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Clara Oswald had imagined that fucking the Doctor would be more interesting than this. A 2,000 year old alien, with thirteen lifetimes of experience. Everything they’d been through. She’d expected something a little more passionate, a little stranger than missionary on a comfortable bed.
But here they were. Lights dimmed, white noise, making love. It was nice. She wasn’t really in the mood for ‘nice’. She sighed, and rolled over, settled back down on top of him. Made a mental note of the gasp he made: he wanted her like that, then.
“I’m not gonna break,” she said, grabbing his hands and pressing them to her breasts, like this, like so. “Touch me like you mean it.”
He nodded and immediately resumed his gentle, hesitant stroking of irrelevant places.
She’d crack him. She would. She’d break him wide open, have him panting and sweaty. She didn’t mind the challenge. Just a shame she had to do all the work.
All this time and she was finally comfortable being turned on, watching him at the TARDIS controls. His sure hands, the look of single-minded concentration on his face. The snap of the lever, the twist of the dial. She slid into one of the chairs, crossed her legs. Still watching.
“I want you to touch me like you touch her,” she said, enunciating clearly. The words reverberated in the silence.
He stopped moving, like she’d known he would, body locked up, not acknowledging her. Hands tight on the edge of the console. “Sorry. What?”
“Touch me,” she repeated, pointing at herself, “like you touch her,” pointing at the time rotor.
“You want me to treat you like you’re an engine.” He tilted his head at her. “You want me to be your, what. Pilot? Mechanic?”
Put like that, it did seem a little silly. She pressed on. “Not literally. Obviously. Although if you did want to dress up like a WWII pilot - no, nevermind, let’s not confuse the issue. What I mean is - you’re so confident with the TARDIS, with all the ridiculous situations we wind up in. You take charge, you do things. And you do them well. Mostly. I don’t know why sex should be any different.”
Something dark and angry flashed across his face. He buttoned up his coat, hands deliberate and spidery, wrapping himself up in that bruise-blue wool armor. Eyebrows cocked, shoulders tense. He stepped towards her, boots snapping hard against the metal grate. “You want me to take charge?” he asked. “You want me to take you? Did you picture me pushing you against a wall and fucking you?”
“Language,” she said weakly.
“What can I say, you humans are a bad influence.” He sighed, massaged the bridge of his nose. “Clara. Is it so hard to imagine that I might want there to be one space in my life where I don’t have to be in charge?”
“No, of course not. I could ask you the same question, you know.”
They still weren’t all that good at this sort of thing. Conversations about intimate issues. She did her best not to be mad at the way he retreated, slumped his shoulders, quirked his mouth into that sad, shitty, crooked smile.
Hands in his pocket, something defiant in his gaze. “Either we’re sexually incompatible and should just give up before it gets weird, or one of us is lying.”
They side-eyed each other.
“It’s me,” she said finally. “I’m lying.”
“Ha. I knew it.” He pointed at her triumphantly. “I knew you were lying. I can tell these things. Also, it’s something you do a lot.”
“Shut up.”
He shut up.
So tell me what you want to do, if you have so many opinions, he’d said. Give me an assignment, Teach.
The cursor was blinking at her. The cursor was judging her. A blank page, bright white and accusatory.
Maybe not the computer, then. Something like this called for something more physical, more - sensual. A sheet of crisp, thick paper, lightly textured. A pen - not a fountain pen, that would be too much. A felt-tip, not that felt-tip, the other felt-tip, the dark blue thin-line one, if only she could find it.
She had so many pens, she should stop buying pens.
The glass of wine refilled, the paper centered, the pen found and uncapped. The pen jammed in her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully.
1.,
she wrote, then paused. Tapped the pen against her teeth. It was like walking into a bookstore and suddenly forgetting literally everything about your taste in literature: what was it she had wanted, again?
Only if you show me yours, she’d said. Writing things down had worked before. He learned quicker with the information in physical form, and she might feel a little self-conscious, but so what. She took pride in tailoring her lessons to a variety of students.
Moment of reckoning, then. Pens down, essays turned in.
He pulled a crumpled ball of paper from his pocket. “Okay. So. You know this is hard for me, talking about this stuff.”
