Amelia Pond (whosscared) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2013-08-07 21:46:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, amy pond, john watson |
Who: Amy Pond and John Watson(sinceyouhavethemall)
When: After the squirt gun fight
Where: Car on the way to John’s place
What: Roasting Marshmallows on the stove
Rating/Warning: High. Sexxins.
Status: Complete
Amy was drenched. She probably should have packed a towel to a squirt gun fight. Her t-shirt was soaked through, clinging to the bathing suit she’d put on underneath. Her jeans were drenched, too, and her feet still covered in wet sand as she shivered on the passenger seat of John’s car. It was a lot later than they’d planned on staying, and the air was cold on the beach after the sun went down.
Amy was laughing, though. She had her arms wrapped around herself, and was singing along to whatever tune he was playing, teeth chattering all the while.
It was cold now -- even John was a little shivery -- moving to turn the heat on in his car. Possibly one of the first times he’d ever used it in this state with this climate. It was possible they shouldn’t have jumped around in the ocean quite as much as they had. But it’d been fun.
Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros were whistling out proclamations of love that felt so natural that it felt like being Home over the speakers, and while it wasn’t old by any means - not his usual 80’s - he felt it was kind of the perfect song for the moment.
They hadn’t been together for that long, but John knew with absolute certainty that he loved Amy Pond. And he had for a long time now. She was a bit like that Edward Sharpe song for him.
Amy would have laughed even harder if she knew what was going on in John’s head. She wasn’t sure how she was loveable at the moment. She was a drowned rat, with her hair stringy and all over face, covered in salt water and sand. But physical appearances aside, she was a happy camper. Maybe it was the happiness that he loved? In any case, Amy Pond had been falling in love with John for longer than she’d care to admit. Was she there yet? Probably. She’d just never put that word to it.
She turned to look at him, grinning softly, teeth chattering, even as the heater came on. “That was fun.”
Hey, just because she was hot didn’t mean that was all there was to her. John could appreciate Model Amy Pond and Drowned Rat Amy Pond both the same.
“It was,” he agreed, signaling and switching lanes like a pro. “Should have thought to bring towels though.” They were both currently soaking the seats of his car. Oops.
That’s good. Model Amy and Drowned Rat Amy had similar taste in music, anyway. “I’m going to have to teach you about keeping spare blankets and towels in the boot, just for occasions like this.” She teased, giving him a smile.
“I’m sure I’ve already just learned my lesson, thanks.” It was easy for them both to tease -- banter back and forth. He liked that best. And her taste in music, drowned rat or no.
It didn’t take much longer until he was parking in his spot -- locking the car doors behind them and happily turning his key into the condo door.
Amy was still shivering as she followed him into his condo. But she was happy. It was one thing to be soaked and freezing and miserable, and quite another to be soaked and freezing and delighted. Excited. It was slightly warmer in there than outside.
“Towel? Blanket? Portable heater?” Amy broke into a grin. “And I believe I was promised marshmallows roasted on the stove.”
“Towels in the closet, you heathen.” Get them yourself, Pond. John only grinned, ridding himself of his too wet shirt before the door was even fully closed behind them. “And you’ll get your marshmallows.”
“Heathen? Heathen?” Amy gave a laugh, pulling her own shirt up and off. She was wearing a soaked bathing suit underneath, but the gesture still felt slightly intimate. “All right, on a hunt for towels. You get the marshmallows started, Old Man.” She was expecting marshmallows, dammit.
And she’d get her freaking marshmallows, alright? He stuck his tongue out at her -- never quite one to act his age or profession when Amy Pond was around, and then turned toward the kitchen. He wasn’t quite dripping wet at this point, but it was beyond damp. He’d just have to stick his hands over the stove to keep warm. Or light matches. Or something.
He rummaged through his pantry, looking for marshmallows and some little metal stick things -- coming up with chop sticks. That would work, right?
So long as they didn’t melt or catch fire. Amy grabbed a couple of towels, shed her pants, and came wandering into the kitchen, bikini clad, and drying her hair with one of the towels. She held out the other to him.
“...chopsticks?”
He took the other towel and made a vague effort of rubbing off on it a bit before raising his eyebrows. “Well, they’re metal chopsticks. That should work, right?” Hey, he’d just moved in! She was lucky he had any real dishes or things at all.
“Oh yeah. So long as they don’t get too hot.” Amy said, giving a gentle shrug. She reached forward to take hold of one of them and gave it a little swing in the air, like a conductor’s baton. “Thank you, Honey.” She said, then leaned in to tap a kiss to his cheek.
