Fic: French Farces And Other Vegetables
Title: French Farces And Other Vegetables
Author: psyfi_geekgirl
BetaBabe: akkajemo
Characters/Pairings: Ten/Rose, brief cameos: Eleven, Amy
Rating: A (for adult…)
Excerpt: “Well, Your Majesty, here’s your problem!” He yanked back the corner of the 12th feather bed to reveal a small, green pea. “Y’kidding me, right?” asked Rose. “I thought that was just a kid’s book!”
Word count: 1,896
Disclaimer: I don’t own ‘em. “Not nobody, not nohow…”
A/N: I originally started writing this for challenge 2 (Fairytales) then abandoned it, mostly done, to start something else. Now I’m double-posting it for challenge 32 (Photos) and challenge 14 (Undercover) prompted from then_theres_us (pics under the cut). A bit of a romp with the fable The Princess & the Pea…
ETA: The horribly stilted dialogue between Rose and the Prince & his mother is practically pilfered directly from the fairy tale--just so ya know...
Happy Holidays to all of the fabulous people on my f'list and anyone else who might stumble by to read this. You all make LJ a fun and wonderful experiment in creativity and humanity. My present to you: A little smut for the holidays...
“WRONG!”
He strode though the museum, jutting an accusatory finger at a diorama of The Battle of Waterloo. “Complete bunk!” He sidled up to an oil painting of Byron, and upon inspecting it, intoned to no one in particular: “Oh yeah, Mr. Phillips, that’s a picture of Lord Byron, is it? Then where’s his goiter!”
“Jeez, Doctor,” chided Amy, “are you Mister Grumpy Face again today?”
“Amy, you know I hate shoddy work,” he lectured. “It’s downright fraud!”
“OOooh,” she cooed, twisting his bowtie playfully. “Did somebody miss out on his prune juice this morn?”
“It’s history, Amy and history’s important”
“No, Doctor, it’s junk. A collection of old junk nobody even cares about anymore. At least nobody but you. Now, look at this old thing here-what exactly is this supposed to be? Some mummified old pea---“
Amy’s disparaging rant grew indistinct, and the Doctor’s vision blurred before him, remembering…
******
Somewhere in France, 1780s
“Ba-whahaha!” Rose chortled indelicately as she glanced at the psychic paper. “Princess Rose of the Powell Estates and her eunuch, John?!” She sniggered again, “Doctor, is there something y’not telling me?” She asked silkily as she looked pointedly at his fall-front breeches. He turned scarlet, coughed and glanced nervously at the servant who was leading them to their connecting chambers for the night. The servant however was several paces in front of them and appeared not to hear.
“Rose, milady,” hissed the Doctor, “would you rather we were back outside in the driving rain?”
Rose did not. And while their day had started well enough, getting caught out in the rain far away from the warm safety of the TARDIS, had not been pleasant. Thankfully, the Doctor’s sonic had honed in on this lovely estate, tucked away in the woods, where they had deposited themselves (exhausted from a day of chasing errant Norfalumps), half-drowned in yards of wet brocade on the doorstep. So she was happy to play along with whatever half-baked covert, role-play idea “Eunuch John” (snicker) had come up with, as long as it bought her a dry, warm bed for the night and she could wear something that didn’t smell like wet dog!
“Ho-ley moley.”
Rose stood alone in the doorway of her bedroom chamber, staring in bewilderment at the sight before her-but it had nothing to do with the comfortingly warm fire smoking and crackling away in the fireplace. It was an elaborately carved four-poster, practically piled high to the coved ceiling with an impossible amount of every imaginable duvet, comforter, blanket and feather bed. “Y’have got to be kidding me,” she said to herself. Her whalebone corset dug uncomfortably into her ribs.
The Doctor answered the adjoining suite door after her third round of knocks. He stood in the doorway, dripping in his breeches and drying his wet hair vigorously with his shirt. Rose raked her gaze across his bare torso, lingering with delicious surprise over the completely unexpected expanse of exposed Doctor flesh. She sucked her bottom lip absently.
“You rang, milady?” he intoned, teasingly.
“Er, yeah-um…” Rose floundered helplessly for a moment, caught in her private fantasy like the proverbial fly in ointment. She snapped herself out of her reverie. “I need a couple of things. I need help with this dress thing, but first there’s this monstrosity-“ She stepped aside to reveal the enormously padded bed behind her.
