basically i really like Clara, okay?

[claraoswaldfics]

Halloween Night, part 2

(Continued from part 1)

It took me a few minutes and a good chunk of breakfast before my memories had lined themselves up in an order I recognised. And let me tell you, there was one memory in particular in there I’m surprised I ever forgot. I still get a rush thinking about it now.

I’d love to tell you I was a suave and charming flirt that night, or a beguiling seductress, because I can and have been both before. Seriously, give me a little black dress or a tailored suit and I am an irresistible force. I’ve wriggled into a cocktail dress and draped myself over a piano once. What I’m trying to say is I draw confidence from the way I dress and tonight I was dressed as a sixties cartoon character. 

But that wasn’t the only reason I was nervous. There was a girl; strike that, a woman; strike that, a flame-haired goddess sat next to me, and the two of us were in a taxi back to my place. She was also dressed as a Scooby Doo character, but maybe not for much longer.

We didn’t go back to Amy’s in the end. Mine was closer anyway, and Priya, traitor that she was, had actually arranged a backup Halloween party for her to go to should ours fall apart. That left my flat empty for the night.

I wouldn’t describe myself as calculating per se, although I have been accused of it, and looking after children and travelling with the Doctor (the same activity a lot of the time) does mean I’m working out plans in my head a lot of the time. But finding out that no roommates would be home that night meant I did find myself shamelessly plotting and pursuing the little turns in conversation that might take me and her to where I wanted us to go that night. 

I picture myself as a chess player, and not just because I really fancy female chess players.

The Doctor always says it’s a matter of picturing your goal on the other side of a chasm and building a bridge as you jump. The problem is that picturing my goal very much distracts me from the general architectural effort, to put it lightly.

As a result, I don’t remember much of the taxi ride. I was too focused on not making an absolute blubbering fool out of myself to delegate much brainpower to long-term memory storage. Conversation with intent to flirt is a challenge, and not one I’ve had the time to perfect. And while I may not have been my best witty siren self, but I hadn’t stuck my foot in it, and I’d even made her laugh a few times, although not as much as she made me laugh. 

If there were times when I felt in control, it was all because of her. She was cool, she was calm, and her smile could switch from wicked to understanding in an instant.

We didn’t kiss in the taxi. I really thought we might; the tension was certainly there and I did a lot of really top-level pouts on the ride. But she seemed intent on putting me at ease first. So we talked. We talked about all manner of things – her modelling work, November 1st hangovers, her first kiss with a woman; that last one didn’t have the calming effect she was going for.

“I’d tell you about mine,” I quip, “but you were there for it.” 

“If you want, I can be there for your second, too.”

I blinked; is this really happening? 

As if to confirm, her warm hand graced my bare knee.

I leaned in.

Then the driver knocked on the divider to tell us we’d arrived, shattering a potentially magical moment. 

Amy gave me a pat on the shoulder and rolled her eyes. She left the taxi and paid the driver while I was momentarily stuck in my reverie. I had half a mind to cuss him out there and then, but in retrospect, I may have inadvertently gotten my revenge by leaving a damp sweaty patch on his back seat.

After that the night stalled for a bit. 

I had some problem with the locks that took a few minutes of fiddling with my keys in the biting cold to fix. And Amy had to pee the moment she got indoors. My train of thought went off the rails for a bit here, I’m ashamed to admit. I’d hoped she would press me against the wall and stick her tongue in me the second the door closed behind us. But instead it had gone like this:

“I might just go and freshen up a bit.”

“Maybe I’ll join you”

“Oh. If I’m honest, Clara, I just meant I needed to use the loo.”

“I thought you were talking about the shower.”

“No. Do you need the shower?”

“No.”

“Do I need a shower?”

“No, you’re very clean. And you smell very nice.”

“So the toilet is…”

“Up the stairs, yeah.”

And then I shut up for a bit.

Was this a ploy? Was she using this chance to put on makeup and make herself look nice? Was she trying to look less like she was in fancy dress? Should I be doing the same – making myself look less like Velma? Or… more like Velma? Maybe she was into it? 

Or maybe… Had she drunk too much? Was that why she was on the toilet? Or maybe the alcohol was why she was with me here in the first place? No, she’d only had two, and she’d been very articulate in the cab (although don’t ask me what about). 

Why did I say “I’ll join you”?  Obviously she meant the toilet! Come on Clara. Get your head in the game!

And stop thinking about toilets, I told myself, or else…

Amy slunk back into the room, framed herself against the doorway and leant against the wall. She’d mussed her hair up a little, and the hem of her dress was further up her thigh than she’d worn it at the club. I’d paid a lot of attention to that hem.

“So,” she asked, in a low, Scottish, purr. “where were we?” 

“Um,” I replied, one leg already shaking, “I’m really sorry, do you mind if I… y’know…”

“Oh, sorry, of course.”

“It’s just we only have the one and I had a bit to drink…”

“Yeah, yeah. Gotcha.” She cleared her throat. “Hurry back.”

Mood ruined. Again.

From atop the porcelain, I looked down at the flagging fabric around her ankles. Sorry, bi panties, tonight might not be your night. Not while fate is twanging my libido like a guitar string. Vibrating my every thought to a melody of rapture and anxiety. What I’d give for a moment of clarity!

Pulling myself together, I fixed my face for the second time in five minutes. Okay, so the tone of the night was currently a bit more bathroom farce than I’d have liked, but did that mean there was no way to salvage it? That I’d have to let the fire in my loins die out? Hell no!

In a stroke of what felt like genius, I lifted off my jumper and shed the layers beneath it, stashing both bra and top in the cupboard beneath the sink. As I pulled the jumper back over my head, I felt practically gift-wrapped.

(I then had a brief flirtation with leaving even the jumper off. I decided against it)

When I returned to the living room, breasts freer than usual, Amy had already made herself at home, adopting a very relaxed slouch across the sofa, and was waving a DVD box at me.

“We’re watching this”

I didn’t have time to object or ask before the screech of bats came from the telly. The DVD was already playing. With something approaching horror, I realised what film was in the machine. The live-action 2002 Scooby Doo movie. 

I questioned briefly exactly what percentage of this woman’s identity revolved around Hanna-Barbera productions, and how high that number would have to be to stop me fancying her.

“Oh, come oon, sit down. It’s a laff.” Amy propped herself up by her elbows. “Look, I know I’ve been winding you up a little, making you nervous, but…”

“I’m not nervous.” I spluttered. 

“It’s okay to be…”

“I’ve never been nervous”.

 “Right. Okay. Good.” I got the impression she’d seen through my act. “So why don’t you sit down and we can watch the film and not be nervous together?”

“Yeah, I can do that.” I nodded, and started walking.

“If you like, we can even not be nervous on the same couch.”

“Okay, yeah.” And again, after a pause “yeah.”

I sat down on the other side of the couch. Not presuming to touch her but not far enough away to make it look like I was distancing myself from her. I pulled down the hem of my skirt, then took it back in a bit, to be flirty, then took it back in again. I wondered if I was overthinking this, and then how many times I’d already asked that tonight. It was a lot, but did that in and of itself qualify as overthinking? 

Had Amy seen all of that? I gave her my best “everything is fine, I’m relaxed” smile, and she smiled back. “Sure you are,” she seemed to say.

We made a reasonable dent in the movie that night. My fears that Amy might turn out to be a rabid Scooby-Doo superfan were assuaged quite early on, as she kept asking questions over the top of it. Small talk like that did set me at ease a little more. Yes, that actress was in ER. No, the CGI hadn’t aged terribly well. I don’t know why Mr Bean is here either. That sort of thing. It helped that I happened to know a lot of trivia about films from around this time. Young Clara had spent a lot of time on trivia quizzes after she’d learned the electric joy that came with being right all the time. And right now that feeling of moderate control was really helping to steady the boat.

“Wine?”

Amy was very receptive to the idea. Thankfully, Priya had a bottle of red in her half of the kitchen (it was a whole political situation, don’t ask) that I was very happy to leave an IOU for. As shaky as my hands were, I could still easily uncork a bottle, and I managed to carry both glasses in without spilling a drop. We sat, more snuggled up than last time, and raised our glasses “to Scooby Doo!” Everything was going to plan.

“Do you think Shaggy says Zoinks when he orgasms?”

I spat out my wine.

“What??”

“He says it every time he’s even slightly scared. You expect me to believe he doesn’t say it…” and then her voice went spicy and French “...in flagrante?”

“Yes, but scared and horny aren’t the same thing?”

“Are they not, Clara Oswald?” 

She put down her wine glass and centred me in her double-barrelled stare. I was suddenly very aware of her height. Parts of me began to boil under her gaze. She was right. Oh god was she right.

“So tell me, what does Velma say, in the heat of it all, when the moment comes?” She drawled, darkly.

All of a sudden, there were no words in my brain.