She waited, bit down the impulse to interject some snarky remark.
Clearing his throat, he straightened the paper out, holding the edges delicately between thumb and forefinger. “'Two cups all-purpose flour. One cup sugar.’ Wait, sorry, this is a recipe for chocolate cake.”
“You didn’t do it, did you.”
“Well, I finished the assignment, but then a vortisaur ate it - no, I didn’t do it. It’s ridiculous. I’m a serious man, Clara, I can’t be writing silly lists of…things.”
She felt her temper flaring, hackles raising. “Are you scared? Is that it? Telling me what you want is just too much of a commitment? Or are you embarrassed? Seriously, Doctor, I’m not asking for much-”
“I want what you want,” he interrupted. Face flushed, voice cracking. “I want to make you happy. I told you - this is one place where I don’t have to be in charge. I like that. Please believe me.” The implication being, not just in a good-friend, nice-guy way. Implication being, oh, he really did get off doing whatever she asked.
“One thing,” she said slowly, as she rolled that particular affirmed fact around in her head. “Tell me one thing you want to do. Then I’ll take the wheel, I promise.”
He swallowed hard, ducked his head. Maybe a blush creeping up his neck. He looked at the ground, then looked at her shoes, then let his gaze travel slowly up her body, resting finally at her face. His eyes fixed on hers, bright and wide-open, lips parted as if the answer was there, just there, if only he could gather the courage to push it out.
Holding her breath, she stared back. The tension mounted.
Finally, he spoke. “Could you bake me a cake?” he asked. “This cake.” He held up the recipe, re-crumpled into a ball. “Or we could bake it together, if you want.”
She groaned. “That’s not what I - you know what? Fine. We’ll bake a cake.” She snatched the paper out of his hand and stomped off towards the kitchen.
“It’s a very good cake,” he shouted after her. “The icing is especially - how do you move so fast? With your tiny little legs? It’s unnatural.”
You have an actual list?
I have an actual list, yes.
And we’re actually doing the actual list?
Oh, Doctor. We’ve already started.
1. To stop you talking for once and for longer than thirty seconds at a time
Her thumb brushed against his lips, parting them, sliding over the edge of his teeth. Her hand in the mouth of a wolf, his breath hot and wet on her skin.
She slipped the gag in. Tightened, secured, a lingering stroke along the leather strap.
“I could just leave you here. Let you find your own way out. I wonder how long it’d take - hours? Days? But what’s time to a Time Lord, anyway.”
He whimpered, muffled and drooling, and she wished, she really wished she knew why that was so hot. Didn’t matter, though, not when he was that achingly hard, not when he bucked his hips at the scratch of her fingernails down his narrow chest. His hand, tied to the bedpost, making a shaky thumbs-up as she straddled him, guided his cock into her cunt and slid easily down. The frantic psychic mess seeping through his skin, into hers, the feedback loop. And the quiet, oh, God, the quiet.
“Should do this more often,” she gasped out. “I might actually be able to get some work done in - oh - this place, without you. Mm. Wittering on, about - ” She stopped talking. Really, the quiet was lovely.
2. Simon Says but in a sexual way
“Were you intoxicated when you wrote this list?”
“Yes. Yes I was. And now, in the cold light of sobriety, I stand by everything I wrote. So, are you game?”
He raised his eyebrows, like go on, then.
She settled into the chair, legs tucked beneath her. “Take off your coat.”
He complied, shrugging the velvet coat off his shoulders and lying it neatly across the railing.
“Waistcoat,” she said, after a moment of deliberation.
Staring her down, he unhurriedly but perfunctorily unbuttoned his waistcoat, slipped it off and laid it next to the jacket.
“Belt.”
Frowning, he unbuckled his belt, yanked it roughly through the belt loops. “Couldn’t you just say 'take all your clothes off’”?
“I could. I don’t want to. I want to go slow. I’m not the sort of girl who rips the wrapping off the present. I want to be careful. I enjoy the anticipation. Take off your shoes.”
He took off his shoes. And then in careful, precisely-directed order: his trousers, his undershirt, his boxers (navy blue, with hammerhead sharks). She stepped forward, hand on his waist. He leaned in for a kiss.
