Yowzah Oneshot Collection (3)

141(M)

                      Open Books

                       sonictrowel

It had started when River was writing her 'romance' novel. Whenever she had a new chapter, they’d climb into bed together, propped up against the headboard with the Doctor’s arm thrown around her as he read it. Sometimes that would be it; he'd make a few suggestions and they’d discuss edits and make notes, and he’d compliment her until she was truly blushing and she kissed him quiet.

Other times, the subject matter leant itself to a... different editorial method. He knew whenever it was one of those chapters because River would be curled into him, her hand and her head resting on his chest and one leg thrown over him, her knee slowly creeping higher. All the better for her to hear his pulse rising and feel him fidgeting as he read, and torture him accordingly. She’d get that little smirk on her face and a sparkle in her eye as she started slowly wriggling her body against his.

He’d try to glare at her, torn between being riveted by the words on the page and the ever rapidly-growing desire to throw her back on the bed and kiss that cheeky grin off of her (for starters.) He usually made it halfway through before she broke down the last of his defences and he threw the papers aside and grabbed her while she let out a wicked giggle. They always got back to the read-through, eventually. But it was a lucky thing River had very good writing instincts, because it was not exactly the most thorough editing process.

After around a dozen of these sessions, the Doctor decided it was high time he turned the tables.  When they settled in bed with her next chapter, he instructed her to read it aloud to him. (He’d have asked, but River was always game when he went all strict.) She raised her eyebrows and smiled, impish and intrigued, as he passed the papers back to her.

If he’d thought this would give him the upper hand, he had perhaps miscalculated. The Doctor was, admittedly, defenceless against his wife’s voice. It was a voice made to recite Shakespeare and Ovid and Rumi, to inspire a raging Viking army before battle, to lure sailors to their deaths on sharp rocks. But he alone had the distinct privilege of hearing her full, mellifluous range.  Her delighted low giggles, her squeaks of surprise and laughter, her whinging and sighing and grumbling.  Loving and sincere and clear as a bell, contented and sleepy and satisfied, or in a broken whisper thick with emotion.  Or scolding him, a note of fondness always breaking through her irritation. 

And then there was the whole other range of favourites that he loved to coax out of her, spanning an impressive number of octaves.

So as she began to read the chapter aloud, her tongue curling sensually around each word and imbuing even the most mundane language with tantalising innuendo as she set the scene, the Doctor decided he was going to need another advantage. And well, as they say, all’s fair…

He sat up and crawled over her, and she moved the arm holding the pages to the side and turned her head to accommodate him.  Her voice never lost its sultry rhythm, though he could see she was waiting expectantly for what he’d do next. His lips were drawn to her throat, tasting the soft skin there and feeling the deep reverberation of her words.

"Brooke pulled John by the hand," she read, "and ducked into an open door, barring it behind them.  It seemed they'd stumbled into the electrical room, and Brooke turned back to listen for the heavy footfalls of their mechanical pursuers over the hum of the equipment.  But before she knew it John's mouth was on hers, his hands roughly pulling her against him." 

Of course, they had never gotten up to anything like that. That would just be highly irresponsible. You didn’t survive to two thousand by shagging your wife in cupboards while Cybermen were chasing you.