A switch had been flipped. Amy’s hand was on my knee. More accurately, the very tips of her fingers were, and they were delicately making their way upwards. I gulped as they traced their way beyond my knee-highs and onto my flesh. She angled her approach so that as her wrist brushed the hem of my skirt, her palm was gracing my inner thigh. And she showed no sign of stopping.

I responded in kind, wrapping my right hand around the inside of her left knee, our arms crossing each other, mine over hers. If I moved my hand further in, so would she. The sensation of her cotton tights on my skin thrilled me, the fabric barely concealing her warmth beneath it.

“Mmmmmm.” The sound of her voice was much closer to my ear than I expected. As I turned my face, hers was already there. “Not so nervous now, are you?”

The warmth of her breath on my lips was too much for me to take. I leaned in, eyes closed, and kissed her. Her hand paused on my thigh, as if contemplating how to proceed, mere centimetres away from my panties. I couldn’t see her reaction, but I pictured her blinking in surprise, before feeling her press right back into my face. She was returning my kiss with abandon.

Beneath my skirt, I could feel the squeeze of Amy’s hand on my thigh and I broke the kiss to gasp. I swear I felt the curl of Amy’s lips into a smile as we parted.

“Now that’s not fair. I was going to kiss you first.”

“Well you’ve got to be faster next time.”

“Faster, yeah?” She beamed.

With that she swung her leg over and straddled my right thigh. Her hands fastened onto both sides of my face as we once again locked mouths. Every part of me was clamped by her warm embrace. It felt like returning home after a long, cold night. My hands quickly found work snaking through her hair, her roots bunching in the gaps between my fingers; my palm graced her cheek on her left, and my other hand soothed its way up the back of her neck, exerting a small pressure to keep her lips on mine.

Amy pressed forward, shifting me sideways on the sofa. Her leg had moved up my thigh and was rubbing right up against my mound. The heat from it radiated up and through me, stirring every sinew like mulled wine. It was like I had a second, lower heart, thumping down below, pulsing want and need through my body. 

I moved my hips up so she could feel like this too. The chub of my thigh encountered some elastic resistance from her tights, but I was soon met by a warm damp patch as I made contact. She responded like a vice to that and was soon rolling her hips up against me. I tensed my wide but muscular thigh in a rhythm with her and soon we were both just as wet as each other. And with every movement, our cores came closer and closer together, the hems of our skirts forced back above the waistline. 

All the while I was thinking, I’m doing it! There’s a girl on me and she wants me as badly as I want her! And now our boobs are touching! Oh my stars!

Almost as one, our hands pawed at each other’s backs and pulled our midriffs into contact. While Amy’s hands pressed down, hoping to circumnavigate under my jumper, mine found their way upwards, having located the base of a zipper on the back of her dress, and chasing the potential that offered all the way up.

As my fingers gently tugged at the plastic zip slider at the base of her neck, she pulled her face away, but no more than an inch. A string of saliva still connected our lips. I could still feel her heartbeat on every part of us that touched.

“Don’t touch that zipper.” She said, her voice a mix of steel and cheek. “Not yet. Not while I’m still having my fun.”

I had visions, let me tell you, of biblical, pornographic revelations on that couch. Desperate visions of Amy taking me right there and then, her flinging me back down onto the cushions and spreading my legs with her glorious caber-throwing arms, of her diving in and ripping my panties off with her teeth, eating me out with my jumper and skirt still on, her glorious mane clamped between my thigh highs.

The thought alone could have got me off.

But then I heard keys in the door. My eyes sprang open. My bastard Judas roommate was back. Damn you, Priya!

But Amy was on the case. “Bedroom?” She asked.

“Upstairs,” I replied.

I shooed her through the hall and up the staircase as fast as I could. When I had opened my eyes for that split second, Amy’s eyes had been right in front of me, focused and dilated. No doubt mine were the same. I wasn’t going to let that slip through my fingers. Though the stairs were nearby, there was no way to get up them without going past the front door, and sure enough.

“Who’s this, Clara?” Priya, always so smug.

“Shut up,” I muttered, still hurrying Amy upstairs.

I could hear the giddy smile on her face as she shouted up the stairs.

“Where are you off to with your friend, Clara?”

“Shut up!”

I could tell Amy was stifling a giggle. Probably tempted to turn around and introduce herself, maybe give Priya a little wave. I’m sure they’d have got on like a house on fire, but the making friends part of my brain wasn’t in control at that time.

“I’m so sorry about my roommate.” I said, shepherding Amy through the first door on the right. “She’s cool, I promise, but I don’t want to spoil the mood and...”

Amy wasted no time. As I turned to close the door after us, Amy was behind me, pressing me into the door, her hands snaking their way around my waist and her words slithering into my ear.

“Oh Clara.” She exhaled, before giving me two quick pecks on the neck. “I think I’ve teased you long enough tonight, don’t you?”

With that, her hands went to work. Before I could believe it, her left hand was up my jumper, and her right was beneath the waistband of my skirt. I gasped as the tip of her middle finger made its first contact with the absolutely drenched fabric of my underwear, and as her left hand found its way to my uncupped breast she let out an “mmmmmmm” of admiration.

“You sexy thing” she drawled, part of a honey trap before grabbing my breast in a tight squeeze.

I squealed.

She continued her conquest of my body. Kissing my neck. Circling my nipples. Massaging me over my panties. I was at her mercy and all the better for it. I pressed myself back into her, hoping to feel her warmth from every angle. I could feel her breasts against my back and her core against my arse, and she responded in kind, pulling me in and strapping me against her with her arms.

“Amy” I squeaked.

“Clara” she moaned.

She gave my nipple a cheeky twist and I momentarily lost all feeling in my legs. I stumbled backwards, but she effortlessly supported my weight against her. It barely slowed her down. The elastic of my panties thrummed over her fingernail as she explored further down. She kept playing my body like a cello and I was more than happy to sound out her music.

When I next opened my eyes, there was a mirror in front of me. I must have stumbled back further than I thought. But what I saw in it- for a second it was like a different person.

The woman in the mirror locked eyes with me. Her hair a mess, her breathing haggard and primal, escaping between a sigh and a whine. Her lover’s hands under her garments created a pale diamond of flesh, its north exposing her shivering ribcage and its south teasing the peak of her pubic mound, all of it glistening with sweat. Over her shoulder, a curtain of sleek red hair, as a blood red mouth devoured her neck. With every desperate breath, the woman’s body shook, positively writhing in ecstasy. 

And her eyes…

Pupils dilated, between rapture and fear, gazing into the sublime, on the crest of a revelation.

The woman is me.

The woman on her neck is my lover.

And I am so irrevocably, irrepressibly, incandescently gay.

There’s a wisp of cold air on my throat and I notice that Amy has moved, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. She has a sly purse to her lips; she knows the effect her fingers are having on me and has no intention to stop. But I can see I’m affecting her too. I can sense it in the redness of her face, the pressure between her fingers and the synchronous rhythms of our hips. 

“Liking what you see, eh, Velma?” She teased.

“Oh shut up”

I’m going to claim it was the breathlessness in her voice rather than the name Velma that set me off, but whatever the reason, every part of my body switched into overdrive. Lust controlled me bodily. Gripping the back of her skull, threads of hairs through my fingers, I pushed her open mouth onto mine and slid my tongue straight in. 

For a split second, her hand on my clit was shocked out of its rhythm, but I wasn’t about to allow that. Something was building under my skirt and I was going to usher it out. My palm gripped the back of her hand and steered her back into tempo. My fingers, like hers, were instantly sodden and they glided frictionless back and forth over me. Faster… Harder… Building up. Building up...

Oh God I was so close…

“Amy” I moaned into her mouth, not for a second letting up on our kiss. “Amy, Amy, mmmmmmm, fuck, Amy.”

Her voice cut through everything, clear as day.

“Cum for me, Clara”

And I did. Oh how I did.

The ball of passion inside me erupted, rolling up my body at a spine-snappingly fast pace. It shot through to the ends of my fingers and the tips of my toes, before contracting my whole body in convulsions. I lost control of the hand on my clit, but Amy’s soldiered on, her fingers compelling waves and waves of pleasure out of me.

I would have shrieked her name, if I could think at all in those moments, but all that escaped my mouth were guttural grunts, rising, rising, rising in volume. For minutes, for hours - I’d never felt anything this intense in my life. It was like I was pure electricity, nothing but sensation, and it was you, Amy, you that did this.

My vision went white.

“Jinkies”

And then I slumped onto her like a ragdoll. 

End of part 2.

[claraoswaldfics]

Halloween Night

The throbbing in her neck was the first thing Clara noticed as she woke up. The second was that she was naked. What had happened last night?

As she pushed her fringe out of her face, she noticed a trail of clothes winding their way from the door to her bed. Heels, jumper, skirt. She lifted the covers, where she discovered her bra and underwear, neither of which were still on her body. But strangest of all were the orange knee-socks on the unoccupied pillow beside her. Were they hers?

