- hipsters in space ruined my life
- so I wrote fic about them doin it
- but then they kissed on the show so I had to write more fic explaining how they got from the show to the fic
- then I was like buhh??? because lol what is cut and paste and also a plot how do I make this be a story what is anything why are typeing
- so I posted the pre-sex post-kiss bit in defeat
- and forgot about all of it for two years
- then shared it with my fellow life-ruinees
- and one of them asked me to post the other part
I wrote this 2.5 years ago I take no responsibility for anything
They make love with humor, the two of them laughing at their awkwardness and the impossibility of their pairing, until funny is left behind, and what comes next goes too, and finally they are spent and silent; he solemn and thoughtful, she satisfied. Shameless, Amy only kicks rumpled bedsheet further down, her whole pale body open to the TARDIS's air, and the Doctor is as immodest, but not half so languidly insouciant. He hasn't had the years of preparation for this moment she's had. So while she luxuriates, he watches her.
He drinks in her mussed fan of hair, here falling over edges of pillows, there tangled beneath her shoulder blade. He studies the indolent slope of her naked breasts, like creamy dollops, pert as they rise. He trails a spindly hand just above them, starting at a freckle adorning her left breast, and continues on so closely that between her skin and his, a fuzzy aura tingles, and far enough that in a more wanting mood she would not be able to stand it, and should strain her torso ever so slightly upward, that his delicate touch would connect. Now she waits until his hand is almost past and sighs deeply so the heel of his palm does graze her skin and, knowing what she had intended, he allows his entire hand to stay there, his longest fingers dipping into the taut well between her tits. She presses her right cheek into the pillow and grins at him, mischievously.
"My Doctor. My imaginary raggedy Doctor finally came back and fucked me."
"Aeugh!" He emi ts a strangled, scandalized noise and sits up, simultaneously reaching for a pillow with which to slap or smother the swears out of her sailor's mouth. Soap might have been more effective there; he hadn't really thought it through. Amy bites the pillow instead with a playful growl, and shakes it away from his grasp. She makes a disgusted noise of her own, scraping cotton off her tongue with teeth, but then returns to gazing sweetly at her Doctor, his face a study in auntly horror. "Where did you learn that kind of language? What," he finally manages, "do they teach you in kiss-o-gram academy?"
Amy laughs. "Absolutely nothing, Doctor, that's the problem. I've had to learn everything all by myself." She sits up too and wraps her arms around him, and he relents enough to bury his face in her his-face-shaped spot of shoulder, and she says "I'll be innocent for you, Doctor, if it'll make you feel better," and he says, "Hmmmph," which noise she must then kiss away, which commanding desire he must and does surrender to her mouth, and later that day they go swimming in the Nile, its shores lush and verdant from seasonal flood.