Fic, "Insomnia", 1/1

[loveslashangst]

Story: Insomnia
Author: The Considerably-Less-Repressed loveslashangst
Beta: the *happitails*i-haz-a-birthday-fic ophymirage
Characters: Amy Pond (adult), Eleventh Doctor, TARDIS.
Pairings Doctor/TARDIS. TARDIS/Amy. Some Amy/Doctor.
Rated: Seriously adult for language, mature content, masturbation, sex, and kinky use of the TARDIS.
Disclaimer: I don’t own this lot, though I wish I did.
Spoilers: Series 5 Doctor Who. Pre “The Time of Angels”, in part because I’m trying to be respectful to the Yanks who are stuck with BBC America’s schedule, and partly because River Song is really starting to annoy me. [O sez: Worst. MarySue. Ever.]
Summary: Amy can’t sleep. The TARDIS has needs. The Doctor has a rather serious case of ship-love. Voyeuristic smut ensues.

Okay, so here’s the dealio…

This is a late Birthday-fic for O, finished in part because I want to write this odd OT3 while it’s still hot for me, and in part because it wouldn’t leave me alone. I tried REALLY hard not to ship Eleven/Amy, but try as I might, Eleven/TARDIS is just undeniable. (And frankly pretty hot.) Here’s to the old married couple, long may they reign.

On with the show…



Amy can’t sleep.

It’s not that her room in the TARDIS isn’t lovely -- she could swear this time machine (ship?) can read her mind. The mattress is perfectly firm. The pillow’s perfectly fluffy. The duvet is always as cool or as warm as she could ask. Even the nighties in her wardrobe are just right. And the jets on the shower down the hall? Heaven.

It’s not even that the Doctor himself is doing anything wrong. For the most part, he’s been the perfect host, companion, and gentleman. True, meals started out a bit odd -- not surprising, considering she’s travelling through time and space with the inventor of fish-custard -- but after the bizarre and often inexplicable concoctions that the Doctor came up with, she politely-but-firmly banished him from the kitchen proper. That is, until the actual cooking was done. Once they’ve sat down to eat though, proper order is abandoned and discussions often range as far afield as the TARDIS herself.

In fact, most things about this whole series of adventures are really wonderful. It’s a bit like knocking about the universe with Father Christmas gone mad. See, like the jolly old elf, she’d become used to thinking of the Doctor as being the stuff of childish fantasy. Then he popped back into her life, as jovial and acerbic as ever. (And didn’t it feel fabulous to mentally tell those four therapists to sod off?)

She loves how much the Doctor loves kids. Loves people. Always wants to help. Always means well, even though he’s capable not only of truly remarkable cluelessness but also utterly unrepentant rudeness. He’s odd in the most winsome way, arrogant and lonely, but also good and kind.

True, she never knows which Doctor she’s going to get from one moment to the next any more than she knows which place they’ll end up in next. But that wonderful uncertainty has making her something of an adrenaline junkie. And that seems to work for both of them, because as much as she needs him, he seems to need her even more.

She loves it when he smiles.

And that thought makes her toss and turn for the umpteen-millionth time tonight. The room’s just the right mix of heat and cool. Not too dry. Not damp or close or anything that might interfere with sleep. Even the darkness is just the right level, and the loo’s just a quick three steps across the room and through the door that always seems to know when she needs it to open. She’d even be wiling to bet that if she asked, the TARDIS would oblige her with some music or soothing sounds or sommat. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to be able to help her turn off her brain.

See, the crux of what’s driving her mad is that the Doctor keeps rubbing up against her. Well, maybe not “rubbing”. “Rubbing” makes him sound like a funny uncle. “Brushing”, maybe. A glancing contact that’s just enough to make her NOTICE him. But it’s not a sexual thing for him, nor does she think he means it to be for her. (She IS getting married. Mostly. Eventually. She thinks.) But every time she and the Doctor go somewhere, they seem to just sort of end up in close proximity. Close quarters. Close escapes. Suppose lots of things with the Doctor are close. This would be easier if he looked more like Father Christmas and less like the kind of tweedy-but-hot professor that all the girls (and some of the boys too) get a pash for.