She yanked her hand away and moved back from him, tutting. “Did I say you could do that?”
“No, ma'am.”
“That’s right. Now. Left hand, red circle.”
“That’s a different-”
“Left hand red circle.”
He rolled his eyes but obliged, left palm just barely brushing her nipple, waiting for instructions.
“Right dick, brown ci- you know what? You can just go ahead and fuck me.”
3. Mud pit & you in it
“Do you want to go,” the Doctor asked carefully, “to a planet where it rains quite a bit? Would that be sufficient?”
“No,” she replied. “Maybe. No, it has to be spontaneous. Don’t worry, it’ll happen when it happens, no rush.”
For the next few weeks, she watched him teeter on the edge of quarries, narrowly skirt puddles of goo, and leap haphazardly over small streams. For all the attention he paid, and for all his flailing lack of coordination, he really ought to have fallen in at some point. No luck.
Finally, one night after a long, long day, they found themselves standing by a pond, the field of long grass stretching for miles around them, watching the sun set behind the city in the distance. It was beautiful. The sky turning orange and pink, the peace they had finally claimed as their own. The chattering of insects and the rustle of the wind in the grass. The stars coming out one by one. She loved this man, she realized, watching him out of the corner of her eye, his profile dark against the dying glow of the sun. This beautiful, impossible, fucked-up man.
She put a hand square on his back, and pushed him into the pond.
"What is this?” he asked as she peeled his sodden coat off. “Why is this a thing for you?”
“No clue,” she said. “Something about you getting your comeuppance, maybe. Who knows. The id is a mysterious thing.” She held him at arm’s length, trying not to get too much of the mud on her clothes. “You remember the words?”
“Red light, yellow light, green light,” he recited. “Yield, no thru traffic, exit only-”
Carefully balanced, she stood on one foot and, with the other pressed gently against his dick, she toppled him back into the pond.
4. For you to push me against a wall and fuck my brains out
“I want you to push me against a wall and fuck my brains out.”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
Really? That’s all it took? All this time and all she had to do was…nevermind.
They spent half an hour searching for the best possible wall in the TARDIS to be fucked against. There were a lot of factors to take into account: location, material, angle, temperature, frequency of beeping noises and feral cat sightings.
She was debating the relative merits of plaster vs plastic when she found herself being spun around and slammed against an incongruous patch of flocked-velvet wallpaper. The Doctor was on her like a spindly octopus, pinning her in place. How many arms did he have again? She managed to pry him off enough to undo his flies and pull his cock out. He was half-hard already, didn’t take much to get him to full mast.
“Is this good?” he asked, hoisting her up roughly. He was stronger than he looked - but she knew that already - an inhuman strength lurking behind the meager facts of muscle and bone. His hands digging into her thighs. “Is this what you wanted?”
She hooked her ankles behind his back and grabbed a fistful of his hair, eyes rolling back in her head. “Hng,” she replied.
“I hope your brain doesn’t literally fall out, that would be-”
“Yeah?”
“-Disappointing,” he choked out. He thrust into her like he wanted to grind her into paste - maybe he did - that is what she’d asked for, anyway.
5. and vice-versa
It turned out that the logistics of fucking someone a foot taller than her while standing up were too complicated to work out, so she decided to fuck him into the floor instead. The carpet in their room at the bed and breakfast was softer than would be appropriate, and there were too many porcelain dolls on the mantle (all smiling benignly aside from the clown figurine, which was crying, and that was a total mood-killer) but there was a small shed in the garden with an easily-picked lock. Dirty farming-implement-filled shed sex, why not.
“This is the sort of place where serial killers keep their bone saws,” he said, surveying the piles of dust on the shelves. Enough light came through cracks in the walls for her to see him take a pinch from one of the piles and deposit it on his tongue.
“Whoops-a-daisy,” she announced, and kicked him in the backs of his knees. He crumpled obligingly to the ground.
With his coat off and folded underneath him as protection from the splintered wood, he laid face-down on the floor, splayed and increasingly naked. His arms flopped uselessly by his sides as she pulled off his socks (bright red today, patterned with tiny fire trucks).
