Story: Asking For It
Author: The enjoying-this more than I should![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
loveslashangst
Beta: the overworked-and-underpaidophymirage
Characters: Amy Pond, Eleventh Doctor, TARDIS (implied), Captain Jack Harkness (mentioned in passing)
Rated: R+ for mature content, sexually suggestive behaviour, language, and one of my first uses of the “c” word in fic. The sequel is where the fun really begins.
Disclaimer: Even if such a thing were possible, I don’t think the Doctor would take kindly to being “owned” by anyone other than the BBC.
Spoilers: Everything Series 5 to “The Time of Angels”, mostly because I STILL think River Song is Moffat’s own Mary Sue, and must be stopped.
Summary: Eleven’s Note To Self: “Never say no to Amy Pond unless you want her to call your bluff.”
Original source: First posted on the “Eleven-Era Kink Meme” to the prompt “Eleven/Amy, Amy teases the doctor by wandering around the TARDIS half-naked in an attempt to seduce him. It works.”
Okay, so here’s the dealio…
This is actually the one I wrote first. I was taking a break from Faithful (which I’ve been writing for about 2 years now) and the Torchwood universe, and trying my hand at something a little more sexy and dangerous. And the size limit was a challenge for me, as I always run long. So this is softcore porn, starring Amy Pond and Eleven. The hardcore porn is in the sequel.
On with the show…
Amy Pond is sexy. The Doctor is clever. He’s also not in the habit of shagging little girls, no matter what they wear.
This is why he gave the “Kiss-O-Gram” outfit a pass. (Though he’d bet his double-jointed hinder-parts that Amy was giving far more than “kisses” in that getup.)
This -- and being distracted by Daleks and Churchill and WWII-gone-mad -- was why he made no comment about the miniskirt that barely even deserved the name. A man could’ve upskirted Amy just by following too close behind.
Once they were safely back on board the TARDIS, this is also why he ignored the “bathing costume” Amy selected for their night in the library. The itsy-bitsy teenie-weenie yellow polka dot bikini (ha ha, TARDIS, very funny) was theoretically quite fetching, had there been enough of it for him to admire.
Then, he endured (with the patience of a saint, he might add) having her cosy up to him because she was “curious” about what he was reading. Like she wasn’t just looking for an excuse to press her barely-clothed breasts against his arm. She breathed lightly across his ear. Used her best low-sexy-murmur to try to entice him. All but humped his leg in her zeal to get him to put his book down.
She obviously didn’t know who she was dealing with. He’s outwaited the best, and outlasted the most ardent. So he ignored her with his usual charm, and read aloud as if he didn’t notice that the moist spot in her bikini bottoms had nothing to do with the pool in which neither of them were in fact swimming. The battle of wills went on until she left in a thinly-disguised huff. He waited patiently, knowing exactly what she would be about, given a lack of interruptions. He even stripped down and practiced his swan-dive to let her have adequate time to get over being annoyed and into the arsenal that he knew for a fact his beloved TARDIS had provided.
He did listen through the door, though. Easy to forget what interesting noises female humans can make when in the throes of a good wank. Rose was shriller, but Amy has a better vocabulary.
That said, he should’ve known better than to cross the girl who slammed his tie in a car door while he had eighteen minutes in which to save the world.
He hadn’t actually believed her when she said she’d had to choose between the Naughty Plonk or the French Maid. He also never suspected said French Maid might make its way back into her wardrobe here on his time-and-space ship. (Again, he blames the TARDIS’s pervy sensibilities, as the Time Rotor now sounds suspiciously like the laughter of a sentient time machine.)
Amy’s even broken out the heels. Six inch black patent leather -- check that, maybe seven. Ankle straps that are unmistakably reminiscent of handcuffs. (Which he also suspects she has.) Little pouf of a white cap. Black satin ribbon at her throat. Black fishnet fingerless gloves on her hands. Feather duster. Thigh-high fishnet stockings, secured somewhat untidily -- and very suggestively -- to the clips of what must be a garter belt.
And she’s cleaning.
Thoroughly.
She’s also bending over a lot so he can see a whole lot of very short lace petticoats. And the white ruffled lace of some very naughty spanky-pants. Crotchless spanky-pants, unless his eyes -- and his nose, which can detect the delicious scent of her sex from here -- are very much mistaken. The whole effect makes her arse look like an x-rated carnation.
So now the shoe’s on the other foot. He’s swiftly running out of things to do to pilot the TARDIS, but Amy’s showing endless creativity in finding things to clean around the console room.
