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The Doctor taps the console board rhythmically – grey eyes not daring to meet Clara’s as they stand in the TARDIS in an awkward silence… their silent moments never used to hold any tensity, but things were different now.
To say their latest adventure went poorly would be an understatement. In truth, it had gone as horrible as you could possibly imagine.
The Doctor had sworn it was an easy in and out visit of an old friend, but just like always, his promises rang useless.
“For a moment there, I nearly thought you weren’t going to come back for me”
Clara’s voice slices through the silence like a knife to butter, though her voice wasn’t nearly as strong as your classic knife – at least not the steel ones. It was more like one of those flimsy plastic knives they pass out at birthday parties to avoid blowing money on nicer cutlery.
This admittance causes The Doctor to think back to their time in Victorian London together – with the clockwork droid. Had she really thought he wouldn’t come back for him then, too?
“Is your vision so clouded with contempt that you truly believe I wouldn’t come back for you, Clara?”
The Doctor looks at Clara now, her brown eyes filled with tears, which only served to make them more enlarged and round. The woman’s eyebrows furrow and confusion etches itself into her features,
“Contempt?”
“You’re an English teacher, surely you must know what the word contempt means” The Doctor quips, standing up straight from where he had been previously slumped over the console.
Clara’s lips twitch up in anger – a part of The Doctor loves that little face she makes when she gets angry, which has become a more frequent expression, she almost seems endlessly frustrated lately.
“I know what contempt means. What I don’t know is why you’re using it” The brunette questions, peering up at The Doctor as they stood a few feet apart, “I don’t hate you”
The Doctor considers arguing her point – sure, she may not hate him, but he can sense an underlying feeling of resentment for the change still lingering. An unspoken wish for her goofy Doctor to someday return, but the understanding between both of them that it can never happen.
“Then why would you think I wouldn’t come back?”
“Why would you leave me in the first place–” Clara cuts herself off, pressing her lips tightly together, like she decided against saying something that would undoubtedly upset the alien.
“He wouldn’t?” The Doctor accuses, his eyebrows seemingly even bushier as if he was hiding all of his anger inside of them, “How many times must we go over that it’s still me”
“I know that” Clara whispers, almost as if she didn’t believe it herself, then suddenly, a surge of bravery flows through her and she speaks louder, “God damnit, of course I know that. Out of all people… I know that”
Clara’s voice dissolves into a whisper once more at the end, it was clear she was fighting back tears by this point, scared that if she spoke any louder, her voice would crack and she’d break out into sobs.
The Doctor’s features soften all at once as he remembers what Clara sacrificed for him – all the versions of him that she witnessed, even the one he never dared to speak about.
He wants to step forward, to hug her, to offer her comfort. He knows that at a certain point in his life, when he was young and wore bowties and stole fezzes off their displays that he would’ve lunged towards her, but he can’t bring himself to move any closer to Clara – his feet felt glued in their place.
Clara covers her face with her hand and The Doctor chases her eyes frantically, the one form of contact he can manage ripped away from him in a second.
“Clara…” he breathes, eyes flickering up and down her body as her shoulders shake – clearly holding back sobs that threaten to pour out. The day’s unfortunate adventure was clearly very hard on the woman, The Doctor tries to think of a time he ever saw Clara like this, but his memory falls flat.
“If you’d like some space…” The Doctor fails to utter the word home as he carefully walks towards the TARDIS doors and pushes one of them open, revealing that they were in Clara’s flat and had been for quite some time now.
Clara’s gaze whips towards him and she quickly wipes at her face, “Next Wednesday?” she asks, squeezing past him to exit the ship
“Next Wednesday.” The Doctor parrots back in confirmation, shutting the doors behind her and immediately sinking to the floor.
He curls into himself, he wants to cry, but the tears just won’t come out. His ducts were all dried out after years of self-loathing.
Okay, so maybe he got the days wrong.
The Doctor meant to land the TARDIS on Wednesday February 12th, 2014, but instead it seemed to be Friday, something he learns the hard way.
He barges into Clara’s bedroom like he paid the rent for the flat and immediately stops in his tracks. Clara was on the bed making out with some man – he had wild brown hair and a nice suit on, or at least he imagined it was nice, as it was strewn across the floor.
