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platypus_fic2012-10-08 05:23 pm
platypus) wrote in platypus_fic2012-10-08 05:23 pm
Fic: Room for Three (Eleven/Amy/Rory, 1/1)
Title: Room for Three
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
platypus
Characters/Pairing: Eleven/Amy/Rory
Rating: Adult
Word count: 1969
Summary: In Amy's Choice, the TARDIS was contaminated with psychic pollen. What if it had been sex pollen instead?
Author's notes: Thanks tononelvis for beta work (and the title!).
He can't think straight. That's a bad sign, he's almost certain of it. There's something important he needs to tell Amy, but she's leaning too close to him, her lips parted and shining, and he can't remember what it is.
The console room is uncomfortably hot and his trousers are too tight and there ought to be more space between him and his companion, but he can't seem to move. Amy's hand rests lightly on his chest, but she isn't pushing him away, just touching him, her own chest rising and falling quickly (not that he's watching). Her lips are inches from his. Any closer and he's going to kiss her, there'll be no stopping it this time, not like... when? Something's nagging at him, some reason not to lean in that last fraction. It's on the tip of his tongue (which could be tracing her collarbone, tasting the salt of her skin), it's... it's...
"Pollen!"
Amy blinks. "What?"
"Altarian pollen. It induces an acute sexual response in… mammalian…" She's toying with his bow tie now. He swallows, gathers his fragmented thoughts back together. "It must have got in the ventilation system somehow."
"It's so hot when you get all sciencey," Amy murmurs. "Tell me more about this sexual response, Doctor."
He clenches his fists, digging his nails into his palms, and for a moment his head clears. "Amy, listen to me." He can hold himself together, focussing on her. He has to. "This isn't you, it's the pollen. It makes you feel things.”
"I don't feel that different," Amy says, frowning.
He gives her a gentle shake, clutching at her shoulders. When did he decide to touch her? Touching her is approaching a very fine line, on the other side of which is turning around and bending her over the console—"Think," he says aloud. “Amy, think about what you really want.”
"I want..." Her eyes focus on him suddenly, sharply. "Rory. We need Rory."
"Rory. Yes." He pries his reluctant fingers from her shoulders and paces a few very necessary steps away. He can take care of things here while his companions sort themselves out. Nothing awkward about that. "Run along, Pond. Find your fiancé."
"Oh, no, you don't. You're coming with me. You have to explain about the"—she wiggles her fingers—"pollen stuff." She strides off down the corridor, beckoning him to follow.
"Wait," he protests. "Why do you need me to..." Well, maybe his head's still a bit fuzzy. Trailing behind her, he surreptitiously adjusts his trousers.
The room Amy and Rory share isn't far, thank goodness. Amy raps sharply on the locked door. "Open up," she calls.
After a pause, Rory's strained voice floats out. "I'm busy."
"You're having a wank. It's some pollen thing." She rattles the door handle. "If you don't open the door right now, the Doctor's going to shag me up against it."
"I am not," the Doctor protests, retrieving his hand from where it's accidentally landed on Amy's arse.
"Hush." She glares determinedly at the door.
Sure enough, it opens a crack and Rory peers out, trouser-less, clutching a pillow in front of himself. "What's he doing here?"
"He got pollened too."
Rory sighs, ruffles his already ruffled hair, and steps back from the door. When he drops the pillow, well, goodness, those briefs don't leave a great deal to the imagination. The Doctor's imagination nonetheless has a go at filling in some more details.
He clears his throat. He's here to explain about the pollen. That's all. "Right, then. Any unusual, ah, reactions you may be having are nothing to worry about. There seems to be a bit of Altarian pollen in the ventilation ducts. Just a minor inconvenience. Altarian pollen is, you see, well, it's sort of—"
"Sex pollen," Amy says.
The Doctor frowns at her. "I thought you needed me to explain that."
Amy shrugs. "I just didn't want to leave you by yourself."
"This... is not a good idea. Rory, tell her this is not a good idea."
Rory's looking at him thoughtfully. "Does it work the same on you?" he asks. "This pollen stuff. Are you..." He actually gestures vaguely in the direction of his crotch.