She’s now down on hands and knees. Dusting the stairs. Leaning up so he can watch the lithe stretch of her body and see the pink flash of her lovely cunt. (Best thing about gingers -- pink nipples and pink labia. That and the full-body blushes.) She pulls back to examine her work with satisfaction that would be convincing in anyone else. Slowly inches higher until her crotch is eye-height and hard to miss. Glistening. She’s wet, no doubt turned on from tempting him. The thought both annoys and arouses him.
Insult to injury, every time Amy bobs up from having bent over, her lovely tits jiggle in their bustier, which shoves them halfway to her chin in what must surely be a violation of the laws of physics.
Not that he’s looking.
So he endures sweet-scented temptation. (Pheromones and sex hormones and feminine perspiration, with a hint of Amy’s favourite soap, shampoo, and conditioner. A clean girl being very dirty.) He even manages to find a certain dark humour in the whole situation. He hasn’t had a Companion this determined to shag him since Jack started “helping” him with “repairs”.
The TARDIS reminds him that Jack’s idea of “repairs” were her idea of foreplay. And he reminds her that Jack is off-world. And immortal. And Trouble.
So now he has a choice to make: be the gentleman and be tortured, or shag the girl and be a hypocrite.
And for about thirty seconds, it’s a hard choice. Then suddenly being worse than everyone’s aunt seems much less appealing than being what Amy wants badly enough to flash him with both ends. (And a lot of lace.)
She doesn’t even get up as he approaches, intent on her work. “Doctor?” She shoots him a look of patently false innocence over her shoulder. Flutters her eyelashes a bit for effect.
“She’s self-cleaning,” he says, his hand on the rail. “The TARDIS, I mean.” He is not going to reach for Amy first. He’s too patient for that.
“Odd.” Ahhhh, there’s the familiar devilish twinkle. “She’s the one gave me the feather duster.”
“Did she?” He holds out a hand for it.
She gives it over. Moistens her lips in anticipation. Stays on hands and knees.
He dusts up the railing. Down one of the supports. Across the stair. Across the back of her knee. Up the inside of her thigh. Just barely brushes…
And to his delight, that lovely white bosom of hers, exaggerated by the bustier bodice, is heaving a bit.
He pulls the duster back. Looks at it thoughtfully. “Nice,” he says. “Does the job.”
Then he turns and goes back down the stairs. “Could be improved upon, though. Some mild static charge to attract particles. A bit of sonic-ing. Lemme see what I can do.”
Happiness is Amy Pond glaring sexually-frustrated daggers at the back of his head. He pretends to putter on the other side of the console, the Time Rotors between them so he’s hidden from her view.
Sure enough, after a moment or two Amy gets to her feet. The click of very high heels down stairs and across the new glass decking. She’s reaching for him.
He tries to look busy, but for all his bluster, it’s actually quite hard to sonic feathers. Frankly, there’s not much one can do to improve their design.
Amy marches up to him, unnervingly taller than he is thanks to the patent-leather fuck-me footwear.
“You’re full of shit,” she says.
“I’m sorry?” He gives her his best shocked/innocent face. He won’t drop the act yet; she has to reach for him first. That’s how this game is played.
She moves a little closer, and it’s really quite impossible NOT to look at her tits when they’re so beautifully displayed.
“You’ve been watching me,” says Amy.
“Yes,” he says to her cleavage. “You’ve been doing a good job.”
“You want me,” she says, more with hope than confidence.
“No,” he says, smiling. “Judging by the spectacular display, I’d say YOU want ME.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Her glare doesn’t waver.
He moves in. Her eyes fall closed. Her lips part. He breathes a soft breath across her mouth, but doesn’t kiss.
“Say it,” he whispers.
Her breath hitches. She moistens her lips. Reacquires some of her composure. “I want you,” she murmurs. She reaches out blindly. Touches his arm.
A hand on his arm has never been so sweet. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs back, even as he pins her between him and the console. “I didn’t catch that?”
She fumbles behind her to brace. Her hips and his are now on a level, though she’s playing the game right and keeping her eyes closed even as he presses his filling cock against her thigh. “I--” she swallows hard, “-- want you.”
He leans close so his breath will tease her ear. “What do you want?”
She inhales a shivery breath. “What do you want?” A mild challenge, but an alluring one.
He pulls back suddenly. Resumes his usual dispassionate air. “I want you to turn around,” he says casually. “And put both hands on the console.”
Her eyes fly open. She stares at him, hands braced behind her, back arched slightly. Bosom heaving. (Easy to see how that became a turn-on for humans. Blatant reminder of even more enjoyable curved surfaces of the human body.) She’s caught between curiosity and defiance, and just as off-balance as he’d planned.