“Blimey,” breathed the Doctor (quite forgetting her reaction), “that’s quite a meringue!” His sonic appeared from nowhere and he crept around the bed, jabbing it about. “There’s something hidden in here!” he said suspiciously as the sonic changed in pitch. He rooted around briefly, honing in on something. “Well, Your Majesty, here’s your problem!” He yanked back the corner of the 12th feather bed to reveal a small, green pea.
“Y’kidding me, right?” asked Rose. “The Princess and the Pea! I thought that was just a kid’s book!”
“’Fraid not. You, madam are being auditioned--it seems--by our esteemed host, the Prince.”
Again she repeated, “Y’kidding me, right?”
“No-well, this practice was actually all the rage at one time…um…well, this time-in particular. Yes. Now... Right! Are you still ok with staying here?”
“Well, we’re not going back out in that rain!” She shrugged. “I can handle our young vegan friend! Skip it, just help me pull one of those down in front of the fireplace and then we’ll sneak out early tomorrow.”
“Right! I live to serve, milady,” he teased as he faked a deep curtsey.
She giggled and pushed her tongue out at him. “Shouldn’t your voice be higher…?” Now it was her turn for the raspberry. Getting the feather bed down onto the floor would have been a piece of cake, if it hadn’t been for her huge, wet dress. It wasn’t much of job, but it left her breathless.
“Doctor!” She gasped, “The second thing can’t wait. I need help with this.” She turned her back towards him and lifted her wet blonde hair off her neck to reveal a tangled mess of corset stays and strapping. “I’m helpless without my faithful eunuch,” she breathed as he tackled the knotted cording. She’d rather expected him to rattle on about the history of women’s suffrage, the sadistic inventor of the bloody corset-16th century serfdom-anything, but he was surprisingly silent. He was also surprisingly gentle and deft with her silken prison and she soon heard the liquid swoosh of fabric thru eyelets and was able to breathe again.
“Thanks for the---” was all she could manage to get out for as she turned to face him, but her heel tangled around the soaked hemline of her giant dress. Off balance, she began to topple over awkwardly.
“Easy there!” He called out and grabbed her bare shoulders to steady her. As she struggled against the weight and inertia of her sopping rag of a dress, she lost hold of the edge of her plunging neckline-and it plunged further, accidentally revealing the provocative fullness of the soft curve of her right breast.
Now it was the Doctor’s turn to feel fragile.
Rose’s pulse quickened as she noticed that the Timelord was obviously and ardently gawking at her. “Thanks,” she panted. “Heels aren’t very comfortable.”
Distracted, he answered, “But they are very sexy…”
She cocked her head at him, thinking for a beat, and then-after a moment where she had come to a definite decision-wriggled out of her dress and let it fall to the floor.
The Doctor gawked at her like a bulimic in a bakery.
Rose stood, smoldering in his gaze, allowing his chestnut eyes to take in their fill. When she was lonely for his touch, she shortened the distance between them and with a thrill, watched his eyes dilate as she put her hands on him.
“My poor little eunuch,” purred Rose as her hands fingered the buttons on his breeches.
“Rose… What are you doing?” He gasped as she slid her hand inside the front flap of his trousers.
“What should have been done ages ago-that, and disproving one of my mother’s theories about you…”
“Could you please not mention your mother just now?”
His mouth eagerly found hers and her tongue filled his 900-year-old brain with the memory of every carnal desire he had ever wished for or satisfied in his long life. He slid his hands down the length of her bare torso, methodically exploring her soft, bare skin; cupping the pert breasts that strained up to meet his worshipful mouth and then tenderly yet calculatingly probed the slippery hot wetness between her legs.
She had endured yearning for him for months, waiting until the fortifications of his defenses were depleted. She could wait no longer.
Foreplay was over.
Soon, she sucked his pouty lower lip as she came, her hips grinding into him eagerly, his hands gripping her shapely alabaster hips. She groaned her encouragement, and felt the sweet warmth of his shuddered release.
They returned hungrily to each other several times that night, lounging in-between sessions on the single feather bed that had been flung cavalierly on the hard floor, all discomfort forgotten. They lay silently in each other’s arms, leisurely tracing their fingertips along newly discovered terrain, and dozed contentedly once appetite had been satisfied yet again.
It was the first time he had ever wished he could stop time altogether.
They missed their planned early morning exit.
Obliged to attend breakfast the next morning with their hosts, Rose greedily eyed the Doctor across the room from over the rim of her teacup, and attempted to break his legendary poker face.
“My goodness, milady, there’s a bruise on your alabaster arm-what a shame such perfection must be so painfully marred. How did this misfortune befall you?” asked the Prince over his marmalade toast.
