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The first time Amy meets Doctor River Song, she is like a mystery unfurling right in front of them, teasing the nearly ineffable Doctor with tastes of the future. It drives him mad, and maybe Amy just a bit as well.
Ten minutes later, River Song has an easy, comforting arm wrapped around Amy. She soothes the younger girl with careful touches and a Wintergreen cool voice as she and the Doctor throw words back and forth like snippets of wind. Amy only draws away from River to swipe knuckles at her right eye; watery with irritating dust or, as she later learns, something a little more sinister. She immediately misses the warm weight of River’s hold.
River never seems to falter. She moves with the same confidence as the Doctor, working in tandem with him. Amy can’t help but watch in frank fascination. She never looks afraid, which is more than Amy can say for herself because the entire time, she is beside herself with fear that grows into terror, eating away at her until the Doctor finds her, hand stock still as stone, so to speak, with that same incessant fear.
She instinctively knows when to turn to Amy and fill in the gaps in the girl’s knowledge, and whenever she does so, River meets Amy’s eyes with startling familiarity, sometimes accompanied by featherlight touches that send chills tumbling down the curve of Amy’s spine. She’s awfully friendly, Amy thinks at one point, trying not to read into River’s calculated contact.
Later, when Amy feels her body deteriorating even as she takes another step, and then another, River is the first to catch her and the last to leave her. She brushes back ginger hair, tucking it behind Amy’s ear, and warms unnaturally cool skin with the warmth of her hands. Amy watches the professor through slitted eyes, so utterly enthralled by that face, creased with worry but still undeniably perfect, until the Doctor orders them shut. She resists, terrified because what if she sees the angel there, imprinted on the backs of her eyelids, but River urges her with soft words. She shuts her eyes, and the darkness is the second loveliest thing she’s seen all day.
River stays with her, even as the Doctor takes Father Octavian and his soldiers further through the woods. She watches the angels, keeping up a soft monologue for Amy’s benefit on every movement of the demented statues and, when that subject grows tiring and dreary, on how soft Amy’s hair is and how beautiful she looks, like a nymph sleeping on a mossy stone. Amy doesn’t know when her head ended up in River’s lap. She doesn’t complain.
“The angels are gone,” River says at one point, though Amy barely hears her, too distracted by the woman’s fingers teasing the nape of her neck. She describes a light, like a halo beyond the trees.
“I want to see it,” Amy murmurs.
“You can’t, Amy,” the fingers at her neck slide up to tangle in her hair.
“It makes it bloody worse, y’know? Scarier, not being able to see. It was hard trying not to blink before, but I think this is almost harder.”
River trails the pads of her fingers up Amy’s throat, scritching under her chin. Her voice shifts to something sultry, a dozen implications contained in her tone, “I can make your eyes close for a whole different reason, sweetie.”
Amy doesn’t understand at first, only sighs through barely parted lips at the feel of River massaging her scalp and at the other hand, cupping her cheek. Then River says, hardly more than a whisper against Amy’s ear, “Don’t open your eyes, okay?” and the sentence finishes, hovering above Amy’s lips. She leans up to complete the circuit.
It’s even harder now, to keep her eyes shut, when they want to fling open in shock at River thoroughly, thoroughly kissing her, but when the warmth of River’s tongue slides into her mouth, Amy loses all desire to do anything but melt against her. Tensely shut eyes relax, the lines of her forehead smoothed.
What about the doctor? Amy wants to ask, but River gives her no chance to because as soon as their lips detach, her mouth is making its slow, hot way down Amy’s throat. She makes a noise almost like a whimper when a tongue lathes the length of her clavicles.
She doesn’t ask to take off Amy’s shirt, because Amy’s approval is implicit in the way she arches into River when the woman’s hands trail down her front, brushing against her breasts. “Patience,” River chuckles into the hollow of Amy’s throat.
The shirt finds a new home on the forest floor, where it will lie forgotten until it is time for Amy and River to move on.
“I’m – I’ve never done this before,” Amy says. She sounds neither abashed nor scared; it is simply a statement.
“Are you scared?”
Oh, yes, Amy is trembling right down to her bone marrow because she doesn’t understand what River Song is doing to her, of the heat that this strange woman who could say, Heel, boy to the Doctor and he comes running. “Terrified.”
“Of me or the angels?”
Amy laughs because somewhere in the last five minutes, her priorities got rearranged, and it turns into a moan when River’s mouth closes around one of her nipples. Teeth and tongue and moist heat worry it until it is almost painfully stiff, practically throbbing, and then River moves on to its opposite. Amy’s hands scrabble against the hard stone, trying to find a grip as if that will tether her.
River releases Amy’s tit with a barely audible pop, like someone blowing bubblegum. Then, in one fluid movement, River lifts the girl into her arms and resettles them both on the spongy ground; moss, Amy decides, is a better cushion than rock.
“I want to see you,” Amy sounds decidedly frustrated as River kisses her way down the flat plane of her stomach. “I can’t – reciprocate if I can’t see you.” She wants, more than anything in the world, to run her hands down River’s sides and pull wordless sounds out of her mouth.
River’s voice vibrates against Amy’s navel, “This is for you, Amy. You can exchange the favor at another time.” Then her tongue dips into that little hollow, and Amy squirms.
When River grows tired of teasing Amy, she unbuttons her jeans and tugs them down the length of crescent moon legs, bent at the knees. River’s mouth meanders over soft ginger down. Amy’s hips roll as she tries to urge River faster, further, right there – she exhales a shuddering groan when River’s tongue meets her desperate cunt.
Amy doesn’t notice when closing her eyes becomes less of an effort than it would be to open them, but it’s probably sometime between the first stroke of River’s tongue and when her mouth closes around her clit. She is brought to a shivering climax, hips undulating against River’s mouth and screams suppressed by the knuckles Amy stuffed in her mouth.
River redresses her as Amy lays there, limbs impossibly heavy and head light. Finally, she fits her body against Amy’s and holds her until the Doctor’s voice sounds over the handheld, summoning them to the deck. Amy feels a little broken when they untangle themselves, like a vital part of her has been snipped away, but she’s no longer so afraid.