He spins the feather duster in his hand. Arches his eyebrow. Looks obliquely at her.
And she arches an eyebrow right back at him. Smirks, repressing a grin. Levers herself off the console with lithe indolence that would be much more convincing if he couldn’t scent a geometric increase in her pheromones. She takes a step forward, showing remarkable balance on those impossibly tall heels. Pivots slowly. Plants first one hand, then the other on the console, palms down. Leans slightly so her weight is on her arms, her hips tilted back. Spreads her feet far apart. X-rated carnation again. Damper than before.
He tosses the feather duster aside. Gets out the sonic screwdriver. Sets it.
Amy’s watching him.
He smiles. Thrusts the screwdriver between her legs. Sets the head of it against her clit. She hisses in surprise. He hits the button. It buzzes, sending a frequency that (if the TARDIS is to be believed) should be just about perfect to…
Amy comes violently, shuddering.
He smiles. Holds it until she’s pressing back. Spreading for him. Gasping and mewling. He slides the screwdriver along her slit.
Amy’s gasping for breath, her hands white-knuckled on the console.
He releases the button. Withdraws the screwdriver without further ceremony. “You have a fiancé,” he says.
“He’s--” She forces herself to stop panting. (Girl’s got willpower.) “--not here.”
He sets the screwdriver in its port on the console. Leans close to shift a few settings. “You’re getting married.”
The TARDIS, sensing what he’s about, shivers in anticipation. Been a long time since they used a time loop like this.
Nothing like being able to extend mutual orgasm for a few hundred repetitions to tire one’s partner out.
Amy looks him dead in the eyes. “Things change.”
He smiles.
She smiles back.
He pulls the lever. Steps behind her. The TARDIS begins the acceleration. He strokes Amy’s inner thigh with one hand. Pulls her hair gently aside with the other. Bites gently at the back of her neck. Slowly works two fingertips inside her. Curves up to stroke her g-spot. Hot. So hot.
“Yes, please,” she whispers.
“You sure?” But he’s already undoing his flies with his other hand. He works his fingers deeper. Twists. Amy convulses around his hand, another orgasm.
“Yes,” she manages. “Now would you please just fuck me already?”
Chuckling, he replaces fingers with cock and does just that.
Crossposted toeleven_amy, ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
elevenfic, the_11th_doctor, dont_wander_off
Author: The enjoying-this more than I should
loveslashangstBeta: the overworked-and-underpaid
ophymirageCharacters: Amy Pond, Eleventh Doctor, TARDIS (implied), Captain Jack Harkness (mentioned in passing)
Rated: R+ for mature content, sexually suggestive behaviour, language, and one of my first uses of the “c” word in fic. The sequel is where the fun really begins.
Disclaimer: Even if such a thing were possible, I don’t think the Doctor would take kindly to being “owned” by anyone other than the BBC.
Spoilers: Everything Series 5 to “The Time of Angels”, mostly because I STILL think River Song is Moffat’s own Mary Sue, and must be stopped.
Summary: Eleven’s Note To Self: “Never say no to Amy Pond unless you want her to call your bluff.”
Original source: First posted on the “Eleven-Era Kink Meme” to the prompt “Eleven/Amy, Amy teases the doctor by wandering around the TARDIS half-naked in an attempt to seduce him. It works.”
Okay, so here’s the dealio…
This is actually the one I wrote first. I was taking a break from Faithful (which I’ve been writing for about 2 years now) and the Torchwood universe, and trying my hand at something a little more sexy and dangerous. And the size limit was a challenge for me, as I always run long. So this is softcore porn, starring Amy Pond and Eleven. The hardcore porn is in the sequel.
On with the show…
Amy Pond is sexy. The Doctor is clever. He’s also not in the habit of shagging little girls, no matter what they wear.
This is why he gave the “Kiss-O-Gram” outfit a pass. (Though he’d bet his double-jointed hinder-parts that Amy was giving far more than “kisses” in that getup.)
This -- and being distracted by Daleks and Churchill and WWII-gone-mad -- was why he made no comment about the miniskirt that barely even deserved the name. A man could’ve upskirted Amy just by following too close behind.
Once they were safely back on board the TARDIS, this is also why he ignored the “bathing costume” Amy selected for their night in the library. The itsy-bitsy teenie-weenie yellow polka dot bikini (ha ha, TARDIS, very funny) was theoretically quite fetching, had there been enough of it for him to admire.
Then, he endured (with the patience of a saint, he might add) having her cosy up to him because she was “curious” about what he was reading. Like she wasn’t just looking for an excuse to press her barely-clothed breasts against his arm. She breathed lightly across his ear. Used her best low-sexy-murmur to try to entice him. All but humped his leg in her zeal to get him to put his book down.
