kink bingo: amnesty fic
May. 13th, 2013 11:53 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kasihyaObviously I did not get around to writing everything I intended, so I finished up one of my existing fics so at least I'd be sure to get it done in time for the amnesty period. The last three hundred words or so are utter crap, but I just wanted to be done at this point. I hope it fits the prompt well enough.
Title: Mother's Day
Fandom: Doctor Who, with Star Wars references
Characters: Amy, Rory, River
Prompt: Age Play
Content Notes: brief reference to incest role-play
Summary: Maybe, if we had gone to a restaurant off-planet, people would believe that River was our time-travelling daughter whose other mother was a sentient spaceship. As it was ...
Author’s Notes: I’ve only ever seen a few episodes of the 1966 Star Trek, and I’m ignoring the fact that there have been crossovers in comic book canon. All drinks are stolen from geeksaresexy.net, and I cannot vouch for any of them. The Enterprise-themed restaurant is entirely made up, unfortunately.
“Ponds, party of three,” River told the hostess. Rory made that adorable resigned face that he did whenever someone called him Mr. Pond.
“Reservation for seven o’clock?” The hostess ran her finger down the list. Her nails were long, painted red with a black V at the top and a gold dot on the side.
“March fourteenth, two thousand twelve anno domini,” I made sure to add. She gave me a ‘you’re not making fun of me, are you?’ smile, by which I assumed that I’d gotten the date right. Vortex manipulators, as River reminded us constantly, were tricky things. The first time Rory and I had used one, we overshot by several million miles and landed on the moon in the sixteenth century, instead of present-day Tokyo. She’d gotten a good laugh out of that one, when we told her.
A waitress in an unfortunate red uniform, whose name tag read ‘Ensign Debbie’, appeared with a bunch of black laminated menus. “Right this way, please,” she said. She led us through dozens of pseudo-futuristic chairs and tables, all the way to a round table by the wall whose surface was covered in a myriad of buttons under the glass tabletop.
I giggled as I slid into one of the four red swivel chairs around it. “How did you find this place? I mean, how does it even exist?” I asked River.
“I thought you’d like it. The Agency had retro-futuristic night dinners every other month when I worked for them,” River explained, as if that was a real explanation.
“Are you from out of town, then?” asked the waitress.
“Leadworth, originally. It’s in England,” Rory volunteered. “But we’ve got a house in London.”
“Oh.” Debbie looked impressed, and I could pinpoint the moment that Rory became twice as attractive, just by virtue of being British. (Also because, I’d add: beautiful.) “Did you come all the way over here to take your mother out for dinner?”
If he’d been drinking something, Rory would have choked. It was only then that I realized what we must look like: two young people, early twenties, out to dinner on Mother’s Day with a woman who — okay, so I was never sure how old River was at any given point, not even counting her past regenerations, but she looked about fifty today. A very stylish fifty, (she was my daughter, after all) but the point still stood. I caught her eye while Rory was busy recovering himself. River winked, and I made an executive decision.
“Oh, yes,” I said. “Our mum travels a lot. We thought it’d be nice to meet her for once, instead of going the other way around.”
Rory’s expression cleared as he followed my lead. Quick on the uptake, that one; I knew I’d married him for a reason. “Right. Well, it wasn’t exactly halfway — you were in Japan, weren’t you?”
River’s eyes sparkled as the waitress handed us our menus. “Just got back from Aoikigahara. I’m an archaeologist,” she told Debbie.
“Ooh, that’s exciting. I’ll let you get caught up with your kids while you decide on drinks. Today’s specials are on the main screen.” She pointed off to the side. The wall there curved around, and had been entirely painted to look like the observation lounge on the Starship Enterprise. One of the computer screens had been replaced by a chalkboard, where the specials were listed in neon green. I fought back a grin.
“Thanks, Debbie,” I said.
As soon as she was out of earshot, River started chuckling. “Mum, is it? Now I feel old.”
“Sorry!” I picked up the cocktail menu and started flipping through. “You should have thought of that beforehand. Maybe you could have thought of it a few years ago. You could have been my older sister.” I tried to picture River younger, without laugh lines around her eyes and frowns on her forehead, and a memory sprang to the front of my mind: Mels, strutting through a freshly crop-circled field with a gun in her hand. The edges of the memory had this slightly brittle, patchy feeling to them — I couldn’t define it any better than that — that set them apart as one of the ‘other other’ memories, which explained why I didn’t immediately remember that right, when River was younger, there was no way anyone would have thought we were related.