On her bedside table, her phone announced it had finished charging. That should have taken it about one and a half hours, so either there had been a power cut last night, or someone else had recently plugged it in for her. Clara looked at the screen and saw on it a message from her flatmate, Priya.

“Noticed a redhead sneaking out of your room this morning. Congrats on losing your gay virginity!” Dozens of emojis followed; huge blocks of pride flags and fireworks lit up her screen, then the message continued, “Not going to tell the group chat until you’re ready of course, but girl, I am going to need all the deets!”

There may have been more to the text, but it was then that Clara noticed the date. November first. Suddenly it all came rushing back.

 It was Halloween at Glitz.

The club itself had been dwindling for a while now and most of the cool young people had probably moved away to venues that were more ‘hip’ or ‘fresh’. The fact that Clara assumed that was still the lingo was part of why she still came to Glitz. Not often, granted. It was strictly on an annual basis now. An ersatz tradition dating back to their university days (back when they’d all briefly experimented with paganism) to dance at this increasingly outdated, overpriced discotheque every 31st of October.

Even in the rain

Clara was as usual the first to arrive. It wasn’t so much that she was always early as everyone else was always late. The whatsapp group had assured her a few hours ago that they’d be there though, so there was still a chance (however small) that they were already inside.

She flashed her ID to the bouncer, who made a point of studying it. She was 26 now, old enough to appreciate being mistaken for someone younger, but still young enough to be impatient about the delay. Or maybe it was the costume that was holding him up. Thinking about it, it must be hard to tell if someone is who they say they are when they’re dressed as Velma Dinkley.

Ever since she’d gone for a more bob-like haircut, she’d been getting a lot of comparisons to the Scooby Doo character, so it was an easy decision to lean into it for Halloween. This didn’t mean it was an easy or cheap costume – Clara Oswald never did things by half, after all. She’d been nosing around high streets and second-hand shops the last two weekends putting it together. The orange jumper was baggy but sewn so as to give a good impression of her figure. The glasses made her eyes seem even wider, and combined with the freckles she’d drawn on took five years off her face. Surprisingly it was the little red skirt that had taken her the longest to find, only appearing in a last-minute lunch-break scrabble in Oxfam, and between it and the knee-socks, she was showing a lot more thigh than she was used to.

I mean it looks damn good, she thought to herself, but it isn’t half cold…

The bouncer finally nodded her through, and soon she was enveloped by the warm haze and pounding bass of Glitz. Maybe two dozen people were on the dancefloor, jumping and swaying to a song Clara was fairly sure had come out this year, but not one she knew the name of. I’ll dance at the next one, she thought, or maybe wait until the others get here.

It seemed that almost the moment she found a seat at the bar, her phone pinged. Naomi and Ellen weren’t coming. Apparently some couple had been trying to book their wedding venue out from under them so they were resigned to staying in and shouting down a phone all evening.

That wasn’t good. Those two were the lynchpin of all group planning. It was always worth going out with Naomi and Ellen because there would always be a story the next day. This was because the drunker they got, the more they’d dare the other, and those dares usually involved even more drinking. Clara had even had to bail them out once after they got arrested for shagging on a pool table.

But without them, the group dynamic fell apart. Priya loved nothing more than when a plan got cancelled. For her it was an excuse to shrug her bra off and fall asleep in front of the tv. Clara herself only owned two bras, one good but itchy and the other comfy but old, but Priya could have five littered around the living room at any one time. She’d hidden them on one occasion to encourage future tidiness.

And Emerald, the last of the group, Clara didn’t know particularly well. She knew they kept up with Yugioh (somehow) and read PG Wodehouse, but they’d joined the group in Clara’s last term at uni and she’d had her nose too deep in books to get to know her in any great depth. No doubt they’d have put a lot of effort into some anime costume, but if it was just her and Emerald left, they wouldn’t come.

Okay Clara, it’s not too bad. Shake it off, get a cocktail in you. This night could still go well.

The two pings of doom arrived before she was even halfway through her pina colada. Two more cancellations. Urgh. This calls for a consolation drink. And make it a pint this time.

It wasn’t even nine yet and it felt like the night was over. Clara sighed audibly. Such a shame, she thought. It’s my first Halloween as an out bi woman. This should have been like gay Christmas! I had all this Sapphic energy built up inside me tonight and I’m going to waste it fingering myself in the bath reading Jane Austen again. I’m even wearing the bi flag underpants Ellen got me for my birthday!

She’d been considering the idea of a second pint for around five minutes when she got a tap at her shoulder.

“Velma!”

A jolt of electricity raced up Clara’s spine. She knew that voice, didn’t she?

She turned around in her stool just as the lights above the dancefloor shifted. The woman behind her was briefly illuminated from behind, her face a shadow, but her hair a fiery red halo. Putting a hand in front of her face for a second, Clara took in the rest of her body; a purple dress and go-go boots. Her brain rushed to piece it all together, arriving at the costume before the face.

“Daphne?” She replied, weakly.

As the lights shifted again, Clara was blessed with another view of this woman, who was somehow more dazzling out of the spotlight. She stood imposingly tall, her soft moon-like face looking kindly down on Clara. Taken altogether with her vibrant red hair, Clara felt like she was looking directly at a solar eclipse, and one she couldn’t look away from.

“Hi, I hope you don’t mind. My Shaggy’s gone off with my Scooby.” The woman smiled apologetically. “Thought I might go and make some new friends and well… the costume…”

Clara blinked. In fact she blinked rather a few times. She was still trying to process the fact that an angel had descended from heaven right in front of her.

“I beg your pardon?”

The redhead explained herself again. Clara made a note to focus on what she was saying, which, she justified, involved looking at this woman’s lips a lot.

“I did a group costume with these two guys. One was Shaggy, one was Scooby; we thought we’d come here for the night, have a few drinks, have a few laughs, but instead,” the next part of the sentence involved turning her head to shout pointedly “they’re GETTING OFF IN THE TOILETS!”

Clara let out a nervous giggle. It was a good cover for the big red wave of excitation that was coursing through her body. There was something about the way her Scottishness had just announced itself in her voice that made Clara’s thighs shudder. That woman could shout!

“Shaggy and Scooby-Doo?” Clara repeated. “The dog and the dog owner?”

“Exactly!” she bellowed. “Isn’t that mad?”

“That is so mad.” Clara nodded. Agree with everything this woman says, she thought. If she asks you to rob a bank, do it.

“And after only one drink as well!” She continued, exasperated, “They. Are. Terrible!”

“I guess that’s why they call him Shaggy?” It was a weak joke, Clara knew. And I fumbled the delivery. But frankly the fact that I managed a straight sentence around this woman is a miracle. Managing a straight anything was a challenge, to be honest.

And she laughed! She laughed at my dumb joke! I made that sound come out of her! That brogue-y Scottish cackle! Oh this is the best feeling in the world!

“I know! And that dog will do anything for a Scooby Snack!”

God, me too, thought Clara, as she unleashed a laugh a lot less cool than she hoped she would.

Ahem.

“Can I get you a drink?” Clara asked, thankful she still had any rational thoughts left.

“Ooh, yes. Rum and Coke, please.” She smiled. Such a lovely smile. “Do you have a name, or should I just call you Velma all evening?”

“Only if I can call you Daphne” Clara replied with a grin, signalling to the barman. This was a bit of damage control. It was suave and flirty, but she’d missed the window to introduce herself properly, or find out this charming redhead’s name.

“Oh, you want to play that game, do you?” Clara braced herself for the next word, as the redhead’s lips formed around it. “Velma.”

Beads of sweat started to form under her jumper. It was then that Clara realised where she’d heard that sexy Scottish brogue before…

The kissogram from Naomi and Ellen’s engagement!

Six months on and I’m just as flustered.

The drinks came and Clara positively snatched hers off the table. As long as her mouth was occupied with alcohol, she had more time to think. And as always, Clara, try and play it off as glamorous and mysterious.

The more strategic side of Clara’s brain spoke up; so you know who she is, but she doesn’t know who you are. What does that mean? You know what she does for a living – is that an okay thing to bring up? Does the fact that she hasn’t recognised me yet mean my costume is too good…

…or was that kiss unmemorable?

She chanced a look. The woman in the Daphne costume was nursing her rum and coke, but her eyes were still fixed on her over the rim of her glass.

Right. So what if she didn’t remember that kiss. It was half a year ago and in her line of work she couldn’t be expected to remember everyone she’d ever kissed. Clara could hardly do that herself. What it meant was that Clara could make another first impression. A confident, in-control one.

“Miss Blake.” She congratulated herself on remembering that scrap of Scooby Doo trivia.

“Is that Daphne’s last name?” The redhead half-giggled. “I’m sorry, I haven’t watched Scooby Doo since I was a wee bairn.”

Aha! The strategic part of her brain roared into force again. I know more about Scooby Doo than her! I can leverage this to my advantage… somehow! Strategy brain realised it should probably shut up for a bit, and that the reason it had been allowed to think so long without interruption was because the rest of her brain was once again cooing at the Scottish turn of phrase.

