'aint nobody's business if I do
Title: 'aint nobody's business if I do
Author: shegrewhearts
Fandom/Characters: Doctor Who, Eleven/River
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~3200
Summary: "One of those few times she and the Doctor run into each other by accident, River Song is drunk enough to black out."
A/N: Prompted by "drunk is the best option" from drabble365days. Title courtesy of Lady Day, the darling Billie Holiday. Not that I'm promoting drunkenness, but I imagine this would be River's take on such a situation. And I can't decide what fuels my muse; I saw the prompt, and then there was this.
Sometimes, when she feels safe enough and sad enough, River Song will get dangerously drunk.
She likes the loss of control, the reliance on her senses; everything is illuminated and lucid and so very, very vivid. The world slows down, speeds up, stops. Her breaths are short and ragged or long and heavy and she can feel each lung fiber contract and release, contract and release. In these rare moments, she allows herself to feel alive.
Adventures and discoveries give her the selfsame thrill but don't leave her feeling quite so naked. The rushing in her ears, the absence of depth perception, the blending of outlines and shadows: she understands it all.
The ground beneath her will shake or spin like one of those amusement park rides, where natural forces shove you up against the wall and the floor falls from beneath you and you're spinning, spinning, unable to do anything but be pushed flat against the wall and wait for the ride to finish, your stomach in your throat and your heart in your gut. It's different, though, with alcohol, because alcohol is solid and real.
She knows her limits and her tastes, and how a blue drink on Astapor has probably been spiked, and how too much vodka will give her the mother of all headaches the next morning. But those moments when she's lucky, and there's that once-in-a-lifetime cocktail that tastes faintly of raspberries, River allows herself to let go.
It's a madness she can control, a madness she can dictate. Her world is full of madness that's out of her hands, but drinking is one thing that only she governs.
One of those few times she and the Doctor run into each other by accident, River Song is drunk enough to black out. The bar is small, around a thousand square feet, and the walls are lined with old wooden booths covered in a dark fabric that works to hide stains. The actual bar spans one wall, farthest from the entrance, and the corner speakers blast some time-period music that River isn't bothered to note. The floor is all dark wood, individual floorboards, and the walls are a rustic red color that give the room a come-hither feel. It's bustling but not over-crowded, and there are one or two couples dancing by themselves in the center of the room.
Usually she's very careful never to lose her good sense around him, because there's too much at stake to be thrown away by a glass of wine and a spoiler. So when he shows up at the bar, green coat thrown over one arm and knees knocking, the first thing she does is plant a large kiss on his mouth.
Wait a minute.
River withdraws, languidly, and half-consciously checks herself, belatedly reminded to figure out timelines. The blend of music and loud voices and jeering laughs echoes in her ears and she grabs his shoulders to steady her swaying, peering into his eyes.
He looks shocked but a little smug, so she knows he's late enough. Good. She's not in the mood to deal with their early sexual tension.
"Hello there, sweetie, come to have a drink?"
He puts a hand on her waist to keep her from falling over, and she curls into his side, her head resting on his shoulder. "R-River," he splutters. "Are you - are you drunk?"
She nods, her nose bumping his neck. Only a little, she thinks. "Very much."
"Are you - how did you...River, will you stop!"
Her fingers, currently running up and down his braces, halt on the waistband of his pants and cling there. "Grumpy, grumpy, grumpy," she mumbles.
With a graceless shuffle and a little maneuvering of his hips, the Doctor manages to move them to a booth, where River slinks into the sofa and aggressively rubs her face.
"Hey, hey, hey," the Doctor soothes, grabbing her hands and placing them on her lap. "You'll scratch yourself."
"Please," she drawls, snapping her hands to her sides. "I'm absolutely fine. I'm okay. I'm - what do you say? - the King, no the Queen, of Okay!"
He cocks an eyebrow, taking in her droopy lids and fussed-with hair, the slide of her shirt strap off one shoulder. "That so?"
She exaggerates a nod and relaxes into the booth, her fingers toying with a loose thread on her jeans. Taking a moment to reevaluate, River scans the room for anyone who looks dangerous (or anyone she'd beat in a fight) and wipes at a few crumbs on the table. There's a bowl of mixed nuts off to the side, a metal napkin stand, and a few empty glasses with lipstick residue. It's not her shade so it's not her drink, but she reaches forward anyway to down the last couple of sips, only to be stopped by the Doctor's hand on her wrist. She tries to shake him off but her head is pounding and she can feel the bass of whatever's playing rolling through her body; she relents with a heavy sigh.
"I think you've had enough," he says.
River swipes a hand across his chest, digging her nails into the fabric. "You're aren't the boss of me."
"No," he chuckles, "I'm not. But you're drunk enough."
She rolls her eyes. "You never have any fun."
He bristles, his grip tightening. "That's not true! I tour the universe and see beautiful things and meet amazing - are you even listening to me?"
"Hmm, what?" Suddenly the booth is the most comfortable chair she's ever sat in, and River draws her knees underneath her and tilts her head to better look at him. "And look, you've got that irritated face on that you get whenever I'm not listening. But I am...now. So talk."
