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The Doctor’s been gone for a while.
A few months on his own, just a week for her. Half a year or so, depending on which standard you use; the orbit of which planet around which sun. But it’s been a while. It’s been long enough.
He lands like a whirlwind in her living room and whisks her away, to the past and the future and planets, all the planets, everywhere and everywhen.
The first planet, no complaints. The second planet, she’s shooting him looks - how does she do that? with the eyes? The third planet, she starts saying things like might be nice to sit down for a meal and maybe we should slow down and actually see the sights instead of just accidentally blowing them up.
The fourth planet, he can’t even step out the TARDIS door. He’s stuck on something, this stupid coat is always getting caught on things. He tries slipping it off, but then there’s an arm around his waist and a hand on his wrist.
“Just - stop. Please.” She tightens her grip, presses full-body against him, the odd sort of way they line up. Knees and noses and hips and things, sliding into place. And he likes it, he does, he likes it in general but not now, this is not the time.
Outside the TARDIS: endless possibilities, experiences, wonders, adventures. Specifically, a bit of a ‘whoops’ in the time-space continuum that led to a quantum convergence of ice cream vans, an infinite array of Mr. Whippys and Mr. Softees, and Mr. Doctor should be out there right now, not here, tangled up on Clara.
He points. “It’s the land of frozen novelties.”
“It can wait.”
He sighs, and snaps his fingers. The door swings shut, silencing the grand choir of a billion tinny music boxes playing “Greensleeves”. “What is it?”
She turns him around, grabs fistfuls of ratty hoodie, and yanks him down for a kiss. He tenses (they’d just been about to go for ice cream this is not the time) and then relaxes, separates, the fractal mental compartmentalization. He is here and he is parting his lips for her; he is elsewhere, determining the perfect ice cream/sprinkles ratio, taking into account size and density and ambient temperature -
“Shut up,” she says.
“I wasn’t saying anything.” He tries to kiss her again but she’s holding him off, pushing him backwards. He does not trip up the steps, he is too graceful for that. It’s a new type of ambulatory movement, something he picked up on New Hollywood, all the rage in certain circles. Maybe they could go there after the ice cream (ten sprinkles per square inch, if using the galactic-standard sprinkle dimensions).
“You’re thinking,” she says. “Very loudly. I can hear it.”
“Humans aren’t telepathic. And anyway, thoughts aren’t sound, might as well say you could taste my emotions, although synesthesia is-”
“Metaphor,” she snaps. She shoves him through the doorway of the room they are apparently in now.
“Popsicles,” he counters. It had made more sense in his head.
She’s pushing him down on a bed. There’s a bed here, apparently, in the room they’re now in. He files this fact away. He wonders what else could be here, what else might show up. Things tend to appear, it’s always fascinating to discover what it is the TARDIS thinks they need -
“Stop.” Her face is inches away from his, eyes hard and bright. The teacher expression, the brook-no-dissent look.
He can’t, is the thing. Not yet. He smiles crookedly and shrugs, a tacit acknowledgement that yes, maybe it’s time to hit the breaks.
“Get undressed,” she says, very business-like. “I’ll go grab the toolbox.”
This is their fulcrum. The fixed point in their universe. The TARDIS breathing around them, the room it makes, the four poster bed it provides. A space, a moment.
Clara gathers up the scattered pieces of him, bundles him together. Rubs his back gently until he stops trembling, until the nervous energy begins to ebb away. His brain still insisting on branching out, like a dog fighting the leash. Staying here requires conscious effort.
She bends him over, practiced maneuvers, a familiar path from the small of his back to his hips to his thighs. She spreads him open, a lube-slick finger sliding inside him, the needy whine that draws out of him. He’s remembering his body, remembering nerve-endings and aches and the way muscles strain.
Slack in the leash now. There’s not much room to think about anything other than the girth of the plug she’s slowly pushing into him. The moment where things begin to coalesce, the overwhelming mix of pain and pleasure.
“Stay here,” she’s saying. “Stay with me.”
She’s rolling him over carefully, looking at him with pride and lust and something else, her own particular needs. She knows, of course, what it’s like to be so many places at once. This is as much for her as it is for him. She’s focused and efficient as she trusses up his cock, a rubber ring tugged fore and aft of his balls. He relinquishes the last of his control, hands it over to her. And oh, does she take it.
Her steady, deliberate movements, the slow pace she sets. The small concentrated mass of determination that is Clara Oswald settling herself onto him. Skin-flush and bit lip and the flash of a peculiar emotion across her face. She grinds down, rocks her hips. He bunches the bedspread up in his hands. She doesn’t like to be touched when they do this. It’s not what she needs, not a distraction he deserves.
She fucks him and keeps fucking him and time is more meaningless than usual. She puts him back into his skin, is what she does. An anchor, a weight: he’s impossibly present, held down, held here. He’s a cock and an arsehole and the electric jolt that runs through him when she clamps down on his nipples and twists. Physical details, the specifics of this, of him, of them.
Her orgasm is a very still thing, when it finally arrives. She clenches, she stiffens, she bites back any noise she may have been tempted to make. He uses all his not-insignificant brain power forcing himself not to move, not to beg, to let her take the time she needs to put herself back together. She doesn’t make him wait long, thankfully. 'Long’ being a relative term, of course. Seconds could be hours, for all he knows, and seconds certainly feel like hours when he’s in this state, filled up and stretched out and achingly hard. But she relents, eventually, slips the ring off roughly and then slides down, her breath hot on his skin for an agonizing moment before she ducks her head and swallows him whole.
He comes quickly, sloppily, a little too loudly, and he’d be embarrassed if he had his wits about him. If she didn’t understand him so completely. The odd ways they fit together. He flops around bonelessly, she discretely gargles with the glass of water the TARDIS helpfully provides.
“Now we can go get ice cream,” she announces. “After we shower. And put on clothes.”
“And take out the. Y'know.” He gestures vaguely at his arse.
“Mmm. No. I’d like you to keep it in, if you don’t mind. Add a little excitement to the soft-serve.”
“Are you really that jaded that a frozen-treat-based paradox isn’t enough to-” He breaks off at her glare, the 'you know you want it so shut up’ glare, and holds his hands up in defeat. “Fine, fine. You’re the boss. But I’m eating at least three things shaped like popular fictional characters and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”