“So why Daphne, then?”

“It was a group costume with a bunch of friends, but there were a few no-shows, you know?”

Clara made a gesture to the four people who were definitely not standing next to her “I do know.”

“Between you and me, I’d have quite liked to come as Velma.”

The seriously unstrategic part of Clara’s brain practically roared: Come into the bathroom with me! We can swap clothes right now!

She continued. “besides, what other characters are there to dress up as, as a tall ginger woman?”

Jessica Rabbit, said Clara’s brain.

“Jessica Rabbit” said Clara.

Oh shit, said Clara’s brain.

“Naughty” she chided. “But I don’t think so. Not two years in a row, anyway.”

Oh shit, said Clara’s brain again, but with purpose (and without vocalisation). This is definitely flirting! This could go well! I haven’t made an embarrassing mess of myself!

Tonight, I’m going to rock her world.

“Would you like to take a seat?”

High on her own hubris, Clara hadn’t noticed the seats either side of her were taken. Um…

“I’d love to.”

Sirens blared in Clara’s head as ‘Daphne’ draped one arm over Clara’s back and slid both her indigo tight-clad legs over Clara’s until she was Sitting! In! Her! Lap!

“Oh, you don’t mind, do you?”

In a moment, all of Clara’s newfound confidence melted and words stuck in her throat. Clara worried for a moment maybe her nose was bleeding, or her entire lower body had turned to steam, or worse, that her damn traitor face might be giving Amy some reason to stop sitting on her.

“Oh, not at all.”

THINK OF SOMETHING TO SAY!

“So…”

SOMETHING WITTY, FLIRTY AND MAYBE TO DO WITH HER COSTUME!

“Daphne…”

HERE WE GO! SHOOT YOUR SHOT!

“Would you like to get in the van with me?”

THE VAN???

“The van?”

“The um… the mystery machine.”

“Oh, the van from the show”

“Yes”

“So you want me to get in the Scooby Doo van with you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a van?”

“No.”

“But you just invited me to your van.”

“Yes.”

Clara blinked a few times while her brain rebooted.

“It’s a metaphorical van.”

“And what exactly is it a metaphor for?”

“I don’t know.”

“Truly, this is one mysterious machine.”

“…Yes.”

A few mortifying seconds later, her strategic brain came back online. As did her non-strategic brain. They both made this noise: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

The Daphne impersonator slid her legs off Clara and stood crouched at eye-level.

“Look, can I propose something?” asked the redhead “Instead of you trying to entice me out of the club, into a dirty alley, and into the back of your metaphorical van, why don’t we just get a taxi back to my place?”

Clara fell off her seat.

“Oh my God, your little flustered face!” She belly laughed. “Oh we are going to have such a lot of fun tonight! Come on, Clara.”

Their hands touched as the redhead reached down to help her up. In all future memories of this moment, it seemed to Clara like she was in Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam. Any hints of the reality, that a wide-eyed, shakey-legged sex-addled Scooby Doo cosplayer was being picked off the floor of a bar, were quickly purged from her mind by a greater realisation.

“You know my name.”

“Of course I do. I don’t get to snog many girls in my line of work.” She winked “And I make a note of the cute ones. I’m Amy.”

Clara nearly fell to the floor again.

But Amy kept her on her feet, one arm pulling her whole body to her.

“How about we get you into that taxi, I let you calm down for a little bit, and then you and I can get to know each other, okay?”

A sigh of relief from Clara; this was going well at last!

“Okay.”

“And then after that we can make out a little and I’ll put my hands up your jumper, sound good?”

“Oh God yes.”

 END OF PART 1

[claraoswaldfics]

A Bonnie Lass for Clara

“Clara? Clara, are you in there?”

“I’m sorry Doctor. I’m afraid your Clara is dead.”

It was her voice, she was sure of it. But it wasn’t her. She was nowhere near it. Here she was, stuck in some abstract nightmare version of her apartment and some stranger was using her voice and her body to tell her best friend she was dead.

Was she dead? It seemed unlikely. If she was, then God must have a very similar taste in furniture. Which would be odd because she was drunk in IKEA when she bought it.

No. This feels weird. This feels like… and then it struck Clara that she’d experienced this level of weirdness before, when she’d been face-hugged by those dream crabs. Which mean that she was in some sort of psychic prison. But then, she’d prepared for this. Since it happened last time, she’d been pestering the Doctor for psychic self-defence lessons. She’d sworn never again to have that little control over her own body. (Well, almost. Turns out Jane Austen liked a bit of bondage play, but at least they had a safe word) And so the Doctor had taken her to a series of seminars and workshops on future Mars. She never got to finish the course, of course, because when was travelling with the Doctor ever normal? A hoard of adult adipose (eight foot tall, sharp teeth, significantly less cute) had taken over the complex. But she’d learned enough.

Step one: check for anything that could be used to see into the outside world. Clara pulled apart the curtains; brick walls. No windows. No way out. But where had she heard the voices from? The radio! And if she could hear them through the radio, maybe she could see them through the TV? She grabbed the remote and flicked through the channels. On her fifth try, the TV showed her an empty street, with the camera moving forward from a first person perspective. Was it her?

Suddenly a phone entered the screen. Her phone. In her hand. But more importantly, there was the doctor, facetiming her, or at least, her imposter. She was looking out through her imposter’s eyes! She had a connection! Step two: Observe the outside world to search for context and potential weaknesses. Okay, so who’s in control of my body? Luckily the Doctor seemed to be taking care of that particular question.

“Unlikely, Zygella. I know what Zygons are capable of. You need Clara alive to maintain a psychic link. If you want to know what she knows, you’ll need her in some kind of spatio-synaptic transmission pod.”

So that’s where I am, she thought. In one of those. I’m guessing it’s a zygon mind pod or something. Which means a zygon has my body. Urgh.

“Oh, Doctor, you must have noticed the rules have changed.”

That can’t be good.

“Regardless, you wouldn’t just throw away a bargaining chip like that. And you certainly wouldn’t let one of the architects of the human-zygon truce get off so lightly.”

Great. Thanks for reminding them, Doctor. I’d hate to get out of this torture-free.

“Which means that’s she’s probably still out there, most likely psychically linked to you. Isn’t that, right, Clara?”

Alright, Clara. Step three: use the psychic connection to try and establish control of your own body. She let herself relax, to try and sense the link. And then, purposefully and deliberately, she forced herself to wink. But she hadn’t felt the connection. Or had she- she’d never successfully done this before. She screwed her eye up again. And again. Had it worked?

And then she saw the Doctor’s shark-like grin in her phone. It had worked!

“I knew you were in there. Good job, Clara!” She felt herself smile- had her zygon double smiled too? “Now Zygella’s on her way to UNIT HQ. I’m running late so I need you to hold her up. Just buy me ten-fifteen more minutes before-”

And then she was cut off. The zygon had hung up. Damn. That’d been her on connection to the Doctor. She doubted her doppelganger would allow her enough access to her fine motor control to dial the phone again.

Through the screen, she saw her phone raise again. It was in camera mode, aimed back at her. And this time it was her own face aimed back at her. It was surreal to see her own face staring back at her, contorted in a look of driven anger she didn’t recognise in herself. And she found herself staring at herself in a way she never had before.

“Hello, Clara.”

Her delivery was breathy and low- almost seductive. Her eyes were half closed, smug and at ease, as if she knew everyone she talked to were beneath her. Her hair tied back efficiently into a succinct pony tail, something which, when put together with her blood red lips, made Clara more than a little bit distracted. Absent-mindedly, her hand moved down to cover the crotch of her trousers.

Not that she let it show.

“Hello there, not-Clara.” She responded pointedly.

“Bonnie”

“Huh. Odd name for a zygon, isn’t it?”

“My Earth name. One I shall soon discard.”

“Right.”

The phone was down now. Bonnie had found a store window with a reflection. Clara found herself lost for snark for a second as she drank in the sight. She know she’d picked out the outfit herself, but she hadn’t dreamed of this kind of effect. High heels, tailored trousers, a figure hugging black jacket and a collared shirt Clara longed to unbutton several at a time.

It was like having a sexy evil twin. No. A sexier evil twin.

“And you’re supposed to be stopping me, are you?”

“Holding you up for a bit, yeah.” Clara replied, projecting an image of calmness that her insides just couldn’t mimic. “That’s the general idea.”

“And how are you planning to do that?” Bonnie smirked. “Are you going to wrestle me?”

“Oh, you don’t want to fight me.” Clara scoffed, trying to regain the air of superiority she enjoyed in these encounters. “I fight dirty.”

“Oh really?” Bonnie quirked her head, loosing a strand of hair from her fringe. A quick flick of her head forcing it back behind her ear. “Because from where I’m standing, you seem utterly… powerless.”

