Auction Fic: Work of Art
Story: Work of Art
Author: wmr / wendymr
Characters: Ninth Doctor, Rose Tyler
Rated: Mature
Summary: "I'm gonna poke and stab at your bum."
This is a very, very belated auction ficlet for anon_aspasia, who made a generous donation as part of Wiggie's Posse to make sneakymaster pay more towards the Support Stacie fund. I ended up going with your original prompt, anon_aspasia; in the end, the second one didn't inspire me. With thanks to dark_aegis for BRing.
Work of Art
“A tattoo?”
The Doctor shrugs. “It’s how they know you belong. Members all have the same tattoo. ‘S like scanning the handprint you get in a club. Only...”
He’s lowered his lashes and is very definitely avoiding her gaze. So what’s he not telling her? “Only...?”
“They have the tattoo on their...” He mumbles something indistinct.
“On their what?”
He pats his backside. “There.”
“On their arse? But how - I mean, you sayin’ they flash their backsides at the bouncers to get in?”
The Doctor smirks. Okay, so he’s enjoying this. Git. He’s not the one who has to get into this exclusive group’s headquarters so they can look for the missing talisman. No, he gets to wait outside while she sneaks around and does the detective work. So she’s the one who has to have some stranger stick needles all over her arse, and then let someone else stare at it.
“Nah, no need. The scanners can detect the tattoo through clothing. No stripping necessary.” But he’s still grinning. Yeah, he’s the bastard whose arse gets to stay needle-free.
“Why did we agree it had to be me again?”
“Cause I wouldn’t get past their security scanners. Alien, me, remember?”
Right. They’re on a human colony in the forty-eighth century. “Great. So I get to have some sleazy tattoo artist poke an’ stab at my bum?”
“No.” He starts pacing around the console. “Don’t want to blow your cover before we’ve even started.”
She gives him a questioning look. He stops pacing, turns his head to meet her gaze, and gives her a bright grin. “I’m gonna poke an’ stab at your bum.”
“You?” She’s not sure whether to be horrified or... oh. A warm feeling’s suddenly spreading through her. “What... what do you know about tattooing?”
He taps his nose. “You’d be surprised.”
“I’ll bet I would.”
She gives him an enquiring look, but he doesn’t satisfy her curiosity. Instead, he gestures, businesslike, towards the TARDIS interior. “Come on! Sooner we get this done, the sooner we can rescue the talisman and put it back where it belongs.”
“And save the universe again, right?”
He grins again. “Yep!”
***
He’s shown her a picture of the tattoo on someone who already has it - she’d love to know how he got that, but he’s not saying - so she knows what it looks like and where it is. A strange pattern of concentric diamonds, just below the centre of the right buttock.
So no way he’s going to be able to do it on her unless her underwear’s out of the way.
In her bedroom, she strips off her jeans and knickers, pulling on a thong and a short denim skirt instead. Straightening the skirt as she checks her reflection in the mirror, she finds herself going hot and cold at the thought of what’s coming next.
Lying face-down on a bed while the Doctor’s hands glide up her thigh and over her bum. Those calloused fingers of his steadying her while his other hand applies the needles to ink in the tattoo.
Her mouth’s suddenly dry, and she has to swallow.
It’s not going to be like that at all, of course it’s not. He might flirt with her sometimes - and, yes, he was downright suggestive out in the console room - but there’s no way he’s really interested. Once she’s on that bed and he’s doing what he has to do, she might as well be a lump of wood for all that he’s really interested in touching her. She needs to remember that before she starts building this up into more than it is and making a fool of herself in front of him by... oh, god, moaning or pleading with him to touch her more.
And, oh yeah, if she’s being sensible, why isn’t she thinking about whether she’s really willing to do this, anyway? Of course there’s not a lot she wouldn’t do for the Doctor, but tattoos hurt. And does she really want to be stuck with a weird pattern on her bum for the rest of her life?
On the other hand, the Doctor’s relying on her, so, yes. She’ll do it.
***
She’s wrong about both things, as it happens.
When she hurries into the medical lab, the Doctor looks horrified at the idea that she’d have this tattoo for the rest of her life. “Course not! What would I want to do that to you for? ‘Sides, for all I know you’ll want to put some bloke’s name there some day.” He rolls his eyes. “As long as it’s not Ricky.”
“Oi! Mickey’s a decent bloke. And he saved the planet, remember!”
