A/N: As always this is plot/content-less garbage. Read at your own risk. Rated M for a reason. Clara-light because the Doctor and River distracted me.
In retrospect, the Doctor had known from the very start that allowing River to take he and Clara to a night club was a terrible idea. He'd refused from the outset, but after she'd explained that it was the grand opening of a night club with a glass floor that hovered over some twenty feet over rock crystal formations that soared miles high during a full moon — which, in combination with some preparation from the night club, would cause the crystals to glow a whole spectrum of colors — he'd finally relented, because River was right as usual, it would be stunning to see, but somehow in that conversation he'd been taken in because River had begun talking on and on about the rock formations and gotten his scientific interests piqued. She'd totally stopped using the words night and club at all (which he now realized was intentional) and so it wasn't until he opened the TARDIS doors and saw the lights and heard the pounding music and laid eyes on all those sweaty, gyrating bodies that he realized what he'd gotten himself into.
He gulped.
The Doctor was hardly ever at ease in his own skin — perhaps because it didn't always feel like his, because it changed so much, because this regeneration's limbs were bandy and ill-suited to coordinate with one another — but he could think of few situations that would be as physically or mentally taxing as trying to act natural in a nightclub. He straightened his bowtie and pulled at the edges of his suit jacket, glad he'd dressed up from his tweed, but somewhat pining for the leather of his ninth incarnation.
"Calm down, sweetie," River said from behind him as she and Clara re-entered the console room. She rested one hand on his shoulder as she slid into the doorway next to him, pressing her body to his side. She straightened his bowtie a bit and smoothed a hand down his chest. He relaxed a bit, but his shoulders remained somewhere around his ears. "It's just a night club."
"River, I don't think —"
"C'mon, chin boy, pull yourself together," Clara said, coming to stand on his other side and giving his shoulder a gentle punch. "It's going to be great — just lie back and think of the rock formations."
Clara and River laughed greatly at that, and River kissed his cheek before taking Clara's arm and disappearing into the dark of the club. The Doctor lingered for a few moments before sighing and relenting, closing the doors of the TARDIS behind him as he grudgingly shuffled into the club. The hallway they'd landed in was dark and dull, with the main room visible in the immediate distance; bright lights and dancing people, and oh, he could practically seethe libido coming off of the dancing — if one could call it that — people in waves, and it made him a whole other kind of nervous. Still, he pressed onward.
The main room was large and expectedly dark, with some flashing lights and neon lights and black lights and strobe lights sporadically brightening the room. When he looked down, however, he could barely withhold a squeal of glee. Despite her slightly underhanded tactics, River hadn'tbeen lying. The floor was totally transparent, and spires of gleaming crystal rose from the valley underfoot, jagged edges and complicated turrets of glittering rock catching the silvery moonlight and casting beams of pale light up through the floor and reflecting off of one another, rainbows catching in the glass. There were a handful of lights beneath the club, the Doctor realized as he looked on, different colors lights that brought out the different hues, and the effect was stunning.
The Doctor strolled around the perimeter of the room for a few moments, just admiring the natural architecture below, until he accidentally bumped into someone — who turned out to be River. As he looked up from his position, crouched a bit toward the floor, he took notice of her outfit for the first time — sky-high heels and bare legs, and as he stood, progressed to a short black dress that clung to her absolutely distracting curves, leading to a neckline that he wasn't sure would hold her in should she start to dance, and then up to her red, red lips and gorgeous eyes and wild hair. He gulped again, this time for an entirely separate reason.
"Amazing, isn't it?"
"You are — it is lovely, yes, you were right just..." he trailed off, licking his lips as he looked her up and down once more, stepping a bit nearer to her and hovering just on the edge of her personal space. His hands flexed at his sides as he tried to curb the urge to grab her; Clara was around, after all. "Just stunning, really."
River smiled at him, stepping closer still so that he could feel her breath on his neck as she straightened his bowtie once more, and then on his lips — the heels made her taller — as she looked up to respond. "I'm sure the rock formations are flattered by the compliment."
The Doctor gave her an awkward little salute, trying valiantly and failing even more valiantly to not look straight down her dress. It was only when River cleared her throat that he realized she was offering him a drink, and he felt his face color as he stepped back a bit, accepting it with a raised brow.
"I hate wine, you know," he said.
"I know, dear. It's a mixed drink — sweet enough to give you a cavity on contact. Perfect for teenagers and thousand year old aliens with comparable taste palates."
