Fic: Close Enough (Doctor Who, PG)
title: Close Enough
author: ilovetakahana
word count: 860
fandom: Doctor Who [Matt Smith era]
pairing: Amy/Rory
rating: PG
notes: For the sake of my poor heart this is considered as set in some indeterminate time after "A Good Man Goes To War"; very mild spoilers for "The Doctor's Wife".
Written for
kink_bingo. Kink: Shaving/depilation. My card is here.
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org.
Amy looked critically at the implements on the bed - towel, shaving soap in a shallow cup, shaving brush, and the razor - and put her hands on her hips.
Rory sat down on the edge of the bed and raised an eyebrow at his wife. “What?”
Amy rolled her eyes. “Do you honestly expect me to help you out with that?”
Rory coughed. “I don't think I'd have asked you if I weren't sure, Amy.”
“Okay, so you're sure,” Amy said, beginning to pace. She couldn't really get very far, though, because as nice as the new room was - with a bed! A real big bed for the two of them! - it was also fairly small, as TARDIS rooms went, and she had to turn around and retrace her steps after five strides. “But, Rory, you do a fair enough job yourself, why are you asking me?”
Rory looked confused for a long moment, and then his face cleared and he smiled at his wife.
Amy smiled back, because she never could resist him - but then she remembered the conversation and she was frowning again. “Rory?”
His answer was to catch her hands and pull her into his lap; he kissed her under her chin, a series of light touches scattered over her throat, until Amy sighed and relaxed into his arms. He tucked her head into his shoulder. “I want you to do this,” he said, quietly, “because I trust you, and because I want you to, and because.”
“Because what?” And Amy followed up with a quick, briefly sharp nip at the junction between his shoulder and neck.
“Ow,” Rory said softly, and pinched her arse, grinning when Amy yelped and giggled. “Because.”
“You're not doing a whole lot to convince me, Rory Pond,” Amy said after a moment - and then she wriggled back to her feet and divided a glare between the shaving implements and her husband, before she sighed and said, “All right, you've got me, what do I do?”
Rory smiled encouragingly and hooked the chair from Amy's little dresser, turning it so he could sit back to front. “I've already washed up, so let's start with the brush and the soap.”
Leaning over him, Amy watched as he worked the soap into a lather; she put her hand around his on the shaving brush and concentrated on spreading the suds everywhere, working the lather carefully into his skin, until half of Rory's face was obscured. After a moment's thought, she swiped her finger over his lips, and was rewarded with a wink and a wide grin.
“Okay,” Rory said, and picked up the razor. Holding it up between them, he unfolded it with a careful, precise motion, hand firmly on the back of the blade. “This was my da's razor.”
“What, you swiped it from him?”
“No, he gave it to me the night before the wedding,” Rory said, and for a moment he was very quiet and sober. “Bit of home left. Bit of Earth, anyway.”
Amy kissed him on the forehead.
Rory gave her a lopsided little smile and snapped back to the present. “Now, you hold it like so. Edge always at a right angle, and move, like this.” He passed the blade over the skin of his cheek, sweeping off the lather as he did, and revealing neatly-shaved skin; he wiped the blade off on the towel.
A few passes later, he turned the razor over to Amy. “Okay, your turn.”
“Rory, I don't know why you trust me; I don't even trust myself, and I'm just looking at it.”
“Mrs. Williams, I believe I already answered the question; I trust you because.” He was looking straight into her eyes; his voice had fallen an octave.
Amy took the razor from him, waited for him to turn the other cheek - and then, working with her eyebrows pulled into a straight line, began to shave him with steady, slow, smooth strokes, wiping the blade as he had done. “Look up,” she said, and now her strokes were shorter, much more careful, as she worked beneath his chin and the jut of his Adam's apple.
Rory closed his eyes and relaxed under Amy's hands.
After a few minutes, Amy looked critically at her handiwork; a gentle hand under her husband's chin, tilting his head left and right, and then she cleaned the blade for the last time, folded the razor closed; she took the towel and used a clean corner to wipe away the last traces of soap.
Rory's eyes were still closed when he said, in a husky whisper, “Close enough?”
“Let me check,” Amy whispered back, and she leaned into him, put her cheek against his.
Warmth, his familiar skin, the pulse beneath his ear, the clean scent of soap.
And Amy was shivering as she said, “Close enough.”
