Fic: Behaviour
Title: Behaviour
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Eleven/Amy/Rory
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2520
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Voyeurism, obedience, ageplay
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: "You're very bad children, the both of you."
AN: Written for kink bingo for the 'ageplay' square
The Tardis has a library, though it tends to move, shuffling around according to its own whims. Amy likes to imagine it eating rooms at its leisure, to acquire more space for its books. Though she's not quite sure she likes the idea of an evil, all-devouring library - or what exactly that means for a peaceful night's sleep. In fact, she'd probably be eaten first, since she'd claimed the top bunk.
The Doctor's halfway up a ridiculously long ladder, which seems to be held up by willpower and magic, more than gravity or technology. He has a teetering armful of books, which keep sliding wildly, but never quite fall. He's taken his jacket off, sleeves rolled up, one brace dangling at his waist. Amy hasn't a clue how and when it managed to fall off. Though it's a miracle he hasn't caught it on something and hanged himself yet.
"What are we even supposed to be looking for anyway? A woman whose family goes back half a million years. Are her descendants even the same species any more?"
There's the clunk of a stack of books being replaced on the shelf, probably not where they came from, but the Doctor doesn't seem to care.
"Genetic memory, Pond, very specific, but you can't hold it all, not all at once, not when you don't know what's important. When you don't know what you'll be needing later. So you keep journals, lots of journals, and if you live an exciting life you hide them, disguise them, market them as 'fiction' on some backwater planet with no name, or some murky, asteroid casino lounge. Brilliant. Should have thought of it myself."
"Why would you want to remember everything you'd ever done?"
There's a smack of paper high above.
"You're children," the Doctor says, peering down the ladder at the both of them. "Still obsessed with demanding 'why' of everything you come into contact with. Also, putting your sticky fingers places where you shouldn't, and then crying foul when something nasty bites them off. You have no concept of what it means to be old."
"I only asked," Amy grumbles.
The Doctor drops a book down the ladder, and Rory flails for a minute before catching it. Then looks helplessly upwards, because he clearly has no idea whether it's important, or was just in the way. Amy takes it from him and tosses it onto the already messy pile on the table.
"Couldn't we just find a historian and ask them?" Rory asks sensibly.
"Historians, bah!" the Doctor throws a book over the shelf he's perusing. Amy never hears it hit the ground. "What do they know?"
"History, mostly," Amy says slowly, because sometimes, even with the Doctor, it pays to remind him of the obvious.
"History," the Doctor makes it sound like he doubts that very much. He reaches for another book, balanced on one leg like the world's most awkward ballerina. Amy can see up his shirt, under the untucked edge. "Tourists, the lot of them. You have to visit the country, speak the language, get drunk with the locals before you possibly even hope to call yourself a historian."
"Are we the locals in this scenario?" Rory wants to know.
The Doctor peers down through the ladder. "Yes, lovely ones."
"So 'get drunk with the locals, travel the universe, and end up in bed with them' is the sort of historianing that you approve of?" Amy asks from the bottom of the ladder.
The Doctor holds up a finger as if he's going to refute that, then seems to realise that's exactly what he may, in fact, have given the impression that he approves of. Trapped in a cul-de-sac of his own making, with no way out.
"That doesn't usually happen, granted. The getting drunk part, and the being in bed part. I'm still not quite sure how that happened myself. I remember someone being very persuasive." Another book is dropped off of the ladder, opening with a flap of pages.
Amy manages to catch it, before it tears itself apart on touchdown. Then wonders why she bothers when two more go sailing over another shelf.
"Aha!" the Doctor starts descending, dropping books as he goes. Amy and Rory catch half of them, only to discover he didn't need them anyway. Amy gives up and balances herself against a bookshelf, while the Doctor rearranges his armful to suit his whims.
"That'll do, everyone grab a book and look busy. There'll be a test later." He looks around, suddenly. "I should have a stamp." He mimes a stamping sort of gesture, or possibly a stabbing gesture. "Libraries should have stamps, for their books, to stamp them."
Amy eyeballs him, it's hard to judge how seriously he's going to take one of his sudden whims. "You're not planning to let people borrow them, you don't need a stamp."
"What if I want a stamp?" he says, petulant and forlorn.