He pulled a face at her, but took a sip anyway, pleased to find it exactly as she said. He could hardly taste the alcohol. He took another sip, and when she smiled encouragingly, downed the rest of the glass — probably not, he realized, the most advisable course of action, but the whole night club situation filled him with a pervasive sense of unease, despite the distraction River provided. He and his wife had a lot in common, but they also differed in a lot of ways; River loved a good party, and the Doctor loved a good party in the eighteenth century where he knew exactly what he was to do at any given moment. Nightclubs were so nebulous, so unfamiliar to him. He was, as River said, a thousand and change, after all.
"My, someone's eager," River said, brushing past him on her way back to the bar. He assumed she was after a refill for him. Sometimes it worried him how eager his wife often proved in her occasional quest to get him drunk — he'd asked her about it, and she'd said he was much more pliant while inebriated. He took offense to it, although he couldn't argue when she'd insisted that their evening had gone better because of it. Jack Harkness certainly would've agreed, anyway, even though the Doctor was almost certain Jack and River had conspired against him to make him drunk and... pliant. At any rate, he followed dutifully behind her, and only partially because the view from behind was smashing.
River ordered him another drink, leaning against the bar as he came to stand beside her, watching his hands as he inter-linked his fingers over and over again. Then, "where's Clara?"
"She's around, don't worry," River said, passing the Doctor his drink and accepting a new one of her own, that looked much more serious than his. He pulled out the tiny umbrella with not inconsiderable loss of dignity and set it aside as she sipped her drink, her lips curling enticingly around the straw. "She was snatched up by a lovely young woman the moment we walked in. I'm sure they'll keep one another occupied for at least a small while."
"Occupied?" the Doctor said vaguely, taking another healthy gulp of his drink — it really was quite delicious. "Occupied doing what?"
River looked at him as though he were being quite dense. "Dancing, sweetie. Or perhaps dancing."
The Doctor nearly spit out his drink. "What, here?!"
"Why do you think people come to nightclubs, Doctor? Certainly not for the ambiance, though this one is admittedly... stunning, as you noted." She looked at the Doctor expectantly, and he felt briefly as though he'd forgotten his line. He took another swig of the sweet drink before setting it down.
"I was talking about you," he said at last, the words coming out in a bit of a rush, though he leaned into her a bit, resting an arm on the bar and crossing one leg over the other, crowding her with a smile and — yes, yes, that was a definite tipsy feeling making itself known.
"I know," River said with a grin. "I just like to make you say it." She finished her drink off with not unimpressive speed, and the Doctor felt a challenge in the action; he finished his off too, and then gestured politely and a little bumblingly to the bartender to bring them a second round. "How are things with Clara?"
"Good," the Doctor said, his eyes falling to River's hand as she reached over and rested it on his arm where it sat on the bar counter. She always seemed to need to touch him, which was more than okay with him — he, particularly when she was dressed like that, felt as though even if he reached out and pressed himself to her end to end he wouldn't be touching her quite enough, but tried to quell the impulse, simply because he wasn't used to it. Of course, he and River had been married for no small while in his timeline, and they'd been intimate, but the knowledge of how very strong the impulse was to grab her and never let go — the feeling of need he had come to associate with her — was still terrifying to a wandering madman and his traveling box. "She's great fun — little more trouble than she's worth, still not sure what's going on with — the, you know, dying, but she always turns up eventually. Smart enough to give you a run for your money."
River snorted. "I think you're underestimating me." When the Doctor just stared at her, she removed her hand from his arm and took a sip of her drink, her expression slightly frosty. "I'm brilliant, you know. Clara Oswald is quite the genius but I'm part Time Lord. You have a hard time keeping up with me, darling, honestly."
"I know," the Doctor said with a grin, reaching up to bop her gently on the nose with one finger. "I just like to make you say it. It's some of the things that I like best about you, you know. You're so smart — scary smart, smarter than anyone else in the universe, except for me." She rolled her eyes at his condition, but still smiled. He continued to drink as he spoke, finishing off his third drink with an almost alarming quickness. He was beginning to feel a little light-headed, a little disconnected, but it felt nice — he felt able to focus on River, instead of having his mind racing to millions of destinations at once. "And I love that you don't mind saying it."
"Maybe you should slow down," River said, taking his empty glass from his hand, though he didn't really mind, because the action brought her nearer to him, and she stayed, half in his arms, one of her legs bent and touching his. Still, he was a bit affronted by the implication that he couldn't handle his liquor.