“Well, I’m embarrassed to say it,” began Rose (with a voice that sounded oddly posh), “but I’m afraid that I found my sleep here to be… much molested, I hardly slept a wink!” She said pointedly and stared hotly at the Doctor.
“Was not your bed soft enough?” entreated his mother.
“Um… I don’t want to offend you, ma’am, but my sleep was disturbed by many fits and starts. I’ve no idea what was in my bed!” She watched excitedly for a tell to cross the Doctor’s face, something so that she’d know she was getting to him, but he seemed busy spreading marmalade on his toast, which he’d snagged unseen from the sideboard.
She continued, “I found the manner of my bedding to be very hard, indeed.” Then, almost imperceptivity, she saw a slight raise to his left eyebrow. She had him now. “I feel my whole body has been a host to a great tempest overnight where I have been pummeled and prodded with-uh-an unknown intensity and was…ah…left quite depleted and exhausted in its wake.” She saw a new look in his eyes, now. A quick study, she decided she was going to easily adapt to these signals.
“Oh, you poor dear,” said their surprised hosts, looking worriedly to her but expectantly at each other: Could this be their Princess at last?
Finished with his marmalade, the Doctor calmly lifted one of his sticky fingers to his mouth and sucked at it-suggestively-staring her down with his half-lidded eyes.
There was no mistaking this sign…
Rose stood suddenly, her chair chirping noisily on the planked wood floor, “Y’know. I am really knackered. Thanks for the temporary digs. It’s been fun and all, but me and the gimp here have to scarper!” She grabbed their hands in turn and pumped them for all they were worth. “Cheers! Good luck finding a missus!” and she plunked the pea down on the breakfast table.
In an instant, Rose and the Doctor had implemented Generic Getaway Protocol One, and ran all the way back to the TARDIS, laughing hysterically. Once inside, he showed her what else he could do with his poker face.
******
Back in the mouldy museum of 2010, Amy and the Doctor stared at the impossibly ridiculous mummified pea. “They’ve got this one wrong, too,” mumbled the Doctor.
“And how do you know? Were you there for that one, as well?”
“More than I ever have been before,” he said softly.
As he walked away, Amy swore she could see his eyes glistening in the glow of the museum’s halogen lights.
Author: psyfi_geekgirl
BetaBabe: akkajemo
Characters/Pairings: Ten/Rose, brief cameos: Eleven, Amy
Rating: A (for adult…)
Excerpt: “Well, Your Majesty, here’s your problem!” He yanked back the corner of the 12th feather bed to reveal a small, green pea. “Y’kidding me, right?” asked Rose. “I thought that was just a kid’s book!”
Word count: 1,896
Disclaimer: I don’t own ‘em. “Not nobody, not nohow…”
A/N: I originally started writing this for challenge 2 (Fairytales) then abandoned it, mostly done, to start something else. Now I’m double-posting it for challenge 32 (Photos) and challenge 14 (Undercover) prompted from then_theres_us (pics under the cut). A bit of a romp with the fable The Princess & the Pea…
ETA: The horribly stilted dialogue between Rose and the Prince & his mother is practically pilfered directly from the fairy tale--just so ya know...
Happy Holidays to all of the fabulous people on my f'list and anyone else who might stumble by to read this. You all make LJ a fun and wonderful experiment in creativity and humanity. My present to you: A little smut for the holidays...
“WRONG!”
He strode though the museum, jutting an accusatory finger at a diorama of The Battle of Waterloo. “Complete bunk!” He sidled up to an oil painting of Byron, and upon inspecting it, intoned to no one in particular: “Oh yeah, Mr. Phillips, that’s a picture of Lord Byron, is it? Then where’s his goiter!”
“Jeez, Doctor,” chided Amy, “are you Mister Grumpy Face again today?”
“Amy, you know I hate shoddy work,” he lectured. “It’s downright fraud!”
“OOooh,” she cooed, twisting his bowtie playfully. “Did somebody miss out on his prune juice this morn?”
“It’s history, Amy and history’s important”
“No, Doctor, it’s junk. A collection of old junk nobody even cares about anymore. At least nobody but you. Now, look at this old thing here-what exactly is this supposed to be? Some mummified old pea---“
Amy’s disparaging rant grew indistinct, and the Doctor’s vision blurred before him, remembering…
******
Somewhere in France, 1780s
“Ba-whahaha!” Rose chortled indelicately as she glanced at the psychic paper. “Princess Rose of the Powell Estates and her eunuch, John?!” She sniggered again, “Doctor, is there something y’not telling me?” She asked silkily as she looked pointedly at his fall-front breeches. He turned scarlet, coughed and glanced nervously at the servant who was leading them to their connecting chambers for the night. The servant however was several paces in front of them and appeared not to hear.
