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Impossible Girls

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Clara Oswald has seen quite a lot in her travels with the Doctor, whether quick little day trips or longer excursions (like today). She's rather gotten used to it, she thinks with a touch of pride as she lies facedown on her bunk, book now forgotten. But standing at the door is perhaps the strangest thing she has yet to see. “Hello,” the figure in the door begins, brushing familiar dark-brown hair away from her eyes. “My bum does look rather fetching, doesn't it?” She extends a hand as Clara shoots up from the bed. “Just call me Miss Oswald,” she tells Clara. “It'll make things easier for both of us.”

“Sorry, why are you here, exactly?” Clara asks, casting an eye up and down, well, herself. From the future, she assumes, since she can't remember doing this. “Not that I mind.” She feels underdressed in just a nightgown, though she supposes that at least she's only trying to impress herself.

“In as simple terms as I can put it,” Miss Oswald begins. Do I really sound like that when I'm teaching, Clara wonders? “Because you're a control freak.”

“No, I'm really not.”

“Yes, you are,” Miss Oswald tells her. “You won't be able to admit it to yourself for a while, let alone the Doctor. But for someone who goes gallivanting across the galaxy in a poorly-steered time ship, you like being in charge of your surroundings. And yourself.” She smirks. “But for all that, you can't control your eyes. Up here, gorgeous.” Clara blushes. “Have you figured it out yet?”

“You mean you—we—I came back in time for a shag?” Miss Oswald cocks an eyebrow in response and grins, hands on her hips.

“Like I said,” Miss Oswald explains. “You don't trust anyone else well enough to let your guard down, but you've always wanted to let go, just for an hour.” She glances at the clock on the bedside table. “Or four.”

“Do I have a choice?” Clara asks. “I mean, if you've already done this once as me...”

“You were the one who suggested a shag,” Miss Oswald reminds her. “I might have come back just to ogle, or chat.” She crosses the room to sit in an armchair, putting her feet up on an ottoman and kicking off her heels. Legs spread and skirt riding up her thighs, she grabs a paperback from an end table. “Whenever you're ready, then.”

Clara stands, twitching and writhing in place, fingers toying with the buttons of her nightgown. She had to admit that her future self had told the truth—and was extremely tempting, to boot. She knew, because the Doctor had told her that much, that they had had an adventure where they had managed to cause a paradox by breaking a causality loop, whatever the hell that meant. She couldn't remember anything about it. She wanted to remember this, she decides, and unbuttons her nightgown. Time can be rewritten, she reminds herself, the Doctor's voice in her ear. She's still in control, she knows. A smile quirks at the corners of her mouth. In control at least for a little while yet, she guesses, if she's reading her future self properly. She shrugs off her nightgown and drops to her hands and knees, crawling over to where she can curl up between her future self's legs and reach up to her panties. “Is this what you wanted, Miss Oswald?” she asks submissively.

Miss Oswald grins and sets aside the novel, her bare heels resting gently on Clara's back. “It's a good start,” she acknowledges, toes curling and heels digging in as Clara kisses the underside of her knee reverently. “But you're going to be a very, very good girl for me.”