Clara raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know, Bonnie. I’m feeling pretty good. Pretty… Damn… Good.”

She hadn’t noticed, but she’d moved herself a lot closer to the TV. All she noticed was Bonnie’s face, taking up the whole screen- her lips the centre of her attention.

“Your distractions aren’t going to work, Clara.” She could feel the name in her own mouth- it felt good. Especially when coupled with Bonnie’s tongue just faintly touching her bottom lip as the name rolled out.

“I beg to differ.” She smirked. “I only needed to hold you up for ten minutes. It’s been two already. And you know what, I can be a lot more distracting when I want to be.”

“How? With more mindless flirtations? Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”

“You’re right. I think the time for talking is over, don’t you?”

Clara had been trying to get back in sync with her body the whole conversation, waiting for the moment to strike. She’d been building up and building up this whole time and if she was as connected to Bonnie as she felt, the same thing must be stirring up inside Bonnie too. She just hoped zygons changed on the inside as much as the out.

All at once, Clara conjured up several images in her head and threw them Bonnie’s way. The safe, strong embrace of Danny’s arms, the moist engrossing smooch from the French maid kissogram, the intimate sight of Jane Austen emerging, drenched from between her legs.

And then step four: use their body against them.

Bonnie had been taken by surprise and Clara seized her advantage. Taking control of her left hand, she quickly raised it to her breast and clawed at it, her middle finger flicking the nipple through the fabric.

For the first time, Bonnie’s façade of easy control cracked. She let out a gasp and almost immediately her breathing became deeper and faster.

As Bonnie fell into her trap, Clara pushed further, gaining access to the other hand and echoing her movements on the other breast, this time with enough force to pull apart one of Bonnie’s shirt buttons.

“How are you doing this?” Bonnie gasped.

Clara opened her eyes, seeing what Bonnie saw. The counterpart was gasping for air, misting up the store window, that she was, Clara took delight in noticing, leaning on for support.

“Oh, Bonnie,” Clara gloated, rubbing her own breasts through her tank top, knowing Bonnie’s hands would follow. “No one knows this body like I do. And you would not believe the things I could make it do.”

She yanked at her tank top, tearing it with adrenaline-fuelled strength. Bonnies’ hands followed hers exactly, her willpower lost to the overwhelming desire. Under Clara’s control, her linen shirt was torn apart with buttons strewn everywhere.

Clara kept at the bra, her hands kneading and moulding around them, making sure her little finger remained delicate, letting it stroke through the material. Clara couldn’t help but note how good this felt, and if it felt this good for her, it must feel overpowering for Bonnie, who also had to deal with the sultry lace of her bra against her supple skin.

Bonnie was on the ground now, her legs no longer able to support her. They’d tingled and sweated and spasmed and tightened together until she fell, her back sliding against the window.

“Feeling good, Bonnie?”

Bonnie wanted to respond, Clara could feel it, but she knew if she opened her mouth it would only let out a moan. Clara grinned in victory and allowed herself to collapse onto her sofa too. She was enjoying this.

From there, she arched her back and moved one hand away from the groping, leaving the other hand to massage her bra, lest Bonnie slip away from her control, and moved it behind her back to her bra clasp. With a motion like fingers clicking, she unlocked the hooks and the two ends slipped right off. But she could also faintly feel Bonnie’s hand as if it were on her own back. But it felt almost like a fumble. For a second Clara panicked- had her control slipped? They were two different bras- hers and Bonnie’s, and Bonnie’s had a few more hooks. She couldn’t distract her if the bond was broken, and she couldn’t do any other things either…

But a second later, with a motion Clara wasn’t entirely sure was her own, Bonnie’s bra came undone. And then, back in sync, the two women shrugged their bras off, their breasts sighing at their release. Clara let out something between a sigh of relief and a laugh before returning her attention to her hands’ nipple play, this time with nothing between them.

“You will pay for what you’re doing to me, Clara Oswald.”

“Oh, yeah. What’re you going to do- punish me?” Her cheek twitched into a smirk.

Bonnie’s didn’t.

She shot a few more images at Bonnie- the heaving of Jane’s breasts beneath a corset, the gentle brushing of a French maid’s petticoats, the snapping back of a stretched stocking against a thigh, the sensation of two slick and shaven inner legs sliding against each other from when she’d shared a bed with her time-double, the nearing smell of a vulva as her mouth moved closer and closer to it, tongue extended…

Bonnie fell back down, overwhelmed, but Clara knew she couldn’t give her that level of control again.

It was time for the next phase.

As Bonnie’s Elbow moved back to crook her back up, Clara channelled all her energy into her right arm, pulling it down from her breasts slowly, her middle fingernail scraping across her toned midriff, leaving a faint red mark. The line itself wasn’t exactly straight- Bonnie was breathing heavily in and out. As her hand moved, she felt little twitches in her legs and even a small trickle down below. At this point, Clara almost didn’t care if she was distracting Bonnie- her downstairs were calling urgently and she’d never been able to deny them. She just had to hope Bonnie was slip streaming on her sensations. Her hand slipped beneath the waistline of her trousers, feeling a slight tingle as lace caressed her finger. A small part of her mind realised the lace sensation was coming from Bonnie’s panties rather than her own. And her panties were significantly warmer and more moist.

The further down her finger went, more shivers she felt. Her jaw was vibrating, her teeth chattering. It was taking all her control to draw it out and not plunge straight in.

She could feel Bonnie regaining control of her left arm- it was reaching out to stop her right. Clara could sense Bonnie’s thoughts- there was only a very small part of her mind still striving to reach UNIT HQ, but it was quickly being drowned in sensations and anticipation. Clara knew what she needed- just one more shock, one grand new sensation to pull her back under her control. 

Her fingertip reached her lower lips and teased them, lightly trailing them over every bump and fold. Bonnie’s hand was on her wrist, trying limply to stop her, but soon her will fell away and she sank into deep enjoyment. And as soon as she did, it began to feel to Clara not just that her own hand was circling her clit, but Bonnie’s too. It kept circling and spiralling, her finger gliding easily over a slick of her own juices. The sensations intermingled and suddenly it got too much.

One fingertip slipped beneath her hood and lightly pressed her clitoris.

“Oh, Clara” Bonnie squeaked, “what are you doing to me?”

“Never been in a body with a clitoris before, Bonnie? Then you have no idea what’s coming next.”

A feeling bubbled up through the pair of them, now perfectly in sync. They moaned together, their legs stretched out together and their toes pointed together. The hand that was once Bonnie’s circled back up to her breast and squeezed. The feeling from their chest spread and mingled with the warmth radiating from their core.

Their fingering got a little faster, but not so fast that Clara couldn’t feel every single bump against her clit. Every sensation where every bone joint arced across her pleasure button. And with that, it got faster and harder and faster and harder and faster and harder.

More mental sensations flooded from her: teeth around her nipple, a hand inside her thigh, the bristle of pubes around her lips, the slamming of hips against hips in passion, the filling of her vagina with one finger. Two fingers. Three… Four…

Her clit swelled slightly under the movement and urged signals of intense pleasure through their bodies. Their legs slammed together and contracted. They bit into their lips, letting out nothing but a high pitched hum. Their hips bucked together and then…

The first orgasm struck.

They both let out a carnal moan as their body rocked with the sensation. Their breathing was so fast now- their needs more urgent, but Clara’s finger stayed where it was- moving faster and faster, and getting more crooked, curling ever so slightly as it pressed even further inward, still making sure the bump across the clit with every stroke.

Orgasm number two hit and their backs arched in pleasure.

“Clara!”

“Bonnie!”

Their mutual cries of pleasure pressed them on, and they kept going, their hands together, calling out their names time and again. Orgasm number three. And number four. And number five, which yielded something new- it felt like a dam burst below and simultaneously the two squirted- a veritable fountain gushing outward, tingling their labia, reminding Clara of her showerhead massager but in reverse. 

The sensation lingered even when the gushing died down and it stayed for quite a while, with them thinking of nothing else but the intense glow that enraptured their bodies. The two just lay there after that, Clara in her mindscape’s sofa and Bonnie, her shirt hanging open, lying down in the street. As they tried to pull themselves together, their connection ebbed a little. Enough for Bonnie to raise a hand to find her phone again, which she’d dropped once their activities commenced.

Six past five- a whole eighteen minutes had passed since the Doctor’s call. Mission accomplished.

Clara let herself lie back and smile fully, her cheeks almost hurting from pride.

“We should do this again some time, Bonnie.”

“Your attempts at seduction has only brought you time. I will still have my war.”

“Still warmongering, huh? Shame.” Clara replied, a little reluctant to exit the afterglow. “I mean I’d say you need to get laid, but I’ve just sorted that.”

“Make your jokes, but your control over my body has ended, Clara. There is nothing more you can do.”

“I know. The Doctor can take it from here.”

“You seem rather relaxed for a soon-to-be extinct species.”

