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Story: Kiss-O-Gram
Author: The trying-my-hand-at-a-new-thing![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
loveslashangst
Beta: the overworked-and-underpaidophymirage
Characters: Amy Pond, Eleventh Doctor, TARDIS (implied)
Rated: PG-13 for sexually suggestive behaviour. This one’s more nice than naughty.
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 think River Song is Moffat’s own Mary Sue, and must be stopped.
Summary: The Doctor didn’t know he’d ordered a Kiss-O-Gram.
Original source: First posted on the “Eleven-Era Kink Meme” to the prompt “Eleven/Amy, Kiss-O-Gram”
Okay, so here’s the dealio…
This is entirely O’s fault. She’s the one who introduced me to the damn Meme, and it’s been monopolizing my time ever since.
On with the show…
Amy's missing. Not only does it make the Doctor cross, it also makes him nervous. The fearless ones always get eaten or vapourized or captured by some mustache-twirling Ne'er-Do-Well when they wander off. Makes for a long day of searching, locating, rescuing, avenging, and/or grieving. And not always in that order.
He really wishes she'd make good use of the freshly-sonic'd mobile he gave her after their last jaunt. Bloke could use a decent call now and then to know his new Companion hasn’t met her untimely end. Or just gotten lost somewhere.
The doorbell rings.
He stares at it.
Not that he has any particular aversion to doorbells, nor does he find them remarkable in and of themselves, but the noise he just heard doesn't make any fecking sense, because the TARDIS doesn't have a doorbell. And that was not the oh-dear-very-bad-day-ahead tolling of the Cloister Bell, which would be the day-ruiner to end all day-ruiners. No. This was the familiar two-tone ding-dong of a plain, old average doorbell.
So of course he has to answer the door.
Naughty Plonk. Lady PC in a very short skirt. Amy lounges in the door, one hand on her hip, the other on the door frame. Smirks at him with her own brand of charming insolence. In very high heels.
And all he can do is stand there and gawp like an idiot.
"Kiss-o-gram," she trills.
He blinks.
She sidles close. So close her body (not made the least bit unappealing by the faux stab-vest) presses his. Her lips hover over his, so close he can taste the heat of them. Human. So human. And the thought should be an instant buzzkill, but instead his body tightens. His breath speeds. Trails off as she lightly moistens her lips with a little pink tongue.
Then she rocks back. Shuts the door. Leans against it, all dancer’s grace and bedroom eyes. And very high heels.
He swallows hard and tries to remember how to use human speech. “Right. Erm. Well. That’s quite fetching. So now what?”
“That depends.” Oh dear god, she’s starting to unbutton the stab vest. “Do you want the Basic… or the Special?”
They’re fast approaching something Dangerous and Inadvisable. And the worse news is he’s starting not to care. “Erm. The Special?” Knowing the tenacity of Amelia Pond, he’s doomed anyway.
She grins. Rips the vest open just enough that he can see down it. Cleavage. He’s never been so aware of the beautiful curves that two breasts can make when pressed into such gorgeous confinement.
She’s watching him, eyes sparkling as he ogles. She turns around. “Hit it.”
The TARDIS rescues him from making the unfortunate faux pas of unsolicited spanking. Quite randy burlesque music starts up. Amy circles her hips. Tosses her cap off. Flaunts those gorgeous ginger tresses. Puts her hands in her hair, gyrating slowly to the music. Tosses her head. This way. That way. Then in a slow circle.
And all he can do is watch. (And ache to touch her.)
She pivots to face him. Strong strides toward him, her eyes demanding. She dodges past him. Giggles, a low sound that goes straight to his groin. Heads for the console. Leans back, hands bracing behind her. Puts a foot up. Opens her mouth just slightly. Touches the tip of her tongue to her top lip.
He goes to her, mesmerized.
She tangles her hands in the shoulders of his coat. Grabs him. Pivots them so he’s the one pressed to the console. Tilts her head. Again, her lips hover those gorgeous, aching, torturous millimetres above his.
Breathless, he leans forward.
She dodges the kiss. Sinks to a crouch. Puts her hands on his calves. Slowly slides up, her body pressing his front, her hands at the backs of his legs. Trails her lips along his trousers. Ghosts kisses over his still-clothed cock. She nips through the fabric at the head of him.
He makes a decidedly undignified and un-Time-Lord-ish noise.
