#Nehs wrote prawns

[nehswritesstuffs]

Whouffaldi- sonic sunglasses. Browsing history.

This feels like a blast from the past and I absolutely LOVE IT. \o/

4223 words; set sometime after The Girl Who Died, but before the Zygon episodes (status of The Woman Who Lived in regards to this timeline is in complete and utter question); definitely turned into another excuse to write prawns, ngl, thought at least that was the intent from the beginning this time around; contains what probably amounts to a case of period-clothing fetish as well as a potential origin story for the red velvet jacket; also contains sexual roleplay, faffing about before actually getting to the good stuff, and the TARDIS being unusually obliging; very, very, very not safe for work, so please keep that in mind

-------

Clara rolled her eyes as she watched the Doctor ramble on about the paintings before them. Honestly, she’d lost track two corridors ago. They were taking a stroll through a portraiture gallery, with the Doctor animatedly describing the pieces they walked past, their painters, and the subjects behind them. He wasn’t fooling anyone with the fact he was wearing his sonic shades as he talked (“it’s bright in here, Clara”), though she let him carry on and let him pretend. Stroke his ego… despite the fact she was more in the mood to stroke other things…

“You don’t normally see a horse this big and central,” he explained as they stopped at one rather large painting. “You can tell how important the horse was in order to get this sort of treatment, which is pretty phenomenal if you ask me. Even though horses get plenty of credit over the years as subjects in paintings like this one, it’s nowhere near what they should. If you look…”

“You’re just taking notes from a documentary,” Clara chuckled. She watched as the tips of his ears and cheeks grew pink with blush—caught him. “Come on, let me see.” She held out her hand and twitched the tips of her fingers.

“Am not.”

“Prove it.”

“Careful of the browsing history.” He took the sunglasses off and placed them on Clara’s face, watching in trepidation as she looked at them. She tapped the side of the frames and they whirred sonicly.

“Uh-huh; that’s where the documentary is, you berk,” she teased. Giving them back, she gave the Doctor a wink. “Think you could pull one over on me, hmm?”

“At least let me have a bit of fun,” he groused. He placed the sunglasses on his forehead and jammed his hands in his trouser pockets. “I thought you enjoyed fun.”

“I do enjoy fun, but I also enjoy you not lying to me,” she reminded him. “Remember what happens when we lie to one another…?”

“Bad things,” he replied. None of the rest of it needed saying—he knew that.

“That’s right.” She pecked a kiss on his cheek and held out her hand. “So, you want to try that again?”

“Y-Yeah.” He avoided eye contact as he slipped his hand into hers and they continued to walk along. His embarrassment was so intense that he didn’t even pick up on the fact that Clara was still looking at him and the sonic shades and wondering what else was possibly in there.

Ah, she would find out eventually.

-------

“Doctor, I need you to concentrate. This is serious.”

The Time Lord in question tapped the bridge of his shades before tilting them down slightly. He and Clara were currently in the middle of a monologue from the Gallifreyanoid emperor who was going on about this thing and that in his grand scheme to conquer the surrounding systems and, eventually, the galaxy. The levity of the entire situation was thrown off by the Doctor chuckling to himself, which instantly tipped Clara off to what he was doing.

“I’m sorry; was the pudding-brain saying something important? I’m trying to concentrate on only actually-important things at the moment.”

“You didn’t just hear a word I said!” the emperor snapped.

“No, I did: take over the galaxy, name go down in history, prove to the boy you had a crush on in lower secondary that you are a good catch… or was it a girl… that part I admit is a bit fuzzy…” He grinned indulgently as the emperor’s face went purple—precisely what he was aiming for. “Now, are you going to let us save the day or not? Because I really want you to get this over with before the playlist is done.”

At that, Clara snatched the sonic shades from his face, causing him a brief panic. “Don’t touch the browser history…!” he gasped, reaching helplessly for the device. She put them on and her eyebrows went up in curiosity.

“Kitten and puppy videos on YouTube…?” she marveled. “This is what you were paying attention to…?”

“That, amongst other things, and you,” he claimed, accepting the glasses back. He put them in his breast pocket before turning back towards the emperor, who seemed ready to pop a blood vessel, have a coronary, and flatline right then and there out of sheer anger. “Now… are we at the running part?”