"It's mostly bar codes now," Rory says helpfully.
The Doctor pulls a face. "Eurgh, no, no bar codes. Books with barcodes start having ideas."
"Aren't ISBN numbers just sort of barcodes?" Rory's staring at the books he's still holding. Possibly looking for hidden barcodes.
The Doctor twists back half a step, loops his free arm round Rory shoulders.
"Rory." The Doctor jiggles him a little, hand clapped round his shoulder. "Rory."
"What?" Rory has learned suspicion well.
The Doctor uses his book laden hand to tug on Rory's shirt, then kisses him, with an awkward but genuine sort of enthusiasm, until he stops frowning.
Amy shakes her head at the blatant and obvious display. Because Rory's very easy to distract if you know how - and the Doctor knows how. Because Amy taught him. Even if he hasn't quite learnt the ancient art of subtlety yet. When he pulls away and starts re-ordering his books, Rory looks vaguely lost, then irritated when he realises he's had his train of thought forcibly derailed.
The Doctor smacks his books, then tips them sideways, then listens to them.
"I'm missing a volume, some time during the ice age. I thought it had a sort of serpent on the cover." He frowns and shakes a few of the books he's holding. As if the one he's missing might suddenly and magically decide to fall out.
The Doctor looks up the ladder, sighs.
"Not as young as I used to be, Rory, you find it."
"How am I supposed to find it -" Rory stops because the Doctor's already making, 'I can't be bothered with this, shoo, get on with it,' gestures with his hands. There's a sigh, and Rory makes his way up the ladder. The Doctor grins and lifts both eyebrows in Amy's direction.
"He's very obedient isn't he?"
Amy won't smile, she won't - alright, but only a little.
"No, no I'm not," Rory protests from above their heads, scanning the shelves with his eyes and fingers. "And you're forbidden from performing any experiments to the contrary. Or taking advantage in any way."
"I was planning no such thing," The Doctor calls upwards.
"You're such a liar." Amy works his loose brace back onto his shoulder. Flicks the elastic, relishing the snap and the wounded little 'ah' noise he makes.
"Well, this is all very new and interesting, and I like experiments," the Doctor says, voice soft like a purr.
Amy crosses her arms and prepares to judge him. "Is that what we are, an experiment?"
"No, you're an experience," the Doctor corrects. Amy can hear a surprised, confused sort of fondness in his voice. "An unexpected, but very appreciated and surprising experience."
There's a slow clacking behind them, and then Rory reappears, with dust in his hair, and a book clutched to his chest. Amy shakes his hair clean with her fingers, or as clean as it'll go. The Doctor makes a pleased noise, and whisks the book away to the chair pushed against the wall. Amy sighs and sits down on one of the many towers littering the floor, like the apocalyptic high-rises of Book World.
The Doctor, who's normally terminally bored with literature ten minutes in, is still concentrating fiercely after fifteen. Amy's not particularly in a reading mood. She likes a good book, as much as the next person, but she doubts any of these are going to set the world on fire.
Which is going to be her explanation for why she ends up crawling over a mini-fort of books, until she can slide into Rory's lap, tug at his hair, until he's exactly the right angle to kiss. He says her name three times, though the last is quieter, breathless, and very, very agreeable.
Amy likes the crunch and rustle of the books underneath them, even the hard edges that jab through her clothing. Rory's hand has worked its way under her shirt, fingertips pushing the cup of her bra up out of the way. Which is absolutely not acceptable library behaviour, and she loves him a little bit more for it. She bites at his mouth, gently but insistently, until his exhales are shaky and pleading.
"Amy -"
She's laughing under her breath and shushing him quiet.
"Library," she reminds him sternly.
"Ah," Rory says, like he doesn't get it at all.
Then it's exactly like misbehaving in a library. She tangles their legs together, and laughs silently into the kiss, making it wet and crooked. She can feel Rory through his jeans, a solid line against her thigh, then the curve of her hip, twisting against her until everything's a few layers of clothing away from dirty. Which is exactly what she's hoping for.
She drags his hand out from inside her bra, pushes it down, in a way which can't be mistaken for anything else. There's no pause, her skirt moves up her thigh and Rory's hand follows the curve of it, twisting when it reaches the top, and she gives a sharp little growl of satisfaction when fingers slide into her.