Something about him reminds The Doctor of a certain bow-tied alien, which makes his stomach churn with an emotion he wasn’t quite familiar with – something he hadn’t felt in a long time.
Was it jealousy? Or a specific kind of yearning you only get for those you’re unfortunate enough to fall in love with?
“Doctor!” Clara shouts, leaping off the man’s lap and immediately trying to cover herself up, she wasn’t naked, but she was in a pair of undergarments that left very little to the imagination.
“It’s Wednesday! Why are you making love to some human on our day!” The Doctor’s voice was a higher pitch than usual, as if he was embarrassed to find Clara in such a predicament, “I mean, aren’t you cold?” he gestures to her lack of clothes while speaking
“It’s not Wednesday. It’s Friday.” Clara corrects and The Doctor takes a moment to look around the room, flowers and heart shaped chocolates adorned her nightstand, “and Valentine’s Day.” she adds, seething.
Clara quickly tries to get dressed, nearly tripping over herself pulling on her leggings.
“I should go…” The man in the bed says awkwardly, stumbling out of the silk sheets and back into his suit. Now, fully clothed, The Doctor really notices the similarities he has to his previous regeneration, even down to the bowtie.
Only his wasn’t actually tied, just lazily thrown around his neck in haste.
He was shorter too, only reaching The Doctor’s jaw as he peers down at the human in disdain, and he swears he can see the man shiver under his gaze, quickly shoving past him.
The only proof of the human’s departure is the sound of the front door slamming shut.
The Doctor crosses the room to Clara’s nightstand, opening the box of chocolates and popping one into his mouth
Clara scoffs from behind him, “Are you serious?”
“Hardly ever.”
Clara clenches her jaw tightly and in a moment of clarity, realizes that she was so stupid to believe that The Doctor wasn’t the same man he’s always been – a huge pain in her ass.
“You need to leave, it’s not Wednesday. Try again next week” Clara tries her best to not completely blow up at the alien, no matter how badly she wants to smack him across the face.
“Is this what you usually do when I’m not around? Entertain yourself with little humans?” The Doctor completely ignores her request to leave – many such cases.
“Do you realize how demeaning that sounds?” Clara seems genuinely curious, but before the alien can answer, she tosses her hands up, “You know what.. I don’t even care!”
Clara was angry at The Doctor, but more than anything, she was sexually frustrated. She hadn’t gotten laid in God knows how long and just when she finally had the opportunity, her alien squandered it – a part of Clara believes he did it on purpose.
“He was wearing a bowtie, you made fun of my bowties.” The Doctor once again brushes Clara’s words aside, too busy making a narrative of his own.
“Who fucking cares?” it was unlike Clara to curse, at least around The Doctor, because he always made a big deal out of it. It got to a point where he actually made a swear jar just to prove a point.
Well, technically the swear jar already existed. It was originally intended for a girl named Amelia Pond, according to the TARDIS interface.
Clara wasn’t entirely certain she believed her, though, still holding that grudge after what felt like decades.
The Doctor wants to scold his companion for cursing, to make a quip about the money she owed to the swear jar, but the pit in his stomach after seeing Clara with that human was too large for anything of the sort.
All that currently occupied the alien’s mind was the image of Clara in nothing but a bra and knickers in a man’s lap that looked suspiciously like himself – his other self.
“Is he your new boyfriend?”
“New?”
“Oh I’m sorry, Clara. Is there only room for one bowtied man in your life?” All of The Doctor’s jealousy comes falling out of his mouth like a dam breaking suddenly.
He clutches the box of chocolates tightly, immediately regretting his words.
“You were never my boyfriend.” Clara makes sure the words sting, like he had hurt her weeks before by claiming he wasn’t her boyfriend. She knows it’s wrong of her, but she wants him to feel the pain – the embarrassment of having your feelings unreciprocated.
The words do more than sting, The Doctor visibly falters as his hearts aches, “I know that.”
He didn’t know that.
At least not then, anyway. Lines of romanticism become blurred when you’re as old as he is.
The Doctor holds the box of chocolates tightly against his chest, “I’ll see you next Wednesday, then.” he says curtly, grabbing a heart balloon for extra measure as he stalks out of the bedroom and towards his TARDIS
“Make it a few Wednesdays… I want some space.” Clara calls out after him, afraid to get the entire sentence out.
