#im tryna wrap up old prompts so i can start fresh

[whifferdills]

Idk why but all your fics give me a really cozy feeling. Even the weird ones. (Maybe especially the weird ones.) That said, I am still waiting for that Rory/TARDIS sequel. (Preferably explicit.)

i wrote something and i don’t think it’s what you want but that’s what i got and i’m gonna put the gavel down on Sequels To This Fic from here on out. the story’s done, i can’t do anymore, please feel free to ask for something else.

but thank you for the words in re: cozy, i do strive for that, i’m glad it lands home for you

Rory/Amy, Rory/The TARDIS, ~1k words, this isn’t sexy it’s just a character piece sorry, Parentel Guidance Rated: Spicy, for Adult Themes, dubcon, emotional distress, etc

So it's 1936 and Rory Pond is sexually haunted by a spaceship.

He's also married to a woman absolutely miles out of his league, and they're trying for another bouncing baby whatever, and being a nurse from the future is complicated in a mostly-positive way, and generally the 30's in America have less of everything except syphilis and economic turmoil. There's a lot going on. Just, right, one of the things is: he's still got the TARDIS in his head.

Not all the time, not overmuch. Subtle enough he just thought it was stress, bad memories, the situation of it all. And the first incursion, a soft warm white-noise of a dream that left him sweating icicles and rock-hard upon waking up in their unheated midwinter flat, just sort of faded into the background. Amy was there, and she was warm, and having another nightmare. He curled up next to her, carefully angling his weird erection away, and tried to fall back asleep. Just a strange night. Out of many strange nights, all in a row.

(In the morning he wanted to say something and Amy looked like she wanted to say something and together they collectively said nothing at all.)

The second time, he woke up with a raging hard-on, in the middle of the night, and he left the warm cocoon of their blanket pile to stand at the window, the one single window, facing the brick wall of the adjacent building, and waited: shivering, teeth chattering, perfunctorily jerking himself off. Something about lights, and wires, and a warm welcoming buzz. Vroop vroop.

(She was writing a book, a children's book, and he loved that she was writing, because she was always creative, always talking, and then she wasn't, because their lives were a shitshow and then 1930s America happened and it was heartbreaking and absolutely understandable, what she went through. But she was making and talking and she was happy, after a fashion, and in his books that was just about one of the best things to happen.)

The third time, he knows. It's not a memory, not a bad dream. It's weird, capital-W Weird Stuff. The neutrons are temporally enfuckulated, or however the Doctor would phrase it; a complicated concept simplified for an alien child. Plus some white lies, probably.

New York is belligerently stumbling into spring and he's standing by their one window, the snow turning to dirty slush on the street below, watching Amy sleep. A presence in his head, and a tented-pants twinge in his nether region, and his hands clenched tight on the windowsill. Paint flaking off, the cold-air draft dragging past his wrists.

"Could you not," he says softly. "Please."

From inside his head, like an ear-worm song, he hears an apologetic vroop vroop.

It's 1937 and it's less cold all the time, which is the main thing. They have a new flat, with a furnace; Amy's book has sold enough to lead to another handshake contract - which is bonkers, considering it's 1937, and it's terrifying because so much could go so wrong, and his wages aren't exactly paying the rent, but he is so, so proud of her -

It's 1937 and it's a Tuesday and Rory is awake and cleaning the dust off the breadbox and it's 11 AM and quite nice out and everything inside him suddenly clenches up. A euphoric wave washing over. He knows, he knows what this is.

Amy's at the typewriter and she stops, hands ready-alert hovered over the keys. "What's wrong?" she asks.

"Digestive...issues?" he lies, and immediately feels bad about it.

"You know you can talk about it. Whatever it is. Yeah? We're in this together." She stares at him, and through him, and she's scared but steady and he falls in love all over again.

"Just been thinking about. You know. Before."

"With the Doctor."

"Right."

"And the internet and three Tescos in walking distance and fewer recent major wars and/or plagues. And the sexism was more cloaked. And the clothing - "

"And the TARDIS," he blurts out.

She hums and goes a bit faraway, like she does sometimes. And then she starts typing again, with a smile like she's trying very hard to be positive. "Would be nice, wouldn't it? I think about that a lot. Time travel, I mean, away from here."

He wants to say,

No, not like that, the TARDIS is a literal thing inside my brain and genitals

but that wouldn't be right, would it. That's not a discussion he wants to have. So he nods, and smiles, and shrugs, and goes back to dusting. He keeps dusting until he has to leave for his shift at the hospital.

(She reads out a passage from what she's just written, and it's good and it's her and he is in awe of this woman. So impossibly strong and clever and infuriating and brave. She kisses him goodbye, as he leaves for work, and he carries that with him into the medieval torture-chamber of a hospital where he's not half as helpful as he'd like, or want. It's something, it's way more than nothing.)

It's 1938 and Rory shakes himself out of an unwanted erotic dream. He drags himself out of bed, and he watches his wife sleep. Swing-shift, he's only up about an hour early. The sun's coming up, light filtering through the curtains in their one of three windows.

"Don't," he says softly. "Please. Unless you can take us out of this, to the moon or something. In the future."

He hears, or feels, a quiet vroop vroop noise, and feels a rush of faintly-apologetic optimism, and then it's gone. And it stays gone. 1938, the rest of their lives together, on their own, for better or for worse. Fingers crossed.

He slips back into bed, shucking off one strata of the blanket pile because it’s the season where you can have too many layers, depending, and holds Amy as she works through a dream. A good one, he hopes. He wraps himself closer around her and just breathes, as in-tandem as possible.