“Honey?” He went a bit pink over that one, even though it was silly and not his idea of the perfect pet name at all. It was still -- well. Something a little different than Old Man, anyway. “And -- what? Thanks for what?”
Honey wasn't very Amy Pond. That's why it'd been said playfully. Like, mocking the domesticity that the two of them were playing. Because John Watson may have been a domestic diva, but Amy Pond was far from one. She gave a little laugh, her eyes twinkling. "Honey. Sugar-bean. Sweetie-pie. Baby Cakes."
Then a little shrug escaped her. "You know... for making me roasted marshmallows and catering to my every desire." She leaned in to kiss his cheek again.
Domestic Diva? Would a domestic diva use chopsticks and a stove top to roast marshmallows, Amy Pond? John didn’t think so. It was more like playing house, except... actually owning a house, he supposed.
Catering to Amy Pond was something he was very fond of. He didn’t even need to be thanked. “Snuggle bunny,” John agreed wryly, but turned his head at the last second to take the kiss on the mouth instead of the cheek. Sometimes a little cheatery was required.
Amy was grinning when John turned and kissed her. He was sure to feel it in his lips against hers. And suddenly, inexplicably, Amy wasn’t thinking about roasting marshmallows anymore. The towel she’d been using to dry herself fell to the floor.
Good thing that the stove hadn’t been on at that moment, or else John probably would have wound up one (the only one) property less. His towel fell too, which was fine because he’d hardly really been using it at all.
He liked that they were comfortable enough for little things like too big of smiles while kissing -- teeth clicking together with no real concern before lips adjusted and kisses were real and enthusiastic.
It didn’t take long for the kiss to go from a would-be-cheek/stolen-lip kind of kiss to a more genuine, meaningful one. Amy felt like she hadn’t been properly snogged in ages. Of course, she had kisses with John, but mostly stolen or brief ones. Nothing eager, nothing hungry, no promises of more to come. It felt like they were both keeping things proper, keeping things polite. After all, she was technically still married to someone else. That thought made her feel a touch guilty, and she pulled her mouth from his, breaking the seal between them to rest her forehead against his.
John had been behaving himself, and he felt that a lot of credit was deserved there -- Amy was the sort of woman that he wanted to kiss often, and kiss well. That he was taking it so slow and never pushing was --well, of course polite. He’d never force anyone into anything. But it was hard to not want more kisses like this.
He rested a hand on her cheek, careful. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Yes.” Amy said, cuddled in close against him. It was hard not to be close, even though the closeness made her feel a bit naughty. And not the good kind of naughty. It was a double-edged sword, really. She felt guilty about wanting more, guilty about doing more, and guilty if she didn’t give him more. John had been so patient with her, so polite. She felt like he deserved more. Though, she was hesitant to give it to him.
“Just... inner turmoil,” she said, a hint of a laugh in her voice.
Hey man, John was a feminist. He’d give her all the time she needed because he wanted to, and because it was just the right thing to do. In terms like these, even if he was left occasionally wanting, he never felt more deserving.
Basically, he was a decent bloke.
“Yeah,” he agreed, rather knowing what she meant. “We don’t have to -- you know. We can just make marshmallows.”
He was the best bloke. And she'd fallen in love with him long before she should have.
"No." She finally pulled back to smile at him. It was a little awkward, a little shy, maybe even a little forced. But she knew if she powered through the guilt, she'd get over it. "I don't want marshmallows anymore."
“No,” he repeated faintly, watching her carefully before licking his lips and scratching the back of his neck. “Of course not.” A pause. “What is it you want, Amy?”
“You silly, silly, old man.” Amy responded, breaking into a more warm smile. “Isn’t it obvious?” She asked. Then she leaned forward, wrapped her arms up and around him, and kissed him again. This was a kiss to answer that question. A kiss to show him her intentions. Her hand tangled in his hair, her body pressed against his.
It was obvious. He just wanted her to say it -- wanted it to be her choice completely. “Mm,” he said, because that was about as useful as he was going to get, even as he gave his all to that kiss -- intense and a bit more exploratory than usual. It was so easy to just let his hands settle and rest on her waist.
It took considerable effort, but after a moment, Amy pulled her lips away from his. Her hands took hold of his from around her waist, and she turned to lead him back toward the bedroom. Their first time deserved a bed. She wasn’t sure how much longer her knees would hold up, too. Bed was simply a good idea. There were comfortable pillows and blankets, and... and Amy was nervous and excited and covered in goosebumps.
Oh god the bedroom. And suddenly he felt a little bit like a teenager. Not that he was nervous about the actual act (he was good at it, thanks much) but more about -- oh, he wasn’t even sure.