Rory smiled, cupped her face in his hands, turned her the last inch, and fell into her kiss.
author: ilovetakahana
word count: 860
fandom: Doctor Who [Matt Smith era]
pairing: Amy/Rory
rating: PG
notes: For the sake of my poor heart this is considered as set in some indeterminate time after "A Good Man Goes To War"; very mild spoilers for "The Doctor's Wife".
Written for
kink_bingo. Kink: Shaving/depilation. My card is here.
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org.
Amy looked critically at the implements on the bed - towel, shaving soap in a shallow cup, shaving brush, and the razor - and put her hands on her hips.
Rory sat down on the edge of the bed and raised an eyebrow at his wife. “What?”
Amy rolled her eyes. “Do you honestly expect me to help you out with that?”
Rory coughed. “I don't think I'd have asked you if I weren't sure, Amy.”
“Okay, so you're sure,” Amy said, beginning to pace. She couldn't really get very far, though, because as nice as the new room was - with a bed! A real big bed for the two of them! - it was also fairly small, as TARDIS rooms went, and she had to turn around and retrace her steps after five strides. “But, Rory, you do a fair enough job yourself, why are you asking me?”
Rory looked confused for a long moment, and then his face cleared and he smiled at his wife.
Amy smiled back, because she never could resist him - but then she remembered the conversation and she was frowning again. “Rory?”
His answer was to catch her hands and pull her into his lap; he kissed her under her chin, a series of light touches scattered over her throat, until Amy sighed and relaxed into his arms. He tucked her head into his shoulder. “I want you to do this,” he said, quietly, “because I trust you, and because I want you to, and because.”
“Because what?” And Amy followed up with a quick, briefly sharp nip at the junction between his shoulder and neck.
“Ow,” Rory said softly, and pinched her arse, grinning when Amy yelped and giggled. “Because.”
“You're not doing a whole lot to convince me, Rory Pond,” Amy said after a moment - and then she wriggled back to her feet and divided a glare between the shaving implements and her husband, before she sighed and said, “All right, you've got me, what do I do?”
Rory smiled encouragingly and hooked the chair from Amy's little dresser, turning it so he could sit back to front. “I've already washed up, so let's start with the brush and the soap.”
Leaning over him, Amy watched as he worked the soap into a lather; she put her hand around his on the shaving brush and concentrated on spreading the suds everywhere, working the lather carefully into his skin, until half of Rory's face was obscured. After a moment's thought, she swiped her finger over his lips, and was rewarded with a wink and a wide grin.
“Okay,” Rory said, and picked up the razor. Holding it up between them, he unfolded it with a careful, precise motion, hand firmly on the back of the blade. “This was my da's razor.”
“What, you swiped it from him?”
“No, he gave it to me the night before the wedding,” Rory said, and for a moment he was very quiet and sober. “Bit of home left. Bit of Earth, anyway.”
Amy kissed him on the forehead.
Rory gave her a lopsided little smile and snapped back to the present. “Now, you hold it like so. Edge always at a right angle, and move, like this.” He passed the blade over the skin of his cheek, sweeping off the lather as he did, and revealing neatly-shaved skin; he wiped the blade off on the towel.
A few passes later, he turned the razor over to Amy. “Okay, your turn.”
“Rory, I don't know why you trust me; I don't even trust myself, and I'm just looking at it.”
“Mrs. Williams, I believe I already answered the question; I trust you because.” He was looking straight into her eyes; his voice had fallen an octave.
Amy took the razor from him, waited for him to turn the other cheek - and then, working with her eyebrows pulled into a straight line, began to shave him with steady, slow, smooth strokes, wiping the blade as he had done. “Look up,” she said, and now her strokes were shorter, much more careful, as she worked beneath his chin and the jut of his Adam's apple.
Rory closed his eyes and relaxed under Amy's hands.
After a few minutes, Amy looked critically at her handiwork; a gentle hand under her husband's chin, tilting his head left and right, and then she cleaned the blade for the last time, folded the razor closed; she took the towel and used a clean corner to wipe away the last traces of soap.
Rory's eyes were still closed when he said, in a husky whisper, “Close enough?”
“Let me check,” Amy whispered back, and she leaned into him, put her cheek against his.
Warmth, his familiar skin, the pulse beneath his ear, the clean scent of soap.
And Amy was shivering as she said, “Close enough.”
Rory smiled, cupped her face in his hands, turned her the last inch, and fell into her kiss.