She centered herself above him and grasped his upper back gently but firmly, fingers sliding neatly into the grooves of his rib cage. Where the hearts were, each beating for her. Where lungs were, breathing ragged with desire. Lube uncapped, slicked thickly over her fingers. Dust motes glowing in the waning light; the hot, tight spot between his arse cheeks. Shed-fucking was oddly beautiful, turned out.
She sneezed; he jerked up against her in response, helplessly. She giggled, slapped him on the arse, then sneezed again.
“Are you gonna spend all day having allergies or-” He broke off with a squeak.
She squelched her index finger in, then waited patiently for him to unclench. Index and middle, knuckle-deep. He was surprisingly resilient. Elastic, even. One of the benefits of having an alien boyfriend, she supposed. She slipped her free hand under him, shifting position enough to pull him up off the ground and get a good grip on his cock. She pumped him hard, and shoved her whole hand in. He yelped.
“Still good?”
“Green - green light,” he said, voice cracking. “Oh, fuck, just - keep going.”
“I don’t take orders.”
“Please.”
She pushed in further, wrist-deep, forearm-deep. “You’re awfully roomy, huh. Can’t say I expected that. I guess you could say you’re. Bigger on the inside.” She gave him a thumbs-up, then high-fived herself. “Nailed it, Oswald.”
6. hurty stuff pain play
There was an edge to the proceedings she wasn’t entirely comfortable with. An undercurrent of violence. She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to own him. Completely, totally, crushingly.
He kept collapsing before her like a folding chair, like it was something he was meant to do. There was some weird shit in his head, she knew. 2000 years is plenty of time to amass a sizable collection of kinks and neuroses. Even if he didn’t want to talk about them.
It was more than that, though. He wanted the bite and claw, the punishment. She was more than happy to provide. That said a lot of things about her and not all of them were good.
But she had a bag full of clothespins and a free afternoon, and the Doctor was zonked out and sloppy on the console room floor. Self-reflection could wait.
She liked having him here, with the flashing lights and the smell somewhere between burnt plastic and old books. The heart of the ship and the hearts of its pilot. She liked the door in her peripheral vision, knowing the universe was waiting just outside.
They’d been fucking, missionary position for a nostalgic change of pace. Basic whitebread stuff. Gallifreyans had a remarkably short refractory period, who knew. She felt raw and kind of used up. He looked worse - sweaty, sticky, hair matted to his skull, naked aside from the sock (argyle, with sailboats) on his left foot.
She propped herself up on her elbow and poked him in the dick. “Boop.”
“Clara,” he whispered hoarsely. “Please. I’m exhausted. Give me a minute to recuperate or possibly regenerate.”
“I don’t wanna fuck you again,” she reassured him, and dug into the bag for a handful of clothespins. “You don’t need to move. Probably better if you don’t move, actually.” She opened the jaws of a clothespin wide and slowly, deliberately attached it to the edge of his bellybutton.
He twitched and hissed, but mostly stayed still. “I’m hungry,” he whined. “And you should be too, honestly, we’ve been here for hours. Humans are always eating. Is there something wrong with you?”
“I’ve been eating pizza literally this entire time. We went to Italy, remember? And then forgot to get dinner, so we went to a Domino’s in, I think, LA.” She dragged the pizza box closer and flipped the lid open, handing him a piece of three-cheese Meat Lover’s pie.
“I think I may have been in a fugue state,” he said, chewing with his mouth open.
“That would explain some things, yeah.” She put a clothespin on his right nipple, and then one on his left, and sat back to watch him eat.
7. Brimping
“I don’t remember writing that,” Clara said. “I don’t even know what it is.” She peered down at the list. It was her handwriting, of course, and she’d had the thing in her pocket long enough it’d gone velvety, unfolded and refolded it often enough it had started to tear. She didn’t remember writing it and she didn’t remember reading it before now.
“Human memory is a total crapshoot,” the Doctor replied, efficiently stripping down to his underwear. Dinosaur pattern on his boxers today, little stegosauruses and things. “You forget the name of your favorite professor in university and remember all the lyrics to "Like a Virgin”.
