I don't actually know what this is. I found it in one of my drafts and it looks to be just a soft-smut-drabble. Okie dokie.pairing: amy/eleven
summary-ish: river has left to go to the Library and the Doctor finds comfort in Amy. Only, he wasn't expecting to fall so far from the moral high-ground.
I wrote this on May, 22nd - 2011. We might not have known who...
River was at that point or who she was to the Doctor.
But Amy is here. Amy is solid. She's soft and warm and she's here. He meets her lips with uncertainty, because well, River is gone—River has gone to the Library and he couldn't stop the event from happening because her fate was unavoidable. But, Amy is here.
Here. With him. Arms curling around his neck and pulling him closer.
Amy is married.
But, the Doctor, in his loss cannot find the energy to care. She grinds her hips against him and he looses his footing on the moral high ground. He curls into her, lips tenderly caressing her skin, without thinking consciously of Rory—the Doctor is careful not to make any marks.
She meets his eyes and there is worry there—worry for him, for his well-being, for if he really wants this. The Doctor kisses her softly, whispers into her open mouth; “Yes.”
His hand slide under her jumper and pull the offending garment off. She shivers at the contact of his hands circling around her back and his fingertips pressing into her shoulder blades as he kisses her. Amy tilts her head back, letting his mouth roam across her neck and breasts. They haven't reached the point of no return (yet) but the Doctor has a feeling he isn't going to be able to stop.
He kisses below her ear, kisses her hair, drags his lips across her throat. He drinks in the soft sounds she's making, how her body squirms and arches up into him, her pretty-painted nails dig into his skin and tear at his clothes.
There's a level of awkwardness that can't be avoided when it comes to new lovers. But, they're both stubborn, and so they topple over that awkwardness and find that they fit together quite nicely. Like two puzzle pieces lost under the couch. He moans into her collarbone, “Amelia...” and Amy's fingers tunnel into his hair and run along his scalp.
He doesn't think much after that. Just lets instinct take over and Amy Pond is a goddess in his arms. She mewls, clutching a fist-full of his hair as she comes undone. Her long, milky legs wrapping around him, keeping him there and he whispers an apology into her hair before he follows her off the edge. He's sorry for leaving her, sorry for breaking her, sorry for this—for kissing her, for being unable to contain his lust, for taking what isn't rightfully his and for pretending that he's half the man she deserves.
He can taste her; in the air, on his tongue, and the sweat sticking to his skin.
Her eyes are hazy, lost in the afterglow, and it's the smile she gives him that makes him want to cry out in pain. He swallows and just pretends for the moment that Amy Pond is his. This is how it should have been, simple comfort between two friends, and yet he let the darkness take hold and he turned it into something more ravenous, dangerous, something that flowed with desire and an urge to rid himself of the ache between his two hearts.
He presses his ear against her single heart beat, their bodies still intertwined, a tangle of limbs—no one cannot be sure where one ends and the other begins.
It never ends, if you want the honest truth. Amy curls against him in the middle of the night, his body warmer than hers, and he always finds a way to fall asleep with his fingers still moving through her hair. They're not always quiet and they're not always careful.
Sometimes, when he's feeling particularly masochistic, he'll send Rory and Amy off on a 'date' and he'll keep himself busy. He'll keep himself and Amy apart for weeks. It doesn't last long of course, the loss of River Song is still there—added to his pile of bad things. He'll need her, Amy, need her smile and her laugh and her touch.
And then in some dusty corner of the TARDIS their lips will lock and hands will push and pull at clothing. They'll be in perfect harmony, gasping, arching, and falling together. More often than not, he tells her he's sorry when she's lying asleep beside him. He always wakes her before Rory wakes up.
“How long...” She always tries to ask but, never finishes the question.
How long will we keep this up? How long until you get tired of me? How long until I've got to stop traveling with you? Tell me, Doctor, how long have we got?