Letting go of her hand, he sighs. "You know, this is a bad idea."
"What is?"
"You convincing me to have a drink."
River grins, slapping him on the leg. "That's my boy."
Half an hour later, after the Doctor has somehow called over a few drinks and drank at least three of them, he turns to her with a sloppy smile and that adorable wrinkle on the bridge of his nose. "So how'd you end up here, Miz Song?"
She laughs, throwing her head behind her. "Needed a little me-time."
"Me-time?" he asks, incredulous, with eyebrows reaching a record-breaking height.
River nods. "Misery and alcohol are a surprisingly happy couple."
He tilts his head, dabbing her on the nose. "Misery?"
She pauses, trying hard to listen to that little whisp of sobriety shouting in the back of her mind. Divert the question, River. Don't say anything you'll regret. "You know, feeling blue? A little down in the dumps?"
"I got that," he grimaces.
"Well, all that, that's how I was feeling. What's your excuse?"
"Well," he licks his lips. He pauses, studying her, and suddenly his gaze feels intense and heavy and full of so much meaning and this is not what she came here for so she heaves herself upright, waving down at him.
He gapes, confused, and stands up quickly, knocking a glass over in the process. "Where are you going?"
"Not sure," she shrugs. Drunk or sober, River Song is reckless.
He scoffs. "Not alone, you aren't. It's dangerous out there. We're in the middle of an air raid."
River turns, thrown. "An air raid?"
"It's 1941," he nearly shouts. "And we're in London! What did you expect?"
"Oh," she dismisses, waving him off. "That's why the bartender looked so confused. Women don't wear jeans, much, now, do they?"
He moves towards her and, having that bit of sobriety advantage, manages to grab her waist and wrestle her in to him, attempting to steady her. "That's it, I've made up my mind. To the TARDIS. I won't have you blown up on the side of the road in World War II, for Christ's sake. There are much braver ways to die. I would know."
River snorts, allowing herself to be led to the door. "Sure. If by pretend to die you mean die, then yes, you're very schooled in the ways of cheating the universe."
"That doesn't even make sense," he mutters. Luckily, she doesn't hear him.
When they make it to the TARDIS doors, River snaps sloppily before he can fish for his keys, and he escorts them inside as proudly as he can before they collapse against the walls of the TARDIS, giggling uncontrollably.
Once their chuckles subside, River drops a hand to his thigh, waiting for an awkward blush or recoil of limbs; but he just sits there, staring off, and places his hand over hers. Without warning, the sound of a horn and an accompanying big band slide out the speakers, a voice like silk drifting above it all.
"There is no greater love," the Doctor mumbles, eyes glazed over.
"What?" River remembers to ask. That's right, keep that dialogue going. Don't do anything you'll regret.
He shrugs. "The song. Billie Holiday, 1947. Decca Recordings."
River just stares at him, focusing all of her energy on her scrutiny. The world fades out and the music lessens to a hum, and all she can see is the point of his nose and the curl of his eyelashes and the faint freckles that paint the tops of his cheeks. His lips are creased and pink and call to her, and she leans in, then stops, remembering herself. "How is it you know everything?"
Her breath is on his neck, warm and soft and welcoming. He turns to face her, and suddenly their lips are inches apart; she gasps quietly, aware of the thrill that spikes down her spine. His voice is a deep rasp when he replies. "Happens when you get old. I'm really, really old."
"Uh-uh," River agrees. Coherent speech is more than she can handle with his lips so close to hers and his eyes so dark and the stupidity coursing through her veins, and then their lips are touching and she can't figure who kissed who first but oh, does this man know how to kiss.
His hands dive into her hair while hers slide under his braces and around to his back, drawing their bodies closer. The kiss is messy, tongues and teeth and lust, but she can't bring herself to care. One of his hands slides down to cup her breast and she shivers, pressing further into him.
He moans into her mouth and she pushes him down against the floor, careful to align their bodies just so, grinding her hips into his. He groans, his hand tightening in her hair, and he reaches down lightning-quick to grab her arse, dragging her against him. She bites his bottom lip and unbuttons the top of his shirt, smoothing away the collar so she can place kisses on his throat.
He shudders underneath her, and a choked "River" comes out, like it's pulled out without his consent, like he can't not say it. She suckles on his pulse point, lost in the feel of his hands on her body, and all she can think is bed.
"Bed," she whispers, and he ropes his arms around her faster than she ever thought possible, hauling them to their feet. River wraps her legs around his waist and continues to undress him, nails clicking against plastic. He scans the room for the quickest escape and starts them towards it, relatively distracted by her fingers on his chest.
When they reach the bedroom door he's so painfully hard he can't help himself; he shoves her back against the wall, kissing her fiercely. She gasps into his mouth, pulling away only to discard her shirt. Then the Doctor's mouth is on hers once again and she rolls her hips into his, grinning when she's rewarded by a hiss.
One of his hands slides between their bodies, his other holding up her arse, and his fingers are flicking at the button of her jeans, unzipping them, pushing aside her knickers and oh, this is what they've been needing.