His other hand has managed to get the buttons of her shirt undone, though she has no idea when. Bra pushed up completely, cold air prickling her exposed nipples. She unbuttons Rory's shirt, because it's only fair, pulls him down against her.
There's the hard, broken sound of a book hitting the floor. Which makes Amy smile into Rory's throat, and bite down. Rory makes a little whimpery sound and squeezes, and oh, yes, absolutely. It's easy after that, a flick of button and zip, a hitch of her skirt and the swift divestment of her underwear. Then two books get kicked out of the way to make room for Rory's knees. There's a nudge against the inside of her thigh, weight against her chest, and a kiss that takes her breath away. Amy's hips lift, and one, solid push leaves Rory all the way inside her, fast and easy. Rory swears, voice suddenly gone deep like he can't get enough air. Amy pulls him in with her legs, digs her fingers into his waist, and he can read so much in the bite of her nails. Because the slow draw out and the quick shove back inside is exactly what she wants.
Rory takes one look and her face and slides a hand between them, fingers moving right to where she's wet, to exactly where she needs them, and she loves this man, loves him.
It doesn't take long for her to end up right at the edge, grinding upwards against Rory's fingers, in greedy, aggressive little pushes. A book skids under her hand, and she can hear the sharp creak of a chair, as if someone has leant forward, suddenly, helplessly. She stretches out, arms flung over her head, breasts pushed up. Her fingers scrabble in the books, cling tightly to whatever's in range and squeeze. Rory pushes up onto his free hand, and watches her, focus sharp and absolute. She breathes out his name, and then everything is swallowed up by the brutal, beautiful clench and squeeze that shakes them both apart.
A minute later, she's a twitching, satisfied heap, sprawled out on the books, and Rory's making noises into her neck which might possibly be prayers, in some early Neanderthal language.
"You're very bad children, the both of you," the Doctor says sharply. He's probably going for stern and reprimanding, but the syllables are all wobbly.
Amy looks up and focuses, with a little difficulty, on the Doctor. He looks dishevelled in a completely innocent sort of way, and that makes it even better. Most of his books are now on the floor.
Rory is a very lovely shade of red.
"You should be ashamed of yourselves," the Doctor adds.
Amy fakes a look of repentant shame, which she suspects is convincing no one.
"We are very, very ashamed of ourselves. Aren't we Rory?"
Rory looks embarrassed, which is more convincing, wriggling slightly until they're tangled less compromisingly.
Amy's pants appear to have gone walk about during all the excitement.
The Doctor lets his book fall open on his lap.
"Come here, the pair of you."
Amy doesn't even bother to do up her shirt, or make any attempt to find her underwear. Which may, in fact, be lost among the books, only to be found by a travelling companion in a hundred years time. It'll serve them right.
They both come to a stop before the Doctor's mock-severe expression.
Amy makes an aborted noise of affront when the Doctor uses the book he's holding to smack her on the arse. Then hands it to her.
"You, Amy Pond, sit down, right there." The Doctor points at the floor, to the right side of his chair. Amy huffs, but obediently sinks to her knees, book slapped open on the carpet.
He swings his hand round, points at the other side of the chair, stern look fixed on Rory.
"You, on the other side."
Rory obeys, the hard thump of his knees hitting the carpet sounding very final.
"And no fidgeting, or I will be very cross, and there will be spanking. Because that's what happens to children who misbehave, spanking."
"I'm starting to warm to the idea of misbehaviour," Amy warns him, it's only fair after all.
"Don't tempt me, I'd be quite happy to put the both of you over my knee, until you learn to do as you're told."
Amy balances her chin on his knee, and looks up at him. She thinks he has a rather fabulous view of her breasts from this angle.
"Maybe if you told us how you wanted us to behave?"
The Doctor points at her.
"I can see your brain working, Pond. Shame on you."
"I would quite like to see you discipline Rory," Amy admits after a moment's thought. Rory shoots her a look that's something like betrayal, but it's far too shifty and reddened. Yes, she thinks she'd like that very much indeed.
The Doctor tuts.
"Don't be silly. Rory is very well behaved, usually. You on the other hand."
"I vote Amy gets disciplined," Rory mumbles quietly.
