuffs being on one side of the divide and gimp masks on the other.
He puts his hands on his hips in exasperation, but then has to stop and pull down his t-shirt again, frowning to himself. It’s a tiny thing, the shirt, printed with the Union Jack, stretched out in the chest but tight everywhere else, and it keeps riding up his belly at inopportune moments.
“Says him in the blonde wig,” Amy retorts.
Self-consciously, Rory reaches up to touch and straighten it. His fussing knocks the part off-centre. “I don’t even want to know why the Doctor keeps a blonde wig on hand,” he mumbles, mostly to himself.
“Well, I’ve got a nun’s costume, don’t I?”
“I guess,” he replies, watching as she dons the big wool coat with a dramatic swirl.
“Oh, I like this!” Amy says, straightening the lapels, touching and twisting the shiny buttons that run down the chest. It’s old and looks like it should be musty, but it smells lovely, warm and masculine and sexy. “Shall I wear it open or closed, do you think?”
“I don’t know,” Rory grits and just at that moment the t-shirt rides up and the womens jeans fall down, and Amy catches a glimpse of his hipbones, the patch of blond hair under his belly button. “Tell me again why I have to be the girl?”
Amy draws close to him, then, smelling another woman’s perfume on the collar of his shirt (Burberry London, she detects, which seems oddly fitting from what she’s seen of the TARDIS video records). Her hand falls on his shoulder, slowly drawing down to rest on his chest. Under her palm, she feels his body draw up tense. She smiles to herself. “Because we want this to be sexy, remember? Sexy and playful. And just picture it, you trying to wear another man’s too-large jacket... that’s just sorry and a little bit sad, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” he agrees, voice dry, and she runs her hand up the side of his throat, slow and gentle and as hesitant as stroking a bird’s wing. His mouth falls open, but no breath comes out. He’d say yes to anything she asked of him, now.
“Now let me do your mascara,” she says, sweet as anything.
--
They decide to spring their trap in the library, with Amy lounging barefoot on one of the red fainting couches tucked into the nooks amongst the shelves. Beside her, a long since cooled cup of tea sits atop a wobbly three-foot stack of books, and at the foot of the couch she can see the comically large pair of men’s army boots she’d worn on the way here, laces dangling.
Rory lies curled half on his side, his blonde head pillowed on her belly and one of the coat’s buttons winking at his ear. The synthetic hair of the wig feels awful under her fingers, so she strokes his cheek with the back of her hand instead, watching the twitches of his closed eyes and comically black eyelashes. He might be asleep, except for the way his back is just that little bit stiff. Nervous Rory.
She’s a little nervous herself, really, although she does her best to ignore it, breathing in the smell of the coat all around her and staring at the stacks of books through what she imagines as someone else’s eyes.
It had been entirely accidental that she’d found out about these two at all, just doing her usual snooping through the TARDIS records and happening to stumble on the clip of the three of them dancing across the engine room floor, a scene that stood out amongst all the pacing and tinkering. The man in the leather coat, the records told her, was once the Doctor, but not anymore. The other two? One-time companions just like her and Rory, but nameless now, their images and identities carefully stored away in the memory banks. And as graceful and carefree as that moment seemed, then, it wasn’t just dancing either, or at least, that’s the assumption she’s counting on now.
But Amy never was one to give up on a hunch, or back down from a challenge, or worry too too much about the emotional ramifications of her choices on others (Thanks for that one, therapist number three).
Not long now, she decides, and arches her back in a stretch. Which is, of course, the exact moment that she hears the Doctor’s harried footsteps, followed by his voice, calling out from three or four shelves over: “Amy, Rory, are you two in here? You’ve been gone ages!” A pause. “And you’d best not be snogging back there. Libraries, may I remind you, are strictly for rea-ding.”
The footsteps stop.
Gotcha, Amy thinks, feels the shifting weight of Rory sitting up suddenly, and allows her head to loll back onto her shoulder, peeping at the Doctor over the scratchy raised collar of the coat.
He stands a few feet back, legs together at attention, hands tightened into fists, expression unreadable, and Amy thinks, for one dreadful moment, that maybe he is on the edge of turning flustered, on the edge of flailing and wriggling and unleashing a quick-snap change of subject.
But then something dark and old flashes in his eyes, and just then he looks deadly serious, arrogant and defiant and not quite himself. As much like a person playing dress-up in someone else’s clothes as she and Rory do.
Trying on someone else’s smile, Amy extends a hand in invitation, crooking one finger. For the first time in a long time, she’s decided to go without polish. Beside her, watching, and waiting, always waiting, Rory insinuates a lean, denim-clad leg between her own.
No trace of hesitance, the Doctor laughs: happy, off-guard. And then he comes to them.
Author: heddychaa
Characters: Amy/Rory/Eleven
Rating: R
Genre: Sexy fluff
Wordcount: ~1170
Warnings/Contains: Sexual scenes, crossdressing
Disclaimer: Doctor Who and Torchwood's characters, concepts, and events belong to their respective owners, including but not limited to Russell T Davies, Steven Moffat, and the BBC.
Summary: “Oh, I like this!” Amy says, straightening the lapels, touching and twisting the shiny buttons that run down the chest. It’s old and looks like it should be musty, but it smells lovely, warm and masculine and sexy. “Shall I wear it open or closed, do you think?”
A/N: Advent fic 16, this one for martinius, who requested "I want Amy/Rory/Doctor with Amy and Rory making a decision together to sort of ambush the Doctor and take him into their bed." This was a fun one! Hope you like it! :) Thank you to azn_jack_fiend, _lullabelle_, and count_to_seven for the support and beta for all of this month's stories!