“Beginner’s luck.” But he’s trying to hide a smirk and she knows he isn’t as anti-Mickey as he pretends. Not that she’d want Mickey’s name on her bum anyway.
She climbs up onto the table and lies on her front, the Doctor’s promise - “Sonic pen. You won’t feel a thing.” - ringing in her ear.
At first, there’s only silence, punctuated by the rattle and clatter of instruments being laid out, which she can’t see because he’s working off to her side. And then, abruptly, hands catch the hem of her skirt and pull it up until her bum’s completely exposed, and all she can think about is that she’s glad this room isn’t set up like a dentist’s surgery. No mirror overhead.
The Doctor’s hand curves around her thigh and slides up to her buttock, and her breath catches.
“You all right?” he asks, sounding puzzled.
“Fine,” she manages, though she knows her voice is pitched higher than it should. His hand’s still on her bum, and it’s very distracting.
“Fantastic.” His voice is pitched lower than it usually is, and her heart skips. Is it possible that he’s not completely unaffected by this?
His hand moves, fingers gliding over one buttock and across to the other, and it almost feels like a caress. “You ready?”
“Yeah.” Oh, god, that sounded positively breathless!
The Doctor doesn’t seem to notice. He takes his hand away - she has to stifle her protest - and with her head turned sideways she can see him moving towards a tray which he’s got all set out with equipment. When he turns back towards her, he’s holding something that looks like a chunky pen. He stares down at her backside for several seconds. “Doctor?”
“Eh? Oh.” His gaze shifts, and he gives her a rueful, you caught me smile. “Was just thinking. Seems a shame to mark you there.”
Why? Cause he likes the way her bum looks? “You said ‘s only temporary.”
“Yeah. It’ll fade in a couple of days.”
“Good.” She gives him a cheeky grin. “If I was gonna have a permanent tattoo, I’d want it to be something that mattered to me.” She pauses, then continues, “Like the TARDIS, maybe?”
“Oi!” His eyebrows shoot up. “Why would I want to draw my ship on your bum?”
She’d rather he drew his name on her arse, but she’s not going to say that. “Because it’d look good?”
“Not sure I like the idea of you sittin’ on my ship,” he grunts, then starts to draw.
***
Long before he’s finished, she’s biting her lip in a desperate attempt not to moan. He’s holding her steady by keeping one hand splayed over the inside of her lower buttock and upper thigh, and one finger’s an inch away from her vulva.
Three times already, she’s stopped herself from begging him to stop driving her insane and touch her properly. Only the knowledge that he hasn’t a clue where his finger is and what it’s doing to her - and he’d be horrified if he knew - is enough to keep her silent.
Until his finger slides forward, over her thong, and comes to rest about an inch from her clit.
There’s no way that’s not deliberate. And she can’t suppress the instinctive movement of her hips, trying to bring his finger closer to where she wants it.
“You like that.” It’s not even a question. She’d tell him off for being smug, except she’s never heard that tone of voice from him before. It’s dark and low and very possessive.
“Yeah,” she answers, and her own voice surprises her: it’s husky and pleading.
He draws his finger back slowly. He’s so obviously intending to drive her insane, and she can’t stop herself whimpering, even though she knows it’s giving him what he wants. She can’t even see him now, because he’s standing behind her. Bastard.
“Later,” he says, dark promise in his voice. “Got important things to do now. Later, though... can give you as much of that as you want.”
God. Her eyes drift closed and her whole body throbs as she imagines it. But she’s not letting him get away that lightly. “Only if I can touch you, too.”
He laughs softly as he finishes his artwork on her behind. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
***
She marches into the club, bold as brass, her ‘tattoo’ completely fooling the guards. Twenty minutes later, the talisman in hand, she strolls out again.
Half an hour after that, she’s lying face-down on her bed as the Doctor keeps his promise, driving her wild with slow strokes of his fingers, interspersed with open-mouthed kisses on her neck. He makes her wait almost an hour before letting her come - she counts, and makes him wait just as long when it’s her turn to play with him. But they both have a good time, and then they have it again. And again.
Later still, he takes her back to the medical lab, this time without the thong, and erases his work. Before he lets her get up, though, he draws on her again, but he won’t tell her what he’s putting there. After he’s finished, she runs to a mirror, craning her neck to look at the reflection of her arse.
It’s a geometric pattern, similar to the squiggles on the Post-It notes he has all over the console. His language, she figured out some time ago. But when she asks him to translate, he just smiles, enigmatic.