Yeah, and it also would’ve helped things if she hadn’t already seen him naked. Now she can’t stop obsessively reviewing the lithe way his body moved, more muscle and bone than the kind of soft pudge one might expect from a man as brilliantly geeky as he. She half wishes she could un-see that. Forget the glimpses of whatever very not-alien equipment he hides beneath comically anorak trousers. Not brood about whether his skin is smooth or textured. About hunting out moles or blemishes that she might’ve missed on that otherwise flawless skin. With her tongue.

NO. Goddammit, she is NOT laying here fantasizing about the Doctor. Ring’s back in its case at home. Dress is hanging up waiting for her. Fiancé. Marriage. Settling in with a lovely bloke who adores her. And about whom she’s absolutely certain. Yes. Made her mind up. White rice and shoes and a life together. Absolutely. Putting aside foolish things once and for all.

Wishing she could taste the sweetness of the Doctor’s mouth…

Fuck. She flops onto her stomach. Pulls the pillow over her head, as if she can drown out the thoughts of the Doctor as she might drown out the music from an inconsiderate flatmate.

Okay, fiancé or no fiancé, she has to admit the Doctor has lovely hands. Expressive fingers. An edible voice, especially in that understated murmur that carries so perfectly. (And a kissable mouth.) No. Not kissable. No mouths. No kissing. No kissable mouths. Father Christmas, yeah? Someone she thought wasn’t real.

So after about another half hour (hour? day? week?) of trying to convince herself that it IS in fact possible to sleep, she gives up. She’s not getting any more rest at this rate. Might as well stick to the old tried-and-true way of tiring herself out.

She sits up and contemplates the contents of the little side table by the bed. The TARDIS is eerily psychic, and Amy really wishes she were more disturbed that not only does this ship know her taste in vibrators, but has even one-upped her with a set that’s a frequency or two more effective than the ones she had at home.

Not that she’s not grateful, but there’s a fine line between “hospitality” and “voyeurism”.

And that thought unfortunately is not very compatible with having a decent wank. Yeah, the frequency’s right. The cup perfectly shaped to envelop her clit. The wand’s not too thick or too skinny. A slight curve that brushes her g-spot. Just smooth enough that there’s no friction. Perfect. Right there rightthererightTHERE. A good, satisfying shiver of a come. And now she’s…

Still thinking of the way the fringe falls across his eyes. Deep eyes. And those eyes should leave her feeling warm and fuzzy, but instead she has the odd feeling of being watched. Like it’s not the Doctor but the TARDIS waiting for the next oh-so-right thing to do. In fact, that’s what making her nuts -- this whole thing is too perfect. The toys, the bed, the room, the ship, the whole ball of wax. The entire time she’s been here, the TARDIS has been like a… boyfriend, trying to woo her with the perfect this and the perfect that and goddammit to hell, she’s never gonna come right so she can sleep.

Irritated (and now sexually frustrated as well) she tosses the vibrators back into their drawer. Flops back down on the bed with a sigh. This just won’t do. Can’t sleep. Can’t get comfortable. Can’t wank. Can’t turn off her brain and certainly can’t stop thinking about her Doctor.
.
So she dresses quickly and goes off to see what ol “Father Christmas” is about.

The miniskirt was the first of her lowers to come to hand, but it feels a bit short as she walks down the hall. Didn’t bother her when they were gallivanting around World War II with Daleks and such, but now she can’t help tugging at the hem, feeling as though too much of her legs are showing. (And, no, she does NOT want the Doctor to notice her arse.)

The oddest thing about her painfully attentive “boyfriend” of a TARDIS is it’s fecking ENDLESS. Hallways. Twisty corridors. Random staircases. Odd rooms and alcoves. And what’s that droning? Almost too low to hear, like a half-formed itch at the back of her head. No, not an itch. An itch is something you want to be rid of. She doesn’t want to be shut of this. This is a temptation, like the aural equivalent of the last biscuit in the tin.

She follows the sound. Trusts her feet to take her wherever she’s supposed to go. Listens, not just with ears but with her whole body.

Another voice. Softer. Stranger. At first, she’s not sure if it’s spoken words or some kind of singing. With a start, she recognizes the Doctor’s voice. And he’s not speaking English. Everyone speaks English, even strange creatures she wouldn’t expect to speak at all speak English. The Doctor’s hinted that the TARDIS has a way of making people speak whatever language is easiest for the listener to understand.

So if it always translates, why’s it not doing so now?

