A/N: This chapter is fluffy and mature. Not even sorry.

They end up painting her new house. The Doctor sheds his tweed, rolls up his sleeves and dives in gamely enough. He's never exactly tried painting a house before, but how hard can it be, really?

River laughs herself breathless when most of the paint ends up everywhere except on the wall he's been struggling with. That is, until he accidentally splatters paint on her hair. The look in her eyes sends him scrambling for safety, babbling apologies. "Now, that was an accident, River. An accident! I didn't - well, you know how clumsy I am and I'm sure the TARDIS will get it out and really, your hair looks lovely in vermilion, did I mention?"

Unfortunately, he stumbles backwards and only succeeds in pressing himself back against the still quite wet vermilion (well, partially) wall, while River advances mercilessly.

Very deliberately, River bends to dip her paintbrush into his pail, her eyes flashing fire. The Doctor gulps and squeezes his eyes closed. The thick bristles paint a long, wet stripe from his forehead to his trousers. When he dares to look, he is painted in a long line of red. He squawks indignantly as River gives in to laughter.

"I think red might be your color, Doctor," she teases, pleased with her retribution.

Well, that is hardly fair. River's only got a bit of paint in her hair, while he's nearly covered. "Really?" he muses, deliberately casual, "I've always thought it suited you better."

River catches on too late, her retreat slowed by her mirth. His arms are quite long and he catches her easily, pulling her struggling form into a full-body hug.

When River escapes, there's a matching stripe of red down her front. Her nose crinkles. "Oh, I hate you."

"No, you don't."

After that, it's full on war.

River launches a roller at him with deadly accuracy, sending it splooshing against his chest as she dashes away, still muffling her renewed laughter with her hand.

The Doctor scoops a handful of paint and gives chase. When he flings it at River the tips of her hair drip like flames as she shakes her head and glares at him.

River grabs the whole pail of blue in retaliation and launches it at the Doctor, paint streaming off his fringe and into his eyes.

The Doctor slicks his hair back with one paint-soaked hand, sputtering. "River - my shirt!" It's now completely soaked blue and red and several interesting variations of purple.

River shrugs, unrepentant, and doesn't let her guard down in the slightest. "Take it off then."

"If you insist, dear." The Doctor slides off his braces, thankful he'd thought not to wear his waistcoat, and scrambles to undo his buttons before tossing the paint-splattered fabric to the side, sending a silent prayer to the TARDIS that she can save it. He really is quite fond of all his shirts. He also takes the opportunity to grab his discarded paintbrush, flicking the wet bristles toward River.

The floor is slippery with paint as they chase one another around the empty flat. River's blouse is soon soaked, clinging wetly to her skin. The Doctor's bare chest is smeared with her tiny handprints.

He slips, scrambling away from her, and they both go down in a heap, upending the last pail as they fall - paint splashing over and around them.

River lands, dripping, across the Doctor's chest. "My turn," she says, voice low as she slides over him until she can shimmy out of her ruined top and throw it away. Her breasts are gloriously free and damp from the paint that bled through the thin fabric. She presses her bare chest against his, paint squelching between them.

The Doctor cannot keep his hands off her, sliding them across her wet skin and leaving tracks of paint in his wake. He wants to paint her, just like this - naked and uninhibited; laughter sparkling in her eyes.

River melts into his touch, all her token protests about the paint fading as his hands sweep across her back and ribs, his thumbs brushing the sides of her breasts. "What are you painting?"

"You," he answers simply, engrossed in the reflection of her skin in the bright afternoon light, a warm contrast to the dark splatters of paint inked across her.

Making a pleased sound, River shifts in his arms until she is sitting astride him, her smile warm and eyes mischievous. "If you wanted me to sit nude for a portrait, Doctor, all you had to do was ask."

He continues drawing across her front, swirling the paint over her stomach, ribs, breasts, watching the way her breath hitches. "You're not fully nude," he points out absently, just to be contrary.