The Doctor is not blushing. His face is merely a bit warm. "Heroically resisting the urge to try to make you question your sexual identity? Yes, a bit."
"My sexual identity? What about you?"
"Rory, I've lived over nine hundred years and been eleven different people. I don't fit neatly on the Kinsey scale."
"Oh." Rory blinks. "Does that mean…" He glances at the bed.
The Doctor swallows hard. "I don't want to get between you," he says carefully.
"Don't you?" asks Rory.
The cascade of images prompted by that thought nearly overwhelms the Doctor. He groans in frustration, scrubbing his face with his hands. "How can you be so calm about this?"
The corner of Rory's mouth turns up the tiniest bit. “Amy and I already shagged this morning. I guess it takes the edge off.”
“And last night,” Amy puts in. "Twice."
"Well, good for you," the Doctor mutters. "I really needed to know that."
"Loosen up." Amy flicks his bow tie with a finger. "Does this thing even come off?"
Rory cocks his head. "Actually, he was the stripper at my stag."
"You did not mention this," Amy says, her eyebrows climbing.
Rory shrugs. "He never got around to taking his clothes off."
"Missed out, then." Amy eyes the Doctor speculatively. "You know, I never had a proper hen night." She and Rory trade a look.
They both look at the Doctor.
"Oh, what the hell," he says.
* * *
A while later, he's not sure how long (he should probably be embarrassed about losing track of time, him, a Time Lord, but he has better things to think about right now), he's reclining in a pile of pillows on Amy and Rory's enormous bed. His clothes are long gone, but so are everyone else's, so that's fair.
Naked, Amy's gorgeous, lean and elegant like some kind of aristocratic sighthound, and he has just enough sense to keep that observation to himself. She's kneeling between his legs, caressing his inner thighs, and he doesn't know if he should feel pride or shame or something else entirely at the weight of her gaze upon him. Rory's kneeling behind her, his face tense with concentration. They haven’t quite found their rhythm yet, but they're so beautiful together, Rory stroking Amy's back as he rocks into her; he could be content just to lie there and watch the two of them.
But his cock has other ideas, twitching with his double pulse, and when Amy leans down and takes it in her mouth, all his thoughts fizzle out into static. He groans, forcing down the sudden surge of pleasure; this may not be a competition, but damned if he's going to be the first of them to cross the finish line. Amy, as he's long suspected, is a woman of many talents, and her skill and enthusiasm are everything he's ever guiltily fantasized about. He tries to hold still, but he can't stop his hands, never could stop his hands; they're stroking through her silky hair, trailing around the curve of her ear, memorizing every graceful line of neck and shoulder.
Amy's lips tighten around him and her red enamelled nails graze his balls and, oh, he is not going to last. He wishes he could reach more of her, cup her perfect little breasts, rub his thumbs over those tight pink nipples. What she's doing right now is lovely, sucking at him hot and tight, her tongue sliding over that perfect spot on the underside of his cock, but he wonders what he's missing, what it would be like to be inside her. He feels a sudden irrational surge of jealousy that Rory's experiencing that right now. He wants to roll Amy to her back, plunge into her with one swift thrust, feel her long legs wrap around his waist. Or maybe he and Rory could switch places, let him be the one behind Amy, his hands splayed on those pale hips as he drives into her. Yes, and Rory behind him, setting the rhythm for all three, that would be perfect, Rory thrusting smoothly into him in just the way he's moving now with Amy—
He wants everything. That's the problem with giving in just a little, just this once. It opens up the floodgates of want, and if he doesn't cling to the shreds of his self-control, where will it end?
But right now he's savouring the heat of Amy's mouth, the tickling slide of her hair across his thighs, and these indulgences will have to be enough. It'll all be over soon (far too soon, at this rate) and Amy will have her curiosity satisfied and they can all pretend this never happened.