His voice is beautiful, a lilting stream of highs and lows. As she gets closer and closer, she has the sense that -- like the droning -- it goes higher and lower than human ears can perceive. And not having the right listening organs means she’s missing the subtleties just as she’s missing the syntax. And she aches to hear it all, beautiful and alien and intimate.

The overall tone of the Doctor’s speech is unmistakable -- it’s the sound of a man in love, speaking to the person he adores most in the universe.

This sets her back a pace, for she’s not sure what she’d do if she came upon the Doctor mid-shag with someone that close to him. Probably someone she hasn’t met yet? Definitely someone both alien enough to bring out this new language, and beloved enough that he’s whispering (or, more accurately, murmuring) sweet nothings in literally every way possible.

She should go back to her room. Back to her fantasies and her half-finished wank and her perfect climate. Leave him to whatever it is he’s doing. And if she still can’t sleep, she can always have a nice read and a dip in the library. (There really IS a pool.) Or maybe go fry something.

Who is she kidding? She HAS to know what he’s about, if only to snark at him.

She comes to a landing. The stairway beyond leads down to the control room where the big console is. The Doctor’s voice is a thick stream of liquid syllables. Whoever he’s talking to, he thinks she’s dead gorgeous and isn’t shy about admitting it. (Good on him.)

She ducks her head just enough to look down the stairs.

The Doctor is touching the console. Moving long fingers with aching slowness across the bits and bobs. Caressing. This is not the perfunctory movement of a seasoned pilot running in-flight diagnostics, but the sensitive exploration of a lover re-learning every line and contour of his inamorata.

It’s a ship. An inanimate object. She should laugh at him and tease him mercilessly for being such an idiot. But she’s starting to think the ship has more than a mind of her own. Far from being ridiculous, when the Doctor gazes reverently up at the crystalline column, Amy finds herself blushing warmly at the love in his eyes. He sees such beauty that it makes her ache anew, this time out of sheer envy. He reaches out with one fluid gesture. Lays his hand on the central column. A shiver arcs through him, and the droning becomes almost tangible, a caress of audible velvet.

She fumbles for the wall. The Doctor’s in love with this machine, and she’s starting to know why. || They’ve been everything to each other. For centuries. Of all the beings he’s ever known in his long life, this is the only one he can count on. The only one who knows him completely.||

The Doctor’s chuckle is like warm chocolate. He leans forward. Whispers a confession. Slowly pulls back his hand from the column. Strokes down the console.

The ship shivers beneath her feet. (Anticipation.) And she can’t look away. Even if she wanted to, she cannot take her eyes off the leisurely tease of those lithe fingers.

++ He loves her. He’s always loved her, but this regeneration is more attuned to her than ever. The thrumming power of him is in perfect sync with the droning power of her. Frequency calls to frequency, energy to energy, life to life. And though this physical form of his is as much a lie as her own metal-and-hardware shell, the him inside is as perfect as ever. Honed and tempered by life and experience. Her other half.++

Before she even realizes what she’s about, Amy finds her fingers in her own knickers, matching the slow caress of the Doctor’s hand. A few days ago, she would’ve yanked her hand away. Returned, blushing, to her room. Tried to forget. But she doesn’t want to forget any more than she wants to look away. She sinks to her knees, clinging to the wall while teasing her own clit back to wakefulness.

The Doctor’s fingers seek out a capped port. Slide the cover aside, like a man slowly stripping the lingerie from his lover. Gold energy curls out, tendrils of eternity that she can sense, even at this distance, as a coppery bit of bliss at the back of her throat. The Doctor winds expressive fingers through the tendrils. Combs through them. Teases and coaxes and savours. And all the while he soothes. Croons. Murmurs.

Amy nudges her own panties aside and begins to wank in earnest.

Tendrils of gold seep around the Doctor’s hips. Between his legs. With a gasp of pleasure, he grasps the console. His head falls forward. The thrumming intensifies. Raises its frequency ever so slightly. He’s panting.

|| She knows what he needs, just as he knows her. Move with me, darling. Take us where we wish to go.||

A slight click startles her. She looks to her left. A panel that wasn’t there a minute ago swings open. Her free hand moves of its own will -- she’s too glad to see her vibes to question how they got there. (And honestly, she doesn’t really want to know.) She snatches the one for her clit. Prays it won’t be too loud.