"Well, since you're asking." River slips from his grasp to stand over him as she reaches to undo her paint-streaked jeans.

The Doctor reclines back and tucks his hands under his head, watching her avidly as she shimmies out of the tight fabric and lifts her legs to step out of it. She's barefoot already, and only her knickers are left. River hooks her thumbs under the elastic before she halts, one eyebrow rising. "You too, Doctor."

He has become quite skilled at shedding clothing quickly, in a variety of unusual circumstances, thanks to River Song. Still, he is rather completely covered in paint, and his trousers are heavy and sodden as he wiggles out of them, toeing off his boots as he does so and never taking his eyes off of River.

"Watch the paint," she scolds as he starts to shove down his pants.

She's right, as always - his hands are positively covered in paint and he doesn't particularly fancy painting certain parts of himself by accident. The paint is a bit - drying. The Doctor wipes at his hands hastily on the outside of his pants, taking care not to cover himself with paint as he slips them off. "Yes, dear."

River is no help at all for his concentration as she drops her knickers and steps out of them, leaving all of their clothing in a messy pile at their feet. When she remains standing, the Doctor sits up to reach for her with hands that are dyed purple. "Come here."

"I thought you were going to paint me?" River teases, full of a frighteningly believable faux innocence.

His hands settle on her hips, not daring to dip lower, tracing across the muscles and bones under her skin. "Later," he promises, his voice coming out low and strained.

Dropping lithely to her knees, River settles astride his thighs, her small strong hands gripping his biceps for balance. "You had better not get paint anywhere it won't come out," she warns, her fingers tracing just ever so slightly above the paint marks he knows are covering his chest.

Shivering under her barely there touch, the Doctor swoops forward and captures River's lips in a slow, thorough kiss. His tongue sweeps into her mouth and his teeth tug at her lower lip, where he can taste the metallic and oily traces of paint.

Their upper bodies are already covered with paint, some already drying, rough against smooth skin. The Doctor lets his hands wander, sweeping across River's body and smudging all his earlier work with his eager grasp.

River keens, shifting forward to press her whole body against his, her fingers sliding across his back and his cock trapped between them. The Doctor shudders, rocking against her, a plaintive noise escaping his throat.

Both their hands are covered in paint now, but his have mostly dried. The Doctor slips one hand between them, stroking lower until his fingers slide through River's damp curls and his thumb can circle her clit.

River startles at the contact, breaking their kiss and arching back in pleasure. "Doctor," she whinges, her nails digging into his back.

It's hard to tell if she's chastising him or demanding more or a bit of both, with the way she drags out his name. But the change of position gives him more room to work, pressing soft kisses across her neck as he traces the swirls of paint across her breasts with his free hand, pausing to roll her nipples between his thumb and forefingers before starting the pattern over.

He speeds the motions of his fingers at her clit, pressing the bundle of nerves a little harder with each rotation. His cock is hard and leaking, pressed between them, with just enough friction to tease. The Doctor has to remind himself that he can't simply lift River onto his length or even twist his wrist and press two fingers into her tantalizing wetness. Her breath hitches with harsh moans and he just wants to be inside her, to feel her come apart inside out.

With a low growl, the Doctor lifts his head from her neck until he can kiss her again. It's possessive and desperate this time, wet and sloppy as River gasps against his mouth and bites down on his lip just hard enough to hurt. He lets her, thrusting his tongue against hers and pressing harder at her clit, desperate to make her fall apart.

River's hand catches his wrist as she rises to her knees, shifting until her wetness slides over his cock, just the barest brush of sensitive flesh.

The Doctor groans, wrenching his mouth free of her talented tongue and sharp teeth. "I thought -" He's not even certain he manages to ask a question, rendered nearly incoherent already, but River seems to understand anyway.

"Not every part of you is covered in paint, sweetie." She lifts her hands to the side and regards them, letting out a frustrated huff. "Hands?" When the Doctor holds his up, River shakes her head, and he thinks she'd roll her eyes in a less intimate moment. "Well, that does present some difficulties. And there aren't even handcuffs this time."