“Yeah, masturbation has that effect on me. You should do it more often.” She blinked. She exhaled “I mean, you’re really good at it.”

Bonnie paused. “Thank you.” Ahem. “So are you.”

“I know.”

Bonnie made to get up and walk away.

“Before you go, Bonnie, um…” Clara tried for a bit of tact. “Maybe do up your shirt and, uh, change your trousers? I don’t want to walk into UNIT looking like I’ve wet myself.”

“Yes. Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” Said Bonnie, looking down and sorting herself out. She coughed and mumbled a little, her voice lacked the easy confidence and conviction of earlier. She hesitated, as if there was something she wasn’t sure whether or not to say. “Maybe, once we’ve overthrown your species, I’ll keep your pod to myself.”

“Yeah?” It was a nice offer, genocide aside. “Sure. I mean if the human race does go the way of the VHS tape, maybe you could let me out of the pod and I could show you some new stuff?”

“That would be satisfactory.”

“Only satisfactory?” said Clara, with mock indignation. “Now I really hope your plan fails.”

“Farewell, Clara Oswald”

“Bye Bonnie,” said Clara, giving her a flirty smile she wasn’t sure the zygon had seen. “Don’t be a stranger”

Well, Clara, she thought to herself, once again the fate of the world was in your hands. And once again, the world underestimated what exciting things her hands could do.

[claraoswaldfics]

A Brief History of Clara (ft. Amy)

 Clara found herself midway through her copy of Pride and Prejudice (her eighth time re-reading it) when she was once again struck by a persistently intrusive thought.  

 She wasn’t gay, was she?

 She tried to brush it off- of course she wasn’t. She’d had a serious boyfriend before and two flings after that (both male). As far as she remembered, she’d only ever dated men, too. Of course she wasn’t seeing anyone right now, but it seemed a bit of a leap to suggest that confirmed her as a lesbian.

 In fact, she’d never really thought about it until it had become something of a running joke among her group of friends. The four of them had been basically inseparable during their university years, all of them studying English, and had jokingly dubbed their group ‘the Marauders’ as a Harry Potter reference. Unfortunately the name had stuck. It was, however, during those Marauder years that all of the other three had discovered they were LGBT.

 Priya had been the first- she came out to the group very stiffly and officially halfway through the first year. Clara and the others hadn’t been massively surprised, as Priya did seem to fit most of the stereotypes. She played Lacrosse, she watched anything and everything Gillian Anderson ever appeared in and she even had a Mohawk. The Marauders had thrown her a party the following night, draping rainbow bunting on the wall and imbibing frankly ludicrous quantities of alcohol. It was during that night that the dent in the wall first appeared, that Clara’s flat got its first visit from the police for excessive noise and that Priya’s wardrobe got drunkenly raided…

 …By Naomi, who until that night hadn’t given a thought about her gender.  It was six months later, when they’d all moved in together for second year, that Naomi had let slip to Clara that she was, in fact, a woman. And after getting a lowing reception from Clara, she told the other two marauders in the next 24 hours. She’d insisted that they not make too much of a fuss about it and not tell anyone else yet, but the marauders had been starved of parties for a while and had insisted on one, despite Naomi’s objection’s that she had to finish reading a 600 page novel for her course by the end of the week.

 So they fished out the bunting from Priya’s coming out party, bought more alcohol and played the cheesiest pop songs they could find all night long. Naomi had come out of her room a little sheepishly, wearing a charity shop dress and a wig she’d bought from a party shop some time previously. Over the course of the night, however, Naomi grew slowly more confident, until she was misquoting ABBA at the top of her voice with the rest of them. Clara and Priya were delighted to have a third girl in the group, and while Clara applied some make-up to Naomi’s face, Priya had taken her top off and showed her how to stuff a bra, much to Naomi’s embarrassment.

 Naomi came out very slowly, and only to a few old friends from school and one or two from her board games society. Her parents didn’t find out until a year later. But by and large, nothing seemed to change within the group. Naomi identified as a woman, of course, but the group dynamic stayed very much the same. The only difference was that the final marauder had gotten very inquisitive about Naomi and her gender identity.

 Sometimes it was sweet and sometimes it was incredibly obtrusive, but the constant questions never seemed to go away. And it was when Naomi had finally psyched herself up enough to use the women’s public restroom for the first time, and the two of them were standing outside the door, that the straw finally broke the camel’s back, and what Naomi used to see as her friend’s curiosity finally got on her nerves.

 “So… um… do you have to pull down your skirt to pee, or does it, I dunno, flare out around the bowl?”

 “Why,” she said through gritted teeth, “do you need to know?”

 Naomi had said it with more anger in her voice than she’d meant to, but all the same, there had been a lot of questions up until this point. She looked at her friend, who, for someone on the uni’s basketball team, and was always the first in with jokes, was looking awfully quiet and embarrassed.

 “Because…” -deep breath- “because I think I might be a woman too.”

 Two versions of this story got back to Clara and Priya, one with a solemn, stoic, hug. And one that said their new female friend had broken down crying with snot flying everywhere. Knowing their friend as they did, they believed the latter. And it was when they were all in the flat together at the end of the day that the subject got round to names.

 “I like Hermione.” She said.

 “We know you do.” Said everyone.

 “You’ve got two posters of Emma Watson in your room, you stalker.” Priya snarked.

 “No, as a name.”

 It was at that point that they all remembered who had come up with the name ‘the Marauders’.

 “You’re naming yourself after a Harry Potter character?”

 “To be fair,” Priya interjected, “She could be naming herself after a Shakespeare character. She is an English student after all.”

 “No… I am definitely naming myself after a Harry Potter character.”

 They all groaned, but nobody fought it, and the name Hermione very quickly stuck.

 And then, in true marauders fashion, they broke out the rainbow bunting and the alcohol and got very loud and very drunk. While Naomi took Hermione under her wing and told her all the stuff she wished she’d known when she first realised, Clara and Priya were fighting over the music. Only after half an hour with no music playing at all did the two decide on the playlist. Priya had suggested all-girl bands to mark the momentous occasion, and Clara agreed provided they didn’t play any sugababes songs.

 A little while later, a question reared its head that Clara had been thinking about ever since. It was in the middle of a discussion of maybe having a communal wardrobe and how it could never work because everyone was massively different in size. (Hermione was tall and lanky, Priya medium and muscled, Naomi somewhat plump, and Clara obviously miniscule) Very quickly it had deteriorated into the standard conversation topic of making fun of Clara’s height, at which point Clara voted they change the subject.

 Priya was the first to offer a suggestion.

 “So, Clara, now that three of us have come out as lesbians- hang on, you two are gay, right?”

 “Oh, very”

 “I do love me some women”

 “Right, so that’s three out of four of us.” She smiled an evil smile. “So, Clara. When are you planning on coming out?”

 The other two ‘ooooooh’ed in anticipation.

 Clara tried to laugh it off, but when pressed, she apologised: “Sorry girls, still straight.”

 That got her a round of boos and a pillow thrown at her.

 Ever since that conversation, she found herself questioning every interaction she had with a girl. Did she look at that lady’s skirt because she liked the design or the swaying hips beneath it? Did she go to the gym to get fit or to watch sweaty ladies run? Did she get on well with girls out of a sense of female comradery, or was it a desire for something more?

 And at night, did she watch porn for the woman or the man?

 Clara’s sexuality remained a popular running joke among the group. There were a few pools going for when she’d come out and as what and she’d still get thinly veiled jokes directed at her, like whether she wanted to eat in or eat out. Nothing particularly witty, but they all had a good laugh at Clara’s squirminess.

 She remembered another conversation she’d had with Hermione, who was feeling philosophical (and, Clara suspected, high) and was feeling euphoric at the fact that they’d all found each other before knowing they were all gay (Clara wanted to correct her, but there was just no interrupting her when she was like this) She’d heard Priya speak about gaydar before, which might explain it, but, she reasoned, it’s probably something only LGBT people have. Clara wasn’t sure it existed, only having heard it in the context of a joke, but she figured, if she was gay, she’d know it was real, because she’d have it.

 The last year of university passed with only one Earth-shattering revelation, and that was that Naomi and Hermione had started going steady. They’d hidden it from the other girls at first, because they hadn’t been sure of what the relationship was for a long time. And for a while, Clara and Priya were alone in the flat, because there seemed to be a Board Game Society Emergency every other night that Hermione and Naomi had to rush off to.

 They’d only been found out when Clara had opened the front door one day while they were walking up the stairs holding hands. As she recalled, they’d had their nails done in matching colours. There had been a moment of mutual embarrassment and then Clara had (to her shame) screamed really loudly in happiness.

 The couple announced themselves more publicly when Priya was present, and it turned out it had been going on for about two months. It had started as an enthusiastic exchange of ideas about make-up brands and turned into frequent second hand shopping trips together. Naomi had bought Hermione her first bra and Hermione had taught her a few tricks she’d learnt from youtube about how to create cleavage.