They were definitely at the running part.

-------

It was a peaceful night as Clara laid in bed, the Doctor nestled into her side. He was supposedly pretending to sleep, which seemed an awful lot like regular sleeping to her, though she knew that if she pointed it out he would be cranky about it for three whole days and that was three days that she did not want to deal with at the moment. Instead she listened to him breathe as he used her stomach as a pillow, gently scratching his scalp and idly looking around the room. It was the one the TARDIS had conjured for her, once they had gotten over their differences, and it always seemed as though there was something new each time she spent the time to notice. Theirs was an interesting relationship, much more complex than the one she had with the Doctor, and that was saying something.

It was then that something caught her attention on the nightstand: the sonic sunglasses. She reached for them, examining the device in the wan light from the lamp on the other side of the room, the one on her desk where her lesson plan lay abandoned and mostly forgotten after the Doctor had come in with hungry kisses and wandering hands. Last she’d seen the sonic specs, they had been safely tucked away in the Doctor’s jacket the previous day…

Putting the device on, Clara allowed the sunglasses to whir to life. It was a mess of graphs and readouts normally, which made the fact the screens were rather uncluttered almost jarring. She looked at the Doctor and watched the readings on him pull up.

ALIAS: THE DOCTOR

SPECIES: GALLIFREYAN

SUBSPECIES: TIME LORD

AGE: UNDEFINED

IMMEDIATE DANGER INDEX: 2

SLEEP CYCLE: CURRENTLY IN REM

MINUTES UNTIL GENITAL RESET: 68

“Oh, so close,” she tutted. She debated taking a peek at what her readings were when she saw something blinking softly in the upper corner of the screen.

BROWSER HISTORY

Quirking an eyebrow, she briefly debated with herself if she should dive in or not. Granted it was the Doctor’s device, but the TARDIS had put it there for her, and considering she wanted to stay on decent terms with the ship after working so hard to get there… she opened it up and began idly scrolling.

Kitten videos, sheet music for Pink Floyd, yogurt recipes, ingredients for a lavender bath bomb, critical essays on the Paddington franchise, a comprehensive list of Rat Pack live shows, the history of beekeeping, novels set in…

…oh…

…now this was interesting. She tapped the side of the sonic sunglasses and watched as the Doctor’s secrets were spilled unceremoniously for her.

The Doctor snorted and muttered something in his sleep, rubbing his face against her skin as he shifted slightly and tightened his grip around her legs.

She was going to have fun with this.

-------

It was the following day and the Doctor was chewing on the non-writing end of his pen as he paced around the console room. With his jacket off and his hooded sweatshirt tied around his waist, his hands, forearms, and face were smeared with oil and grease as he mulled over his rewiring decisions.

“I could put it here,” he muttered, tracing a possible cable route with his finger over the diagram in his hand. A second and he shook his head. “That would risk disrupting this,” he tapped the paper, “and those are streams that are not meant to be crossed…”

“Doctor…?” It was Clara’s voice, patient and unassuming. “Could you come here, please?”

“What is it, Clara?” he replied, raising his voice so she could hear. She had said earlier that she was going to have a soak, which meant he had been free to tinker with the console as he had been meaning to do.

“We need to talk.”

Oh no.

“Let me clean up first!” he panicked. Those four words were never good. The last time she’d said that, he had to make flash cards in order to not further insult anyone, and the time before that, he had taken apart her alarm clock that she was apparently still using. Considering they’d been drifting throughout the time vortex for a couple days at that point, he was nervously leaning towards something as drastic as the latter. He frantically washed his face and scrubbed all the grease and oil from his hands and arms, getting as much off as he could. After drying his hands and running his fingers through his hair, he decided he was almost presentable. Put on the sweatshirt and… yes. Now he was able to face her.

The Doctor found Clara sitting in her bedroom, wearing her favorite, oversized, fluffy bathrobe and with her hair up in a tight bun. Her expression was amused, her legs were crossed, and she was leaning on the chair’s armrest, a device in her hand that made him freeze.

The sonic sunglasses.

