[doctor who fic] how to snuggle with your time lady in five easy steps (5/6), pg
how to snuggle with your time lady in 5 easy steps
- doctor who
- river/doctor
- pg
- 1600
- for tenacious_err ♥
- aka, five times river and the doctor cuddle, and one time they don't.
- i really wish this title weren't my fault. but it is. forgive me.
part one | part two | part three | part four
“Nesta?”
“No.”
“The Art-Sun Maker?”
“Nope.”
She frowns. “Dina the Dawner?”
“Which one?”
“The first one.”
“Wrong.”
“The second one.”
“Still wrong.” She huffs, and he grins against her neck. “Pay attention.”
“I have been,” she snips, but closes her eyes nonetheless, concentrating on the way his fingers sweep over her thigh in circles and lines beneath the water. She tips her head back against his shoulder, sinking further beneath the foam, warm and weightless. The Doctor continues his patterns, drifting down to her knee, repeating the words.
“It’s a well-known poem, River,” he admonishes, nipping experimentally at her ear. He grins when she twitches and does it again, followed by brief kisses trailed from her temple down her neck and across her shoulder.
She hums, half-laughing, and swats his head with a soapy hand. “It’s a bit difficult when someone’s distracting me.”
“Who is he?” the Doctor returns. She can tell by his inflection that he’s aiming for stern, but his voice is high and giddy as he nudges her shoulder with his nose. “I’ll have him hanged.”
She snorts.
“I could, you know!” he protests, and she chuckles.
“Who said it was a man?”
He pinches the inside of her leg - “Oi, rude!” - and she laughs, resting a hand over his wrist as he continues to trace symbols down her leg, following his motions.
“You walked right into that one, sweetie.”
He shrugs, pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck. “I’d walk with you anywhere.” River represses a laugh, but the Doctor’s already frowning, brow furrowed and lips pressed in a line. “Bad?”
“Very bad,” she agrees, but smiles anyway.
“Or just ill-timed.”
“And also bad.”
He rolls his eyes. “Well, I can’t be expected to say brilliant things all the time.”
“And this is your day off?”
“Exactly.”
“As opposed to yesterday, when you tried to convince me bonnets were cool?”
“Bonnets are cool.”
“On babies, dear.”
He flicks water at her. “That’s what I said! And since yesterday I was being brilliant, as usual, and you were being rude, today is the day of non-brilliant, non-rude things. Normal things. Everyday-people things, like baths and cliches.”
“A whole day, really?”
“Mmm-hmm. An entire day of silly, humany, romanticness.” He tries to bop her nose from behind and winds up poking his finger into her cheek. “Starting now.”
There’s a long pause.
“I’m waiting.”
The Doctor scoffs. “Oh, now you want me to perform on command, is that it?”
“Well generally that helps, sweetie, but you shouldn’t feel bad about it if you can’t.”
The water splashes as he flails his arms in protest. “That’s not what I meant!” he sputters, and she doesn’t need to turn to see the red tint to his cheeks and the affronted yet turned-on look in his eyes. She waits, and as predicted he leans in after a moment, lips against her ear and a palm running down her side. “But I’ll have you know I’m very capable of performing in a wide variety of scenarios. In fact, I’m rather spectacular.”
She shivers. “Spectacular, really? I may need proof of that.”
The Doctor blanches, bravado gone, and pointlessly looks around the room before hissing, “Again?”
River gives a mock-heavy sigh, her eyes closed. “Well, I suppose it can wait, if you’re too tired.”
The Doctor pokes her in the ribs. “She says, falling asleep in the bath.” River ignores him. “That can be dangerous, you know. You could drown.”
“You’d let me?”
“Never,” he says immediately - then considers. “Well, maybe. But only if you were after my hats.”
River jabs him in the chest with her elbow, but her tone is amused. “Good to know where I stand in your life, sweetie.”
“Above fedoras, but below fezzes,” he concurs, and at her snort of derision adds, “They’re cool.” River hums, a very typical wife-like ‘whatever you say, dear’-hum that he knows isn’t really an offer of agreement, or an acceptance that she’s wrong and he’s right and fezzes are most definitely extremely cool, but he takes it anyway. “You still haven’t guessed the poem.”
