Amy Pond Has a Thing For Older Guys
They made an odd trio. The Girl Who Waited, the Lone Centurion, and The Doctor. A fiery-haired girl and her two rain-poncho boys. Amy Pond and the two men who loved her; one 907 years old, the other who waited alone for his love for 2000 years. Rory Williams, the Roman, the Boy Who Waited, knew he loved Amelia Pond. He knew this deeper than he knew anything else in the universe. The flutter in his heart at the flow of her burning tresses was greater than his wonder at all the civilizations of space and time.
He knew that she loved him, too; she had married him, after all. He also knew that she loved The Doctor. Rory was a perceptive man, but even if he hadn't been he would have noticed the glances she threw his way, the way she draped herself on him, the kisses she offered so freely. He knew she loved him and The Doctor and he hoped, in a part of himself that was deeper than knowledge, that she would choose him.
After all, he was the one who had waited by her side while a millennium of humankind milled around him and the reason for his existence, purposeless. Before that, he had waited through a childhood and teenage period where he stood by here, invisible to her eyes. He loved her even then. He loved her laugh, bold and uncontrollable and thrilling. He loved her glinting, mischievous eyes. He loved her fire-trailing hair. So while she dreamed of a Raggedy Doctor and the shimmering of stars, he dreamed of medicine and gangly red-haired children. He waited and watched over her in his nervous, babbling way as she followed her Raggedy Doctor across planets and the past. He died in her arms for her dream. And when her dreaming brought him back, still he waited and watched.
Rory had been watching Amy for so long, been loving her so deeply, that he knew everything about her. He suspected the depth of his knowledge would surprise her. The Doctor didn't know Amy's secrets; those belonged to Rory alone. Some divulged, some discovered, some deduced; Rory knew everything about Amy.
He knew, as she stood at the edge of the TARDIS platform watching the madman fiddle with and talk—alternating between loving and enraged—to the great machine, that her thoughts were not filled with The Doctor himself but with the stars. He knew that the shiver in her knees wasn't fear or wonder but exhilaration. He stepped forward, drawn in as he always was by her sheer power. He knew she had noticed him by the slight incline of the head, a rustle of hair the color of deep-autumn leaves. He knew she loved when he played with her hair. He could feel her relax backwards, her body curved a tantalizing inch from his, as he ran his hands through her hair, his fingers teasing out individual strands and letting them run through his fingers.
He knew as he leaned down behind her and breathed warm and insistent onto the back of her neck that it would make her arch her back against him. Her hand grasped at his in her hair. He loved it when she did that. Amy gave The Doctor, distracted, one last look, then turned the full flaming force of her gaze on Rory. Rory loved her gaze. She had perfected the slanted eyebrow, the half-mast lids, the hair across the forehead. He leaned forward and kissed her bright lips, pulling her against him with his hand in her hair. She stepped forward into the circle of his skinny arms and bit his bottom lip. He knew she loved to tease. Taking him by the hand, she led him into one of the winding, innumerable hallways of the TARDIS. He followed her, as always, unable to do anything else.
He knew she was unpredictable, exuberant. He knew how to release that exuberance, too. He pulled her in for another kiss, refusing to allow her the helm of her own thoughts, and wrapped his free arm around her waist, pulling their bodies together. This time, when she went to nip at his exposed lip, he stole a march on her, pulling his mouth back from hers and moving it instead to her smooth neck. He scraped his teeth slowly across the skin above her collarbone and felt a moan rumble up through her throat. He grinned hard against her. He hands were desperate, frantic, containing all the raw energy that was her trademark. His shirt came off in seconds, and he pulled away from her a single, difficult moment as he shrugged free. Their mouths met again in a single, lovely moment as he leaned into her with all his might. She pulled her shirt off in a speed to rival his, and allowed herself to be pulled to his naked chest as he reached around her and, with nimble nurse's fingers, undid her bra, which fell to the cold metal paneling. All of this transpired in utter silence, as The Doctor fiddled unaware with the console.
Then the TARDIS rocked suddenly, and the two tumbled, locked together, to the sharply-cool floor. Amy bit at his shoulder and neck, drawing blood once with her impish teeth. Rory's hands—those fluttering, skillful hands—worked slow expert magic across her uncovered back, leaving trails of warmth down her spine. She writhed against him and bit her own lip.
"Nnnn. . . Jesus, Rory. . ." His arousal surged in response to that which was expressed in her sultry voice. Their eyes met, and then so too did their mouths. This kiss was passionate, unbarred, and at some point during it (though were you to ask Rory afterward he could not place when) their pants joined the scattered laundry-day mess that they lay upon. Amy smiled devilishly up at him and worked her narrow, torturing fingers down to his groin. They danced around his arousal, never quite touching, thrilling him with their cool suggestions as her eyes held his. He must have made a noise of protest, because she pouted, the smile remaining in her eyes, and wrapped her fingers around his length. His hips bucked at the feel of her and she placed the pointer finger of her other hand on his lips, shushing him like a child. With a fish-like squirm she moved herself down his body, warmth on warmth, until she brought her head to the level of his erect wick and breathed heat down on it. He whimpered softly, at her mercy, and she chuckled her hot breath over him once more.
The urge to take control rocked him and he moved lithely, pulling her up for another boiling kiss as his hands played their way over her sides and down the panties that had somehow escaped the clothing purge. Sliding them down slowly over her hips, Rory had his turn to grin and look into her eyes as she looked away sheepishly, the fabric sticking slightly to her dampness.
"Don't tease, Rory." she muttered, blushing to match the hair that flitted across her face, as his clever hands flitted gently across her slit. "Jesus, Rory, just do it!" He quirked an eyebrow at her as she burned against him, letting her plea rest in the air a moment. He rolled her until he lay propped up over her body, the question in her eyes hanging between them. After a torturous century-moment, he indulged her, moving his length between her willingly-spread legs and placing the tip against her moist sheath. This time, however, Amy had had enough play, and she lifted her hips to meet his, sliding him into her tightness. They groaned in unison as Rory instinctively thrust forward. He leaned over her and grazed his teeth over a nipple as their pace increased, breathing heavily over her breast. She shuddered and grasped the sides of his face, pulling his chin up and panting into his face. Their groaning slapping lovemaking took on a rhythm, then a frenzy, before Rory let out a sound of exhausted, passionate warning and withdrew, releasing himself across her stomach. He slumped to her side.
They lay together, hands intertwined, breathing synching and desynching, for the eternity of a minute before a noise drew them out of their stupor of pleasure. The Doctor, replete with slouch cap (his newest affectation) and bowtie, leaned into the hall area. Taking in the scene in an instant, he simply raised both eyebrows and said "I hope you two are ready for a little more fun! Go clean up, because we're almost to Edreson 2." As he turned away, Rory caught a glimpse of hurt in his eyes and understood in a way that only a man who has waited centuries for love can. In that instant he knew, as well as he knew the spots on Amy's back that would make her his yet again and the signs of sickness he had been trained to recognize, that it wasn't age that drew Amy to he and The Doctor, but heartbreak.