“Who says art has to be understandable?”
- end
Author: wmr / wendymr
Characters: Ninth Doctor, Rose Tyler
Rated: Mature
Summary: "I'm gonna poke and stab at your bum."
This is a very, very belated auction ficlet for anon_aspasia, who made a generous donation as part of Wiggie's Posse to make sneakymaster pay more towards the Support Stacie fund. I ended up going with your original prompt, anon_aspasia; in the end, the second one didn't inspire me. With thanks to dark_aegis for BRing.
Work of Art
“A tattoo?”
The Doctor shrugs. “It’s how they know you belong. Members all have the same tattoo. ‘S like scanning the handprint you get in a club. Only...”
He’s lowered his lashes and is very definitely avoiding her gaze. So what’s he not telling her? “Only...?”
“They have the tattoo on their...” He mumbles something indistinct.
“On their what?”
He pats his backside. “There.”
“On their arse? But how - I mean, you sayin’ they flash their backsides at the bouncers to get in?”
The Doctor smirks. Okay, so he’s enjoying this. Git. He’s not the one who has to get into this exclusive group’s headquarters so they can look for the missing talisman. No, he gets to wait outside while she sneaks around and does the detective work. So she’s the one who has to have some stranger stick needles all over her arse, and then let someone else stare at it.
“Nah, no need. The scanners can detect the tattoo through clothing. No stripping necessary.” But he’s still grinning. Yeah, he’s the bastard whose arse gets to stay needle-free.
“Why did we agree it had to be me again?”
“Cause I wouldn’t get past their security scanners. Alien, me, remember?”
Right. They’re on a human colony in the forty-eighth century. “Great. So I get to have some sleazy tattoo artist poke an’ stab at my bum?”
“No.” He starts pacing around the console. “Don’t want to blow your cover before we’ve even started.”
She gives him a questioning look. He stops pacing, turns his head to meet her gaze, and gives her a bright grin. “I’m gonna poke an’ stab at your bum.”
“You?” She’s not sure whether to be horrified or... oh. A warm feeling’s suddenly spreading through her. “What... what do you know about tattooing?”
He taps his nose. “You’d be surprised.”
“I’ll bet I would.”
She gives him an enquiring look, but he doesn’t satisfy her curiosity. Instead, he gestures, businesslike, towards the TARDIS interior. “Come on! Sooner we get this done, the sooner we can rescue the talisman and put it back where it belongs.”
“And save the universe again, right?”
He grins again. “Yep!”
***
He’s shown her a picture of the tattoo on someone who already has it - she’d love to know how he got that, but he’s not saying - so she knows what it looks like and where it is. A strange pattern of concentric diamonds, just below the centre of the right buttock.
So no way he’s going to be able to do it on her unless her underwear’s out of the way.
In her bedroom, she strips off her jeans and knickers, pulling on a thong and a short denim skirt instead. Straightening the skirt as she checks her reflection in the mirror, she finds herself going hot and cold at the thought of what’s coming next.
Lying face-down on a bed while the Doctor’s hands glide up her thigh and over her bum. Those calloused fingers of his steadying her while his other hand applies the needles to ink in the tattoo.
Her mouth’s suddenly dry, and she has to swallow.
It’s not going to be like that at all, of course it’s not. He might flirt with her sometimes - and, yes, he was downright suggestive out in the console room - but there’s no way he’s really interested. Once she’s on that bed and he’s doing what he has to do, she might as well be a lump of wood for all that he’s really interested in touching her. She needs to remember that before she starts building this up into more than it is and making a fool of herself in front of him by... oh, god, moaning or pleading with him to touch her more.
And, oh yeah, if she’s being sensible, why isn’t she thinking about whether she’s really willing to do this, anyway? Of course there’s not a lot she wouldn’t do for the Doctor, but tattoos hurt. And does she really want to be stuck with a weird pattern on her bum for the rest of her life?
On the other hand, the Doctor’s relying on her, so, yes. She’ll do it.
***
She’s wrong about both things, as it happens.
When she hurries into the medical lab, the Doctor looks horrified at the idea that she’d have this tattoo for the rest of her life. “Course not! What would I want to do that to you for? ‘Sides, for all I know you’ll want to put some bloke’s name there some day.” He rolls his eyes. “As long as it’s not Ricky.”
“Oi! Mickey’s a decent bloke. And he saved the planet, remember!”