“Don’t look at the browser history, hmm…?” she said. He froze—he was caught. “Why didn’t you want me to look in there, Doctor…?”

“How did you…?”

“The TARDIS.”

Darn it—outed by his own ship. “Clara, I didn’t mean…”

“If you really didn’t want me to see, you would’ve been using a private window, which automatically deletes all its history when closed out.” The panicked expression on her face sent a jolt through her, as she knew she had him. “They have that setting.”

“I…”

“What… don’t want to admit you were reading tawdry romance novels without me?”

“Erm… I…”

“Extremely graphic tawdry romance novels at that? Period pieces whether they be by time or by choice?”

“…Clara…”

“Embarrassed by your choice in porn?”

“I’m not embarrassed!”

“Then why keep it from me?” she asked plainly. Clara placed the sonic specs down on the table and stood, crossing the room to meet the Doctor. “I thought you wanted to be adult about this. About us.”

“I am.”

“Then…?” She placed her hands gently on his chest. “Why keep it from me? Don’t you trust me?”

“I do! It’s just…!”

“…just…?”

“…I… I don’t want you doing anything you don’t want to do… feeling as though you need to do things for my sake…”

“Doctor,” she smirked, “I think I can handle this one. You forget: I teach not just fiction literature, but period piece fiction literature. This is precisely in my wheelhouse.” She shrugged out of her robe to reveal she was wearing a plain shift and corset, the sight of which made the Doctor swallow hard. All levels of his conscious thought shorted out at once for a brief moment as he became completely entranced by the hard turn things had taken. “Now help me into my dress.”

“Y-Yes ma’am.”

He followed a pace behind her as she went behind a changing screen, where a deep, wine-red dress made of velvet rested on a shaped hanger, waiting for them. She glanced at him over her shoulder and he inhaled deeply—this was no fair, being assaulted in such a manner. He gently placed his hands on her waist, fingers ghosting along the fabric there.

“Ah, ah, ah…” she warned. “Not until later.”

“…but Clara…” He pressed his hips against her, letting her know how ready he was.

“It’s no fair for you to see me and I not see you,” she reasoned. “Now the dress.”

Without a word, the Doctor complied, taking the dress from the hanger and lifting the fabric over her head. He helped her maneuver it into place and lace up the back. The entire time he kept his breathing slow and steady, his respiratory bypass having decided to fail on him. His fingers moved slowly, his hands lingered, and with every second that ticked by, his erection hurt more and more.

“Thank you,” Clara said, turning around once the dress was secured. “Yours is in your room, wherever that is.”

“Mmm… Cla…”

“The TARDIS will show you,” she continued. She carefully turned him so that his back was towards her, giving a gentle shove towards the door. “See you then.”

Before he realized it, the Doctor was standing in the corridor, staring at the door to Clara’s room. He rested his forehead and hand against the door, absolutely craving the woman who was on the other side. Exhaling heavily, he hit the door with his forehead a couple times before sulking off down the corridor… doomed.

-------

Forty-five minutes later and the Doctor was near-frantically searching for where the TARDIS had put Clara. She wasn’t in her room, nor the console room, nor the library, nor the study… and the fact he was still searching was beginning to grate on his nerves. It wasn’t as though he had gone and changed into a shirt with lace and frills for laughs. His boots now went all the way up to below his knees and his jacket was the same red material as Clara’s dress. With a top hat to pull the entire outfit together, he knew that there was no way that the TARDIS alone was the one who concocted this—he was now on the hunt for the co-conspirator.

A couple more turns and he found a room that he’d not seen before; the tall oaken door stood out amongst the chrome and brushed steel. The Doctor cautiously pushed the door open to find that there was a luxurious, fully-furnished Regency-era flat that looked completely as though it was not merely a room in a space-and-time ship. A four-poster bed sat along the wall, with the remainder set up as though it were merely a noblewoman’s salon. The simulated sunset was pinks and oranges against clouds of purple, blue and green, bathing the room in a soft, golden light that caressed all it touched. For a faux environment, the TARDIS had really outdone herself.

“Visiting my apartments, Doctor? How naughty we’ve become.” He turned and saw Clara reclined on a chaise lounge, a book lazily held in one hand.