“Alice Lehman,” she said automatically. “And I can’t picture you listening to Madonna.”
“Everyone listens to Madonna. She’s Madonna.” He snapped his fingers; the lights dimmed and the intro to “Ray of Light” started playing. “What better soundtrack could there be, to this thing we don’t know what it is. Do a Google for us, yeah?”
7. Threesome (two girls)
They’d done number seven already, hadn’t they? And it’d been that thing, with the - it hadn’t been this, is the point. Or had it? It’d all been sort of blurring together. Not that it mattered. Right? As long as they were having fun.
It took a while, organizing this. The stars had to be aligned, their libidos in tune, then the serendipity of finding a woman who was down for a zipless fuck. They found her on a space station, adrift somewhere off Mars, in the giddy hours after a barely-averted crisis. (Monsters in the air-ducts, of course there had been monsters in the air-ducts, this was the fate she was resigned to.)
The Doctor would probably forget her name, but Clara wouldn’t. She wrote it down, even, next to the entry on the list. Audrey, human+. Dark-skinned and blue-haired, tall, voluptuous, a spark in her eyes that made Clara weak in the knees. A gun she unholstered and left in a locker, per the Doctor’s request, and a talented tongue.
“Nice hair,” the Doctor had said. “Want to have sex with us?”
Clara had forgotten how much she enjoyed this, being with another woman. Cocks were distracting. But this, oh, this was good, the softness and familiarity, floral perfume, the breasts pressed against hers, thigh muscles and long nails. A squirmy, full-body fuck.
The Doctor just watched, mostly, half-undressed and half-hard, hands clenched into fists by his side. Clara beckoned him over after the first time she came, hazy and lazily happy, c'mere, finger crooked. He settled in behind her, cock nestled between her arse cheeks. She caught Audrey’s mouth with hers, leaned back and spread her legs, and proceeded to lose track of time.
8. Threesome (two guys)
The Doctor instantly knew who to call. Should she be worried? The huge swaths of his life she’d never have the time to learn about, the people important to him she’d never meet. Jealousy, a little bit, but also: a melancholy she quickly covered up but carried with her nevertheless. The tiny piece of his timeline she occupied. Best-case scenario, he’d outlive her by a few thousand years. Best-case scenario, he’d move on.
But it was okay. She was gonna get fucked, and he was gonna get fucked, and what was life, really, aside from a sequence of fleeting moments? She would enjoy it while she could.
The man her man brought home looked like Clark Kent. Square jaw, perfect teeth. Classically handsome. Cocky and charming and, no, this wasn’t a competition, but she figured she might have to step her game up. Because if this was a competition, which it wasn’t, but if it was, she was determined to win.
“You must be Clara,” the man said, flashing her a blinding grin. He grabbed her hand, planted a kiss on it. “Jack Harkness. Old friend of the Doctor’s.”
“Hello,” she replied. Chest out, eyelashes fluttering, lips parted. She tried to figure which Doctor. Tried to figure him, because she’d been traveling in the TARDIS long enough to sense when someone was not quite right. Something wounded about him, around him, an imperfectly-healed scar. Something wrong.
But, hey. She knew what it was like to be a complicated space-time event. And he was incredibly (if slightly artificially) good-looking, and he had a nice arse, and he was looking at the Doctor like he wanted to eat him alive. And the Doctor was looking - anxious.
“I don’t want you to do this out of any misplaced sense of obligation,” the Doctor said. “I know I’m not the man I was. And I probably should have - this is…” He sighed, fished in his coat pocket, pulled out a stack of battered index cards. “'I’m sorry for not keeping in touch,’” he read out. Put the cards back, looked up at Jack. Half-shrug, lazy defiance masking his antique guilt, the lovingly polished self-loathing.
“Don’t,” Jack said. “I’m not the man I was, either. Not saying I forgive you, but. Holding grudges gets exhausting, when you live as long as we do.” He smiled again, softer this time, and pulled the Doctor into a loose embrace.