 And then there was one night while Clara and Priya were pulling an all-nighter in the library, that Hermione had come home to find Naomi crying on her bed, her back hunched and angular and ripping chunks of hair out of her wig.  Hermione sat down next to her and almost immediately Naomi collapsed into her lap and told her she was experiencing a horrible resurgence of dysphoria. The two stayed up all night talking it out, with Hermione trying her best to distract her with jokes, none of which seemed to land.

 Naomi had dismissed her, tried to push her away. “You’re not helping.” She said. “you don’t understand”. And that was when Hermione changed tactics.  She told her all about how much she’d inspired her, about how she’d probably never have come out at all if it weren’t for Naomi’s example. How she was so so sorry for all the questions before and how all she wanted was to know how to transition as easily and as confidently as she had. How she was so lucky to have so smart and so kind and so beautiful a friend as her and that in a world full of beautiful ladies, that Naomi was the only one to ever capture her heart.

 The night wore on, the sun very nearly peaking over the horizon before the two fell asleep. In the end, Naomi was almost back to her old self and was smiling before she drifted off. The two had awoken the next day to find they’d fallen asleep slumped against each other, hands touching.

 It had been a few years since then, and the gang found themselves drifting apart a little. They graduated together, with Naomi and Priya both managing firsts (Priya in particular liked to laud this over Clara, who only managed a 2:1. Hermione scraped a third.) but before they knew it Naomi had been offered a job that required her to move up North and Hermione had followed her.

 Unable to afford the flat with just the two of them, Priya and Clara set about moving out, dividing up the remaining stuff between them. Priya had insisted that Clara take the rainbow bunting in case she ever needed it. “We need to make it four out of four” she’d said. Clara would have laughed, but the idea of moving out away from her uni family was just too much for her. Before either of them could break down in tears, Priya spotted a book in one of Clara’s boxes and held it up to her.

 101 places to see.

 “You see this, Clara, look. You know how we always talked about travelling the world together, but we never did because we never had the money?”

 Clara nodded.

 “Well, we’re going out into the wider world now. We’re getting jobs and moving and being grown-ups and everything, but the upside of that is that we will be making some serious money.”

 Clara let out a breath that could charitably be described as a laugh.

 “You’ll be nannying full time and I’m going to be a secretary at a publishing firm, but with the money we make from that, we’re going to go round the world, together, you and me. And we’ll get Hermy and Nay in on it too, okay? One year from today. We’ll meet up and go on a holiday, just like old times, okay?”

 Clara managed a smile. “Okay.”

 “And we’ll all still keep in touch. All of us.” She smiled slightly, “And you’re going to message us all the time aren’t you? It’ll be like we never left. You’ll tell me how snotty those kids are, and I’ll keep you updated on all the office gossip and you’ll tell us when you’re finally ready to come out. Because the pool’s still going. If you come out in the next year, I win twenty quid.”

 Clara pushed her away and let out a tear-filled laugh.

 Eleven months went past when tragedy struck and the kids were left parentless, with Clara their legal guardian until a relative could be found. She kept the book close to her bed at all times, with her mother’s leaf in the front and a ticket tucked away as a bookmark in the back.

 Clara couldn’t really bring herself to message the group much in the months that followed. Between the tragedy and her responsibilities, she had little time, and when she did, the conversation always drifted onto the holiday the three of them had shared together. The more left out she felt, the less she got in touch, until it got to the point where they hadn’t spoken in months.

 The marauders had disbanded.

 She still caught the occasional glimpse of them on facebook (when she could get the computer to work) but they only posted about the big events. Priya had gotten promoted and then left a month later for a job as an editor for a company that published children’s books. Naomi and Hermione had started HRT together, with Naomi now working for an advertising agency. She wasn’t sure what Hermione did for a living, but she was apparently doing very well as an amateur basketball player. But anything more intimate than that was a mystery to her.

 Another six months after the tragedy, Clara still found herself in charge of the children with her book gathering dust on her shelf. After she’d put down her Pride and Prejudice, she found herself searching for a long-unopened box in the cupboard- the one marked ‘uni’. She opened it to discover a lot of her belongings she hadn’t touched in at least a year. Some band T shirts she’d torn the bottom half off to show her midriff, a wig she’d worn when Hermione and Naomi had dragged them all to see Rocky Horror, a vibrator Priya had bought her for her 21st and then, at the bottom, underneath the pile of nostalgia, she found the rainbow bunting.

 That was when the doorbell rang.

 Clara hurriedly smushed it all back into its box, looking back over it twice to make sure the vibrator was hidden away before tucking it away.

 She answered the door to find a tall redhead dressed in a French maid outfit.

 Clara’s mouth fell open.

 This woman was beautiful. A vision, even. It was like Clara had been hit by a truck. A really sexy truck. With boobs.

 It was at that point she noticed that with her in slippers and the maid in high heels, Clara’s eyeline was right at breast level. She tried to break away, but it was almost like the boobs were trying to make eye contact.

 “Hello. You’re Clara Oswald, yeah?” she spoke in a sultry Scottish voice that made the necks on the back of Clara’s neck stand upright. Luckily, she didn’t notice where Clara was staring.

 “Yeah, that’s me.” Clara responded uncertainly, turning her eyes to the woman’s perfect face, and her very kissable red lips.

 “Oh thank fuck for that. I’ve been trying to find this place for ages.”

 Something about the way she said “fuck” had made Clara’s legs shiver.

 “Oh, Christ. Sorry. I’m supposed to be working. Duh.”

 Clara’s mind immediately sprung to the image this woman tidying her house, bending over every so often to fluff something with her feather duster, exposing what lay under her very short, very frilly skirt. Suddenly she felt it really rather necessary this woman come inside. It didn’t even occur to Clara that she hadn’t ordered a maid.

 She was about to make the offer and enjoy all the time she could spend watching this goddess in very revealing clothing (and- her insides squealed- fishnet stockings!) when something even better happened.

 She strode in through the doorway until she was breast to face with Clara, then slowly crouched down. Clara could suddenly feel her heart in her chest. Their lips were level. The redhead’s hand moved to Clara’s cheek, then moved inwards, stroking the underside of her chin, until she had a finger and a thumb on either side of Clara’s jaw. Then she pulled Clara in.

 Clara’s eyes bulged open in surprise, then gradually drifted shut as she lost herself in the kiss. The redhead’s lips were so soft and moist, it was like heaven. And then- had she imagined it?- there seemed to be a slither of tongue! Clara’s knees wobbled. The maid’s mouth opened and closed again, carrying on the kiss. Clara was about to moan in sheer delight when-

 The kiss stopped.

 The maid lady straightened up and stepped back to inspect her handiwork. Clara was stood there, unmoving, in complete shock at what happened, with a big red lipstick smear across her face. Clara tried to make a noise To thank her? To get the kissing to continue? To just say anything?

 The redhead smiled in glee- “oh you are adorable!” She tickled Clara’s chin with her feather duster and Clara turned the reddest she’d ever been.

 “Oh!” The redhead shouted. She reached into her cleavage, sending Clara’s heart into overdrive, and produced a note, which she read aloud.

 “You are cordially invited to the wedding of Naomi Wolfe and Hermione Small on the night of the 23rd of November.” And then with a less-official voice. “Aw, that’s nice. Good for them!” She looked at the back of the invitation. “Oh, and there are more details on the back for you.”

 She held out the note to Clara, who stared at it in disbelief.

 “Yeah, sorry about that, I spent a while trying to find this place so it might be a bit sweaty. Occuptaional hazard of being a kissogram, I’m afraid.”

 Clara very tentatively, and with a shaking hand, took the card, her fingers brushing against the maid’s fingernails. The maid looked at her in amusement.

 “First time kissing a girl?” She asked, coyly.

 Clara nodded, dumbstruck.

 The maid leaned down until she was face to face with Clara again. She could feel the redhead’s breath on her lips. “Then you’ve got a lot of fun ahead of you.”

 And before she could ask her name, the maid had gone. She’d just walked out of the drive and out of Clara’s life before she could convince her to stay forever.

 Clara’s heart was still beating monumentally fast, and before she knew what she was doing, she was rifling through the box again and found the vibrator, which- yes!- still had working batteries in it. She ran upstairs, vibrator in one hand, sweaty invitation in the other, and practically jumped onto the bed. She felt her breath shiver out of her as she snuck an exploratory hand down her skirt and flicked the switch on her little toy…

 Five orgasms later, she sat herself up, dripping in sweat (among other things) and tried to process the events of the day. Then, once her mind was back on track and her breathing was normal, she pulled out her laptop, which, amazingly worked first time.

 She called up Facebook, clicked the messages icon and scrolled down until she found a very old group chat. Into it, she typed…

 “Who had April 4th, 2012?”

 She looked at the date and smiled.

 4/4.

[claraoswaldfics]

“Clara, come back to bed, won’t you?”

 Clara looked down at their twin bed, the Lady Me lying there and, typically, hogging all the covers.