"I'm a grown man, River," the Doctor said, "really grown, grown eleven bodies and thousands of years of wisdom and I know how much I can drink."
"I'm not sure about that."
"I can certainly drink more than you," the Doctor said without thinking, and when River raised her brows, he back-peddled a bit, clarifying. "I just mean that you're so —" he gestured with one hand over her body, getting slightly sidetracked before finishing with, "little."
She chuckled. "I can hold my own."
"Mrs. Doctor, that sounds like a challenge."
"Mr. Song, I do believe you're twelve."
He sniffed, straightening his suit jacket. "Twelve hundred, maybe."
"You really want to have a drinking contest with me, sweetie?"
"Not really a contest, is it?" he said, wearing that smug grin he knew had gotten him slapped by his wife on more than one occasion.
"Not in the least," she responded, turning away from him to ask the bartender for a bottle of tequila, some limes, and salt. "All right, old man. Let's have a go of it, then." She grinned at him, predatory, and for the third time that night, the Doctor gulped.
Nearly a dozen shots later between the two of them, the Doctor was decidedly drunk, and he had a sneaking suspicion that despite appearances, River was as well. He sat on a barstool and River stood before him, leaning heavily on the counter, but standing between his knees, which he found to be a very difficult arrangement to maintain because his hands positively itched to grab her and drag her to him, but she was proving to be a bit of a tank when it came to drinking... which he should have expected. She was River Song, after all.
She reached forward and grabbed his hand, and he blinked warily at her, taking a moment to prepare himself to speak clearly before asking, "what are you doing?"
River just grinned at him, unbuttoning his shirt sleeve and rolling it back, his jacket having been discarded some time ago, to bare the pale skin of his forearm. She lifted his hand to her face, maintaining eye contact as she slowly licked the inside of his wrist; the sensation went straight through him, and he could only stare, slack-jawed, as she sprinkled some salt on his wrist, holding it in one hand, and reaching for a tequila shot with the other.
"Cheers," she said, licking the salt from his wrist — he bit his lip — before throwing the shot back, slamming it on the counter, and sucking the lime, dropping the rind into the empty glass. Licking her lips as she dropped his wrist, she merely grinned at him, which he thought quite inconsiderate given that he felt certain he was about to burst out of his skin. "Your turn."
It took the Doctor a moment to move, to think, but when he finally did he stood up, albeit shakily, from the barstool and reached for her, one hand brushing her hair back from her neck. He saw her nostrils flare with a sharp intake of breath as he pulled her toward him so that he could lean forward and run his tongue along her collarbone. He poured the salt on, licked it back up, threw the shot back, sucked the lime, and hardly noticed the burn of alcohol down his throat anymore — he felt as though he were floating a bit, and the ethereal light coming up from the rock formations below didn't help in the illusion, lighting his wife in an otherworldly glow as she looked at him, pupils blown wide and so, so close.
"You've still got salt on your neck," the Doctor murmured, his nose brushing hers, and she let out something like a whimper. He leaned forward, one hand moving to rest on the small of her back and pull her hips against his as he bowed his head to slowly, painstakingly suck the rest of the salt from her gorgeous skin, relishing the way her hand curled tightly in his hair. When he pulled back, she didn't let go, but held his head close to hers, her mouth barely touching his. "You know what else I love about you, wife?" he said quietly, pressing his lips to the corner of her mouth and pulling her even more tightly against him.
"What, husband?"
"Everything," he managed to murmur before she pressed her lips to his, her mouth hot and needy against his own. Her fingers twisted in his shirt pulling him closer, and he pressed her against him firmly as he could, relishing the friction as she slid her body against his, more than a little needy — usually he'd think about the fact that they were in public, or the fact that Clara was somewhere nearby, or the fact that they were in a nightclub which made him anxious on principle, but he was very, very drunk he realized and all he could think about was the feeling of his wife beneath his hands, the smooth fabric of her dress as he ran his hands up and down her back, pulling her closer and closer, crushing her to him until neither could breathe.
