Credit to heavenisalibrary
River’s standing in the center of the party in the shortest, tightest black dress he’s ever seen. It’s made of something sleek and slightly shiny with thin straps, one of which is slipping down her arm, and a neckline that emphasizes her ample assets. Her legs are bare, her heels are high, her lips are painted a deadly red, and he catches himself wondering why her crowd of adoring fans don’t just fall to the floor and bow at her feet because she’s so obviously a goddess.
He tries to control himself when she’s younger, but when he’d thought about the scenario all those years ago, he’d entirely underestimated how impossible it would be to resist a determined River Song. Originally the Doctor had promised Rory that he’d keep his hands to himself, but after an unfortunate experience with a Pond family camping trip, the Doctor had abandoned any hope of keeping things between he and his far-too-young wife platonic. He just couldn’t do it. Millions of people on hundreds of planets considered him a great man or a great warrior — just knowing that he’s pitted against them can turn armies on their heel, but one weekend with River Song shattered all of his defenses. He’s just glad that it does actually take her a good while to realize how wholly, stupidly devoted he is to her; he’d do anything she asked, and given the dangerous hobbies she often keeps, it’s probably a good thing she doesn’t fully appreciate that until she’s older.
The Doctor hears her call his name over the din of the crowd, and he gives an awkward little wave, shifting his weight forward and back on his heels as she says something to the people clustered around her and makes her way over to him. He watches with a mixture of irritation, jealousy, and pride as at least four pairs of eyes fasten to River’s backside as she walks away.
“Hello, sweetie,” she purrs, and it’s not like anyone can blame him for possessively wrapping his arms around her waist as she presses her body into his, and giving the gentleman nearest to them a bit of a glare. “Got my message?”
“Yes, dear,” he says. “I’m nothing if not prompt.”
“Don’t be so down on yourself, honey, you’re not nothing.”
“Cheeky,” he says, “I’m sometimes prompt.”
“Once in a blue moon.”
“Which are more common than you’d think, when one has a time machine, love.”
“An abundance of pet names tonight,” she says, as though it’s so unusual for them. He smiles at her, and swoons into her a bit as she wraps her arms around his neck. Her heels make her nearly his height, and so they’re eye to eye, nose to nose, lips to lips — lined up in every way.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m feeling awash in affection.”
“For me?” she says, batting her eyelashes absurdly.
“No,” he says, leaning forward, his nose brushing against his cheek as he moves to whisper in her ear, one of his hands sneaking down from her waist to smooth down her side, ribcage to the top of her thigh. “Affection for this dress.”
She smirks. “Do tell.”
“It’s not the sort of affection one could do justice in words,” says the Doctor, pulling back slightly and pressing a kiss to her neck. He feels her shift her weight against him, her hand flexing where it rests against his neck — so he does it again. “I could show you how it makes me feel — I’ve been told, once or twice, by exceptionally unreliable sources — namely you — that I can be very articulate when I… talk with my hands, as it were.”
He wants to write an ode to the slight catch in her breath as she responds.
“Are you flirting with me?” she says. “The dress is going to get jealous.”