Rory slips a hand around Amy's hip; she stiffens, swirling her tongue around the Doctor's cock one last time before releasing it with a gloriously obscene slurp. She arches her back, gasping, rocking with Rory's quickening thrusts, and the Doctor strokes his slick cock, wondering if he should finish himself off. It's bound to be messy, though, and he isn't sure how Amy feels about getting messy. He isn't sure how he feels about getting her messy, either. These are probably the sorts of things one should settle ahead of time. So he slows down, even though he can't quite stop, not when Amy's closing her eyes and panting like that, oh, oh—he squeezes hard and nearly joins her anyway when she cries out, her hand still trembling on his thigh.
It's Rory she calls for as she comes, not him, but that's fine, that's how things should be. As Rory's groans rise to a wordless peak, the Doctor sighs and leans back, stroking himself faster.
"Stop that, you." Amy, still a little breathless, bats his hand away and takes over, grasping the base of his cock with one hand and sliding her mouth back down around him. Rory brushes her hair out of the way, kissing her shoulder, and somehow the fact that he's watching makes what Amy's doing to him feel a thousand times more intimate and exposed. He grits his teeth and tries to keep quiet, but he's so close, he doesn't want this to end but it has to, it's going to—with all of his willpower, he holds it back for one last exquisite moment, and then he can't anymore.
It's okay, Amy's got him; she holds on tight as he shudders, coaxing him along. His flailing hand is caught in a strong grip and he gives up, gives in, lets go.
When he's once again in control of himself (and trying to forget how dangerously exhilarating it is not to be), Amy's grinning triumphantly at a sweaty and dishevelled Rory. Rory tips her chin up and kisses her, and the naked tenderness between them makes him look away. That's something he isn't part of, can't be part of. It's better this way.
He eases away from them while they're occupied, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Clothes are scattered all over the floor; he wonders, with utter exhaustion, exactly where his trousers are.
"And where do you think you're going?"
He turns in surprise and is met by Amy's smile. Rory's curled up against her back, chin on her shoulder, eyes closed. There's room for three in the bed, but the Doctor hesitates.
Amy elbows Rory in mid-yawn. "What? Oh. You can stay," he sighs. He reaches out with sleepy awkwardness and pats the Doctor's arm. "For now, at least," he mumbles halfheartedly.
So he does.
Author:
platypusCharacters/Pairing: Eleven/Amy/Rory
Rating: Adult
Word count: 1969
Summary: In Amy's Choice, the TARDIS was contaminated with psychic pollen. What if it had been sex pollen instead?
Author's notes: Thanks to
nonelvis for beta work (and the title!). He can't think straight. That's a bad sign, he's almost certain of it. There's something important he needs to tell Amy, but she's leaning too close to him, her lips parted and shining, and he can't remember what it is.
The console room is uncomfortably hot and his trousers are too tight and there ought to be more space between him and his companion, but he can't seem to move. Amy's hand rests lightly on his chest, but she isn't pushing him away, just touching him, her own chest rising and falling quickly (not that he's watching). Her lips are inches from his. Any closer and he's going to kiss her, there'll be no stopping it this time, not like... when? Something's nagging at him, some reason not to lean in that last fraction. It's on the tip of his tongue (which could be tracing her collarbone, tasting the salt of her skin), it's... it's...
"Pollen!"
Amy blinks. "What?"
"Altarian pollen. It induces an acute sexual response in… mammalian…" She's toying with his bow tie now. He swallows, gathers his fragmented thoughts back together. "It must have got in the ventilation system somehow."
"It's so hot when you get all sciencey," Amy murmurs. "Tell me more about this sexual response, Doctor."
He clenches his fists, digging his nails into his palms, and for a moment his head clears. "Amy, listen to me." He can hold himself together, focussing on her. He has to. "This isn't you, it's the pollen. It makes you feel things.”
"I don't feel that different," Amy says, frowning.
He gives her a gentle shake, clutching at her shoulders. When did he decide to touch her? Touching her is approaching a very fine line, on the other side of which is turning around and bending her over the console—"Think," he says aloud. “Amy, think about what you really want.”
"I want..." Her eyes focus on him suddenly, sharply. "Rory. We need Rory."
"Rory. Yes." He pries his reluctant fingers from her shoulders and paces a few very necessary steps away. He can take care of things here while his companions sort themselves out. Nothing awkward about that. "Run along, Pond. Find your fiancé."