“Beginner’s luck.” But he’s trying to hide a smirk and she knows he isn’t as anti-Mickey as he pretends. Not that she’d want Mickey’s name on her bum anyway.
She climbs up onto the table and lies on her front, the Doctor’s promise - “Sonic pen. You won’t feel a thing.” - ringing in her ear.
At first, there’s only silence, punctuated by the rattle and clatter of instruments being laid out, which she can’t see because he’s working off to her side. And then, abruptly, hands catch the hem of her skirt and pull it up until her bum’s completely exposed, and all she can think about is that she’s glad this room isn’t set up like a dentist’s surgery. No mirror overhead.
The Doctor’s hand curves around her thigh and slides up to her buttock, and her breath catches.
“You all right?” he asks, sounding puzzled.
“Fine,” she manages, though she knows her voice is pitched higher than it should. His hand’s still on her bum, and it’s very distracting.
“Fantastic.” His voice is pitched lower than it usually is, and her heart skips. Is it possible that he’s not completely unaffected by this?
His hand moves, fingers gliding over one buttock and across to the other, and it almost feels like a caress. “You ready?”
“Yeah.” Oh, god, that sounded positively breathless!
The Doctor doesn’t seem to notice. He takes his hand away - she has to stifle her protest - and with her head turned sideways she can see him moving towards a tray which he’s got all set out with equipment. When he turns back towards her, he’s holding something that looks like a chunky pen. He stares down at her backside for several seconds. “Doctor?”
“Eh? Oh.” His gaze shifts, and he gives her a rueful, you caught me smile. “Was just thinking. Seems a shame to mark you there.”
Why? Cause he likes the way her bum looks? “You said ‘s only temporary.”
“Yeah. It’ll fade in a couple of days.”
“Good.” She gives him a cheeky grin. “If I was gonna have a permanent tattoo, I’d want it to be something that mattered to me.” She pauses, then continues, “Like the TARDIS, maybe?”
“Oi!” His eyebrows shoot up. “Why would I want to draw my ship on your bum?”
She’d rather he drew his name on her arse, but she’s not going to say that. “Because it’d look good?”
“Not sure I like the idea of you sittin’ on my ship,” he grunts, then starts to draw.
***
Long before he’s finished, she’s biting her lip in a desperate attempt not to moan. He’s holding her steady by keeping one hand splayed over the inside of her lower buttock and upper thigh, and one finger’s an inch away from her vulva.
Three times already, she’s stopped herself from begging him to stop driving her insane and touch her properly. Only the knowledge that he hasn’t a clue where his finger is and what it’s doing to her - and he’d be horrified if he knew - is enough to keep her silent.
Until his finger slides forward, over her thong, and comes to rest about an inch from her clit.
There’s no way that’s not deliberate. And she can’t suppress the instinctive movement of her hips, trying to bring his finger closer to where she wants it.
“You like that.” It’s not even a question. She’d tell him off for being smug, except she’s never heard that tone of voice from him before. It’s dark and low and very possessive.
“Yeah,” she answers, and her own voice surprises her: it’s husky and pleading.
He draws his finger back slowly. He’s so obviously intending to drive her insane, and she can’t stop herself whimpering, even though she knows it’s giving him what he wants. She can’t even see him now, because he’s standing behind her. Bastard.
“Later,” he says, dark promise in his voice. “Got important things to do now. Later, though... can give you as much of that as you want.”
God. Her eyes drift closed and her whole body throbs as she imagines it. But she’s not letting him get away that lightly. “Only if I can touch you, too.”
He laughs softly as he finishes his artwork on her behind. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
***
She marches into the club, bold as brass, her ‘tattoo’ completely fooling the guards. Twenty minutes later, the talisman in hand, she strolls out again.
Half an hour after that, she’s lying face-down on her bed as the Doctor keeps his promise, driving her wild with slow strokes of his fingers, interspersed with open-mouthed kisses on her neck. He makes her wait almost an hour before letting her come - she counts, and makes him wait just as long when it’s her turn to play with him. But they both have a good time, and then they have it again. And again.
Later still, he takes her back to the medical lab, this time without the thong, and erases his work. Before he lets her get up, though, he draws on her again, but he won’t tell her what he’s putting there. After he’s finished, she runs to a mirror, craning her neck to look at the reflection of her arse.
It’s a geometric pattern, similar to the squiggles on the Post-It notes he has all over the console. His language, she figured out some time ago. But when she asks him to translate, he just smiles, enigmatic.
“Who says art has to be understandable?”
- end