Amy peers round the chair at him. "Traitor."
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Eleven/Amy/Rory
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2520
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Voyeurism, obedience, ageplay
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: "You're very bad children, the both of you."
AN: Written for kink bingo for the 'ageplay' square
The Tardis has a library, though it tends to move, shuffling around according to its own whims. Amy likes to imagine it eating rooms at its leisure, to acquire more space for its books. Though she's not quite sure she likes the idea of an evil, all-devouring library - or what exactly that means for a peaceful night's sleep. In fact, she'd probably be eaten first, since she'd claimed the top bunk.
The Doctor's halfway up a ridiculously long ladder, which seems to be held up by willpower and magic, more than gravity or technology. He has a teetering armful of books, which keep sliding wildly, but never quite fall. He's taken his jacket off, sleeves rolled up, one brace dangling at his waist. Amy hasn't a clue how and when it managed to fall off. Though it's a miracle he hasn't caught it on something and hanged himself yet.
"What are we even supposed to be looking for anyway? A woman whose family goes back half a million years. Are her descendants even the same species any more?"
There's the clunk of a stack of books being replaced on the shelf, probably not where they came from, but the Doctor doesn't seem to care.
"Genetic memory, Pond, very specific, but you can't hold it all, not all at once, not when you don't know what's important. When you don't know what you'll be needing later. So you keep journals, lots of journals, and if you live an exciting life you hide them, disguise them, market them as 'fiction' on some backwater planet with no name, or some murky, asteroid casino lounge. Brilliant. Should have thought of it myself."
"Why would you want to remember everything you'd ever done?"
There's a smack of paper high above.
"You're children," the Doctor says, peering down the ladder at the both of them. "Still obsessed with demanding 'why' of everything you come into contact with. Also, putting your sticky fingers places where you shouldn't, and then crying foul when something nasty bites them off. You have no concept of what it means to be old."
"I only asked," Amy grumbles.
The Doctor drops a book down the ladder, and Rory flails for a minute before catching it. Then looks helplessly upwards, because he clearly has no idea whether it's important, or was just in the way. Amy takes it from him and tosses it onto the already messy pile on the table.
"Couldn't we just find a historian and ask them?" Rory asks sensibly.
"Historians, bah!" the Doctor throws a book over the shelf he's perusing. Amy never hears it hit the ground. "What do they know?"
"History, mostly," Amy says slowly, because sometimes, even with the Doctor, it pays to remind him of the obvious.
"History," the Doctor makes it sound like he doubts that very much. He reaches for another book, balanced on one leg like the world's most awkward ballerina. Amy can see up his shirt, under the untucked edge. "Tourists, the lot of them. You have to visit the country, speak the language, get drunk with the locals before you possibly even hope to call yourself a historian."
"Are we the locals in this scenario?" Rory wants to know.
The Doctor peers down through the ladder. "Yes, lovely ones."
"So 'get drunk with the locals, travel the universe, and end up in bed with them' is the sort of historianing that you approve of?" Amy asks from the bottom of the ladder.
The Doctor holds up a finger as if he's going to refute that, then seems to realise that's exactly what he may, in fact, have given the impression that he approves of. Trapped in a cul-de-sac of his own making, with no way out.
"That doesn't usually happen, granted. The getting drunk part, and the being in bed part. I'm still not quite sure how that happened myself. I remember someone being very persuasive." Another book is dropped off of the ladder, opening with a flap of pages.
Amy manages to catch it, before it tears itself apart on touchdown. Then wonders why she bothers when two more go sailing over another shelf.
"Aha!" the Doctor starts descending, dropping books as he goes. Amy and Rory catch half of them, only to discover he didn't need them anyway. Amy gives up and balances herself against a bookshelf, while the Doctor rearranges his armful to suit his whims.
"That'll do, everyone grab a book and look busy. There'll be a test later." He looks around, suddenly. "I should have a stamp." He mimes a stamping sort of gesture, or possibly a stabbing gesture. "Libraries should have stamps, for their books, to stamp them."
Amy eyeballs him, it's hard to judge how seriously he's going to take one of his sudden whims. "You're not planning to let people borrow them, you don't need a stamp."
"What if I want a stamp?" he says, petulant and forlorn.
"It's mostly bar codes now," Rory says helpfully.