"Oh, no, you don't. You're coming with me. You have to explain about the"—she wiggles her fingers—"pollen stuff." She strides off down the corridor, beckoning him to follow.
"Wait," he protests. "Why do you need me to..." Well, maybe his head's still a bit fuzzy. Trailing behind her, he surreptitiously adjusts his trousers.
The room Amy and Rory share isn't far, thank goodness. Amy raps sharply on the locked door. "Open up," she calls.
After a pause, Rory's strained voice floats out. "I'm busy."
"You're having a wank. It's some pollen thing." She rattles the door handle. "If you don't open the door right now, the Doctor's going to shag me up against it."
"I am not," the Doctor protests, retrieving his hand from where it's accidentally landed on Amy's arse.
"Hush." She glares determinedly at the door.
Sure enough, it opens a crack and Rory peers out, trouser-less, clutching a pillow in front of himself. "What's he doing here?"
"He got pollened too."
Rory sighs, ruffles his already ruffled hair, and steps back from the door. When he drops the pillow, well, goodness, those briefs don't leave a great deal to the imagination. The Doctor's imagination nonetheless has a go at filling in some more details.
He clears his throat. He's here to explain about the pollen. That's all. "Right, then. Any unusual, ah, reactions you may be having are nothing to worry about. There seems to be a bit of Altarian pollen in the ventilation ducts. Just a minor inconvenience. Altarian pollen is, you see, well, it's sort of—"
"Sex pollen," Amy says.
The Doctor frowns at her. "I thought you needed me to explain that."
Amy shrugs. "I just didn't want to leave you by yourself."
"This... is not a good idea. Rory, tell her this is not a good idea."
Rory's looking at him thoughtfully. "Does it work the same on you?" he asks. "This pollen stuff. Are you..." He actually gestures vaguely in the direction of his crotch.
The Doctor is not blushing. His face is merely a bit warm. "Heroically resisting the urge to try to make you question your sexual identity? Yes, a bit."
"My sexual identity? What about you?"
"Rory, I've lived over nine hundred years and been eleven different people. I don't fit neatly on the Kinsey scale."
"Oh." Rory blinks. "Does that mean…" He glances at the bed.
The Doctor swallows hard. "I don't want to get between you," he says carefully.
"Don't you?" asks Rory.
The cascade of images prompted by that thought nearly overwhelms the Doctor. He groans in frustration, scrubbing his face with his hands. "How can you be so calm about this?"
The corner of Rory's mouth turns up the tiniest bit. “Amy and I already shagged this morning. I guess it takes the edge off.”
“And last night,” Amy puts in. "Twice."
"Well, good for you," the Doctor mutters. "I really needed to know that."
"Loosen up." Amy flicks his bow tie with a finger. "Does this thing even come off?"
Rory cocks his head. "Actually, he was the stripper at my stag."
"You did not mention this," Amy says, her eyebrows climbing.
Rory shrugs. "He never got around to taking his clothes off."
"Missed out, then." Amy eyes the Doctor speculatively. "You know, I never had a proper hen night." She and Rory trade a look.
They both look at the Doctor.
"Oh, what the hell," he says.
A while later, he's not sure how long (he should probably be embarrassed about losing track of time, him, a Time Lord, but he has better things to think about right now), he's reclining in a pile of pillows on Amy and Rory's enormous bed. His clothes are long gone, but so are everyone else's, so that's fair.
Naked, Amy's gorgeous, lean and elegant like some kind of aristocratic sighthound, and he has just enough sense to keep that observation to himself. She's kneeling between his legs, caressing his inner thighs, and he doesn't know if he should feel pride or shame or something else entirely at the weight of her gaze upon him. Rory's kneeling behind her, his face tense with concentration. They haven’t quite found their rhythm yet, but they're so beautiful together, Rory stroking Amy's back as he rocks into her; he could be content just to lie there and watch the two of them.