She pulls away. Gyrates. Flips her hair. Spreads her legs wide. Bends suddenly at the waist to grab her ankles. All he can think of is grabbing her hips. Stripping away whatever fabric is blocking him. Fucking into her. She’d be hot. Wet. Tight around him.
Now he’s clinging to the console, half for fear of ravishing her, and half because lust is wrecking havoc with his coordination.
Amy’s more steady in those high heels than any woman has a right to be. She raises up slowly, mini-skirted arse thrust towards him. Flips her hair back when she’s halfway up. Rolls one shoulder back. Looks at him with such heat that he’s painfully aware of his own hardness.
Amy reaches a white-shirted arm toward him. Beckons with one finger, smirking.
He pushes off the console. Stumbles toward her. Catches her hand. Kisses her palm. Draws her fingers into his mouth, one at a time.
This time, she gasps.
He begins to recover his composure. With a smirk of his own, he unbuttons the cuff of her shirt. Nips at the nerve cluster on the inside of her wrist.
Her blush of desire is worth everything.
He lavishes more kisses and gentle bites on her wrist. Savours every sigh and surprised intake of breath. Begins to push her sleeve up her arm. Slowly and deliberately works his way up.
She’s breathing faster now. Her free hand presses his shoulder, though she can’t seem to decide if she’s clinging to him or pushing him away.
He licks. Nibbles. Teases.
Her head falls back, eyes closing. Encouraged, he clings to his patience until he makes it to the sensitive fold of her elbow.
She giggles, laughing awkwardly at the tickle of his tongue there.
He takes advantage of her being off balance. Straightens, pulling her into his arms.
By instinct, her half-bared arm drapes around his neck.
It’s his turn to hover his mouth above hers. He darts a tiny lick across her lips.
She shivers. Her arms tighten around him.
He dips slightly. Almost brushes her lips with his parted ones. “What now?”
“That’s up to you,” she says. He has to admire her ability to think clearly at all. “Do you want the Basic or the Special?”
He chuckles. “Amelia Pond. If I have my way, with you it will always be Special.”
She kisses him, heart, body, mind, and soul.
Crossposted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
eleven_amy, elevenfic, the_11th_doctor, dont_wander_off
Author: The trying-my-hand-at-a-new-thing
loveslashangstBeta: the overworked-and-underpaid
ophymirageCharacters: Amy Pond, Eleventh Doctor, TARDIS (implied)
Rated: PG-13 for sexually suggestive behaviour. This one’s more nice than naughty.
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 think River Song is Moffat’s own Mary Sue, and must be stopped.
Summary: The Doctor didn’t know he’d ordered a Kiss-O-Gram.
Original source: First posted on the “Eleven-Era Kink Meme” to the prompt “Eleven/Amy, Kiss-O-Gram”
Okay, so here’s the dealio…
This is entirely O’s fault. She’s the one who introduced me to the damn Meme, and it’s been monopolizing my time ever since.
On with the show…
Amy's missing. Not only does it make the Doctor cross, it also makes him nervous. The fearless ones always get eaten or vapourized or captured by some mustache-twirling Ne'er-Do-Well when they wander off. Makes for a long day of searching, locating, rescuing, avenging, and/or grieving. And not always in that order.
He really wishes she'd make good use of the freshly-sonic'd mobile he gave her after their last jaunt. Bloke could use a decent call now and then to know his new Companion hasn’t met her untimely end. Or just gotten lost somewhere.
The doorbell rings.
He stares at it.
Not that he has any particular aversion to doorbells, nor does he find them remarkable in and of themselves, but the noise he just heard doesn't make any fecking sense, because the TARDIS doesn't have a doorbell. And that was not the oh-dear-very-bad-day-ahead tolling of the Cloister Bell, which would be the day-ruiner to end all day-ruiners. No. This was the familiar two-tone ding-dong of a plain, old average doorbell.
So of course he has to answer the door.
Naughty Plonk. Lady PC in a very short skirt. Amy lounges in the door, one hand on her hip, the other on the door frame. Smirks at him with her own brand of charming insolence. In very high heels.
And all he can do is stand there and gawp like an idiot.
"Kiss-o-gram," she trills.
He blinks.
She sidles close. So close her body (not made the least bit unappealing by the faux stab-vest) presses his. Her lips hover over his, so close he can taste the heat of them. Human. So human. And the thought should be an instant buzzkill, but instead his body tightens. His breath speeds. Trails off as she lightly moistens her lips with a little pink tongue.