“That’s because it’s not a real poem, you dirty old man.”
“A limerick is a real poem!”
“It’s a facsimile of a poem, dear.”
“Edward Lear would beg to differ.”
“Let’s visit, then, I could use a good row.”
“Will you take me in tow?”
River moans as she cranes her head to look at him. “Oh god, what have I done?”
The Doctor grins and tightens both arms around her waist. “Now you’re getting it!”
“Idiot,” she says fondly.
“Am not.”
“Are too.” She presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw. “But you’re my idiot.”
He pretends to consider this for a long moment -“I suppose that’ll do.” - but River just shakes her head.
“You were trying to think of something that rhymes with idiot, weren’t you?”
He pouts adorably. “I’ve got a hundred and seven, but none of them fit.”
“Poor thing,” she murmurs, patting his leg beneath the water.
The Doctor makes a tsking noise at her. “You mock, River, but someday a well-constructed rhyme could get you out of a pickle. ...well, a metaphoric pickle, not an actual pickle, mind you. For that you need a hairdryer and a wand made out of Silly Putty. Well. It’s not actually Silly Putty, but--”
River chooses that moment to shift, re-situating herself further down in the bubbles, her back to his chest, legs between his, her hands resting on his knees. The Doctor swallows and clears his throat, trying to scoot back to give her more room (and not be quite so obvious, really), but there’s nowhere to go. He can’t see her face, but he can tell by her voice that she’s smirking. “Sorry, sweetie, did I interrupt you? You were saying something about wands.”
“Silly Puddy wands, River,” he emphasises. “Not exactly an appropriate metaphor.”
Shifting even further back against him, an intentional sway to her hips, she murmurs in agreement. “No argument here.”
The Doctor sighs, exasperated, but at the same time slides his hands up over her abdomen to cup her breasts. She moans softly, the pressure of his fingers against her skin, his firm chest at her back, his lips on her shoulder; the ends of her hair are damp, sticking to her neck where he’s brushed them aside, no traces left of prison soap on her skin or dust in her eyes - she smells like marigolds and him and everything is warm and sweet and safe.
On the back of his hand, she traces out I love you.
On her thigh, he marks her with the Gallifreyan equivalent of ditto.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he whispers, resting his chin on her shoulder.
She peers at him out of the corner of her eye. “Oh?”
“A day isn’t nearly long enough for normal humany stuff.”
“It isn’t?” she asks. There’s a thread of hope there that he seizes on.
“Nope. Definitely not. There are all kinds of normal things I haven’t done yet, like build a fence or chew gum while walking, and if baths and cliches alone take up a whole day, I can’t be expected to do more than two or three non-brilliant, humany things per day. So I’ll need a week, at least.”
She smiles, covering his hands with hers, and tilts her head back to look at him properly. “A week, hmm?”
He nods, placing a swift kiss to her lips. “Definitely a week. Maybe a month. Possibly longer - depends on the company.”
“You’re having company?”
He nods.
“Should I be jealous?”
“Very. She’s beautiful and clever, with a naughty sense of humour I shouldn’t love but really do. Brilliant shot, too. Excellent runner. Flies my TARDIS.” As he speaks, his arms tighten around her waist, pulling her into a slippery hug. “Gets on great with my companions.”
“She sounds wonderful.”
“Oh, she is. She’s perfect.” He kisses the junction between her neck and shoulder. “Nothing like you at all.”
River laughs, a warm, full-bodied sound that makes him giggle proudly against her skin. He loves that sound, for its purity as well as its rarity; perfect happiness. He turns her chin toward him and kisses her, capturing her laughter and swallowing it down as if he could keep it inside him, keep it close. She moves, her mouth slating over his, her body shifting and the water churning as she curls a hand around his neck, pulling him in closer.
When the kiss ends he pulls back, just enough to press his forehead to hers, to feel the warmth from her blushed, damp skin.
“Hello,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to her nose.
River cups his face in her hand, her thumb brushing over his cheekbone as she smiles and it’s almost too much - too much acceptance and too much knowledge and too much love staring back at him. Everything she’d give up for him gladly written in a sheen over her eyes, arched in the gentle curve of her lips.