The Doctor can barely make out the sound of his own doors shutting as her words ring in his ears, space she said. That’s how it always starts, his companions grow bored of his antics and leave … but never suddenly.
It’s always a slow process
Starting with space.
He loved space, but not this kind. This kind of space tortured him. He couldn’t lose his Clara – his impossible girl.
The Doctor tosses the chocolates onto the console as the heart balloon is long since forgotten about, floating to the ceiling of the TARDIS as the grey-haired alien shrugs his blazer off, unbuttoning the first few buttons of his shirt and placing his sweaty hands against a lever.
They were shaking slightly.
He was scared, The Doctor finally acknowledges.
That feeling that forced its way deep into the roots of his soul when he saw Clara with that man, it wasn’t yearning, it was unadulterated fear.
Fear of losing what mattered to him the most.
What he didn’t want to admit yet was the jealousy he felt, the wish that it was him Clara had been straddling.
For a moment he lets his mind wander, would she have done it back then? Certainly not now, he wasn’t young anymore. He never was, but now he couldn’t hide behind a pretty face.
He was all wrinkles and sad eyes now, even Clara was beginning to move on.
The doctor pulls the lever, he desperately needed a distraction.
What started with a small distraction snowballed into a month long bender.
The Doctor didn’t even like drinking, or at least his previous regeneration didn’t. Now it seemed as though he could drink it like it was nobody’s business.
Finally making it back into the TARDIS, he kicks off his shoes and puts his guitar back on the stand.
He was dizzy from the alcohol, but coherent enough to be aware of his decisions.
The alien tugs on the bow tie he’d been wearing for the past month — he thought maybe he’d still like them, but honestly they felt constricting now.
And yet, The Doctor refused to take it off. The illusion that he was still young and whimsical was too euphoric to squash.
He checks the calendar on his TARDIS and flips a lever, it was Wednesday. What Wednesday he wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter anyway, Clara wanted space.
Clara is shocked when the TARDIS materializes right in front of her place on the couch and The Doctor stumbles out.
She nearly drops her mug of tea upon the state of him. His grey curls longer and clearly unmanaged, the lack of a blazer, and most surprising of all, the bow tie that held his button up together.
The thought to be angry at the fact he abandoned her for ten weeks without a word doesn’t even cross her mind as she shoots up from her place on the couch,
“Doctor? Are you okay?” Clara inquires, approaching him slowly and putting her hands on his arms, something he flinches back from
“I’m the king of okay, Clara” The Doctor responds, taking in the sight of her and milking it for all its worth, like it’s the last time he’ll see her.
She was so beautiful, and it suddenly dawns on him that he’s never said it aloud.
In fact, it’s always been the opposite.
Sly remarks about her eyes or nose.. the features he adored the most.
“You’re beautiful” he breathes out suddenly, his grey eyes filled with nothing but love
“Do you have a concussion?” Clara brings her hands up and examines The Doctor’s head, “Don’t tell me it’s Mr. Clever… I can not deal with that again”
The Doctor swats at Clara’s hands, a frown appearing on his face, the lines that adorned his features making it stick out more than usually noticeable
“None of the above. I’m serious.”
“You hardly are.” Clara parrots back his retort from Valentine’s Day
“That’s why it’s important to me that you understand what I’m saying.”
“And what are you saying?” Clara’s blood runs cold, she’s frightened of The Doctor in this moment, but only because she has no idea what his next move is
Usually she can predict him so well.
“That for one night, we can pretend I’m him again. Just this one time.” The Doctor leans closer to Clara, shutting the TARDIS door shut in the process.
The vulnerability in his eyes is as clear as day, his usual stern expression replaced with a deep sadness — a fear of rejection.
It’s then that Clara finally realizes the gravity of the bow tie. Why he was so jealous of that stupid guy she brought home for a good shag, he wants what they had back.
Their lingering touches that made them both wonder what they were, the way they slipped so easily into each other's arms
As if they were made for each other.
But they never had sex.
And maybe that’s what The Doctor regrets.
Never taking what he wanted until it was too late, ironic for the man with a Time Machine.
Their faces were so close that Clara could feel The Doctor’s shaking breath against her cheeks.
