das kitzlig Thema
leiascully
Bless Space Florida, the Doctor thinks drowsily, flat on his face on a towel in the sun. Bless automatic sand and regulated waves and bless the person who invented the bikini swimsuit that River's been prancing around in all week while they've been on enforced vacation. Enforced by her, that is, after they both nearly froze to death on one of the ice planets; even Time Lords aren't impervious, she likes to remind him. A week of doing nothing (except for making love everywhere River can think of, naturally) has been oddly exhausting, and he's very content to just lie on his towel and soak up the radiation. Brilliant idea, Space Florida. He'd kiss whoever invented it, but that would involve getting up.
"You've gotten lazy, my love," comes River's amused voice from somewhere above him. He opens one eye and sees her painted toes.
"I think I've saved the universe enough times to merit a few days off," he says with dignity, only it comes out all muffled by towel and he gets sand in his mouth. "Besides, bits of me are still thawing."
"You seemed plenty warm earlier," she tells him. He tips his head to pan up her body. Legs, yes, very nice; bikini bottom, quite fetching; stomach waist ribs, he enjoys all of that; bikini top, cups overflowing; ah, and there's her face, gazing down at him in affectionate reproach. He smiles up at her, squinting behind his sunglasses.
"Can't ever be too warm, that's what I always say," he reminds her.
"Do you," she says skeptically. "I'll remember that next time we find a lava planet."
"Love a good lava planet," he agrees. His feet stretch past the end of his towel and he digs his toes in the sand as he watches her, enjoying the heat of the top layer and the cool damp of the underlayers.
"Oh, shove over," she says, and he obediently shifts to make room for her on the towel. She sits down beside him, her bare lower back against his hip, and he pillows his head on one arm and gazes at her. "You know I'm going to vaporize those as soon as you take them off your pretty face."
"These sunglasses are cool," he says, turning his face back down against the towel and burying his head in his arms. "Besides, they were a present from Amy."
"Yes, sometimes I think she doesn't like you very much," River teases.
"Hmph," the Doctor says. With his arms crooked around his face, all he can see when he opens his eyes is a cool dark fuzzy cave. It's interesting to talk to River without seeing her. He should tell her so; she always comes up with the best ideas based on what he thought were innocent observations.
"After all, you did whisk her daughter away to a life of dangerous adventure," River continues. Her nails scrape lightly across the back of his neck and he shivers.
"You were already whisked," he protests. Her fingernails feel good on his sun-baked skin. She's careful not to scratch him - actually, it rather tickles. He's used to the flat of her palm against his back or the tips of her fingers, but she's grown her nails out lately, and he likes it. It's a new sensation. Her fingers move slowly over his back and shoulders in a winding pattern. It's hypnotic, nearly, prickly and tickly and soothing and sexy all at once.
"I would have whisked myself away and found you," she says, and the words only half make sense, he's so transfixed by her touch. He wants to squirm, but he can't move or it will change; he has to stay exactly where he is, he thinks, or she'll just be scratching his back, some ordinary kind of touch instead of this mesmerizing barely-there pressure. This drowsy haze of heat and pleasure is delicate and he must not disturb it; it's been ages since he felt this kind of peace.
"I'm not sure what we're talking about anymore," he admits.
She laughs quietly. "Oh, honey, you're such an easy mark. In all your long years, you should have been touched more than this."
"Mmm," he agrees, because he'll say anything as long as she doesn't stop. It tickles more now, but the more she touches him, the more he craves it. Being the object of River Song's attention is a dangerous and alluring prospect and it almost makes it better that all he's looking at is nothing, because he doesn't think he'd be able to stay still if he could see the gold light on her skin and the sand dusted across her thighs and the dewy sweat between her breasts. He thought he'd forsaken those pleasures, that all his love affairs were doomed, but River's determination could stop a universe in mid-supernova.
"You should have been caressed," she murmurs. "You should have been cossetted and petted and tickled and massaged and kneaded and rubbed down and stroked."