He shifted so that her back pressed against the bar counter, and she grunted as he pressed his body as tightly to hers as he could — vaguely, his mind chanted that there was too much clothes and skin and bones and he wanted not just to be near her or in her but part of her, wanted to climb inside of her mind and live within his wonderful, beautiful, terrifying wife but even then he didn't think he'd be close enough. His hand slipped down to her ass and then lower still, brushing along the back of her thigh until he gripped beneath it, about to attempt to lift her leg around his waist so that he could get closer still — because he loved her, needed her, oh god the alcohol made his head swim but all he could think was that she was everything, was the universe, was the time vortex, and he wanted her so badly in that moment that he thought his hearts might stop if he couldn't get his hand beneath her dress — but before he could gain any further purchase on her bare skin, she grabbed his hand and shoved him roughly away. He stumbled backward, and she laughed, the sound rich and warm, and even though he felt as though he were about to fall over (not to mention the monumentally uncomfortable situation in his trousers) he couldn't help but grin in response. She stepped forward and reached up to grab his bow tie, holding him steady as he wavered.
"Mm," she purred, leaning up to press a brief kiss against his lips, one hand still on his bowtie and the other pressing to his chest to keep him upright as he leaned back toward her as she pulled away. "Someone's had too much to drink."
"Have not," he murmured, and she smiled, kissing him briefly beneath his jaw. He reached out to place his hands on her hips, his grip tight, and he briefly tried to pull her to him, though she forced him to remain at arm's length, which he found to be the worst form of torture anyone had ever enacted upon him. Ever. "River," he whined when she laughed at him, "please."
He pulled her to him forcefully, pressing his hands to the small of her back and barely resisting the urge to slip them lower. Gently, he kissed a line up the side of her neck until he reached her ear; he ran his tongue along her earlobe, feeling her shiver beneath his hands.
"M'not drunk," he said, his voice a gravelly whisper against her ear. He kissed her neck again, then her temple, then her cheek — all quite approximately, for in reality he was a bit sloppy and slightly to the side. "Even if I were, it's your fault and that dress, well, you've not got a modest bone in your body so I don't need to tell you..."
"But I do like to hear you say it," she repeated, turning her face toward him and smiling brightly. He kissed her nose.
"It looks amazing on you," the Doctor said earnestly, running his hands up her sides. "But it would look better off."
"Cheeky."
"Riv-er," he whined, slipping his hands lower on her sides so that a couple of his fingers rested on the bare skin of her legs. He fiddled with the hem a bit, and she smirked.
"Patience is a virtue, my love."
"Since when are you remotely concerned with virtue?" he mumbled as he groaned, frustrated by how amused she was by thwarting him. He backed her into the bar once again, and she draped her arms around his shoulders, a smile on her face. He leaned in as though he would kiss her and her lips parted eagerly, but in the end he dipped his head slightly to the side and pressed his lips to the juncture between her neck and her shoulders that he knew drove her wild, sucking gently on her skin until her head lolled to the side and she took a sharp breath. He began to kiss his way back up her neck until he found her lips and kissed her again, this time slowly — his River wasn't shy about what she wanted, but sometimes, he knew, she liked to be persuaded. Luckily, he didn't in the least mind doing the persuading.
His lips moved gently against hers, his hands moving up to cup her face, stroking her cheeks gently with his thumbs; it was the kind of kiss that left him giddy and grinning, the kind the sent warmth bubbling up his spine and a flush to his cheeks. The kind of kiss that reminded him that no matter how they fought, or how much time they spent apart, or where he was in his timeline or where she was in hers, he loved her. So very, very much.
He was ripped from his reverie when River suddenly pulled away from him, grabbed his hand, and dragged him to the dancefloor. He had half a mind to refuse, but — well — despite his protests, he was quite a bit drunk, and his only true concern was getting to touch River again, which he didn't imagine he'd be able to do unless he followed her. And so he did. Closely. She forced her way through the swaying, gyrating masses and brought them nearly to the center. River spun around, resting her palms on his chest as she faced him, and the Doctor's eyes got caught on the gorgeous sway of her hips. He found his hands on her before he'd even though to do it, slipping up and down her side before he finally looked up and found her smiling at him. He smiled back, and the repetitive movement combined with the happy expression on her face, the ethereal light that filtered through the ground, and the thrumming base of the music vibrating through him, he was lulled quickly into a false sense of security that was shattered when River, in a sudden flurry of movement, pressed herself to him with one arm around his neck and the other disappearing beneath the waistband of his trousers.
"What happened to patience?!" he choked as she wrapped her hand around him; his hands became bruising on her hips and he squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt not to react.
"You mocked my virtue, sweetie," River said, "so I decided to abandon it altogether." He couldn't help the whimper that escaped him, quite pathetically, as she ran her tongue ever-so-gently along the underside of his jaw, her hand swiping up and down once, a finger sweeping over his head.