She reaches up and slowly grabs the bow tie, The Doctor is convinced she’ll pull him into a kiss, agreeing to his request.
Instead, she slowly pulls it apart, holding it tightly in her hand, “I’m not going to pretend you’re someone else, because you’re not someone else.”
She drops the bow tie at her side, space from The Doctor was exactly what she needed to realize that she couldn’t be apart from him, she craved him.
In more ways than she could possibly imagine.
“You’re my Doctor,” Clara inches closer to his face, their lips grazing, “No matter what face you’re wearing”
It’s The Doctor who makes the next move, pressing their lips together as he puts his hands on her hips, pushing her towards the couch without breaking the kiss
Any anger Clara still had at the doctor for interrupting her was quickly forgotten as she spins him around and straddles him on the couch — just as she did that stupid boy from the bar.
The Doctor seems uncertain as to where to put his hands, settling on keeping them glued to his sides as Clara grinds against his growing bulge, fingers sneaking up his shirt.
“I wasn’t expecting company tonight..” She husks, trying to sound sexy but there was a hint of insecurity as she pulls away from The Doctor to discard herself of her shirt
Clara wasn’t wearing a bra, not unusual for the time of night.
The Doctor almost seems to avoid looking at her breasts, instead staring up at Clara as his chest heaves rapidly.
“Is this too much contact?” Clara asks genuinely, hands not venturing back to her alien just yet
The Doctor shakes his head, unable to form any words
Still, Clara is gentle with him, pressing her hands into his shoulders as she slowly kisses his jaw, breathing in the unmistakable scent of ginger rum mixed with his cologne.
Clara pauses suddenly as she drinks in his scent, “Are you drunk?”
“Enough questions, teacher” The Doctor huffs, holding onto the woman tightly as he maneuvers them so she’s laying on the couch and he’s on top of her
“I’m serious, this doesn’t feel right if you are” Clara holds his face in her hands as he stares down at her
“I’m not. I was before, but not tonight” The Doctor answers truthfully, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to her forehead — something that surprises Clara in a moment like this
“Never tonight” he mumbles into her skin, rutting his hips against her involuntarily.
Clara grabs at his shirt, trying to unbutton it but is ultimately stopped by a much larger hand on top of hers,
“Clara.”
Clara’s eyes shoot up to meet his, doe eyes boring into his much lighter ones, filled with insecurity and age.
“Do you remember the time you met my family completely naked?”
“I remember everything.” he replies solemnly, eyes never leaving Clara’s even as she tries to wriggle her hand out of his grasp
“Then stop being so worried about what others think”
“I’ve always cared what you think.”
“And I think that you’re undeniably handsome, so let me take your shirt off” Clara argues and The Doctor surprisingly listens, letting go of her hand and leaning down to kiss her earlobe.
Clara works on the buttons of his shirt and when she can no longer fumble the buttons apart, she takes a tight hold of the shirt and rips it clean open, shrugging it off his shoulders and running her fingernails softly up his back
By then, The Doctor had moved to kissing her breasts, wrapping his mouth around the nipple and sucking gently as he squeezes the other, his erection twitching against Clara’s sweatpants.
Clara leans her head back, “fuck” she manages, a guttural moan leaving her lips at the same time as her knees arch up as in response to the twist of a nipple she receives for the swear,
“language” The Doctor scolds almost incoherently, licking down the middle of her chest and leaving kisses on her stomach, wet spots covering her hot skin before he finally stops at the waistband of her sweatpants. The Doctor’s gaze slowly lifts to Clara, pure adoration in his eyes.
“Is this okay?” he implores, one hand still on her breast while the other gently lays against her abdomen — tips of the fingers curling underneath the soft fabric of her trousers.
“Of course” Clara confirms, staring at The Doctor as he rises to his knees, hands gripping her trousers tightly as he pulls them down. It was hard to maneuver on her small couch, but he manages to toss them aside and slowly rakes his hands up her plush thighs.
It’s then she gets a better look at the alien’s body, older and softer than his predecessor, wiry grey hair adorning his chest unlike the lack of hair his previous incarnation had. The Doctor notices her observing him and pauses his movements, “You’re staring, Clara”
“Astute observation”
She doesn’t bother looking away and The Doctor doesn’t seem to mind, pushing Clara farther up the couch as he pulls her pink knickers down. Slowly and meticulously he positions himself where his head could lay comfortably between Clara’s thighs as she swings them over his shoulders.