"Like that last one," he mumbles, getting more sand in his mouth.
"Don't I know it," she says meaningfully.
It's not very comfortable anymore, lying on his stomach, as the situation has progressed in a fairly normal fashion. River touches him, or comes near him, or he thinks about her, and his body responds. He tries to move just his hips, perhaps to make himself a little hollow in the sand to accommodate his (he's nearly a thousand years old, for heaven's sake, he can be an adult about this) erection. River notices, of course, and chuckles low in her throat, which only makes the situation worse. Her hand disappears from his back and he almost moans at the loss of her touch.
"None of that, my love," she says, whispering in his ear unexpectedly, which makes him jump. He feels her move away and risks a peek just in time to gaze up the inside of her thigh as she straddles him, bracketing his hips with her knees and sitting on his backside. She leans forward, presenting his eye with a tantalizing vista of tanned skin and TARDIS blue fabric. "You'll stay there until I let you move."
"Ung," he says articulately, not sure whether this is one of the most appealing or most frustrating things that has ever happened to him, but then again, River has always managed to balance those two things. She leans forward, pushing his hips deeper into the sand, and plants one hand next to his ribs. With the other hand, she begins to scratch his back again, the movement slow and inexorable and serpentine. The same pattern, over and over; his skin prickles in anticipation of where her touch will move. He feels more sensitive by the moment, more attuned to her touch and the subtle shift of her weight above him and the ghostly cool that's her shadow across his skin. The more she touches him, the more he wants her to keep touching him, and the more wanting it sends shivers through him. He's really quite ticklish now, but he doesn't want her to stop.
Gooseflesh pulls his skin tight and he can't stop trembling under her and it's too much and never enough all at once but he wants her to keep going. He realizes he's rubbing his face into the towel just to add sensation to the overwhelming signals from his nerve endings. River chuckles at him - the sound shimmers through her body and into his - and leans further forward, balancing herself so she can scrape her nails up the tender undersides of his arms. She grips his hips harder with her knees and it should be a distraction, but it just adds to the sensation: he's pinned, he's under her power, and she's going to send him over the edge barely even touching him. He's really quite hard now, his prick throbbing in the cool sand, loving and yearning for the pressure and friction of her body pushing him down and the way his prick rubs against the slightly sandy fabric of his trunks. As River shifts, her hips guide his, miniscule movements but far enough, as focused as he is on her least touch.
"Ahh," he says, pushing his forehead against the towel. Oh, it's definitely too much now, the feather-light scape of her nails and the hard pressure of her knees. Anywhere she touches him, he's ticklish, too sensitive, and it's exquisite almost-pain, ecstasy and agony.
"Enjoying yourself, Doctor?" she purrs, leaning low enough that her curls brush his shoulders, and between that and her nails it's more than he can handle. He can feel his muscles tensing, his whole body going stiff, and it only makes the delicacy of her touch more unbearable.
"River," he tries to warn her, but she brushes a kiss over the nape of his neck and he's gone, his hips bucking under her, pushing painfully into the sand, but at least it's a release. He collapses, panting, spread-eagled under her.
"Well," she says, sounding satisfied and a little amused, "I didn't expect that." She hitches her leg back over him and settles on the towel at his side and he turns his head to look at her.
"Neither did I," he says muzzily. "Er."
"It's all right," she says, stroking his back with her palm, firmly now, but there are still little flutters of ticklishness in his slack muscles. "I enjoy finding out new things about you, my love."
"I'll make it up to you," he promises, and pauses. "When I can move again."
"I expect you will," she says.
"Don't worry," he says, drowsy again. "We can just sonic the sand away. And we can get a new towel."
"Wonderful," she says. "But I think for now we should get you into the water, before the automatic sand tries to clean you up. Come along." She stands up and holds out her hand and he lets her haul him to his feet.
"Where would I be without you, River?" he says, awash with post-coital tenderness. He wraps his arm around her as they make their way down to the water.
"Lost in space, I expect," she says, and he can't disagree with that.