Fic: "Morning, Sweetie"
Title: "Morning, Sweetie"
Fandom: Doctor Who
Words: 361
Rating: PG-13 --> R for things implied.
Genre: Humour/Romance(/not-quite-smut)
Summary: The morning after, there's a few things the Doctor doesn't remember. Written for this prompt
Characters/Pairing: Eleventh Doctor/River Song
Warnings: I'm worried that if read the right way this could be viewed as implied dubcon, though I prefer to just think they got drunk one night and River's better at remembering things she does whilst drunk than the Doctor.
Disclaimer: They're not mine, though I would like to have both of them.
Author's Notes: I've never written something like this before and part of me is mortified that I did. Usually I stick to G ratings.
The Doctor is yet to open his eyes but he’s fairly sure it’s a bed he’s lying on. A comfy one, too. Big enough for two, so at least a double. And the sheets are all rumpled.
Hmm. Might be time to open the eyes.
He blinks. There is the scent of coffee. And curly hair. And a smirk. “Morning, sweetie.”
He blinks again. Tries to remember how he ended up here. Was there hallucinogenic lipstick involved?
“How do you like your coffee? Sugar?”
“Ye-es. Two.” His jacket is neatly hung on the fashionable hat stand to his left. He wonders where his shirt got to. And his trousers for that matter. Now that he thinks about it, this entire state of undress is really rather worrisome, all things considered.
She’s sliding back into the bed next to him, and there’s a mug of coffee being presented to him. He accepts it, and takes a mouthful, before he remembers that he prefers tea and places it on the bedside table.
“I enjoyed last night,” she says, and her voice is silky, matching her smile. She places her hand on his thigh oh-so-casually, an action to which is determinedly not paying any attention. That is, until she uses the tips of her nails to trace down his leg.
Oh, dear. This had really gone far en… ooh, he does like that.
“Didn’t you?” she continues.
“I did -” her hand is working its way back up now, tantalisingly - “ which is to say... I don’t actually remember. What did I enjoy?”
“Oh, Doctor,” she pouts in mock disappointment, her hand leaving his thigh (he refuses to admit that he’s slightly disappointed) and coming to rest on his neck, “in that case, I’ll just have to remind you.”
Each word is spoken clearly and deliberately, and the Doctor realises he is not resisting as she closes the gap between them. Her other hand is on his hip now, and her lips are against his and he finds himself thinking that even if he remembered what happened the night before, there’s a good chance he wouldn’t be opposed to the repeat happening now.
Fandom: Doctor Who
Words: 361
Rating: PG-13 --> R for things implied.
Genre: Humour/Romance(/not-quite-smut)
Summary: The morning after, there's a few things the Doctor doesn't remember. Written for this prompt
Characters/Pairing: Eleventh Doctor/River Song
Warnings: I'm worried that if read the right way this could be viewed as implied dubcon, though I prefer to just think they got drunk one night and River's better at remembering things she does whilst drunk than the Doctor.
Disclaimer: They're not mine, though I would like to have both of them.
Author's Notes: I've never written something like this before and part of me is mortified that I did. Usually I stick to G ratings.
The Doctor is yet to open his eyes but he’s fairly sure it’s a bed he’s lying on. A comfy one, too. Big enough for two, so at least a double. And the sheets are all rumpled.
Hmm. Might be time to open the eyes.
He blinks. There is the scent of coffee. And curly hair. And a smirk. “Morning, sweetie.”
He blinks again. Tries to remember how he ended up here. Was there hallucinogenic lipstick involved?
“How do you like your coffee? Sugar?”
“Ye-es. Two.” His jacket is neatly hung on the fashionable hat stand to his left. He wonders where his shirt got to. And his trousers for that matter. Now that he thinks about it, this entire state of undress is really rather worrisome, all things considered.
She’s sliding back into the bed next to him, and there’s a mug of coffee being presented to him. He accepts it, and takes a mouthful, before he remembers that he prefers tea and places it on the bedside table.
“I enjoyed last night,” she says, and her voice is silky, matching her smile. She places her hand on his thigh oh-so-casually, an action to which is determinedly not paying any attention. That is, until she uses the tips of her nails to trace down his leg.
Oh, dear. This had really gone far en… ooh, he does like that.
“Didn’t you?” she continues.
“I did -” her hand is working its way back up now, tantalisingly - “ which is to say... I don’t actually remember. What did I enjoy?”
“Oh, Doctor,” she pouts in mock disappointment, her hand leaving his thigh (he refuses to admit that he’s slightly disappointed) and coming to rest on his neck, “in that case, I’ll just have to remind you.”
Each word is spoken clearly and deliberately, and the Doctor realises he is not resisting as she closes the gap between them. Her other hand is on his hip now, and her lips are against his and he finds himself thinking that even if he remembered what happened the night before, there’s a good chance he wouldn’t be opposed to the repeat happening now.