She breaks the kiss and breathes into his neck, chest heaving, as his finger trails along her folds, dips in, and pinches the sensitive spot that has her biting into his shoulder. He presses another finger in and quickly draws it out, settling on a rhythm that's neither clever nor practiced but is meant to send her over quickly, and she can feel sensation bubbling in her core and spreading outwards, like a drop of oil in a pot of water.
He takes his fingers out and moans, once, before returning to the task of getting to the bedroom. She helps him out by unbuckling his belt and loosening his trousers; he drops her onto the bed and shoves off his braces, dropping his pants, and River's pushing her jeans down her legs as fast as she can.
She reaches behind her to unhook her bra but he stops her, drawing her hand to his chest.
"Please," he mumbles. "Favorite part."
She laughs, basking in the drunken warmth of his body and the hot blood in her veins, made only hotter by his proximity. Each movement feels languid and heavy, and she can feel every vessel in her body pumping oxygen into her bloodstream, the nerves on her skin screaming for his skin, the taste of his kiss on her tongue. She closes her eyes against the beauty of it all, because the colors are too overwhelming, and his fingers are at the clasp, rough and smooth and her bra is across the floor, and his hands are on her stomach, and hers are reaching out to stroke him, and he is panting into her neck, and she is kissing his chest.
She sets a steady pace with her hands, alternatively tight and loose, and his breath on her skin is driving her insane, and then his hands are pulling down her knickers and throwing them to the floor. River holds him tightly in her hand, determined to lead, but he licks her clavicle, and just like that her hands are on the sheets, knuckles white as they strain against the covers.
He makes to move his head downwards but she shakes her head, grabbing for him, guiding him towards her center. Now's not the time for flirting or courting; she can feel him throbbing against her thigh and all she can think is need and then he's inside of her, and she sighs.
She wraps her legs around his waist, deepening the angle, and then he pulls out and thrusts back in, deeper than before, and she's gasping. Her back arches off the sheets and, somehow, he manages a smug smile before pushing back into her. Golden timelines dance across her eyelids.
His pace is erratic but self-assured, twisting once he's buried to the hilt, his body having memorized hers long ago. He knows just where to apply pressure, which breast is more sensitive, the exact location of that spot inside her that will make her come twice before he's even tired. He reaches for it with every thrust, kissing her shoulder, groaning as she ropes her arms around him to drag him even closer, deeper.
Her walls clench around him and he buries his face in her neck, never stopping his rhythm, waiting out her attempts to throw him off-track.
River's on fire. She's afraid to open her eyes for fear that she's shining so brightly she'll go blind, that her skin is glistening intensely enough to destroy her sight. Her blood boils in her veins, hotter than hell itself, and she can hear that last hint of sobriety fade away with every thrust and twist of his hips. He knows her body well; too well, she sometimes thinks. And right now, as already incoherent as she is, there's nothing she can do to surprise him. She bites her lip and rubs his lower back, urging him onwards, and it's not long before she feels the pressure spike in her core and shoot straight through her, toes curling in the sheets.
He's not long after, filling her, collapsing against her chest with a growl and pressing their slick bodies into the mattress. Her eyes remain closed as she counts her heartbeats, pacing their rhythm. His hands stroke her hips lazily, greedy in the luxury of being allowed the honor.
After a few moments of gathering his senses, he rolls off her and lands with a thud on the bed. She reaches down and, in a moment of drunken tenderness, clasps his hand in hers. It's clammy and all-together slightly unpleasant, but the intimacy the touch brings is something she wouldn't trade for the world.
"Wow," River sighs, after a couple of quiet minutes. "I'm exhausted."
He snorts, shifting to his side so he can take in her profile. Her hair, earlier only frizzy, is fully mussed and wild, curls spiraling out in every direction. There's a bead of sweat trickling down from her neck-line and he has the sudden urge to lap it up, but doesn't. Her lips are a light red from his kisses, and her cheeks are thoroughly flushed and glistening.
The Doctor smiles, smug. "I know."
"Hate you," she mutters.
"No," he grins. "You really don't."
She closes her eyes and turns on her side, pressing her back to his front. She reaches behind her and grabs for his hand, arcing it over her waist so his hand rests across her hips. He nuzzles her neck with his nose, leaving a kiss on her hairline.
"Let me just close my eyes, just for a minute."
The Doctor smirks. "You'll fall asleep."
"No," River yawns, nestling into her pillow. "I won't."
He grins into her hair and closes his eyes, counting the drumbeat of four in both her chest and his own. He stays quiet until River's breaths even out and her body slumps deeper into the covers, and waits until he is fairly sure she is asleep.
He scoops his body closer to hers, reveling in their combined warmth. Shutting his eyes tighter against the dimming lights of the TARDIS, he vehemently decides not to tell River about his day, and why that bar seemed a not-too bad idea at the time. He's lucky he ran into her; there's no telling where'd have ended up the next morning had he been left to his own devices. She has her secrets, and he has his.
He can feel the alcohol in his systems winding down; his nerves are less active, his blood flowing slower. It's an odd sensation, but it's one nonetheless. Sleep, he decides, closing the doors of his mind to make way for slumber. Sleep.