Characters/Pairings: Eleven/Amy, Amy/Rory (conspicuous in Rory's absence)
Summary: Sex pollen. Literally. This is not a nice story. Warnings for dubious consent.
Author's Notes: Set in S5 between “Cold Blood” and “Vincent and the Doctor”. Inspired by the seasonal blooming of cumflower trees in my city. The tree in this story is based off Ailanthus altissima, a real tree, invasive outside its native Asia, that really does stink of cum, and is rather hilariously known as the Tree of Heaven.
The Great Museum Tour of 2010 dragged on. Amy Pond dragged her feet.
“Stop sulking Pond.” The Doctor crossed his arms over his chest and appraised her. Hair half in her face, slouched posture, eyes trained on her feet. Bit more than a sulk, most likely; in the absence of Rory, Amy was sadder than she could ever remember, and yet couldn't even properly remember that she was sad. What did humans want when sad? He wasn’t good with sad.
“There's a garden section of the museum, for botanists,” he offered. Amy did not look enthused, so he elaborated. “Flowers. Extinct species, recreated from the DNA up. Preserved only here.” He leaned in to her, gently brushed her hair off her face. “Come along, Pond. Let's get out of the dust.”
It was a warm clear night, with plenty of moonlight from the three moons dancing through the sky. The gardens were immaculately tended, and most of the flowers were beautiful—or at least, beautiful in their strangeness. Colours Amy had seen only in dreams; hideous creations that looked hallucinatory. Velvety textures, protective spiky bits, every imaginable enticement to touch and enjoy, but not harm. Amazing perfumes and hideous stinks—though that assessment doubtless depended on who was smelling.
They stopped for a moment in front of a young little tree with fern-like branches and little green flowers that almost blended in to the leaves, remarkable primarily for how plain it was in comparison to the rest of the museum’s specimens. “Ailanthus extraterrestrialis,” said the Doctor. “Named by botanists from Earth who noticed its resemblance to more familiar flora. Wonder what it’s doing here?”
“Doctor, that can't be right.” Amy’s face was all scrunched up when he turned to look at her. “It smells like...”
“Like what, Pond?”
“Like, you know what like!” She smacked him on the arm, cheeks growing flushed.
“Like the semen of a number of similar although unrelated intelligent bipedal species across the Via Galactica, says right here on the helpful little sign by the tree. Which is also how I knew what it was.” He continued reading: “‘Unlike many extinct species, A. extraterrestrialis was intentionally eradicated due to the profound sexual arousal and attendant health and safety difficulties that pollen exposure provoked in these species. We have recreated this specimen for research into the cause and prevention of this phenomenon. We encourage visitors who find themselves adversely affected by contact with A. extraterrestrialis to contact museum staff as soon as possible.’ Well, good thing Time Lords don’t seem to be affected, since I can’t smell a thing. How are you doing, Pond? Keen to help the nice exobotanists? It's for science!”
“I'll show you science,” slurred Amy, falling onto him with a limp haplessness that was probably intended to be a seductive pounce.
There was a helpful button labelled “Call museum staff” below the placard describing the noxious little tree, and an intercom. He pressed the button. The intercom bleated out a sad little message. “Thank you for contacting the exobotany department in regards to Ailanthus extraterrestrialis exposure. Unfortunately, as the museum is closed for the Feast of Revolutionary Virtues, we are not able to offer our assistance at this time. We encourage you to seek professional medical assistance as soon as possible.”
This was very, very not good.
Getting Amy back to the TARDIS was more than a challenge. She could walk, with help, but her limbs were slack and heavy, her face flushed, her eyes glazed over. Her whole body was hot, burning, and he was keenly aware of it, because she was pressed against him as fully as she could be while still being able to move her feet. She was babbling. “Want you,” she said. It was something of a theme. “Want you. Bed now. I kissed you. Remember? I kissed you. Let's do that again. More kissing. More everything. Want you. Want you so much. Ever since I was little. Ever since you came back. Want you. Need you. Doctor. Please. Kiss me? Please...” And she was pressing kisses onto his shoulder, half-grinding against him even as he kept her on her feet and moving forward.
He eased them both through the doors and into the control room, planted Amy gently but firmly onto the jump seat, and buckled the seatbelt. He hoped that would keep her steady for long enough for him to formulate some kind of response. He started scanning the TARDIS files for information about Ailanthus extraterrestrialis. The existence of a tree that could make humans aroused and intoxicated was improbable but not, on the whole, impossible. Flowers were sexual organs; pollen was sex.
The TARDIS biological and medical databases didn't have much in the way of information beyond what he’d learned at the museum and what he could just as easily have observed by looking at Amy. Not that he was looking at Amy, because judging from the noises she was making, she was probably doing some things he wasn’t prepared to face just yet. Messy things. Human things.
He used to be so much more human.
The most notable feature of exposure to A. extraterrestrialis pollen was acute and uncontrollable sexual arousal. Left untreated, it could cause extreme physical discomfort due to either the very high levels of bloodflow to the genitals, or damage to them caused by... overexercise.
Other symptoms varied depending on species. Amy's other symptoms—fever and alcohol-like intoxication—were fairly typical for human exposure. No cure for the effects had been found, with the exception of an antidote to the pollen known to work on a human-like race from somewhere in the galactic centre. In general, treatment protocols focused on alleviating symptoms like swelling, fever, and nausea, while waiting for the arousal to subside. Pollen-affected individuals generally exhibited symptoms for approximately 24 hours.
Well then. He could do that, surely. Take care of an overexcited Amelia Pond for 24 hours—well, 23 hours now—without doing anything they'd regret in the morning. Couldn't he?
He turned to Amy. She didn't look nearly as indecent or dishevelled as he expected based on the constant stream of soft moans coming from her. She was stroking her breasts through the soft jersey of her jumper with one hand, and fondling her thighs with the other, trying and failing to get her right hand under her short skirt.
She perked up when she noticed that he’d turned around, and looked up at him with bright, mad eyes. “Doctor, do you think you could undo the seatbelt for me? S’getting in the way.”
He took her hands instead.
“Amelia. Amelia, please listen to me. You're sick right now, very sick. I know you don't feel sick, but you’re not quite yourself, so you have to trust me. Remember how I asked you to trust me for 20 minutes?”
Amy nodded, looking rather serious.
“Trust me for a day, Amelia Pond. Just one day, until you're better.”
She nodded again. Then she slid her hands up his arms, grabbed the lapels of his jacket, and pulled him towards her with surprising strength, straight into a kiss. His arms landed on the back of the jump seat, and one knee wedged between her legs. He kissed back for a minute, reflexively. Her lips were soft, her tongue slipped into his mouth. Her breasts pressed up against him, and the space between her legs burned hotter than the rest of her. She ground against him purposefully, jolting him out of the realm of pleasant sensations, and he pulled back from her sharply.
She made a somewhat frightening whine at the loss of contact, and then started babbling again. “Doctor. Doctor! Why do they call you that? Doctor. Make me better Doctor.”
“I will, Amy.” He stroked a hand softly down her cheek, and she leaned into the contact, desperate for anything. “I promise you.”
“Want you. Doctor. Kiss it better? Want you.”
“Oh Amelia. Kisses possess neither anti-inflammatory nor anti-pyretic properties. I'm afraid it'll have to be garden-variety aspirin for you. Up we go.” He unfastened the seatbelt, and helped Amy to stand again, leaning heavily against him. “Off to the infirmary.”
To be continued!!
- Current Mood: pleased