“I practically was,” River said, as if she was reading my mind.
“Weren’t you the same age as us?” Rory asked. “And what’s a Mind Meld Mojita?” he added, squinting at the menu and adjusting his glasses like the letters would reform into something that made more sense. (Given the way that the TARDIS translation matrix was sometimes slow on the uptake, it was a perfectly natural reaction.)
“A Mind Meld Mojita is gin in soda water, and it comes with cucumber, mint leaves, and sugar.” Debbie appeared out of nowhere, hovering between me and Rory. I checked her wrist, just to make sure she didn’t have some sort of teleportation device strapped on there, but she really was just that good. “They’re not bad; a little underwhelming for a mind meld, if that’s what you’re going for.” She gave him an apologetic little smile.
Rory looked startled, and checked his watch — which I was pretty sure was still set to seventeenth-century Persian time and therefore useless in calculating how much he could safely drink before we had to leave. “That sounds — fine, I’ll have one of those. I’m with my family,” he said.
“Yes, don’t let Mummy see you drunk. Save it for your friends,” River told him, cocking an eyebrow.
The contortions that his face went through — from indignant to resigned to amused, all in the space of a couple seconds — made me snort. “I’ll take a Fuzzy Tribble,” I said, picking one at random. I hadn’t been allowed to watch Star Trek in any of my timelines, so my knowledge of the series was gained exclusively through afternoons at the Williams’ house and the times that Rory made the TARDIS ‘accidentally’ crash into the Enterprise when we were kids. With this education, I’d somehow missed the tribble-y bits.
“There was a reason I never allowed you to watch those episodes,” River said over the top of her menu. “You’d have wanted to make them. Uhura Kiss for me, please. I’m not driving.”
“I’d have done a good job of it if you’d let me!” I informed her.
Debbie scribbled our orders down on her notepad, chuckling.
“Um, I always did the sewing,” Rory tapped me on the shoulder. “Most of the time. After you left a stuffed Doctor on the ground with all the pins still in it, and your — and Mum nearly had to go to hospital when she stepped on it.”
“You did that all the time. I wasn’t sure how I was going to survive until you were old enough to take care of yourself,” River said.
I was about to rag on her for talking to me like that — I may not have raised her like I should have, but now that I knew who she was, I thought I should probably be able to exercise some authority — but Debbie was still in the vicinity, so, “Shut up, Mum,” was all I said.
“I’ll be right over with your drinks,” said Debbie.
As soon as she was gone, Rory leaned forwards. “Question.”
“Answer,” said River and I at the same time. I looked at her and tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile.
“If River’s our mum, does that make me your older brother?” Rory asked. I saw a flash of worry in his eyes, quickly smothered, and something in my chest constricted. I reached out to grab his hand and kiss it.
“Only for the purposes of not sounding like lunatics,” I promised him. “And possibly for fun … later.”
River chuckled. “Mummy,” she said, trying and failing to sound scandalized. I supposed that was what came of being in the same sex ed class as your daughter; nothing was sacred. I shrugged and picked up my menu.
“You don’t want to hear it, you shouldn’t have decided that we’re your kids,” I said. “I intend to do with that idea what I will.”
“Careful now, or I’ll start telling that lovely waitress embarrassing stories about you two,” River said.
Rory rolled his eyes and crossed his arms like he was going through his angsty teen phase all over again. “God, can you not?”
“What, are you afraid of her showing off photos of you from when you were a baby?” I poked him in the shoulder.
“I should get some. Make it more convincing.” River tapped her mouth with one finger thoughtfully.
Rory made a face like he’d taken a bite of Raxacoricofallapatorian-style figs. “I’m not related to either of you,” he said, but the petulant whine in his voice said otherwise.
A yellow-orange drink in a tall glass appeared over my shoulder, attached to a blue-clad arm this time. “The Fuzzy Tribble,” said the busboy, setting the glass down in front of me. He swept around to give Rory his drink, and then presented River with both hers and a ghastly peach-colored carnation. “Someone will be back to take your orders shortly,” he said.