"Someone could see," he said, but instead of pushing her away he slipped his hands around to the small of her back so that her hand was trapped between their bodies. She chuckled, the sound low and warm, her breath hot against his throat.
"Yes, and you love it," she said, giving him a gentle squeeze that made him choke. She shifted so that her mouth was by his ear as she continued, her hand working him over between them. "You've always been a bit of an exhibitionist, haven't you, sweetie? No use saving the world unless there's an audience. Always have to have a companion to see your trials and tribulations. It's the same with sex. You love the intimacy of it and the taste and the smell and the touch but nothing puts you over the edge quite so much as knowing someone could see you. Remember all those times in Stormcage, my love? When you slipped into my cell during rounds to fuck me in between patrols, or late at night without disabling the security cameras, or through the bars — remember when we visited that planet that outlawed touch, oh, darling, but you were so eager to break that law. All those times with me bent over the TARDIS console, or kneeling at your feet with my mouth around you, working you over with my tongue and my hands, feeling you come apart at my touch with those lovely little sounds, feeling the TARDIS hum beneath your palms and knowing your companion could walk in at any moment to see me sucking you off, or you taking me from behind, pounding into me over and —"
"River," he begged, his voice strangled and choked as he paused, biting down on her neck just a little too hard as he paused, "stop, stop stop." He grabbed her hand, and after a moment she released him with a wicked smile. "We've got to —" he cut himself off, feeling as though he might explode, and wrapped his hand tightly around her wrist to pull her away from the dancefloor with him, and once out of the crowd he couldn't remember where the TARDIS was — there were three hallways, all looked the same, and he couldn't wait, couldn't wait another instant. River pressed up against his back, her free hand wrapping around his waist and he leaned back into her, preening a bit like a cat before focusing again and picking a hallway at random, and pulling her down it with him.
He found a door, no idea what it was, and opened it. As soon as she was inside he turned and shoved her against it, his mouth finding hers instantly in a bruising kiss, his hands everywhere at once — he couldn't touch enough of her, and so he immediately went for the hem of her dress, pulling it up over her head and discarding it to the side, his hands running up and down her smooth, pale skin, luminous with the light suffusing the room from below. She panted in his ear as he moved from her mouth, kissing his way down her neck. Usually, he was somewhat mindful of leaving marks, as he knew a younger him would've gone mad with jealousy or sheer curiosity if he'd seen a hickey on River, but tonight he couldn't help himself; he wanted all of her, every bit, pressed up against him, wanted to sink his teeth into her skin and leave a mark because she was his and oh, oh, was he ever hers; he sucked hard where her shoulder and neck met, nibbled along her collarbone, and by the time he reached her breasts she'd already shed her bra for him. She whimpered as he kissed her chest, laving his tongue over her nipples and grazing the sensitive skin with his teeth, her hands forcing his own away from her as she shed his shirt and jacket in one fell swoop, unbuttoning his trousers and letting them fall along with his underwear. She grabbed his ass and hauled him into her, grunting as he thrust against her hips. River slung one leg around him as he pulled back from her slightly, looking down at her through hooded eyes. There were red marks blooming against her skin, and he was all the harder to see it.
Always impatient, River reached up to pull his mouth to hers by the hair as he reached down to slide her panties down her legs and step out of his shoes, shedding all of his clothes until they were both finally, gratefully, naked and pressed against one another, end to end. His hand was halfway down her stomach when she wrapped her hand around his cock again, and the Doctor thrust against her. She ran her hand up and down his length once before he realized she needed to stop immediately — swatting her hand away, he dropped to his knees before her, and the keening moan she let out at the sight of him before her made him dizzy.
The Doctor reached a hand around behind her to drape one of her legs over his shoulder as he pressed forward, running his tongue along her folds as she shuddered above him. She was already soaked, and she clenched around him as he reached up to press first one, then two fingers into her, his tongue swirling around her clit in practiced motions that had her rolling her hips against his face, begging him for more above him. He drove his fingers in and out until her cries reached the pitch he knew meant she was close, and he sucked her clit into his mouth, grazing it with his teeth — he planned to pull away, to leave her on the edge, but as he began to move back, River fisted her hand in his hair and held him in place moving against him with a renewed vigor, and he couldn't say no to that — he drove his fingers into her harder still, adding a third as she squirmed and sucking relentlessly on her until she came apart, her head slamming against the door as she threw it back. He withdrew his fingers, but continued to lick her until she released her grip on his hair and pulled him back up.