Clara’s hands find their way into The Doctor’s grey curls, “How long has it been, for you?”
“Before Trenzalore…before you” he answers truthfully, the last time he had really had sex was over nine hundred years ago, with River Song and before that it had been even longer. The Doctor tried not to have sexual encounters with his companions, even if they bordered on romantic relationships.
Clara feels her stomach turn at the mention of Trenzalore, at being abandoned time and time again, at being forced to watch The Doctor age while unable to do anything. She didn’t want these thoughts to ruin this moment she may never experience again so she gulps down all of those negative feelings, gripping The Doctor’s hair tightly,
“Do you wanna taste me, Doctor?” her voice is velvety smooth and just the right amount of sultry as she stares down at The Doctor, eyes so innocent compared to the words falling from her lips
“More than anything” he replies desperately, face inches away from her wet core
“Then show me the stars”
Clara doesn’t fail to notice the way The Doctor grins at the irony of her request, leaving soft kisses on her inner thighs, left hand squeezing her breast with great zealous – gold wedding band sending a cool sensation up her body as her feet glide down his back.
The Doctor’s lips fall down to her pussy, licking a slow line up her folds and settling on suckling her clit, other hand holding a tight grip on her thigh. The alien’s eyes fall closed as Clara’s whines echo in the room. His bulge twitches in his trousers, begging for friction as he skillfully uses his tongue to make his companion fall apart above him.
Clara’s head falls back against the arm rest of the couch, eyes squeezing shut as she bites her lip to silence her moans. When The Doctor opens his mouth further, top lip pressed against her clit as his tongue ventures down to tease her entrance, Clara is sure she can taste the familiar metallic flavor of blood from the pressure she was applying to her bottom lip
Finally, Clara forgets any previous hesitation she had on making any loud, embarrassing noises, mouth falling open to release a moan from so deep in her chest that she was nearly out of breath from just the single admittance to feeling pleasure, a long bout of air leaving her nostrils.
“Doctor” Clara manages between deep breaths and guttural moans, fingers still tightly intertwined in his curls as she tugs on them and ruts her hips up, following the rhythm of his tongue. The Doctor twists her nipple once more as he plunges his tongue into her entrance, uselessly humping the couch for an ounce of friction.
“Oh god” Clara moans, she was close. She can’t remember the last time she came this fast, if she had ever.
The Doctor moves his right hand down to push a finger inside Clara slowly, his tongue slowly flicking back up to play with her clit. The alien opens his eyes and lets his gaze fall upon his companion as he pushes another finger inside of her, pumping them in and out of her slowly as he flicks his tongue over her clit rapidly.
Clara stares at him with clouded eyes, face glistening with light sweat under the warm lamp light. She wants to praise him, but Clara can’t seem to get the words out, another moan wracking her body as he hits her sweet spot.
The Doctor keeps his eyes locked onto her still, milking in her features as he brings her over the edge.
Clara’s orgasm hits her like a tsunami wave, toes curling as her heels dig into The Doctor’s back, surely causing some type of discomfort for the alien as she utters a few incoherent curses. If she had hurt The Doctor, he certainly didn’t seem to mind as his lips linger on her core, fingers falling limp inside of her before he slowly pulls them out, licking them clean and letting out a soft ‘mm’ noise that makes Clara’s pussy flutter with need.
“Come here” Clara coaxes and The Doctor listens almost immediately, letting Clara’s legs fall off his shoulder as he travels up to put his lips against hers, left hand falling down her breast and resting at her waist to pull her flush against his aching bulge.
Clara can taste herself on The Doctor as they kiss, but she doesn’t care. In fact, a part of her likes it. The woman has one hand on the back of his neck and lowers the other to his belt buckle, trying to undo it with one hand and when she fails, brings the other down and opens it with an aggressiveness that makes the time lord chuckle into her mouth.
The belt is tossed aside and forgotten about as she unbuttons his trousers, she doesn’t bother to pull them fully off the alien as her hand is suddenly brought back up to The Doctor’s face, pushing him away from her lips.