++ He can taste her, and she him. They sense each other with parts humans don’t have. I’ve missed you, dear. So good to have you back again. I like the new look; it suits you. So much sexier than before.++

Amy lowers herself to the floor. Lays on her back, face turned to watch her Doctor. Fortunately, the humming of her toys is lost amidst the much louder droning of the TARDIS. So good. It ripples up and through her. Them. Things she can’t even…

The Doctor reaches for his flies. Makes a low suggestion. The ship shivers again. He chuckles, a man who’s going to get what he wants.

Amy reaches for the wand. It starts in her hand. Not sure when she got this wet, but thank god she won’t need much of a warm-up.

The Doctor’s back is to her. His shoulders tense. Anticipating. He thrusts slowly forward. Eases in.

The wand slips in effortlessly. Oh dear god in heaven, that’s fucking brilliant. Deep. So deep. Right there. Yes, please right there.

He’s moving faster now. Every shuddering sigh brings one from her. The higher he builds, the higher she goes. Never felt like this. Never… And she’s going… Oh brilliant fucking brilliant!

Pleasure shakes her hard. Seizure? Has she shorted her own brain out? It’s so intense that for a moment she panics. Withdraws the vibrators. Lays, panting and drained and still enduring the occasional involuntary shudder.

Did she break something inside? Feels like she doesn’t have muscle control anymore. But it doesn’t hurt -- on the contrary, it feels… brilliant. Fantastic.

And he’s still moving. Still building. If she opens her body again… (And maybe her mind too…)

He’s there. Quiet. Patient. Calm. A man who knows his worth and his skills. The presence in her mind has no words. Needs none. ++ Come with me, if you desire.++

When she looks, he’s looking back at her over one shoulder. His eyes are deep and warm and tinged with something golden and dangerous and gorgeous. The invitation’s there too. So beautiful.

Breathless, she applies the one vibe to her clit. Comes, shuddering. Tries to slides the wand in. Can’t. Cord’s too short. She ooches toward the wall. Splays her knees on either side of the corner. Slides the wand in hard. Impales herself blissfully.

He half-smiles. His eyes go even more golden. The thrumming is louder. Impatient. His lover is calling for him. With gentle words of reassurance, he turns his attention back to his one true love.

Amy comes so hard it chatters her teeth. The orgasm shatters her even as it focuses her. It’s an epiphany. She’s used to the nice little shallow ones she can give herself, or the half-decent ones her fiancé does. But this? This could go on. And on. And on. Maybe all night. This… Wonderful… Have to have deeper and faster.

Orgasm arches her back. She cries out. Is embarrassed for a moment. Looks to her Doctor.

He’s smiling. ++ It’s all right. You’re welcome here.++

Her hand’s convulsing. Can’t hold the wand. Frustrating. Could come again… If only…

Then it moves. Moves within her. Matches him. Matches them. Just right. Wider. Longer. Hot and alive. Almost as if he were… She builds. Can’t control. Can’t keep quiet. The cry builds low. Rises up to a scream. Doesn’t stop. Everything… Her whole body… The wand stretches her, fills her, right up to the ragged edge of pain… She wants. Needs. Gold light. Building. Please. Please. Please.

“Please! Please! Please!” Not her voice. Can’t be. Rough and desperate. Begging and raw.

|| Hold on ||, says the other voice in her mind. || Nearly there.||

“DOCTOR!” It’s like being carried to a cliff and then thrown off. No control of anything. Everything’s bliss. She’s screaming. This is what her voice is for. What she was meant for. And there’s a… Can’t… NOW!NOW!NOW!

Light. His light. The ship convulses in ecstasy. He’s everywhere, like he’s exploded into a million billion pieces of golden energy. He’s part of his lover. Part of her. Part of them. All of them. White walls. Woman in a sailor hat. Young boy in a formal kilt. The feisty brunette they both adored. The curvy blonde with her tongue in her teeth. The laughing blue-eyed man. Joking. Travelling. Sharing. Dancing. Heads thrown back in ecstasy. Love and love and love and… The joy of them shakes her again. Leaves her grinning and uncoordinated and pretty sure she couldn’t talk even if she wanted to.

The light fades. Just little zipping particles. And though it must be cold on this landing, she’s pretty sure she’s never been so pleasantly warm.