“Does any of this even match?” he asked, taking off his hat. He placed it on a bust perched upon a nearby table—one of himself some regenerations ago. “You know… other than my coat and your dress.”

“Does it even matter?”

“I guess not.”

Silence, all electric and tense.

“You look good, Doctor.”

“I look ridiculous.” He tugged at the layered ruffs down the front of his shirt and the lace cuffs poking out his sleeves. “Haven’t worn anything like this in a long time.”

“Pity; it suits you. Especially the color.”

“Are we sure?” He approached her, bending down on one knee, resolutely never breaking eye contact. Taking the book from her hand, he placed it on the floor beneath the couch before holding her hand in his, kissing her knuckles tenderly. “Does this please milady?”

“It could please me more,” she said. He kissed inside of her fingers, her palm, her wrist, all while his free left hand wandered unabated. First her ankle, then slowly tracing up the back of her calf, coming around to hesitantly trace the top of her stocking and garter where they sat just below her knee; his fingers moved at an agonizing pace, eliciting a low moan from them both.

“Are we alone, Lady Clara?” he asked, deliberately drawing out the sounds in her name. “I wouldn’t want His Lordship to catch us. His bow-tie might twist so tight his head pops off.”

“If His Lordship arrives, he knows that although I adore him, my love lies with only one man now,” she said. She tried not to waver as he placed his cheek against her knee, feeling him through the fabrics that separated them. “Should His Lordship vanish and I were to wed again, there is now but one choice in all of time and in all the lands that is worthy of my hand.”

“Are these instructions, milady?”

“No—let His Lordship be. All I want is you, my dearest Doctor.”

“As milady wishes,” he murmured. He gently took off her shoes before lifting up the hem of her skirts and resting them on her knees, taking his time as he unbuckled the garters and slid them and the stockings off, one and then the other. When he was done he began to massage her feet and calves, drawing out their game. As his hands went up her legs, he pressed his lips against her skin, moving along her thighs until she delivered a light tap to the back of his head.

“Bring me to bed,” she commanded sweetly. “I have no wish to soil the couch with our activities.”

Wordlessly, the Doctor lifted Clara into his arms and stood, sweeping her up into a kiss. She held onto his shoulders as he moved across the room, her fingers finding their way into his hair by the time he placed her down on the mattress. With one hand pinned underneath her, the other trailed over the fabric of her dress, feeling the indulgent velvet where it covered her corset, then hips, then legs. He was about to reach under her skirts again when she grunted in his mouth, clearly displeased.

“Shit—get me out of this dress,” she cursed.

“You’re breaking character.”

“…and you need to get those scratchy sleeves off before you go back down there,” she ordered. “How did you ever get any wearing a shirt like that before?”

“Very carefully,” he admitted.

“Well, be careful next time you wardrobe-dive, alright? We can keep the jacket, but that shirt—or at least those cuffs—will have to go.”

“Yes, milady.” He let her take his jacket off him and he stood, hopping on one foot, then the other, in order to get rid of his boots. Only then did he take off his shirt, revealing his sparse frame underneath.

Straddling her lap, he shakily began to work on the lacing going down her back while she loosened his belt. She pushed him away long enough to stand and work the dress off, allowing it to pool at her feet before stepping out of it. The Doctor saw his opportunity and dove in for another kiss, this time picking Clara up underneath her rear. She held on tightly with her legs, arms draped loosely about his neck, as he laid down in the bed.

“Might I be allowed some time with milady’s other lips?” he requested.

“Normally I would allow it, but that is not what I require at the moment,” she said. Clara sat up, feeling the bulk of the Doctor’s erection through her shift and his pants.

“What do you require, milady?”

“You, in me.” She shifted so that she could loosen his trousers, his own hands occupied with running his fingers over the ribbing of her corset. He inhaled sharply as she grabbed his erection; her touch was firm and like fire, freeing him from the fabric around him.

“Must we? At the moment? I do not know how much the poker can prod the flames before growing soft itself.”

“The sun has only just begun to set—we have all night,” she claimed.

“At milady’s command.” He snaked a hand underneath her shift and smirked. “Now look who has grown naughty—no fabric to hide your modesty.”

“It would only get in the way of our liaisons; and here I thought you were clever.”