“Hello, sweetie.”
- doctor who
- river/doctor
- pg
- 1600
- for tenacious_err ♥
- aka, five times river and the doctor cuddle, and one time they don't.
- i really wish this title weren't my fault. but it is. forgive me.
part one | part two | part three | part four
“Nesta?”
“No.”
“The Art-Sun Maker?”
“Nope.”
She frowns. “Dina the Dawner?”
“Which one?”
“The first one.”
“Wrong.”
“The second one.”
“Still wrong.” She huffs, and he grins against her neck. “Pay attention.”
“I have been,” she snips, but closes her eyes nonetheless, concentrating on the way his fingers sweep over her thigh in circles and lines beneath the water. She tips her head back against his shoulder, sinking further beneath the foam, warm and weightless. The Doctor continues his patterns, drifting down to her knee, repeating the words.
“It’s a well-known poem, River,” he admonishes, nipping experimentally at her ear. He grins when she twitches and does it again, followed by brief kisses trailed from her temple down her neck and across her shoulder.
She hums, half-laughing, and swats his head with a soapy hand. “It’s a bit difficult when someone’s distracting me.”
“Who is he?” the Doctor returns. She can tell by his inflection that he’s aiming for stern, but his voice is high and giddy as he nudges her shoulder with his nose. “I’ll have him hanged.”
She snorts.
“I could, you know!” he protests, and she chuckles.
“Who said it was a man?”
He pinches the inside of her leg - “Oi, rude!” - and she laughs, resting a hand over his wrist as he continues to trace symbols down her leg, following his motions.
“You walked right into that one, sweetie.”
He shrugs, pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck. “I’d walk with you anywhere.” River represses a laugh, but the Doctor’s already frowning, brow furrowed and lips pressed in a line. “Bad?”
“Very bad,” she agrees, but smiles anyway.
“Or just ill-timed.”
“And also bad.”
He rolls his eyes. “Well, I can’t be expected to say brilliant things all the time.”
“And this is your day off?”
“Exactly.”
“As opposed to yesterday, when you tried to convince me bonnets were cool?”
“Bonnets are cool.”
“On babies, dear.”
He flicks water at her. “That’s what I said! And since yesterday I was being brilliant, as usual, and you were being rude, today is the day of non-brilliant, non-rude things. Normal things. Everyday-people things, like baths and cliches.”
“A whole day, really?”
“Mmm-hmm. An entire day of silly, humany, romanticness.” He tries to bop her nose from behind and winds up poking his finger into her cheek. “Starting now.”
There’s a long pause.
“I’m waiting.”
The Doctor scoffs. “Oh, now you want me to perform on command, is that it?”
“Well generally that helps, sweetie, but you shouldn’t feel bad about it if you can’t.”
The water splashes as he flails his arms in protest. “That’s not what I meant!” he sputters, and she doesn’t need to turn to see the red tint to his cheeks and the affronted yet turned-on look in his eyes. She waits, and as predicted he leans in after a moment, lips against her ear and a palm running down her side. “But I’ll have you know I’m very capable of performing in a wide variety of scenarios. In fact, I’m rather spectacular.”
She shivers. “Spectacular, really? I may need proof of that.”
The Doctor blanches, bravado gone, and pointlessly looks around the room before hissing, “Again?”
River gives a mock-heavy sigh, her eyes closed. “Well, I suppose it can wait, if you’re too tired.”
The Doctor pokes her in the ribs. “She says, falling asleep in the bath.” River ignores him. “That can be dangerous, you know. You could drown.”
“You’d let me?”
“Never,” he says immediately - then considers. “Well, maybe. But only if you were after my hats.”
River jabs him in the chest with her elbow, but her tone is amused. “Good to know where I stand in your life, sweetie.”
“Above fedoras, but below fezzes,” he concurs, and at her snort of derision adds, “They’re cool.” River hums, a very typical wife-like ‘whatever you say, dear’-hum that he knows isn’t really an offer of agreement, or an acceptance that she’s wrong and he’s right and fezzes are most definitely extremely cool, but he takes it anyway. “You still haven’t guessed the poem.”