Something’s moving inside her. The wand. The other vibe. Both retract into the little panel in the wall. She lets her head fall back, panting and well-fucked and shaking.

She turns her head slowly. There’s a man-shaped thing glowing by the console. It coalesces. Turns solid. Becomes her Raggedy Doctor. Now he’s her dishevelled Doctor, flushed and literally glowing and happier than she’s ever seen him.

The thrumming of the ship has returned to that sub-sonic hum that she can more feel than hear. The TARDIS is happy too.

The Doctor leans forward with a final whisper. Plants a gentle kiss on the centre column. Withdraws gently. Tucks himself back into his trousers. Doesn’t bother to re-tie that ridiculous bow-tie. He’s rumpled and smiling and gorgeous. He caresses the console with the backs of his fingers.

Then he turns to the staircase where she is, knickers askew, skirt hiked up to her waist, half-naked and why won’t her body work? She flops to her side. Tries and fails to get up.

“Shhhhhhh,” he soothes. “It’s all right.” He sits on the step just before the landing, eyes deep and warm and… “You all right, Pond?”

She’s mortified after being thoroughly fucked by a time machine and a whatever-he-is. “How d’you mean?”

“I mean, I’m sure you’re not used to this, but we didn’t hurt you, did we?” A self-deprecating half-smile. “Sort of lost control toward the end there.”

“Oh,” she says, like she’s used to reassuring a man after he (or he and the ship, or whatever) and she had the wildest mutual wank she’s ever known. “No. Not at all. No damage.”

It’s hard to stay embarrassed when he seems so cool with the whole thing. “And before you ask, I don’t do this very often.”

She actually was about to ask that. “Why not?”

For the first time since she’s known him, he doesn’t have a handy answer. “Humans…” He fumbles for words. “Always get so worried about these things.”

She moistens lips that’ve gone dry. Smiles. The former glow of pleasure starts to unwind afresh in her heart and groin. “I’m not. Worried, I mean. That is… I mean it was…” She loses her words. The heat in her cheeks says she’s blushing fiercely, though it’s not from embarrassment.

“It was good, wasn’t it?” he says confidingly.

“She loves you.” And what’s weird is that loving him or not loving him seems less important than that understanding.

“And I love her.” Pulls at her heartstrings, does the Doctor. She just wants to cuddle him.

She touches his shoulder, carefully. Wills him to see that she really does understand.

The smile lights up his whole face. He pulls her into his arms. Hugs her fiercely. Gratefully. Whatever he’s done for her, she’s done even more so for him.

“Amelia Pond,” he says into her shoulder. “You just get more brilliant with age.”

“You saying I’m old?” she teases.

“No.” He cups her face in his hands. “Just that you’re not a little girl any more.”

“Too right.” Kiss. Please. She’d really like a kiss.

He kisses her forehead in benediction instead. “Can you walk?”

“Not sure,” she admits. “I’ve never…” And she’s blushing again.

He nods, saving her from the mortification of having to finish that sentence. “Take all the time you need. When you’re ready, the TARDIS will show you the way back.”

She really should snog him a good one, hard and deep like she’s wanted to ever since she first understood that kissing’s not some gross thing adults do. His lips would be cool. Sensual. Expressive.

“Regrets?” he says.

She’s about to brazen an answer, but there’s an openness to him that takes away all her bluster and bravado. “None,” she says.

That half-smile is swiftly becoming her favourite of all his expressions. “Me either.”

He kisses her forehead again, his hand strong at the back of her neck. Then he gets up. Begins to leave.

“Doctor?” Dammit, she should’ve kissed him.

He turns. “Hmmm?”

“Can we…?” She can’t quite bring herself to say “do it again”.

He nods. “I’d like that.”

They share a moment of deep and unspoken connection. He’s not in love with her. And when she digs down deeply enough, she’s not sure she’s in love with him. But there is love. She felt it pour through her. Knew she finally belonged. And the Doctor wants to protect her. To make her happy. To share everything he can with her. It’s an amazing gift, one that brings another smile to her face.

Then he gives a slight nod farewell, turns, and walks away.

She collapses to the decking. “Whoof.”

A clatter draws her attention. The panel in the wall very pointedly swings open, her vibes spilling out of it.

She gives the wall a mock-glare. “And I thought I was a nympho.”



Crossposted to eleven_amy, elevenfic, the_11th_doctor