“Rose, milady,” hissed the Doctor, “would you rather we were back outside in the driving rain?”
Rose did not. And while their day had started well enough, getting caught out in the rain far away from the warm safety of the TARDIS, had not been pleasant. Thankfully, the Doctor’s sonic had honed in on this lovely estate, tucked away in the woods, where they had deposited themselves (exhausted from a day of chasing errant Norfalumps), half-drowned in yards of wet brocade on the doorstep. So she was happy to play along with whatever half-baked covert, role-play idea “Eunuch John” (snicker) had come up with, as long as it bought her a dry, warm bed for the night and she could wear something that didn’t smell like wet dog!
“Ho-ley moley.”
Rose stood alone in the doorway of her bedroom chamber, staring in bewilderment at the sight before her-but it had nothing to do with the comfortingly warm fire smoking and crackling away in the fireplace. It was an elaborately carved four-poster, practically piled high to the coved ceiling with an impossible amount of every imaginable duvet, comforter, blanket and feather bed. “Y’have got to be kidding me,” she said to herself. Her whalebone corset dug uncomfortably into her ribs.
The Doctor answered the adjoining suite door after her third round of knocks. He stood in the doorway, dripping in his breeches and drying his wet hair vigorously with his shirt. Rose raked her gaze across his bare torso, lingering with delicious surprise over the completely unexpected expanse of exposed Doctor flesh. She sucked her bottom lip absently.
“You rang, milady?” he intoned, teasingly.
“Er, yeah-um…” Rose floundered helplessly for a moment, caught in her private fantasy like the proverbial fly in ointment. She snapped herself out of her reverie. “I need a couple of things. I need help with this dress thing, but first there’s this monstrosity-“ She stepped aside to reveal the enormously padded bed behind her.
“Blimey,” breathed the Doctor (quite forgetting her reaction), “that’s quite a meringue!” His sonic appeared from nowhere and he crept around the bed, jabbing it about. “There’s something hidden in here!” he said suspiciously as the sonic changed in pitch. He rooted around briefly, honing in on something. “Well, Your Majesty, here’s your problem!” He yanked back the corner of the 12th feather bed to reveal a small, green pea.
“Y’kidding me, right?” asked Rose. “The Princess and the Pea! I thought that was just a kid’s book!”
“’Fraid not. You, madam are being auditioned--it seems--by our esteemed host, the Prince.”
Again she repeated, “Y’kidding me, right?”
“No-well, this practice was actually all the rage at one time…um…well, this time-in particular. Yes. Now... Right! Are you still ok with staying here?”
“Well, we’re not going back out in that rain!” She shrugged. “I can handle our young vegan friend! Skip it, just help me pull one of those down in front of the fireplace and then we’ll sneak out early tomorrow.”
“Right! I live to serve, milady,” he teased as he faked a deep curtsey.
She giggled and pushed her tongue out at him. “Shouldn’t your voice be higher…?” Now it was her turn for the raspberry. Getting the feather bed down onto the floor would have been a piece of cake, if it hadn’t been for her huge, wet dress. It wasn’t much of job, but it left her breathless.
“Doctor!” She gasped, “The second thing can’t wait. I need help with this.” She turned her back towards him and lifted her wet blonde hair off her neck to reveal a tangled mess of corset stays and strapping. “I’m helpless without my faithful eunuch,” she breathed as he tackled the knotted cording. She’d rather expected him to rattle on about the history of women’s suffrage, the sadistic inventor of the bloody corset-16th century serfdom-anything, but he was surprisingly silent. He was also surprisingly gentle and deft with her silken prison and she soon heard the liquid swoosh of fabric thru eyelets and was able to breathe again.
“Thanks for the---” was all she could manage to get out for as she turned to face him, but her heel tangled around the soaked hemline of her giant dress. Off balance, she began to topple over awkwardly.
“Easy there!” He called out and grabbed her bare shoulders to steady her. As she struggled against the weight and inertia of her sopping rag of a dress, she lost hold of the edge of her plunging neckline-and it plunged further, accidentally revealing the provocative fullness of the soft curve of her right breast.
Now it was the Doctor’s turn to feel fragile.