His hands are still purple, wet again from her sweat and sex. River's are speckled with more discrete reds and blues, but clearly wet from running across his skin. "I'm sure there's a pair in my coat, if you fancy a challenge," he counters, waggling his eyebrows.

"I don't have the patience to tie you up right now, Doctor," River laughs, ending with a bit of whinge as she rubs her sex over him again to underscore her impatience.

The Doctor settles his hands at River's hips to steady her as they maneuver to the right angle. River's hands grip his shoulders as she slowly sinks down over him, engulfing him inch by inch in the tight, molten heat of her. The Doctor rests his head at her shoulder, fighting against the urge to thrust up and drag her down against him all at once. His fingers dig into her hips probably too hard, and he has to force himself to loosen them. At last, she takes him all the way inside, so deep that he feels light headed.

River moans appreciatively, rocking her hips forward in a smooth motion as she clenches him tightly with well-honed muscles. The Doctor makes a strangled noise in reply, his teeth closing over her neck. He soothes the wound with his tongue as River shivers, a hitch to her rhythm.

River is rarely one to go slow, and she quickly increases the pace. Rising fluidly over him and taking him in again and again, their bodies sliding together, slick with sweat and paint. She plays his body expertly, drawing him into her so that he is helpless but to rock his hips up to meet her every downward thrust, his hands tight at her hips, trying to drag her just a little closer every time.

Paint drips from their hair and into his eyes, forcing him to lift his head. He wants to watch River like this anyway - her strength and beauty brought out by the soft intimacy she allows in their moments together. A side of River he knows he's the only one to see. He wants to treasure each of these rare, happy moments. To burn them into his memory.

River smiles at him, one of her hands releasing its grip on his shoulder to bop his nose. "You look like Rudolph."

It takes him a moment to catch on - he's too distracted by the feel of River moving over him to focus on obscure human-y references. Caught off guard by the ease of the way she steals his favorite gesture of love. His nose is red, he belatedly realizes - and probably most of his face - from the paint dripping off the ends of her hair. "It's your fault," he accuses.

His fringe has fallen into his face again. He imagines his nose will be purple in a minute, and the rest of him besides. Since his hands are occupied, River reaches forward in a tender gesture that belies the intensity of their coupling and slicks his hair back, her fingers catching in paint-glued strands.

"You started it."

She is flushed and glorious and he wonders if he should mention how much paint is on her face. Probably not, he decides. "'You started it,' really?"

River twists her hips in a way that momentarily robs him of speech. The look in her eyes says she's well aware of that fact. "Yes, sweetie. And, if you'd like me to finish, you'd do well to shut up."

The Doctor presses quick kisses to her lips in apology as she moves over him, and there's really no need to say anything else. He does anyway, of course, "Oh, I very much want to see you finish."

River mumbles something insulting against his lips, but he kisses her until she stops talking with a sigh, her body tense and trembling against his.

She's close, still on edge from his fingers, and grinding her clit hard against him with every downward stroke. The Doctor pries a hand free of her hips to wrap around her back, running his fingertips along her spine before splaying his hand and pressing her closer. River's hips jolt, the change in angle catching that perfect spot inside her, and the Doctor tightens his grip and drives up into her harder, deeper, until she loses her rhythm completely, clinging to him as she finally comes apart.

The feel of her pulsing and clenching around him is enough to send the Doctor right after her, his hips thrusting one last time before the heat and pleasure coalesces into one blinding moment of bliss as he spills inside her.

They disentangle slowly. Trading lazy, glancing kisses as the urgency wanes and fades into a sated afterglow. The Doctor slowly lies back, taking River with him to rest on his chest. His hand is still caught in her hair, a mass of frizz and knots and paint, and still the most glorious thing he's ever seen. He separates out the curls and works his fingers through the knots absently, his other hand stroking across River's back until he can see the patterns of paint in his mind.