The Doctor pulls a face. "Eurgh, no, no bar codes. Books with barcodes start having ideas."
"Aren't ISBN numbers just sort of barcodes?" Rory's staring at the books he's still holding. Possibly looking for hidden barcodes.
The Doctor twists back half a step, loops his free arm round Rory shoulders.
"Rory." The Doctor jiggles him a little, hand clapped round his shoulder. "Rory."
"What?" Rory has learned suspicion well.
The Doctor uses his book laden hand to tug on Rory's shirt, then kisses him, with an awkward but genuine sort of enthusiasm, until he stops frowning.
Amy shakes her head at the blatant and obvious display. Because Rory's very easy to distract if you know how - and the Doctor knows how. Because Amy taught him. Even if he hasn't quite learnt the ancient art of subtlety yet. When he pulls away and starts re-ordering his books, Rory looks vaguely lost, then irritated when he realises he's had his train of thought forcibly derailed.
The Doctor smacks his books, then tips them sideways, then listens to them.
"I'm missing a volume, some time during the ice age. I thought it had a sort of serpent on the cover." He frowns and shakes a few of the books he's holding. As if the one he's missing might suddenly and magically decide to fall out.
The Doctor looks up the ladder, sighs.
"Not as young as I used to be, Rory, you find it."
"How am I supposed to find it -" Rory stops because the Doctor's already making, 'I can't be bothered with this, shoo, get on with it,' gestures with his hands. There's a sigh, and Rory makes his way up the ladder. The Doctor grins and lifts both eyebrows in Amy's direction.
"He's very obedient isn't he?"
Amy won't smile, she won't - alright, but only a little.
"No, no I'm not," Rory protests from above their heads, scanning the shelves with his eyes and fingers. "And you're forbidden from performing any experiments to the contrary. Or taking advantage in any way."
"I was planning no such thing," The Doctor calls upwards.
"You're such a liar." Amy works his loose brace back onto his shoulder. Flicks the elastic, relishing the snap and the wounded little 'ah' noise he makes.
"Well, this is all very new and interesting, and I like experiments," the Doctor says, voice soft like a purr.
Amy crosses her arms and prepares to judge him. "Is that what we are, an experiment?"
"No, you're an experience," the Doctor corrects. Amy can hear a surprised, confused sort of fondness in his voice. "An unexpected, but very appreciated and surprising experience."
There's a slow clacking behind them, and then Rory reappears, with dust in his hair, and a book clutched to his chest. Amy shakes his hair clean with her fingers, or as clean as it'll go. The Doctor makes a pleased noise, and whisks the book away to the chair pushed against the wall. Amy sighs and sits down on one of the many towers littering the floor, like the apocalyptic high-rises of Book World.
The Doctor, who's normally terminally bored with literature ten minutes in, is still concentrating fiercely after fifteen. Amy's not particularly in a reading mood. She likes a good book, as much as the next person, but she doubts any of these are going to set the world on fire.
Which is going to be her explanation for why she ends up crawling over a mini-fort of books, until she can slide into Rory's lap, tug at his hair, until he's exactly the right angle to kiss. He says her name three times, though the last is quieter, breathless, and very, very agreeable.
Amy likes the crunch and rustle of the books underneath them, even the hard edges that jab through her clothing. Rory's hand has worked its way under her shirt, fingertips pushing the cup of her bra up out of the way. Which is absolutely not acceptable library behaviour, and she loves him a little bit more for it. She bites at his mouth, gently but insistently, until his exhales are shaky and pleading.
"Amy -"
She's laughing under her breath and shushing him quiet.
"Library," she reminds him sternly.
"Ah," Rory says, like he doesn't get it at all.
Then it's exactly like misbehaving in a library. She tangles their legs together, and laughs silently into the kiss, making it wet and crooked. She can feel Rory through his jeans, a solid line against her thigh, then the curve of her hip, twisting against her until everything's a few layers of clothing away from dirty. Which is exactly what she's hoping for.
She drags his hand out from inside her bra, pushes it down, in a way which can't be mistaken for anything else. There's no pause, her skirt moves up her thigh and Rory's hand follows the curve of it, twisting when it reaches the top, and she gives a sharp little growl of satisfaction when fingers slide into her.