The Doctor whines at the loss, “Spit” Clara commands, pushing her hand close to his mouth
“Pardon?” His cheeks flush red
“Spit onto my hand, handsome” The woman repeats and he hesitates before complying, a long string of spit falling onto Clara’s hand before she reaches back down to his boxer briefs, pulling his erection out and pumping her hand up and down it slowly.
He wasn’t huge, but he was hardly anything to scoff at either.
The Doctor’s head falls into Clara’s neck as he groans quietly, thrusting his hips up into her hand as he desperately tries to match her rhythm. He was sensitive, it had been so long and this was a different body, a new body. Every sensation was new and seemed to have a heavier effect on him than he remembered.
“Clara,” he warns, removing his head from her neck to stare into her eyes, “If you don’t stop, I won’t be able to hold out much longer”
“Is that so?” Clara teases, speeding up the movement of her hand and pressing her core up against his erection, body at an odd angle as she tries to connect to his long lanky body.
It was clear that Clara was in control of this situation, but it was also true that The Doctor didn’t want to beg – he wasn’t a beggar. He never begged, unless it was for the life of his friends, but here in this cramped living room with his impossible girl, there’s no lives to be saved, nothing for him to submit to.
Except her.
There’s a few beats where The Doctor and Clara simply stare into each other’s eyes as she jerks him off, until finally, he breaks the silence,
“Please”
Clara smirks in triumph, dropping her hips as he follows suite, letting her slowly guide him inside of her. Clara lets out a sharp intake of breath as she moves her hand to the alien’s hip, holding onto it tightly as he slowly pushes himself fully inside her.
The Doctor presses his forehead to hers, lips barely grazing in an attempt to kiss her as he slowly pulls out and pushes back in again, his movement barely classified as thrusts as Clara adjusts to him.
Slow, meticulous thrusts are quick to turn into face-paced, needy hip gyrations as they both chase an orgasm – a second one, for Clara. Clara grips The Doctor’s shoulders tightly, nails digging into them as they breathe into each other’s mouths, too lost in the feeling to actually kiss, but not daring to pull apart.
“Fuck me” Clara moans helplessly and The Doctor bites back the urge to let her know that’s exactly what he’s doing, knowing it’d probably dampen the moment.
“My Clara” he settles on returning to the woman, fingerprints leaving indents on the woman’s hips from the strength of which he was holding them.
A bead of sweat rolls down Clara’s forehead and falls onto The Doctor’s bottom lip as he presses his face against her, salty taste making saliva build up in the man’s mouth – he was practically drooling over Clara.
Clara could feel her orgasm building up once more as The Doctor manages to press his hand between them and rub her clit frantically, “I love you” she breathes, reaching one of her hands into his curls and tugging harshly.
He doesn’t respond.
He doesn’t need to, she knows.
The brunette feels a wetness collect on the nape of her neck, but it wasn’t from sweat — it was tears. Those tears The Doctor couldn’t force out of himself weeks ago were pouring out now in a silent wave as he clings to Clara’s body, holding her flush against him like he was afraid she’d disappear if he didn’t.
Clara comes first, shutting her eyes and digging her nails so deep into The Doctor’s shoulders you’d think she was a cat trapping a bird it caught from the sky. The pulsing of Clara’s pussy causes The Doctor to follow soon after, emptying himself into her as he mumbles out something she can barely comprehend through her own clouded mind,
“My impossible girl”
Instead of falling on top of her pathetically, The Doctor manages to pull out and roll over to her side, the two of them sweaty and squeezed side by side on a small couch like they were fresh sardines.
Clara wipes the sweat that had collected on her forehead, letting her gaze fall to the shirtless time lord next to her, “What does this mean… for us?” she asks, breath shallow as she finally comes down from her euphoric high.
The Doctor seems to ponder this question for a while, “Must things change?”
“I think they’re always destined to. Like how you traded your bowtie for a velvet coat”
“Which do you prefer?” The Doctor inquires, a trace of insecurity still laced in his tone as he thinks about how much their relationship had already changed – and how he wished it hadn’t.
“Both, in different ways.” Clara responds, knowing it was never about the articles of clothing.
The woman closes her eyes and lets herself drift off into unconsciousness, The Doctor doesn’t – he watches Clara sleep instead, a bit creepily, but he never was one to doze off easily, too frightened of the memories of war that crept up on him.