Work Header

The same hearts beneath my fingers

Work Text:

She counted the steps she took beneath her breath as she strode down the hall, leading her prey away from the hot, thick tangle of people jammed into the ballroom. She knew he would follow. She noticed the way his gaze raked over her curves time and time again, lingering a few seconds on her breasts, a few more on her arse. At first, the attention was flattering. Then it got annoying. Now she was just god-damn pissed off, because she was in no mood to tolerate this sort of blatant male possessiveness tonight. She had plans. Intricate plans involving her husband, the cuffs secured to their bed, and hours upon hours of hot, sweaty, very kinky sex.

She just needed to deal with this bit of trash first.

She slowly drew to a halt near a wall and waited for the footsteps to grow close enough for her to act.

“River,” a man’s voice whispered huskily in her ear, and her traitorous body shivered.

She pivoted, yanking her gun out of her thigh holster at the same time she pinned the man to the wall. She jammed her elbow into his windpipe, her gun poised to jam beneath his chin. “Why the hell are you following me?”

His lips curled in a half smirk. “River, River, River,” he taunted. “I thought you knew all my faces.”

Her blood went cold at the implication, and her gaze swept him from head to toe. Humanoid, in the prime of life despite the silver hair. Glasses perched on the edge of his nose, and the laugh lines and crow’s feet spoke of a life well-lived. He wore an elegant suit and a matching tie, and for some reason that pissed her off even more.

“Hello, sweetie,” the man mimed her voice as he recited the message she had sent via psychic paper hours for earlier. “Care to be tied up for dinner? Well, we’ll get around to the dinner eventually. Coordinates are Apple 7, 16helix9, 3-18. 16th day of Junaf, 9 p.m. standard time. Don’t be late.”

Her hands trembled, and River ordered herself to stop it. Slowly, she rested the hand holding the gun over one side of his chest, then the other. “Prove it,” she hissed.

He quirked an eyebrow. “You’re hard to please, dear wife.”

“My husband isn’t here,” River growled and gave herself the pleasure of shoving her gun beneath his chin. He didn’t say anything, but she felt his response against her thigh. “If you’re the Doctor, tell me something only he would know.”

“I thought you had pictures of all my faces.”

“I haven’t said that yet apparently, have I?”

“Apparently not.” He brushed a thumb over her cheek, and her resolve wavered again. “When are we then, Dr. Song? You must be quite young.”

She gritted her teeth. “Insulting a lady's age? How crass. Now, I told you to prove that you’re the Doctor. Then maybe I might answer you.”

He tut-tutted a bit and leaned into her, casually dismissing her elbow and the gun. He whispered his name in her ear at the same time he swept a hand beneath her gown and pressed two fingers to her clit through her knickers. She gasped as his mouth closed over hers, and he pressed her into the wall as he did his very best to devour her.

Hundreds upon hundreds of questions sprang to mind. He’d regenerated. Which one? This wasn’t 1 through 10. He was right; she did have pictures of all those faces from her thesis. 12 or 13 then. What happened, was she there, what about her parents? Then it was swept aside in a red haze of lust as he slipped his fingers into her knickers, then into her. She moaned into his mouth. His fingers weren’t as long as her Doctor’s, but they were still damn talented.

Fuck,” he swore beneath his breath, and she bit back a grin. Well that was certainly new. He hitched one of her legs up, and she let her gun drop back into her holster as he fumbled with his trousers. “I’m not waiting,” he warned her.

“I wonder whatever gave that impression,” River said dryly, and he rewarded her with a nip to her exposed shoulder.

“You weren’t either,” he replied as he slid into her, pinning her to the wall for better leverage. “I know you, Dr. Song. You were probably fingering yourself beneath the table while you were waiting for me. All that glitter and flirting and beneath the cloth, you were being a very naughty woman.”

Oh, this was different. Shock followed by delight rolled through her with the power of the lust building quickly. It normally took her Doctor ages to get to that sort of dirty talk, and never quite like this. He was more sly innuendo, twisting ordinary words in a way that sounded both innocent and positively filthy. He never quite seemed to know what to do with his own sexuality. Oh, he was passionate in his own way, and once she wormed past his inhibitions, they got up to all sorts of delightful things.

But this Doctor was more straightforward in his needs, specifically his need for her. Her legs hitched over his waist as he drove into her, the wall the only thing keeping her from sliding to the floor. He was right. She might have given into the urge to touch herself once or twice. Then there was that extended interlude in the loo, because public masturbation was a kink she indulged in every once in awhile. There was no doubt who this man was. He was the Doctor, her husband, one who knew her like a well-worn, much-read book. With a sob, she came seconds before he did.

There was no blush as he helped guide her shaking legs back to the floor and fixed his clothes, only that smug self-satisfied half smirk. He straightened his tie, and the gesture made love roll through her. She lightly trailed her fingers over the tie. “I miss the bow tie,” she said a bit wistfully.

“I knew you would,” he said a bit smugly and pulled a folded piece of cloth out of his breast pocket. She gasped as she ran her fingers over the well-loved silk of the bow tie he had used to bind them in marriage.

“Now, then, Dr. Song. How about dinner?” He looped his arm through hers.

“I thought we just had it.”

“Oh, no. That, my dear, was just the appetizer.”