She obviously didn’t know who she was dealing with. He’s outwaited the best, and outlasted the most ardent. So he ignored her with his usual charm, and read aloud as if he didn’t notice that the moist spot in her bikini bottoms had nothing to do with the pool in which neither of them were in fact swimming. The battle of wills went on until she left in a thinly-disguised huff. He waited patiently, knowing exactly what she would be about, given a lack of interruptions. He even stripped down and practiced his swan-dive to let her have adequate time to get over being annoyed and into the arsenal that he knew for a fact his beloved TARDIS had provided.
He did listen through the door, though. Easy to forget what interesting noises female humans can make when in the throes of a good wank. Rose was shriller, but Amy has a better vocabulary.
That said, he should’ve known better than to cross the girl who slammed his tie in a car door while he had eighteen minutes in which to save the world.
He hadn’t actually believed her when she said she’d had to choose between the Naughty Plonk or the French Maid. He also never suspected said French Maid might make its way back into her wardrobe here on his time-and-space ship. (Again, he blames the TARDIS’s pervy sensibilities, as the Time Rotor now sounds suspiciously like the laughter of a sentient time machine.)
Amy’s even broken out the heels. Six inch black patent leather -- check that, maybe seven. Ankle straps that are unmistakably reminiscent of handcuffs. (Which he also suspects she has.) Little pouf of a white cap. Black satin ribbon at her throat. Black fishnet fingerless gloves on her hands. Feather duster. Thigh-high fishnet stockings, secured somewhat untidily -- and very suggestively -- to the clips of what must be a garter belt.
And she’s cleaning.
Thoroughly.
She’s also bending over a lot so he can see a whole lot of very short lace petticoats. And the white ruffled lace of some very naughty spanky-pants. Crotchless spanky-pants, unless his eyes -- and his nose, which can detect the delicious scent of her sex from here -- are very much mistaken. The whole effect makes her arse look like an x-rated carnation.
So now the shoe’s on the other foot. He’s swiftly running out of things to do to pilot the TARDIS, but Amy’s showing endless creativity in finding things to clean around the console room.
She’s now down on hands and knees. Dusting the stairs. Leaning up so he can watch the lithe stretch of her body and see the pink flash of her lovely cunt. (Best thing about gingers -- pink nipples and pink labia. That and the full-body blushes.) She pulls back to examine her work with satisfaction that would be convincing in anyone else. Slowly inches higher until her crotch is eye-height and hard to miss. Glistening. She’s wet, no doubt turned on from tempting him. The thought both annoys and arouses him.
Insult to injury, every time Amy bobs up from having bent over, her lovely tits jiggle in their bustier, which shoves them halfway to her chin in what must surely be a violation of the laws of physics.
Not that he’s looking.
So he endures sweet-scented temptation. (Pheromones and sex hormones and feminine perspiration, with a hint of Amy’s favourite soap, shampoo, and conditioner. A clean girl being very dirty.) He even manages to find a certain dark humour in the whole situation. He hasn’t had a Companion this determined to shag him since Jack started “helping” him with “repairs”.
The TARDIS reminds him that Jack’s idea of “repairs” were her idea of foreplay. And he reminds her that Jack is off-world. And immortal. And Trouble.
So now he has a choice to make: be the gentleman and be tortured, or shag the girl and be a hypocrite.
And for about thirty seconds, it’s a hard choice. Then suddenly being worse than everyone’s aunt seems much less appealing than being what Amy wants badly enough to flash him with both ends. (And a lot of lace.)
She doesn’t even get up as he approaches, intent on her work. “Doctor?” She shoots him a look of patently false innocence over her shoulder. Flutters her eyelashes a bit for effect.
“She’s self-cleaning,” he says, his hand on the rail. “The TARDIS, I mean.” He is not going to reach for Amy first. He’s too patient for that.
“Odd.” Ahhhh, there’s the familiar devilish twinkle. “She’s the one gave me the feather duster.”
“Did she?” He holds out a hand for it.
She gives it over. Moistens her lips in anticipation. Stays on hands and knees.
He dusts up the railing. Down one of the supports. Across the stair. Across the back of her knee. Up the inside of her thigh. Just barely brushes…
And to his delight, that lovely white bosom of hers, exaggerated by the bustier bodice, is heaving a bit.
He pulls the duster back. Looks at it thoughtfully. “Nice,” he says. “Does the job.”
Then he turns and goes back down the stairs. “Could be improved upon, though. Some mild static charge to attract particles. A bit of sonic-ing. Lemme see what I can do.”