“That’s because it’s not a real poem, you dirty old man.”
“A limerick is a real poem!”
“It’s a facsimile of a poem, dear.”
“Edward Lear would beg to differ.”
“Let’s visit, then, I could use a good row.”
“Will you take me in tow?”
River moans as she cranes her head to look at him. “Oh god, what have I done?”
The Doctor grins and tightens both arms around her waist. “Now you’re getting it!”
“Idiot,” she says fondly.
“Am not.”
“Are too.” She presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw. “But you’re my idiot.”
He pretends to consider this for a long moment -“I suppose that’ll do.” - but River just shakes her head.
“You were trying to think of something that rhymes with idiot, weren’t you?”
He pouts adorably. “I’ve got a hundred and seven, but none of them fit.”
“Poor thing,” she murmurs, patting his leg beneath the water.
The Doctor makes a tsking noise at her. “You mock, River, but someday a well-constructed rhyme could get you out of a pickle. ...well, a metaphoric pickle, not an actual pickle, mind you. For that you need a hairdryer and a wand made out of Silly Putty. Well. It’s not actually Silly Putty, but--”
River chooses that moment to shift, re-situating herself further down in the bubbles, her back to his chest, legs between his, her hands resting on his knees. The Doctor swallows and clears his throat, trying to scoot back to give her more room (and not be quite so obvious, really), but there’s nowhere to go. He can’t see her face, but he can tell by her voice that she’s smirking. “Sorry, sweetie, did I interrupt you? You were saying something about wands.”
“Silly Puddy wands, River,” he emphasises. “Not exactly an appropriate metaphor.”
Shifting even further back against him, an intentional sway to her hips, she murmurs in agreement. “No argument here.”
The Doctor sighs, exasperated, but at the same time slides his hands up over her abdomen to cup her breasts. She moans softly, the pressure of his fingers against her skin, his firm chest at her back, his lips on her shoulder; the ends of her hair are damp, sticking to her neck where he’s brushed them aside, no traces left of prison soap on her skin or dust in her eyes - she smells like marigolds and him and everything is warm and sweet and safe.
On the back of his hand, she traces out I love you.
On her thigh, he marks her with the Gallifreyan equivalent of ditto.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he whispers, resting his chin on her shoulder.
She peers at him out of the corner of her eye. “Oh?”
“A day isn’t nearly long enough for normal humany stuff.”
“It isn’t?” she asks. There’s a thread of hope there that he seizes on.
“Nope. Definitely not. There are all kinds of normal things I haven’t done yet, like build a fence or chew gum while walking, and if baths and cliches alone take up a whole day, I can’t be expected to do more than two or three non-brilliant, humany things per day. So I’ll need a week, at least.”
She smiles, covering his hands with hers, and tilts her head back to look at him properly. “A week, hmm?”
He nods, placing a swift kiss to her lips. “Definitely a week. Maybe a month. Possibly longer - depends on the company.”
“You’re having company?”
He nods.
“Should I be jealous?”
“Very. She’s beautiful and clever, with a naughty sense of humour I shouldn’t love but really do. Brilliant shot, too. Excellent runner. Flies my TARDIS.” As he speaks, his arms tighten around her waist, pulling her into a slippery hug. “Gets on great with my companions.”
“She sounds wonderful.”
“Oh, she is. She’s perfect.” He kisses the junction between her neck and shoulder. “Nothing like you at all.”
River laughs, a warm, full-bodied sound that makes him giggle proudly against her skin. He loves that sound, for its purity as well as its rarity; perfect happiness. He turns her chin toward him and kisses her, capturing her laughter and swallowing it down as if he could keep it inside him, keep it close. She moves, her mouth slating over his, her body shifting and the water churning as she curls a hand around his neck, pulling him in closer.
When the kiss ends he pulls back, just enough to press his forehead to hers, to feel the warmth from her blushed, damp skin.
“Hello,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to her nose.
River cups his face in her hand, her thumb brushing over his cheekbone as she smiles and it’s almost too much - too much acceptance and too much knowledge and too much love staring back at him. Everything she’d give up for him gladly written in a sheen over her eyes, arched in the gentle curve of her lips.
“Hello, sweetie.”