Cloistered - (11th Doctor, River Song)
Title: Cloistered
Author: betawho
Rating: PG-13
Character: 11th Doctor, River Song
Words: 412
Summary: The Doctor painted a picture of Clara while cloistered in a monastery. But what would happen if River arrived?
He sucked in his gut and lifted his chin haughtily.
River strode around him, looking him up and down. She bit her lips, a tight little smile. “A monk’s robe really doesn’t become you, Sweetie.”
He let out his air with a whoosh, and slouched. “Well, it wasn’t exactly my idea,” he waved around at the dim monastery rooms around them. “I’m looking for someone, I just meant to come check the birth records here, then I got a bit distracted.”
River walked over and tilted her head at the painting. “So I see. She’s very lovely.”
The Doctor shrugged. His eyes went to his wife, his eyes slid slowly over her. “Will you pose for me?”
River turned to him, a bright-eyed look on her face.
-
He bolted the chamber door, then spread out the cleanest and thickest of the bedfurs before the fire...
-
He smoothed on the last stroke, then deliberately pulled his brush away. He stepped back, even one more touch would ruin it.
In the painting, firelight gleamed. Curls glistened in the light, the satin nap of the fur glowed. He looked down at his palette, he’d use a lot of dusky gold, and pink.
“Is it done?” River asked in a husky, sleepy tone. It had taken two days.
He nodded.
She rose like Venus rising from a clamshell, elegantly draping the fur around her. She sauntered over beside him and studied the painting, the fur tickled the back of his hand.
“You’ve got good technique,” she said.
“I studied with Leonardo.”
She turned and wrapped her arms up around his neck, half enclosed in the fur, leaning toward him. He quickly jerked aside the palette and paintbrush, arms wide.
She grinned up at him. “Do you work on commission?” she asked.
He gulped.
“However will I pay you?” she purred, she lifted up on tiptoe and caressed the corner of his jaw with her lips.
The paintbrush and palette dropped from his hands with a clatter.
His eyes darted toward the door, then toward the painting.
This was definitely one painting the monks shouldn’t be allowed to see.
Firelight shifted, shadows passed in front of the canvas, paint gleamed as night settled, and the painting of River smiled a Mona Lisa smile.
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Author: betawho
Rating: PG-13
Character: 11th Doctor, River Song
Words: 412
Summary: The Doctor painted a picture of Clara while cloistered in a monastery. But what would happen if River arrived?
He sucked in his gut and lifted his chin haughtily.
River strode around him, looking him up and down. She bit her lips, a tight little smile. “A monk’s robe really doesn’t become you, Sweetie.”
He let out his air with a whoosh, and slouched. “Well, it wasn’t exactly my idea,” he waved around at the dim monastery rooms around them. “I’m looking for someone, I just meant to come check the birth records here, then I got a bit distracted.”
River walked over and tilted her head at the painting. “So I see. She’s very lovely.”
The Doctor shrugged. His eyes went to his wife, his eyes slid slowly over her. “Will you pose for me?”
River turned to him, a bright-eyed look on her face.
-
He bolted the chamber door, then spread out the cleanest and thickest of the bedfurs before the fire...
-
He smoothed on the last stroke, then deliberately pulled his brush away. He stepped back, even one more touch would ruin it.
In the painting, firelight gleamed. Curls glistened in the light, the satin nap of the fur glowed. He looked down at his palette, he’d use a lot of dusky gold, and pink.
“Is it done?” River asked in a husky, sleepy tone. It had taken two days.
He nodded.
She rose like Venus rising from a clamshell, elegantly draping the fur around her. She sauntered over beside him and studied the painting, the fur tickled the back of his hand.
“You’ve got good technique,” she said.
“I studied with Leonardo.”
She turned and wrapped her arms up around his neck, half enclosed in the fur, leaning toward him. He quickly jerked aside the palette and paintbrush, arms wide.
She grinned up at him. “Do you work on commission?” she asked.
He gulped.
“However will I pay you?” she purred, she lifted up on tiptoe and caressed the corner of his jaw with her lips.
The paintbrush and palette dropped from his hands with a clatter.
His eyes darted toward the door, then toward the painting.
This was definitely one painting the monks shouldn’t be allowed to see.
Firelight shifted, shadows passed in front of the canvas, paint gleamed as night settled, and the painting of River smiled a Mona Lisa smile.
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