His other hand has managed to get the buttons of her shirt undone, though she has no idea when. Bra pushed up completely, cold air prickling her exposed nipples. She unbuttons Rory's shirt, because it's only fair, pulls him down against her.
There's the hard, broken sound of a book hitting the floor. Which makes Amy smile into Rory's throat, and bite down. Rory makes a little whimpery sound and squeezes, and oh, yes, absolutely. It's easy after that, a flick of button and zip, a hitch of her skirt and the swift divestment of her underwear. Then two books get kicked out of the way to make room for Rory's knees. There's a nudge against the inside of her thigh, weight against her chest, and a kiss that takes her breath away. Amy's hips lift, and one, solid push leaves Rory all the way inside her, fast and easy. Rory swears, voice suddenly gone deep like he can't get enough air. Amy pulls him in with her legs, digs her fingers into his waist, and he can read so much in the bite of her nails. Because the slow draw out and the quick shove back inside is exactly what she wants.
Rory takes one look and her face and slides a hand between them, fingers moving right to where she's wet, to exactly where she needs them, and she loves this man, loves him.
It doesn't take long for her to end up right at the edge, grinding upwards against Rory's fingers, in greedy, aggressive little pushes. A book skids under her hand, and she can hear the sharp creak of a chair, as if someone has leant forward, suddenly, helplessly. She stretches out, arms flung over her head, breasts pushed up. Her fingers scrabble in the books, cling tightly to whatever's in range and squeeze. Rory pushes up onto his free hand, and watches her, focus sharp and absolute. She breathes out his name, and then everything is swallowed up by the brutal, beautiful clench and squeeze that shakes them both apart.
A minute later, she's a twitching, satisfied heap, sprawled out on the books, and Rory's making noises into her neck which might possibly be prayers, in some early Neanderthal language.
"You're very bad children, the both of you," the Doctor says sharply. He's probably going for stern and reprimanding, but the syllables are all wobbly.
Amy looks up and focuses, with a little difficulty, on the Doctor. He looks dishevelled in a completely innocent sort of way, and that makes it even better. Most of his books are now on the floor.
Rory is a very lovely shade of red.
"You should be ashamed of yourselves," the Doctor adds.
Amy fakes a look of repentant shame, which she suspects is convincing no one.
"We are very, very ashamed of ourselves. Aren't we Rory?"
Rory looks embarrassed, which is more convincing, wriggling slightly until they're tangled less compromisingly.
Amy's pants appear to have gone walk about during all the excitement.
The Doctor lets his book fall open on his lap.
"Come here, the pair of you."
Amy doesn't even bother to do up her shirt, or make any attempt to find her underwear. Which may, in fact, be lost among the books, only to be found by a travelling companion in a hundred years time. It'll serve them right.
They both come to a stop before the Doctor's mock-severe expression.
Amy makes an aborted noise of affront when the Doctor uses the book he's holding to smack her on the arse. Then hands it to her.
"You, Amy Pond, sit down, right there." The Doctor points at the floor, to the right side of his chair. Amy huffs, but obediently sinks to her knees, book slapped open on the carpet.
He swings his hand round, points at the other side of the chair, stern look fixed on Rory.
"You, on the other side."
Rory obeys, the hard thump of his knees hitting the carpet sounding very final.
"And no fidgeting, or I will be very cross, and there will be spanking. Because that's what happens to children who misbehave, spanking."
"I'm starting to warm to the idea of misbehaviour," Amy warns him, it's only fair after all.
"Don't tempt me, I'd be quite happy to put the both of you over my knee, until you learn to do as you're told."
Amy balances her chin on his knee, and looks up at him. She thinks he has a rather fabulous view of her breasts from this angle.
"Maybe if you told us how you wanted us to behave?"
The Doctor points at her.
"I can see your brain working, Pond. Shame on you."
"I would quite like to see you discipline Rory," Amy admits after a moment's thought. Rory shoots her a look that's something like betrayal, but it's far too shifty and reddened. Yes, she thinks she'd like that very much indeed.
The Doctor tuts.
"Don't be silly. Rory is very well behaved, usually. You on the other hand."
"I vote Amy gets disciplined," Rory mumbles quietly.
Amy peers round the chair at him. "Traitor."