Then she rocks back. Shuts the door. Leans against it, all dancer’s grace and bedroom eyes. And very high heels.
He swallows hard and tries to remember how to use human speech. “Right. Erm. Well. That’s quite fetching. So now what?”
“That depends.” Oh dear god, she’s starting to unbutton the stab vest. “Do you want the Basic… or the Special?”
They’re fast approaching something Dangerous and Inadvisable. And the worse news is he’s starting not to care. “Erm. The Special?” Knowing the tenacity of Amelia Pond, he’s doomed anyway.
She grins. Rips the vest open just enough that he can see down it. Cleavage. He’s never been so aware of the beautiful curves that two breasts can make when pressed into such gorgeous confinement.
She’s watching him, eyes sparkling as he ogles. She turns around. “Hit it.”
The TARDIS rescues him from making the unfortunate faux pas of unsolicited spanking. Quite randy burlesque music starts up. Amy circles her hips. Tosses her cap off. Flaunts those gorgeous ginger tresses. Puts her hands in her hair, gyrating slowly to the music. Tosses her head. This way. That way. Then in a slow circle.
And all he can do is watch. (And ache to touch her.)
She pivots to face him. Strong strides toward him, her eyes demanding. She dodges past him. Giggles, a low sound that goes straight to his groin. Heads for the console. Leans back, hands bracing behind her. Puts a foot up. Opens her mouth just slightly. Touches the tip of her tongue to her top lip.
He goes to her, mesmerized.
She tangles her hands in the shoulders of his coat. Grabs him. Pivots them so he’s the one pressed to the console. Tilts her head. Again, her lips hover those gorgeous, aching, torturous millimetres above his.
Breathless, he leans forward.
She dodges the kiss. Sinks to a crouch. Puts her hands on his calves. Slowly slides up, her body pressing his front, her hands at the backs of his legs. Trails her lips along his trousers. Ghosts kisses over his still-clothed cock. She nips through the fabric at the head of him.
He makes a decidedly undignified and un-Time-Lord-ish noise.
She pulls away. Gyrates. Flips her hair. Spreads her legs wide. Bends suddenly at the waist to grab her ankles. All he can think of is grabbing her hips. Stripping away whatever fabric is blocking him. Fucking into her. She’d be hot. Wet. Tight around him.
Now he’s clinging to the console, half for fear of ravishing her, and half because lust is wrecking havoc with his coordination.
Amy’s more steady in those high heels than any woman has a right to be. She raises up slowly, mini-skirted arse thrust towards him. Flips her hair back when she’s halfway up. Rolls one shoulder back. Looks at him with such heat that he’s painfully aware of his own hardness.
Amy reaches a white-shirted arm toward him. Beckons with one finger, smirking.
He pushes off the console. Stumbles toward her. Catches her hand. Kisses her palm. Draws her fingers into his mouth, one at a time.
This time, she gasps.
He begins to recover his composure. With a smirk of his own, he unbuttons the cuff of her shirt. Nips at the nerve cluster on the inside of her wrist.
Her blush of desire is worth everything.
He lavishes more kisses and gentle bites on her wrist. Savours every sigh and surprised intake of breath. Begins to push her sleeve up her arm. Slowly and deliberately works his way up.
She’s breathing faster now. Her free hand presses his shoulder, though she can’t seem to decide if she’s clinging to him or pushing him away.
He licks. Nibbles. Teases.
Her head falls back, eyes closing. Encouraged, he clings to his patience until he makes it to the sensitive fold of her elbow.
She giggles, laughing awkwardly at the tickle of his tongue there.
He takes advantage of her being off balance. Straightens, pulling her into his arms.
By instinct, her half-bared arm drapes around his neck.
It’s his turn to hover his mouth above hers. He darts a tiny lick across her lips.
She shivers. Her arms tighten around him.
He dips slightly. Almost brushes her lips with his parted ones. “What now?”
“That’s up to you,” she says. He has to admire her ability to think clearly at all. “Do you want the Basic or the Special?”
He chuckles. “Amelia Pond. If I have my way, with you it will always be Special.”
She kisses him, heart, body, mind, and soul.
Crossposted to
eleven_amy, elevenfic, the_11th_doctor, dont_wander_off