When he had left, River raised her glass. “Happy Mothers’ Day to me,” she said, but she passed me the flower and winked, and Rory and I clinked our glasses against hers.
Title: Mother's Day
Fandom: Doctor Who, with Star Wars references
Characters: Amy, Rory, River
Prompt: Age Play
Content Notes: brief reference to incest role-play
Summary: Maybe, if we had gone to a restaurant off-planet, people would believe that River was our time-travelling daughter whose other mother was a sentient spaceship. As it was ...
Author’s Notes: I’ve only ever seen a few episodes of the 1966 Star Trek, and I’m ignoring the fact that there have been crossovers in comic book canon. All drinks are stolen from geeksaresexy.net, and I cannot vouch for any of them. The Enterprise-themed restaurant is entirely made up, unfortunately.
“Ponds, party of three,” River told the hostess. Rory made that adorable resigned face that he did whenever someone called him Mr. Pond.
“Reservation for seven o’clock?” The hostess ran her finger down the list. Her nails were long, painted red with a black V at the top and a gold dot on the side.
“March fourteenth, two thousand twelve anno domini,” I made sure to add. She gave me a ‘you’re not making fun of me, are you?’ smile, by which I assumed that I’d gotten the date right. Vortex manipulators, as River reminded us constantly, were tricky things. The first time Rory and I had used one, we overshot by several million miles and landed on the moon in the sixteenth century, instead of present-day Tokyo. She’d gotten a good laugh out of that one, when we told her.
A waitress in an unfortunate red uniform, whose name tag read ‘Ensign Debbie’, appeared with a bunch of black laminated menus. “Right this way, please,” she said. She led us through dozens of pseudo-futuristic chairs and tables, all the way to a round table by the wall whose surface was covered in a myriad of buttons under the glass tabletop.
I giggled as I slid into one of the four red swivel chairs around it. “How did you find this place? I mean, how does it even exist?” I asked River.
“I thought you’d like it. The Agency had retro-futuristic night dinners every other month when I worked for them,” River explained, as if that was a real explanation.
“Are you from out of town, then?” asked the waitress.
“Leadworth, originally. It’s in England,” Rory volunteered. “But we’ve got a house in London.”
“Oh.” Debbie looked impressed, and I could pinpoint the moment that Rory became twice as attractive, just by virtue of being British. (Also because, I’d add: beautiful.) “Did you come all the way over here to take your mother out for dinner?”
If he’d been drinking something, Rory would have choked. It was only then that I realized what we must look like: two young people, early twenties, out to dinner on Mother’s Day with a woman who — okay, so I was never sure how old River was at any given point, not even counting her past regenerations, but she looked about fifty today. A very stylish fifty, (she was my daughter, after all) but the point still stood. I caught her eye while Rory was busy recovering himself. River winked, and I made an executive decision.
“Oh, yes,” I said. “Our mum travels a lot. We thought it’d be nice to meet her for once, instead of going the other way around.”
Rory’s expression cleared as he followed my lead. Quick on the uptake, that one; I knew I’d married him for a reason. “Right. Well, it wasn’t exactly halfway — you were in Japan, weren’t you?”
River’s eyes sparkled as the waitress handed us our menus. “Just got back from Aoikigahara. I’m an archaeologist,” she told Debbie.
“Ooh, that’s exciting. I’ll let you get caught up with your kids while you decide on drinks. Today’s specials are on the main screen.” She pointed off to the side. The wall there curved around, and had been entirely painted to look like the observation lounge on the Starship Enterprise. One of the computer screens had been replaced by a chalkboard, where the specials were listed in neon green. I fought back a grin.
“Thanks, Debbie,” I said.
As soon as she was out of earshot, River started chuckling. “Mum, is it? Now I feel old.”
“Sorry!” I picked up the cocktail menu and started flipping through. “You should have thought of that beforehand. Maybe you could have thought of it a few years ago. You could have been my older sister.” I tried to picture River younger, without laugh lines around her eyes and frowns on her forehead, and a memory sprang to the front of my mind: Mels, strutting through a freshly crop-circled field with a gun in her hand. The edges of the memory had this slightly brittle, patchy feeling to them — I couldn’t define it any better than that — that set them apart as one of the ‘other other’ memories, which explained why I didn’t immediately remember that right, when River was younger, there was no way anyone would have thought we were related.