River shifts off her knees and to his side, so she can curl around him with her head resting against his chest, humming contentedly. She's either forgotten about the paint or given it up as a lost cause. Her knees and shins are blue, and his handprints are purple on her hips, which he hopes is paint and not bruising.

"Shower." Her voice is muffled against his chest.

The Doctor makes a noise of agreement. They're sticky and sweaty and absolutely covered in paint, but he's in no hurry to move so long as River is draped across him. If only he truly controlled time, he would stop it, right here. Their own bubble universe: just the two of them, just in this moment. At length, River's eyelashes flutter closed, tickling his skin, her breathing evening.

He slides his shirt under River's head to use as a pillow when he's certain she's asleep, draping his coat over her as a blanket and hoping that the paint is mostly dry. She makes a soft noise of displeasure before curling into his coat, the crease in her forehead softening, and the Doctor's hearts lurch at the sight.

Always well prepared for alien invasions or the Doctor's clumsiness, River had bought extra paint. It takes a bit of work to get the paint sorted without waking River, but he manages.

The Doctor was careful to make sure River picked the paint on her own, spoilers lingering behind his lips. It's such a small thing, but he wants River's house to be her own. He's missed so much of her life here and he wants so desperately to be a part of it now, but he knows that's not fair. He doesn't want her to paint the accent wall red just because the vermilion reminds him of her lipstick or her shoes from the first time this face saw (and felt) her - her shoes that are tucked up neatly in his side of the wardrobe, hidden amongst his hats. But River picks the color herself with a saucy wink and bright red smile and the Doctor's hearts lift in response.

While River is sleeping, he painstakingly finishes their painting, using his memories of her house to guide him. He just wants everything to be perfect. He doesn't want River to huff and glare in the way she does when she's regretting ever letting him out in public.

And then, once the boring standard old walls are done, the Doctor paints her. Across a wall he knows will house a bookshelf, in bold strokes of purples, blues, reds, the Doctor paints River as she rose above him, carnal but peaceful, powerful and beautiful in equal measure. He paints her so that he won't forget. Not the curve of her hips or the sweat that beaded between her breasts. Not the way her eyes sparkled with laughter or the way her hair caught fire in the light. He may never look at it again, but it will have to be enough to know that she's there. Real, tangible, alive.

"Doctor?"

"Here, River," he is just finishing mopping the last of the visible paint from the floors when she wakes.

Clutching his coat to her as she sits up, River glances around the room wide-eyed. "When did you do all this?"

The Doctor shrugs, fidgeting and suddenly nervous that she won't like it after all but maybe just feels obligated to keep it. "You needed to rest."

"So you finished all the painting by yourself?!" One of River's eyebrows is nearing her hairline in her incredulity.

He plops down next to her on the floor and bops her paint-covered nose, watching her wrinkle it extra when the paint stretches at the movement. She looks particularly fetching in violet. "It wasn't all that difficult really, once I got the hang of it. Just like painting the TARDIS, really."

River's kiss is surprising in its enthusiasm, her body warm and sleepy against his as his coat slips between them. Dried paint flecks off their bodies and swirls in the air. When they part, her eyes focus on her painting, and she is silent for long enough that the Doctor fidgets nervously. "Oh, sweetie, you utter sentimental idiot." Her voice is soft and pleased and it doesn't sound like an insult at all. "Is that how you see me?"

The Doctor glances between the painting and River, tracing his hands over her arms. "You wanted a portrait." He teases before kissing her again and admitting, "I've tried before, you know, but I can never seem to get it quite right. It's all the hair, I think - defies the laws of nature."

"It's beautiful." River reassures him, cutting him off before he can launch into a proper ode to her hair. She stares thoughtfully at the painting before arching one eyebrow. "Though it's a little risqué for the dining room. I suppose dinner guests will eventually adjust."

Sputtering at the idea of dinner parties under the naughty glare of his naked wife, the Doctor hastily offers, "Bookshelf."

"I don't know," River muses, climbing to her feet and offering him a hand up, "I kind of like it."

"River!"

...