The Doctor Still Dances
Amy tucks her hair up into the cap, straightening it primly by the brim. She turns to Rory, puckering her lips in a kiss.
“How do I look?” she asks, and he just treats her to one of his patented Thoroughly Distressed Expressions in reply.
“Like something out of a fetish magazine,” he answers, finally, and ducks when she swings to slap him on the shoulder.
“Don’t be silly. That’s Nazi stuff, red arm bands and the like. This is RAF. Nothing wrong with RAF.” In illustration, she does a twirl on her toes, arms extended so that the dark green sleeves of the flight suit dangle from her hands. She doesn’t bother with the cravat, choosing instead to leave the flight suit half-zipped to reveal a bit of cleavage and collar bone.
“But they’re a man’s clothes, aren’t they,” Rory keeps on, “I think that automatically qualifies them.” Only someone like Rory, Amy thinks with a mixture of frustration and fondness, could come up with the idea of a Fetish Qualification Service, holed up somewhere bureaucratic and putting forward motions to vote on what does or doesn’t qualify as ‘Kinky’. Fuzzy handcuffs being on one side of the divide and gimp masks on the other.
He puts his hands on his hips in exasperation, but then has to stop and pull down his t-shirt again, frowning to himself. It’s a tiny thing, the shirt, printed with the Union Jack, stretched out in the chest but tight everywhere else, and it keeps riding up his belly at inopportune moments.
“Says him in the blonde wig,” Amy retorts.
Self-consciously, Rory reaches up to touch and straighten it. His fussing knocks the part off-centre. “I don’t even want to know why the Doctor keeps a blonde wig on hand,” he mumbles, mostly to himself.
“Well, I’ve got a nun’s costume, don’t I?”
“I guess,” he replies, watching as she dons the big wool coat with a dramatic swirl.
“Oh, I like this!” Amy says, straightening the lapels, touching and twisting the shiny buttons that run down the chest. It’s old and looks like it should be musty, but it smells lovely, warm and masculine and sexy. “Shall I wear it open or closed, do you think?”
“I don’t know,” Rory grits and just at that moment the t-shirt rides up and the womens jeans fall down, and Amy catches a glimpse of his hipbones, the patch of blond hair under his belly button. “Tell me again why I have to be the girl?”
Amy draws close to him, then, smelling another woman’s perfume on the collar of his shirt (Burberry London, she detects, which seems oddly fitting from what she’s seen of the TARDIS video records). Her hand falls on his shoulder, slowly drawing down to rest on his chest. Under her palm, she feels his body draw up tense. She smiles to herself. “Because we want this to be sexy, remember? Sexy and playful. And just picture it, you trying to wear another man’s too-large jacket... that’s just sorry and a little bit sad, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” he agrees, voice dry, and she runs her hand up the side of his throat, slow and gentle and as hesitant as stroking a bird’s wing. His mouth falls open, but no breath comes out. He’d say yes to anything she asked of him, now.
“Now let me do your mascara,” she says, sweet as anything.
--
They decide to spring their trap in the library, with Amy lounging barefoot on one of the red fainting couches tucked into the nooks amongst the shelves. Beside her, a long since cooled cup of tea sits atop a wobbly three-foot stack of books, and at the foot of the couch she can see the comically large pair of men’s army boots she’d worn on the way here, laces dangling.
Rory lies curled half on his side, his blonde head pillowed on her belly and one of the coat’s buttons winking at his ear. The synthetic hair of the wig feels awful under her fingers, so she strokes his cheek with the back of her hand instead, watching the twitches of his closed eyes and comically black eyelashes. He might be asleep, except for the way his back is just that little bit stiff. Nervous Rory.
She’s a little nervous herself, really, although she does her best to ignore it, breathing in the smell of the coat all around her and staring at the stacks of books through what she imagines as someone else’s eyes.
It had been entirely accidental that she’d found out about these two at all, just doing her usual snooping through the TARDIS records and happening to stumble on the clip of the three of them dancing across the engine room floor, a scene that stood out amongst all the pacing and tinkering. The man in the leather coat, the records told her, was once the Doctor, but not anymore. The other two? One-time companions just like her and Rory, but nameless now, their images and identities carefully stored away in the memory banks. And as graceful and carefree as that moment seemed, then, it wasn’t just dancing either, or at least, that’s the assumption she’s counting on now.
But Amy never was one to give up on a hunch, or back down from a challenge, or worry too too much about the emotional ramifications of her choices on others (Thanks for that one, therapist number three).
Not long now, she decides, and arches her back in a stretch. Which is, of course, the exact moment that she hears the Doctor’s harried footsteps, followed by his voice, calling out from three or four shelves over: “Amy, Rory, are you two in here? You’ve been gone ages!” A pause. “And you’d best not be snogging back there. Libraries, may I remind you, are strictly for rea-ding.”
The footsteps stop.
Gotcha, Amy thinks, feels the shifting weight of Rory sitting up suddenly, and allows her head to loll back onto her shoulder, peeping at the Doctor over the scratchy raised collar of the coat.
He stands a few feet back, legs together at attention, hands tightened into fists, expression unreadable, and Amy thinks, for one dreadful moment, that maybe he is on the edge of turning flustered, on the edge of flailing and wriggling and unleashing a quick-snap change of subject.
But then something dark and old flashes in his eyes, and just then he looks deadly serious, arrogant and defiant and not quite himself. As much like a person playing dress-up in someone else’s clothes as she and Rory do.
Trying on someone else’s smile, Amy extends a hand in invitation, crooking one finger. For the first time in a long time, she’s decided to go without polish. Beside her, watching, and waiting, always waiting, Rory insinuates a lean, denim-clad leg between her own.
No trace of hesitance, the Doctor laughs: happy, off-guard. And then he comes to them.