Happiness is Amy Pond glaring sexually-frustrated daggers at the back of his head. He pretends to putter on the other side of the console, the Time Rotors between them so he’s hidden from her view.
Sure enough, after a moment or two Amy gets to her feet. The click of very high heels down stairs and across the new glass decking. She’s reaching for him.
He tries to look busy, but for all his bluster, it’s actually quite hard to sonic feathers. Frankly, there’s not much one can do to improve their design.
Amy marches up to him, unnervingly taller than he is thanks to the patent-leather fuck-me footwear.
“You’re full of shit,” she says.
“I’m sorry?” He gives her his best shocked/innocent face. He won’t drop the act yet; she has to reach for him first. That’s how this game is played.
She moves a little closer, and it’s really quite impossible NOT to look at her tits when they’re so beautifully displayed.
“You’ve been watching me,” says Amy.
“Yes,” he says to her cleavage. “You’ve been doing a good job.”
“You want me,” she says, more with hope than confidence.
“No,” he says, smiling. “Judging by the spectacular display, I’d say YOU want ME.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Her glare doesn’t waver.
He moves in. Her eyes fall closed. Her lips part. He breathes a soft breath across her mouth, but doesn’t kiss.
“Say it,” he whispers.
Her breath hitches. She moistens her lips. Reacquires some of her composure. “I want you,” she murmurs. She reaches out blindly. Touches his arm.
A hand on his arm has never been so sweet. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs back, even as he pins her between him and the console. “I didn’t catch that?”
She fumbles behind her to brace. Her hips and his are now on a level, though she’s playing the game right and keeping her eyes closed even as he presses his filling cock against her thigh. “I--” she swallows hard, “-- want you.”
He leans close so his breath will tease her ear. “What do you want?”
She inhales a shivery breath. “What do you want?” A mild challenge, but an alluring one.
He pulls back suddenly. Resumes his usual dispassionate air. “I want you to turn around,” he says casually. “And put both hands on the console.”
Her eyes fly open. She stares at him, hands braced behind her, back arched slightly. Bosom heaving. (Easy to see how that became a turn-on for humans. Blatant reminder of even more enjoyable curved surfaces of the human body.) She’s caught between curiosity and defiance, and just as off-balance as he’d planned.
He spins the feather duster in his hand. Arches his eyebrow. Looks obliquely at her.
And she arches an eyebrow right back at him. Smirks, repressing a grin. Levers herself off the console with lithe indolence that would be much more convincing if he couldn’t scent a geometric increase in her pheromones. She takes a step forward, showing remarkable balance on those impossibly tall heels. Pivots slowly. Plants first one hand, then the other on the console, palms down. Leans slightly so her weight is on her arms, her hips tilted back. Spreads her feet far apart. X-rated carnation again. Damper than before.
He tosses the feather duster aside. Gets out the sonic screwdriver. Sets it.
Amy’s watching him.
He smiles. Thrusts the screwdriver between her legs. Sets the head of it against her clit. She hisses in surprise. He hits the button. It buzzes, sending a frequency that (if the TARDIS is to be believed) should be just about perfect to…
Amy comes violently, shuddering.
He smiles. Holds it until she’s pressing back. Spreading for him. Gasping and mewling. He slides the screwdriver along her slit.
Amy’s gasping for breath, her hands white-knuckled on the console.
He releases the button. Withdraws the screwdriver without further ceremony. “You have a fiancé,” he says.
“He’s--” She forces herself to stop panting. (Girl’s got willpower.) “--not here.”
He sets the screwdriver in its port on the console. Leans close to shift a few settings. “You’re getting married.”
The TARDIS, sensing what he’s about, shivers in anticipation. Been a long time since they used a time loop like this.
Nothing like being able to extend mutual orgasm for a few hundred repetitions to tire one’s partner out.
Amy looks him dead in the eyes. “Things change.”
He smiles.
She smiles back.
He pulls the lever. Steps behind her. The TARDIS begins the acceleration. He strokes Amy’s inner thigh with one hand. Pulls her hair gently aside with the other. Bites gently at the back of her neck. Slowly works two fingertips inside her. Curves up to stroke her g-spot. Hot. So hot.
“Yes, please,” she whispers.
“You sure?” But he’s already undoing his flies with his other hand. He works his fingers deeper. Twists. Amy convulses around his hand, another orgasm.
“Yes,” she manages. “Now would you please just fuck me already?”
Chuckling, he replaces fingers with cock and does just that.
Crossposted to
eleven_amy, elevenfic, the_11th_doctor, dont_wander_off