Running Through My Mind (Doctor Who, Amy/Eleven)
Title: Running Through My Mind
Characters: Eleven/Amy
Word Count: 473
Rating: PG-13
Summary: He’s been kissed by his companions before -- sometimes he’s even been the one doing the kissing -- but it’s never been like this.
Warnings: Oh yes. If you haven't seen 5.05, you may very well be spoiled.
Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who. :( I wish I did, I'd keep Matt and Karen alll for myself. And friends.
Author's Note: This is a combination of hyperness, sleep-deprivation, watching that last scene of Flesh And Stone over and over, and a way-too-active mind for 2AM when I didn't get any sleep last night. Speaking of which, why am I still awake? Erm. Yeah. The thought process of the Doctor in those few seconds after Amy kissed him.
His mind is constantly racing with thoughts, thoughts that come and go so quickly that he can’t keep track of them half of the time, but when Amy kisses him all those thoughts -- those thousands of brilliant, wonderful thoughts -- rush out of his head and leave his mind sitting bewilderingly blank. It’s more alien to him than any of the planets he’s ever visited.
Amy’s hands dance across his chest, tantalising him through the fabric of his shirt, and he has to fight to keep his body from shuddering at the unfamiliar wave of heat rolling through him. He’s been kissed by his companions before -- sometimes he’s even been the one doing the kissing -- but it’s never been like this.
And it’s ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous, because he’s a Time Lord and Time Lords aren’t supposed to be swayed by their emotions, but that was why he kinda stole the TARDIS in the first place and oh god she does that thing with her tongue and he’s forgotten she’s a kissogram, or she was two years ago, two of her years, and she had been seven and now she’s most decidedly not.
And then he realises his hands are just kind of floating there, and he knows he’s supposed to do something with them, like run them through that fiery ginger hair of hers or grab her bum and pull her closer or-- no. No, no, no, this is bad, so bad, very bad and he has to stop this before it gets out of hand.
He grips her shoulder and leans into her, just for a split second, feeling the overwhelming urge to just stop fighting and give into those carnal instincts the Time Lords had spent millennia repressing in themselves. He wants to so much that it hurts when he forces himself to push her away.
“But you’re human!” he exclaims, hearts beating in his chest at a rate that probably isn’t normal even for him, “You’re Amy! You’re getting married in the morning!”
She leans in again and he inwardly groans because there’s no way he’s going to be able to muster up that self control again, but-- he’s missed something. He’s just missed something very important, he can feel it. In the morning. The morning. That morning. The base-code of the universe. His eyes widen and he stares at her in wonder, slots fitting into slots and puzzle pieces clicking together and his thoughts come rushing back at ninety miles-an-hour.
“In the morning,” he repeats it like an epiphany, and she just looks at him, all sultry-eyed and Amy that he can’t believe he hasn’t realised it before. The crack in her wall, of all the walls in England, and he hadn’t even thought that to be significant.
Sometimes, he knows, he can be really thick.
Characters: Eleven/Amy
Word Count: 473
Rating: PG-13
Summary: He’s been kissed by his companions before -- sometimes he’s even been the one doing the kissing -- but it’s never been like this.
Warnings: Oh yes. If you haven't seen 5.05, you may very well be spoiled.
Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who. :( I wish I did, I'd keep Matt and Karen alll for myself. And friends.
Author's Note: This is a combination of hyperness, sleep-deprivation, watching that last scene of Flesh And Stone over and over, and a way-too-active mind for 2AM when I didn't get any sleep last night. Speaking of which, why am I still awake? Erm. Yeah. The thought process of the Doctor in those few seconds after Amy kissed him.
His mind is constantly racing with thoughts, thoughts that come and go so quickly that he can’t keep track of them half of the time, but when Amy kisses him all those thoughts -- those thousands of brilliant, wonderful thoughts -- rush out of his head and leave his mind sitting bewilderingly blank. It’s more alien to him than any of the planets he’s ever visited.
Amy’s hands dance across his chest, tantalising him through the fabric of his shirt, and he has to fight to keep his body from shuddering at the unfamiliar wave of heat rolling through him. He’s been kissed by his companions before -- sometimes he’s even been the one doing the kissing -- but it’s never been like this.
And it’s ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous, because he’s a Time Lord and Time Lords aren’t supposed to be swayed by their emotions, but that was why he kinda stole the TARDIS in the first place and oh god she does that thing with her tongue and he’s forgotten she’s a kissogram, or she was two years ago, two of her years, and she had been seven and now she’s most decidedly not.
And then he realises his hands are just kind of floating there, and he knows he’s supposed to do something with them, like run them through that fiery ginger hair of hers or grab her bum and pull her closer or-- no. No, no, no, this is bad, so bad, very bad and he has to stop this before it gets out of hand.
He grips her shoulder and leans into her, just for a split second, feeling the overwhelming urge to just stop fighting and give into those carnal instincts the Time Lords had spent millennia repressing in themselves. He wants to so much that it hurts when he forces himself to push her away.
“But you’re human!” he exclaims, hearts beating in his chest at a rate that probably isn’t normal even for him, “You’re Amy! You’re getting married in the morning!”
She leans in again and he inwardly groans because there’s no way he’s going to be able to muster up that self control again, but-- he’s missed something. He’s just missed something very important, he can feel it. In the morning. The morning. That morning. The base-code of the universe. His eyes widen and he stares at her in wonder, slots fitting into slots and puzzle pieces clicking together and his thoughts come rushing back at ninety miles-an-hour.
“In the morning,” he repeats it like an epiphany, and she just looks at him, all sultry-eyed and Amy that he can’t believe he hasn’t realised it before. The crack in her wall, of all the walls in England, and he hadn’t even thought that to be significant.
Sometimes, he knows, he can be really thick.