"I figured I may as well make good use of you, while you're down there," River murmured against his lips as he kissed her, and he grinned against her mouth.
"Happy to be of service," he said as she kissed her way along his jawline, her lips languorous. Her hands ran along his shoulders, down his arms, played over his ribs and down his stomach — just her fingertips, though, barely-there touches that made his entire body hum. Her fingers traced the line of his hips she so loved, over the tops of his thighs, everywhere but where he was aching to be touched. He whined, and she laughed softly, but instead of touching him, she moved away from him and approached the sink affixed to the adjacent wall, and leaned her hands on it. She looked at him via her reflection in the mirror as she bent further over, and if the Doctor's sense of urgency had been somewhat abated, it returned full force as he ran his eyes over his wife.
"You'll be the death of me," the Doctor said as he came to stand behind her, running his hands over her back, down the line of her spine, brushing her hair aside to kiss the nape of her neck.
"Or vise versa," River said, squirmed as he ran his palms over her ass. "I've a better poker face than you, my love, but next time we do tequila shots, we're doing them in private."
He smiled as he leaned his body fully against her, pressing his erection against her and extending forward to kiss her shoulder. "Liked that, did you?"
"You're quite sexy drunk, you know," River said, pausing to moan as he slipped a hand round her front and between her legs. He held eye contact with her in the mirror, watching her eyes grow darker and darker, her mouth parting. "Much more forward, much more — ah — hands on."
She shifted her hips back against him and any response he had died in his throat as she began to rub herself against him, and his hands flew to her hips, his eyes closing.
"River," he sighed, looking at her in the mirror once more.
"Sweetie, please," she said, and he needed no more encouragement. The whole night he'd been fit to burst with how badly he'd wanted to touch her, and the alcohol only increased his need to do so; he'd calmed in the interim, and he no longer felt quite so drunk, but as he thrust into her for the first time in what was most assuredly too long, he felt bliss the likes of which he couldn't remember. He set a slow pace to begin, trying to hold himself in check, but River shifted her hips impatiently, and when she lifted a hand to palm her own breast he moved faster, and faster still as she slid that hand further down between her legs. "More," she said, her voice hoarse, her breathing heavy.
He held her gaze in the mirror as he pounded into her with every bit of need he felt ringing through his body, her breathy gasps mingling with the obscene slap of skin against skin. She felt so good around him, her skin so soft beneath her hands, and her face in the mirror was just — he had to work very hard to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head, just so he could keep looking at her. Eyes hooded and dark, lips curled and parted, chest heaving; he wanted to capture this moment and carry it with him forever, wanted to save the smell of tequila and lime and the taste of salt and sweat against her skin and the incandescence of the light below shining against her skin. As her cries grew louder and louder he pushed harder and harder, wondering why he could never get close enough.
"So close," she said, her eyes locked on his, and he reached around her to take over for her, his fingers slipping over her clit as he thrust into her and she pushed back into him. "Doctor —"
"You feel so good," he said hoarsely, his voice in her ear, "I've wanted you all night, oh god, I could've taken you right against the bar, in front of everybody, or on the dancefloor, could've shoved up your dress and pushed you against the nearest surface and not care who saw — you make me crazy, do you know that? I can't think of anything but you when you're around, you fill my head, and I just want to touch you and taste you and —"
She screamed when she came and he stopped talking immediately because it was hard enough to get the words out, no matter how true — her walls seized around him and he grunted in her ear, his hips losing time until he spilled into her with a shout, and he slumped against her, resting his head between her shoulder blades and kissing the sweat from her skin.
"You're perfect," he said as he stepped away from her, grabbing her hand and spinning her away from the sink and back into his body, as though in a dance.
"Darling, we just had sex in the bathroom of a nightclub because you were too drunk to keep it in your pants and find the TARDIS," River said, "it's not exactly the time for platitudes."
The Doctor started to protest, but River smiled and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips.
"At any rate, we'd best get our clothes before someone needs to use the loo."
"Must we?" the Doctor asked, backing her into the door once more. She wrinkled her nose in a way he found impossibly adorable.
"Now that I'm sobering up, sweetie, I'm finding it more and more deplorable."
"If we stay longer, it just means we'll have to take a longer shower after," the Doctor reasons.
River laughs. "Well, when you put it like that..."
Clara punched the Doctor the next morning when he and River returned to the nightclub, sheepish. After slinking off to the TARDIS at some point, they realized they'd lost track of Clara during their very, very long shower.