Is this what they had looked like? The Doctor, stiff-limbed, reluctant, yearning but somehow unable to commit. Jack holding him, tender but determined, apparently convinced that this would turn mutual soon. Their journey in fast-forward: the Doctor relaxed, his arm snaking up around Jack’s back, some dam or another inside him bursting. That was her doing, she thought. She’d broken him in. She was proud, if a little resentful. This man just waltzing in and reaping the benefits of all her hard work.
“C'mere,” Jack said, muffled against the crook of the Doctor’s neck. He held his hand out to her. She took it.
10. Roleplay
“What happened to number nine? We can’t skip things, go out of order all higgledy-piggledy.”
The way he said 'higgledy-piggledy’ was the single most arousing thing she’d ever heard. She wanted him to keep saying it, to moan it into her skin, against her breasts, while buried face-first in her cunt. “You go out of order all the time. You’re my non-linear alien boy.”
“Knee bone’s still connected to the shin bone,” he said. “I think.” He patted himself down, checking to make sure his knee bones were in fact connected to his shin bones. They were. He breathed a sigh of relief. “So who do you want to be today, Clara Oswald?”
“You,” she said, picking his coat up off the floor and slipping it on. The sleeves shortening to match her arms, fabric darting against her waist. Clinging just so. She found the sonic screwdriver in the pocket, held it up, flicking through settings, the high-pitched whine and his sharp intake of breath.
11. i fuck you while you are also fucking you
There were only ever meant to be ten things, even the title agreed - Ten Things Clara Wants To Do To/With The Doctor - but there it was, an eleventh.
There should even be a twelfth, she thought. Twelve was the right number. There were only eleven things on the list at that moment but she was certain that another would eventually show up, if she were patient.
“This one isn’t even physically possible, Clara. Did your brain turn to mush while you were writing this? Is it a joke?” He squinted at her, then at the readout on the console detailing her insides and brainwaves. Maybe an alert would pop up: not crazy, just horny
“Anything’s possible, if you put your mind to it.” She cracked her knuckles, and grinned, and picked up the phone. “Yes, hello, I’d like to place a collect call to this location, about 1,500 years ago.”
9. ██████████
“I know we just fucked,” she rasped out, throat parched and sore. “We’re on the floor, we’re naked, we’re sticky. It’s the only logical conclusion.”
“Mmmph,” he vocalized. He was curled up in the fetal position, looking as limp and wrung-out as she felt.
“I don’t remember having sex, though? We were going to the siege of Osaka, I was about to go pick out an outfit - and then, here I was.”
“Funny things happen to your memory when you muck about with timelines as much as we do, Clara,” he whispered, eyes squeezed shut. Trying to compress himself into as small a space as possible. “Nothing to worry about. Probably.”
12. public sex LOCATION Yarmoxavellna N 38° 41’ 7.8351" W 96° 30’ 14.0625"
The Doctor’s face paled. “Mind if I take a look at that list?” he asked tightly.
“Knock yourself out.” She passed it over, lingering as their fingers brushed.
He read the list, read it again. He smelled the list. Pulled a magnifying glass out of his pocket, examined it closely. Tore off a corner and ate it, grimacing. “I think we have a slight situation here.”
“Situation.” She stared at his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed another bit of the list.
“Where’d you get this paper?”
“TARDIS library. Why?”
“It’s psychic paper. Linked to - things. Bad things.” His hands fluttered around like startled birds.
“More detail than that would be lovely,” she said, squashing the panic down into a familiar irritated shape.
He fumbled, regrouped, patted the rectangular lump in his pocket, the cards - use your words be nice talk slowly - and said, “Beings from another dimension, who would like very much to enter our dimension, and are capable of communicating through unshielded psychic objects. I think they might be gathering energy from our…activities, and require a final activating, uh, burst, close to a weak spot in the fabric of reality.”
“Oh,” she said. “They want us to fuck a hole in time and space.”
“Something like that, yeah.” He narrowed his eyes at her, that mix of excitement and defiance and acknowledgement that he might be about to do something catastrophically stupid. “Wanna find out what’s on the other side?”
It was a bad idea. It was a trap, a very obvious trap. And she wanted to find out what was on the other side. “Hold onto your dick, we’re goin’ to Yamsaloosa.”
(Yarmoxavellna, he corrected grumpily, but obliged.)