“Gosh, Pond,” he said, going for cheer just to make sure the mood was light. “Tell me what you really think.” Thank god he’d made the bed today. Not that they hadn’t slept in the same bed before, but still.
“I think... it’s a good thing I shaved my legs. I think it’s a good thing that I don’t mind when you snore. And I also think it’s about time for this.” It was about time in her head. Her heart was still catching up. And her stomach was twisting because of nerves and guilt.
His room was a lot neater than hers. Then again, he was older. Older. And perhaps he didn’t have as much clothes as she had. Or he kept them tidier. Maybe both. Amy didn’t care. She wasn’t really looking at the clean floor or made bed. She turned back around once they were inside and wrapped her arms around him again.
Easily, the fingers of one of his hands landed on her waist again, and the other brushed hair from her face. He kissed her, chaste and gentle. “If you’re sure,” he murmured, pleased that they were nearly the same height, and that she was so easy to hold.
He was -- well. Excited, yes. But also willing to be as slow as she needed.
It was good they were the same height, wasn’t it? Amy loved being nose to nose with him almost as much as she loved being able to rest her chin on his shoulder, her arms around him. Like now. Perhaps it was the emotion that made them fit together like puzzle pieces.
“I’m sure.” She said. She took a step back, pulling him with her. “Now... less talking and more action, Old Man.” A grin, then she was kissing him again.
They tumbled onto the bed and John was pleased that they were already pretty darn close to being naked because sometimes once permission was given he forgot that he was a patient man. These things happened.
“No need to tell me twice,” he murmured, kissing her lips and then her jaw and then basically everything else.
There was only one other hesitation that Amy had. The kissing and the groping and the gasping were all well and good. She was topless rather quickly, and enjoying all the attention that he was giving her. The moment before her swim bottoms came off, she had one last moment of pause. This was it. There was no turning back. Not really. It made her swallow, made her mind grow a little clear of the fog that the foreplay had settled over her.
She moved both hands down to remove the remaining garment, slipping it down her legs and dropping it onto the floor. It was an important moment for Amy Pond.
Watson could only stare for a moment - sure, he’d seen Amy nearly nude an awful lot. She loved swimsuits. She was a model. She wandered around wearing just his shirts more than was healthy (for him). But -- well.
“You’re beautiful,” he told her, a little breathlessly.
Amy Pond had been told that she was beautiful before. On several occasions. By many different kinds of people. But it had never felt so exciting before. So comforting. It was a reminder that this was the right thing. Confirmation that this was special and loving and she wasn’t doing anything wrong by loving him, being with him.
“That’s good.” Amy teased, though her cheeks were rather pink now. “I won’t have to change professions.”
“Mm,” John agreed, leaning down to brush kisses over her collarbone and shoulders, fingers brushing against the curve of her waist and hips. Clearly, the time for making bad jokes was over with.
Clearly. It happened so seldomly, Amy wasn’t sure what to do with her mouth. No jokes. Check. She decided her best option was to chew on her bottom lip while he explored her body, biting back the gasps that wanted to escape. And finally she reached her hands down his sides, toward his shorts. If she was naked, he should be, too. It was only fair.
“Oh,” said John -- because while jokes weren’t allowed, talking totally was. There was no way he could ever be completely silent with Amy around anyway. “Good call.” The shimmy out of his swim trunks was not at all graceful, but you know what he was a doctor who was barely over five foot seven, and he didn’t have to look graceful.
Leave graceful to the ballerinas. He was efficient, and that was what mattered here. Amy let him wriggle out of the rest of his clothes, and finally had a chance to look at him completely. He was really fit and well put together for someone (almost) twice her age. She kinda couldn’t wait to get her hands on him, so she didn’t. “I’m full of those,” she said, grinning a cheeky grin, as she reached a hand down to explore new territory. Her mouth sought his again, to kiss him while they fooled around. Because without kissing it wasn’t as fun.
There was a joke here. That she’d be full of something else in a second? Something? God. He couldn’t even say it, it was just awful.
Anyway, kissing was awesome, and so was exploring. Amy’s hands -- dainty, nice nails, perfect? Well, they were good. And he was so clearly interested. No jokes there, just a hard on.
So, um... John’s hard ons were Amy’s favorite. There. And it was a good idea he wasn’t making stupid jokes. This definitely wasn’t a time for joking. Amy gave his shoulder a little shove and rolled him onto his back, then climbed above him. She’d been waiting for this for a super stupid long time, and she didn’t want to wait any longer. So... she didn’t wait any longer.