But his cock has other ideas, twitching with his double pulse, and when Amy leans down and takes it in her mouth, all his thoughts fizzle out into static. He groans, forcing down the sudden surge of pleasure; this may not be a competition, but damned if he's going to be the first of them to cross the finish line. Amy, as he's long suspected, is a woman of many talents, and her skill and enthusiasm are everything he's ever guiltily fantasized about. He tries to hold still, but he can't stop his hands, never could stop his hands; they're stroking through her silky hair, trailing around the curve of her ear, memorizing every graceful line of neck and shoulder.
Amy's lips tighten around him and her red enamelled nails graze his balls and, oh, he is not going to last. He wishes he could reach more of her, cup her perfect little breasts, rub his thumbs over those tight pink nipples. What she's doing right now is lovely, sucking at him hot and tight, her tongue sliding over that perfect spot on the underside of his cock, but he wonders what he's missing, what it would be like to be inside her. He feels a sudden irrational surge of jealousy that Rory's experiencing that right now. He wants to roll Amy to her back, plunge into her with one swift thrust, feel her long legs wrap around his waist. Or maybe he and Rory could switch places, let him be the one behind Amy, his hands splayed on those pale hips as he drives into her. Yes, and Rory behind him, setting the rhythm for all three, that would be perfect, Rory thrusting smoothly into him in just the way he's moving now with Amy—
He wants everything. That's the problem with giving in just a little, just this once. It opens up the floodgates of want, and if he doesn't cling to the shreds of his self-control, where will it end?
But right now he's savouring the heat of Amy's mouth, the tickling slide of her hair across his thighs, and these indulgences will have to be enough. It'll all be over soon (far too soon, at this rate) and Amy will have her curiosity satisfied and they can all pretend this never happened.
Rory slips a hand around Amy's hip; she stiffens, swirling her tongue around the Doctor's cock one last time before releasing it with a gloriously obscene slurp. She arches her back, gasping, rocking with Rory's quickening thrusts, and the Doctor strokes his slick cock, wondering if he should finish himself off. It's bound to be messy, though, and he isn't sure how Amy feels about getting messy. He isn't sure how he feels about getting her messy, either. These are probably the sorts of things one should settle ahead of time. So he slows down, even though he can't quite stop, not when Amy's closing her eyes and panting like that, oh, oh—he squeezes hard and nearly joins her anyway when she cries out, her hand still trembling on his thigh.
It's Rory she calls for as she comes, not him, but that's fine, that's how things should be. As Rory's groans rise to a wordless peak, the Doctor sighs and leans back, stroking himself faster.
"Stop that, you." Amy, still a little breathless, bats his hand away and takes over, grasping the base of his cock with one hand and sliding her mouth back down around him. Rory brushes her hair out of the way, kissing her shoulder, and somehow the fact that he's watching makes what Amy's doing to him feel a thousand times more intimate and exposed. He grits his teeth and tries to keep quiet, but he's so close, he doesn't want this to end but it has to, it's going to—with all of his willpower, he holds it back for one last exquisite moment, and then he can't anymore.
It's okay, Amy's got him; she holds on tight as he shudders, coaxing him along. His flailing hand is caught in a strong grip and he gives up, gives in, lets go.
When he's once again in control of himself (and trying to forget how dangerously exhilarating it is not to be), Amy's grinning triumphantly at a sweaty and dishevelled Rory. Rory tips her chin up and kisses her, and the naked tenderness between them makes him look away. That's something he isn't part of, can't be part of. It's better this way.
He eases away from them while they're occupied, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Clothes are scattered all over the floor; he wonders, with utter exhaustion, exactly where his trousers are.
"And where do you think you're going?"
He turns in surprise and is met by Amy's smile. Rory's curled up against her back, chin on her shoulder, eyes closed. There's room for three in the bed, but the Doctor hesitates.
Amy elbows Rory in mid-yawn. "What? Oh. You can stay," he sighs. He reaches out with sleepy awkwardness and pats the Doctor's arm. "For now, at least," he mumbles halfheartedly.
So he does.
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OK, this:
Amy's gorgeous, lean and elegant like some kind of aristocratic sighthound...
Made me laugh my head off. (Especially since I couldn't help picturing the elegant and aristocratic Afghan hound I used to look after.)
And now, if you'll excuse me, my bunk is around here someplace :D
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