Hiding in a storage closet again? Clara knows how to pass the time.
The Doctor’s hand grasped her arm and pulled her to a halt. “Storage closet,” he said, and Clara followed him into it. He shut the door behind them. The closet was plunged into darkness. Clara leaned against a shelf and caught her breath. The Daleks rolled past in the corridor outside, shrieking four-syllable words like the defective pepper-pots they were.
“Wait. What’s in these boxes?”
The Doctor snapped out the sonic and ran it for an instant. “Cleaning supplies. Just like it says on the labels.”
“Not exploding cybernetic cleaning supplies?”
“It’s just a storage closet, Clara.”
“Why do Daleks have storage closets on their ships anyway? Ones with doorknobs that they can’t operate with their plunger things?”
“There are some mysteries that even I cannot understand.”
Clara poked him in the arm and pushed her hair back from her face. “So. Where is the TARDIS, again?”
“That way,” the Doctor said, jabbing his finger toward a corner. “One level up. My plan worked. They’re clearing out. We just have to wait until they’ve all teleported off.”
He shrugged those narrow shoulders. “Thirty minutes? Just listen until the shrieking stops.”
“We can pop out and get chased down corridors again if you find this boring,” he said.
“I can think of one way to fill the time.” Clara slipped her arms around his waist, inside the jacket, and leaned against him.
“Again? We just did that last night.”
But the smile lurking at the corner of his mouth told her that he was, as usual, protesting because he enjoyed the game of protesting, enjoyed the game of teasing her, enjoyed bantering almost as much as the sex itself. Which he also enjoyed, manifestly, though he was a naïf. Such a naïf. He reacted to everything as if it was the first time he’d tried it. Which it was, maybe, in some sense, if he perceived himself as a new man who’d simply inherited a load of memories from other, vaguely-related people.
He was more than happy to kiss her for hours as he was doing now, leaning back against a stack of crates, sliding his feet apart so she could stand between his thighs close to him, endless deep kisses, slow and patient. No endearments from him, no pet names, never, but Clara didn’t need those words from him. They would die for each other. Why waste their energy finding words that would never be enough?
Not that she was going to waste energy even thinking about that. She had a mission. Clara let her hand slide down his stomach to his belt buckle.
She got the belt buckle undone. Button, zip, and she dipped her hand inside. He was hard already, had probably been hard from the first kiss. He was always more eager than he wanted to let on. He reached for the button on her jeans, but she batted his hand away. She had other plans. Down, down onto her knees, sliding his trousers and boxers down as she went.
“I told you to shut up.”
“Yes, boss.” And then he was moaning, because she had taken him in hand and was licking the underside of his cock.
Outside another Dalek went past, shrieking something about intruders.
“Can you manage to stay quiet while I do this?”
He whispered a very bad word that the TARDIS refused to translate directly, but Clara had heard it often enough to know what it meant. She smiled and licked him again. Had to get him wet and slick so her hands could take what her mouth couldn’t. His cock was heavy, surprisingly broad given how slim the rest of him was. Satisfyingly broad, a good weight in her hand, on her tongue. Clara took him deep, held him there for a moment, fluttered her tongue against him, and listened to him moan. His mind, that great Time Lord mind, melted right out of his ears when she did this. Listening to that happen was almost as much fun as his eager reciprocation, Clara had to admit.
He didn’t taste like any other man she’d done this for. The humans had all tasted different but the same somehow. He was nothing like them. Salty, yes, but there was something else. Alien biology. The same on the surface, different in blood and sweat and other things. But his hips moved the same way, his breath caught and unraveled the same way, his fingers tangled in her hair the same way. He was looking down at her, watching himself, watching her, her mouth on his cock. The expression on his face was pure worship. Here she was on her knees to him, and she knew which one of them was praying.
It was such a turn-on doing this. Clara could smell herself she was so wet. Dammit. She was probably going to have to wait until they got back to the TARDIS to get off.
She wasn’t about to answer. Her mouth had better things to do. Her hands had better things to do, one wrapped around him sliding as he thrust, the other on his arse digging her fingers in. His pace slowed, stumbled, and there it was, a strangled sound from him, her name, and he was pulsing in her mouth. Clara swallowed around him and there was that gasp again. She let him slide out, gently now. He was leaning against the crate, hands splayed out. Clara pulled his boxers up and tucked him back into them, then decided her knees had had enough. She sat down, back against the crate, and wiggled her jaw. He slid down to the floor next to her. His head thumped back against the crate. He was still breathing heavily. Clara found his hand and he laced his fingers with hers. They sat like that for a little bit. She let her head rest on his shoulder.
“You are impossible,” he murmured.
“Admit it. You love impossible.”
1005 words; reading time 4 min.
tags: p:twelve/clara, f:doctor-who, c:clara-oswald, c:twelfth-doctor, genre:romance, sex:oral