Rose’s pulse quickened as she noticed that the Timelord was obviously and ardently gawking at her. “Thanks,” she panted. “Heels aren’t very comfortable.”
Distracted, he answered, “But they are very sexy…”
She cocked her head at him, thinking for a beat, and then-after a moment where she had come to a definite decision-wriggled out of her dress and let it fall to the floor.
The Doctor gawked at her like a bulimic in a bakery.
Rose stood, smoldering in his gaze, allowing his chestnut eyes to take in their fill. When she was lonely for his touch, she shortened the distance between them and with a thrill, watched his eyes dilate as she put her hands on him.
“My poor little eunuch,” purred Rose as her hands fingered the buttons on his breeches.
“Rose… What are you doing?” He gasped as she slid her hand inside the front flap of his trousers.
“What should have been done ages ago-that, and disproving one of my mother’s theories about you…”
“Could you please not mention your mother just now?”
His mouth eagerly found hers and her tongue filled his 900-year-old brain with the memory of every carnal desire he had ever wished for or satisfied in his long life. He slid his hands down the length of her bare torso, methodically exploring her soft, bare skin; cupping the pert breasts that strained up to meet his worshipful mouth and then tenderly yet calculatingly probed the slippery hot wetness between her legs.
She had endured yearning for him for months, waiting until the fortifications of his defenses were depleted. She could wait no longer.
Foreplay was over.
Soon, she sucked his pouty lower lip as she came, her hips grinding into him eagerly, his hands gripping her shapely alabaster hips. She groaned her encouragement, and felt the sweet warmth of his shuddered release.
They returned hungrily to each other several times that night, lounging in-between sessions on the single feather bed that had been flung cavalierly on the hard floor, all discomfort forgotten. They lay silently in each other’s arms, leisurely tracing their fingertips along newly discovered terrain, and dozed contentedly once appetite had been satisfied yet again.
It was the first time he had ever wished he could stop time altogether.
They missed their planned early morning exit.
Obliged to attend breakfast the next morning with their hosts, Rose greedily eyed the Doctor across the room from over the rim of her teacup, and attempted to break his legendary poker face.
“My goodness, milady, there’s a bruise on your alabaster arm-what a shame such perfection must be so painfully marred. How did this misfortune befall you?” asked the Prince over his marmalade toast.
“Well, I’m embarrassed to say it,” began Rose (with a voice that sounded oddly posh), “but I’m afraid that I found my sleep here to be… much molested, I hardly slept a wink!” She said pointedly and stared hotly at the Doctor.
“Was not your bed soft enough?” entreated his mother.
“Um… I don’t want to offend you, ma’am, but my sleep was disturbed by many fits and starts. I’ve no idea what was in my bed!” She watched excitedly for a tell to cross the Doctor’s face, something so that she’d know she was getting to him, but he seemed busy spreading marmalade on his toast, which he’d snagged unseen from the sideboard.
She continued, “I found the manner of my bedding to be very hard, indeed.” Then, almost imperceptivity, she saw a slight raise to his left eyebrow. She had him now. “I feel my whole body has been a host to a great tempest overnight where I have been pummeled and prodded with-uh-an unknown intensity and was…ah…left quite depleted and exhausted in its wake.” She saw a new look in his eyes, now. A quick study, she decided she was going to easily adapt to these signals.
“Oh, you poor dear,” said their surprised hosts, looking worriedly to her but expectantly at each other: Could this be their Princess at last?
Finished with his marmalade, the Doctor calmly lifted one of his sticky fingers to his mouth and sucked at it-suggestively-staring her down with his half-lidded eyes.
There was no mistaking this sign…
Rose stood suddenly, her chair chirping noisily on the planked wood floor, “Y’know. I am really knackered. Thanks for the temporary digs. It’s been fun and all, but me and the gimp here have to scarper!” She grabbed their hands in turn and pumped them for all they were worth. “Cheers! Good luck finding a missus!” and she plunked the pea down on the breakfast table.
In an instant, Rose and the Doctor had implemented Generic Getaway Protocol One, and ran all the way back to the TARDIS, laughing hysterically. Once inside, he showed her what else he could do with his poker face.
******
Back in the mouldy museum of 2010, Amy and the Doctor stared at the impossibly ridiculous mummified pea. “They’ve got this one wrong, too,” mumbled the Doctor.
“And how do you know? Were you there for that one, as well?”
“More than I ever have been before,” he said softly.
As he walked away, Amy swore she could see his eyes glistening in the glow of the museum’s halogen lights.