“It is difficult to be clever when the myrtle-crowned Cytherea gazes down upon you, as both Ourania and Pandemos, and with all her devotion claims you as her own when she could have any mortal she sets her eyes upon.”

“Well said.”

Once both his hands were again on her waist, Clara eased herself around the Doctor’s erection, his stiffened sword filling her slick sheath. They both moaned indulgently, backs arching and genitals throbbing as they ached in pleasure. She shifted slightly, eliciting a soft whine from his lips. The sound filled her with an innate sense of power, knowing that she had him entirely where they both wanted him to be, and that it was only possible because at the very core of it all, he trusted her.

He entrusted himself to her; why else would he bare himself, put himself in her arms, and let himself be placed into her care?

Continuing on, Clara began to rock back and forth, working both their bodies to her own satisfaction. She slowly built up the pace until she found he was thrusting in time with her, attempting to drive himself deeper into her very being. They climaxed together, reaching orgasm with her clenching around him and his fingers digging into the sides of her corset. Slowing dramatically, they seemed to meld into one another as they lost sense of time and place—were they really, truly still on the TARDIS, or was their roleplay simply making use of their fortuitous surroundings?

Clara, now completely spent, hefted herself off the Doctor and laid down next to him. Her breathing still jagged, she allowed her lungs a couple deep gasps to catch up before turning her head and looking at the Time Lord next to her.

“You know… I think that if His Lordship knew of us, he’d be most pleased,” she laughed weakly. “To know we are together, and together as we are, would set his mind at-ease.”

“It might,” the Doctor agreed. He reached over and touched the tips of his fingers in her palm, smiling at the bed canopy when she grabbed on firmly to his hand. “You might even say that His Lordship and I are more alike than we realize.”

A fake gasp. “Impossible.”

“You could even say we are the same man, cut from the same cloth, with only our outer trappings where we differ.” His eyes were drawn to the simulated sunset, seeing the fierce colors of the sky desaturating in the twilight. “A request, Lady Clara?”

“What is it?”

“Now may I kiss your other lips?”

“Why yes; I believe you may.”

-------

The TARDIS, being a rather sensible ship, was a bit concerned as time wore on. Every time she’d pop in on her thief and his latest Human distraction, she’d find they were still going at the odd little game they were playing. She knew the environment she’d created for them was a different one, but somehow it kept them going for much longer than they normally spent sexually pleasuring one another. It was all rather confusing and figured it was merely something that she was just going to have to deal with now that they had their new ritual.

An hour… that’s how long she thought they’d stay busy. If they kept it up and she put their environment on a preset course, she could finally get some peace and quiet for an entire, true night.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t too concerning after all.

-------

When they first arrived on the wee space-rock in the middle of nowhere (“dwarf planet on the edge of a system, Clara”), it was not high on their expectation list to land in the middle of a war over the fate of a single crystal. Granted it was a rather large and pretty crystal, but it was still a very silly thing to get into planet-wide war over, and as soon as the Doctor mentioned that, his and Clara’s imprisonment seemed to be the only thing both sides agreed on in years.

“This is one I think you might like,” he mentioned. They were sitting side-by-side, chained up to a wall in a dark, uncomfortably moist dungeon, wearing shackles that—although allowed them an incredible amount of movement—was also a tough one for the sonic specs to crack.

“Oh really?” She kept her gaze forward, watching for if the guard would come back so that they could convert them to their cause. “Does it take place on Earth? I think I’m starting to get a bit bored of those for the time being.”

“No—I mean—it is but it isn’t,” he admitted. “A Human colony done up for the aesthetic, essentially. Fairly believable, as the conditioning was done over a period of a few generations by the time the book was written.”

“Give it here.” He took the sonic shades from his face and brought them far as his hand could reach. Clara was able to grab them with her own limited range and put the device on her face. She paused, then nodded. “Huh. Worth a shot. Maybe once we get back to the TARDIS and wash up?”

“Possibly. It would involve some creative décolletage.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “You think I can’t get creative involving my décolletage?”

“I said nothing.”

An explosion shook the cell and shouting could be heard from down the corridor.

“Well,” Clara shrugged, “knew that was too good to last.”