“I practically was,” River said, as if she was reading my mind.
“Weren’t you the same age as us?” Rory asked. “And what’s a Mind Meld Mojita?” he added, squinting at the menu and adjusting his glasses like the letters would reform into something that made more sense. (Given the way that the TARDIS translation matrix was sometimes slow on the uptake, it was a perfectly natural reaction.)
“A Mind Meld Mojita is gin in soda water, and it comes with cucumber, mint leaves, and sugar.” Debbie appeared out of nowhere, hovering between me and Rory. I checked her wrist, just to make sure she didn’t have some sort of teleportation device strapped on there, but she really was just that good. “They’re not bad; a little underwhelming for a mind meld, if that’s what you’re going for.” She gave him an apologetic little smile.
Rory looked startled, and checked his watch — which I was pretty sure was still set to seventeenth-century Persian time and therefore useless in calculating how much he could safely drink before we had to leave. “That sounds — fine, I’ll have one of those. I’m with my family,” he said.
“Yes, don’t let Mummy see you drunk. Save it for your friends,” River told him, cocking an eyebrow.
The contortions that his face went through — from indignant to resigned to amused, all in the space of a couple seconds — made me snort. “I’ll take a Fuzzy Tribble,” I said, picking one at random. I hadn’t been allowed to watch Star Trek in any of my timelines, so my knowledge of the series was gained exclusively through afternoons at the Williams’ house and the times that Rory made the TARDIS ‘accidentally’ crash into the Enterprise when we were kids. With this education, I’d somehow missed the tribble-y bits.
“There was a reason I never allowed you to watch those episodes,” River said over the top of her menu. “You’d have wanted to make them. Uhura Kiss for me, please. I’m not driving.”
“I’d have done a good job of it if you’d let me!” I informed her.
Debbie scribbled our orders down on her notepad, chuckling.
“Um, I always did the sewing,” Rory tapped me on the shoulder. “Most of the time. After you left a stuffed Doctor on the ground with all the pins still in it, and your — and Mum nearly had to go to hospital when she stepped on it.”
“You did that all the time. I wasn’t sure how I was going to survive until you were old enough to take care of yourself,” River said.
I was about to rag on her for talking to me like that — I may not have raised her like I should have, but now that I knew who she was, I thought I should probably be able to exercise some authority — but Debbie was still in the vicinity, so, “Shut up, Mum,” was all I said.
“I’ll be right over with your drinks,” said Debbie.
As soon as she was gone, Rory leaned forwards. “Question.”
“Answer,” said River and I at the same time. I looked at her and tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile.
“If River’s our mum, does that make me your older brother?” Rory asked. I saw a flash of worry in his eyes, quickly smothered, and something in my chest constricted. I reached out to grab his hand and kiss it.
“Only for the purposes of not sounding like lunatics,” I promised him. “And possibly for fun … later.”
River chuckled. “Mummy,” she said, trying and failing to sound scandalized. I supposed that was what came of being in the same sex ed class as your daughter; nothing was sacred. I shrugged and picked up my menu.
“You don’t want to hear it, you shouldn’t have decided that we’re your kids,” I said. “I intend to do with that idea what I will.”
“Careful now, or I’ll start telling that lovely waitress embarrassing stories about you two,” River said.
Rory rolled his eyes and crossed his arms like he was going through his angsty teen phase all over again. “God, can you not?”
“What, are you afraid of her showing off photos of you from when you were a baby?” I poked him in the shoulder.
“I should get some. Make it more convincing.” River tapped her mouth with one finger thoughtfully.
Rory made a face like he’d taken a bite of Raxacoricofallapatorian-style figs. “I’m not related to either of you,” he said, but the petulant whine in his voice said otherwise.
A yellow-orange drink in a tall glass appeared over my shoulder, attached to a blue-clad arm this time. “The Fuzzy Tribble,” said the busboy, setting the glass down in front of me. He swept around to give Rory his drink, and then presented River with both hers and a ghastly peach-colored carnation. “Someone will be back to take your orders shortly,” he said.
When he had left, River raised her glass. “Happy Mothers’ Day to me,” she said, but she passed me the flower and winked, and Rory and I clinked our glasses against hers.