 “Look, I’ll be back before you know it.”

 “Claaaraaaa.” Me complained.

 “Oh shush, you,“ Clara teased. “You’ll be asleep again in a minute anyway. You always are.”

 “I will not.” Me replied, but clearly she was already falling deep into the arms of sleep.

 “Yes you will. I know you, remember?” she winked. “inside and out.”

 “mmm” smiled Me, her eyelids finally collapsing under their own weight as she slipped into a very contented sleep.

 “Lightweight” Clara laughed. She walked over to her lover’s bedside and planted a kiss on her forehead. Whether she felt it or not, Clara couldn’t tell, but Me’s smile widened just a little as she bunched the blankets closer around her.

 Lady Me was very fond of telling Clara how practising for hundreds of thousands of hours made her “the best there’s ever been”, and that was certainly true of sleeping. Granted, time had no meaning aboard a TARDIS, but in Earth terms, Clara was pretty confident she must sleep until four in the afternoon pretty regularly. That was fine for Clara, though, because she’d only get up an hour or two earlier, and it was a great opportunity to exaggerate how much stuff she’d got done in the morning and just how sleepy Me was.

 That also meant she got to use the TARDIS kitchen to make her breakfast every mor- afternoon. It was a source of pride for Clara that she was more accomplished at cooking breakfast than miss ‘hundred thousand hours’. She put this down to the fact that Me had insisted on people cooking her meals all the time she’d been in the gentry (she got deposed of the title after a while, but Clara still called her ‘Lady’- for personal reasons.) The other reason, of course, was that Lady Me missed the prime ‘baked bean’ years- they fell out of popularity somewhere around the twenty-third century, apparently- and never really experienced them until Clara came along.

 Suddenly, Clara felt herself blinking quite rapidly as she’d remembered another thing Me had become a world-beater in. She wasn’t sure what had made her think of it- maybe the mental image of Me eating a bean- but it was then that Clara’s body reminded her quite how good a woman with a hundred thousand hours of lovemaking under her belt could make her feel. And that was pretty good indeed.

 Clara had never asked quite how many partners Me had had, but she assumed it must be quite a lot more than her own. They numbered only five, Me included, but she always liked to encourage the odd rumour. The idea that there were a thousand slightly different perceptions of her running around out here quite appealed to her, and the fact that some of those were sexual enigmas only added to the mystique. Me, however, must have had a few by virtue of her longevity. Clara didn’t mind at all- after all, she was the one who reaped the benefits (sometimes several times a night).

 The only problem was that no matter how fantastic Me was in the sack –and, Clara wiped some sweat from her forehead, she was fantastic- there would always be times, rare times, where Me just couldn’t match her sex drive. And this was one of those times.

 She wasn’t sure quite what it was, maybe it was the need to feel in control, or maybe she wanted to feel better than Me at something other than baked beans, but sometimes there was just that bit of her itching for a little bit more. She liked knowing who she was in her entirety when no-one else could say the same. She liked the control that gave her. Not even Me knew her fully. Sure, they’d been girlfriends for somewhere between a few months and a year (how do you measure time in a time machine? Sleeps? Adventures? Near-death experiences?) but every once in a while, Clara fed her the occasional half-truth; when Me was being a little too smug, when the truth was a little too embarrassing, when she felt insecure or needed to feel important. They were never big lies, but Clara could sometimes tell that Me knew and just went along with it.

 There was only one person in the universe that truly knew Clara Oswin Oswalds. Herself.

 She found herself inside her Tardis’ wardrobe, which wasn’t so much ‘walk-in’ as ‘be-engulfed-by’. Racks upon racks of clothes filled the room, (and, Clara knew, the two equally massive rooms accessible by staircase directly above it) with styles from every era of human and time lord history. And better than that, they came in every size. She figured it must be because time lords could regenerate as any size or gender. What she hadn’t expected was quite how risqué some of the outfits she’d found would be. Clearly the time lords weren’t all the asexual bookworms the Doctor had described.  She shivered as an unwelcome thought entered her head. Did the Doctor have this stuff in his Tardis? Did he use it? Did he even have the equipment? You know what, she thought, let’s never find out.

 At one end of the room was a massive vanity table, its mirror surrounded by glowing Gallifreyan hieroglyphs. She made her way there, only stopping every few racks to pick out a particular item of clothing. After five minutes or so of walking, she stood in front of the vanity and started pressing dresses against herself. The first one she tried she knew Me liked, but she’d never been a fan of herself. The second, a short red number with a belt, she adored, but she forgot that Me adored it too, a little too much in fact; the dress was torn in several places. She shrugged as she put it aside. It had been worth it.

 The third, fourth and fifth were alright. The sixth, a little black dress, earned a small nod, but for some reason, she decided against it. It wasn’t quite what she wanted.

 She wandered back to the nearest dress rack, searching for hidden gold. Nothing. Dress after dress after dress, each getting pushed aside. Nothing quite felt right. And then, before she knew it, she had exhausted the dress rack. And absent-mindedly, her hand started on the next rack.

 The suit rack.

 Something registered its approval from down below, and Clara snatched at the nearest suit in her size. Black, elegant, with meticulously shined shoes and a tie. And tailored almost exactly to her proportions. She knew there was a changing room, but since she and Me were the only ones to ever use the wardrobe, she never bothered with it. And so she started stripping off.

 Her top button done up and her tie knotted, she turned back to the vanity mirror.

 Oh yes, she thought, you’ll do.

 And with that she set off to the console room, a destination firmly set in her mind.

****

The year 2013

 Clara felt antsy. She’d just returned home after another Wednesday on another world with the Doctor. It was all the usual stuff. Lots of aliens, lots of danger, lots of flailing and bow tie fiddling. It had left her full of adrenaline and so far nothing she could think of was getting rid of it.  

  The Doctor had given her a book once- a time lord book of futuristic thermodynamics- because she’d politely feigned interest. In fact, he’d given her a lot of books. She thought he was trying to make space for a pinball machine. But the book rested on her bedside table, untouched and unused, (except as a drinks coaster) and Clara wondered if this was maybe the time to pick it up and bore all the adrenaline out of her system.

 And then Clara remembered what she kept in the drawer beneath it. She blushed a little. Sure it would use up all that adrenaline and send her off to bed satisfied, but the last time she used it, she’d woken up one of her infant wards, who thought there was something going wrong with the pipes. That had been disappointing. But she hadn’t used it since.

 She pulled open the drawer a little too excitedly and decluttered all the bric-a-brac she’d hidden it under and then removing the long, sleek object from its box. She blushed, her hands shaking a bit. And in all the excitement she didn’t hear the sudden rush of wind or the mechanical groaning from outside her front door.

 Clara tried to steady her breathing, grasping the device in her left hand. She slumped back onto her bed and blew her sweaty fringe out of her face. With her right hand she slipped under the waistline of her pyjama trousers and with the other she thumbed the switch on the base.

 Nothing.

 She tried again. Still nothing. Not so much as a shiver.

 The batteries must have gone. She cursed herself and wondered for a second if it was worth getting up at all or if she could just finish the job manually. There was a little throb down below, telling her to hurry up, but she knew she just couldn’t do it as well without a little help from her battery powered friend.

 She checked her clock. It used the wrong kind. She checked her computer mouse. That’s where she’d stolen them from last time. Maybe, she thought, if I steal some from the remote control downstairs?

  With a sense of urgency, she ran to her bedroom door and flung it open.

 In front of her stood a beautiful woman, exquisitely suited up, her eyelids sultry and made up, and her lips- her glistening blood-red lips- were caught in a smirk.

 “Who are you?” Clara managed.

 “I’m you from the future” she replied. “And I’m about to give you the best sex of your life.”

 Younger Clara felt her ovaries twang. Blood rushed to her cheeks. Future Clara’s smirk got that little bit wider. This was clearly before she’d perfected her poker face. It was adorable, and at the same time, very sexy.

 But younger Clara started stammering- “You can’t be me.”

 “I can too. Time travel, remember?” Future Clara took a few steps closer. Past Clara took a step back, raising the device defensively. The new Clara winked. “Oh, that old thing. If I recall correctly, you won’t be needing that ever again after tonight.”

 “You could be an alien. A shapeshifter or something.” Clara realised what she was defending herself with, but figured it was too late to back down.

 “Ah, clever Clara.” Another step forward. “Clever me. But I can prove it.”

 “H-how?”

 “Because I know you Clara Oswalds, I know you because I am you.” A pause. “And I know what you like…”  

The tension was palpable.

 “I know the way you act defensive when you’re smitten. I know the way you lean in and to the left when you want someone to kiss you. I know the way you look at girls and thank God that He made your head at breast height.”

 Younger Clara felt her chest heaving, wondering if it was far or something else. All the while, the other Clara moved slowly but surely towards her. And in that time, she never let up.

 “I know the tingle in your arm when I wrap my hand around your elbow and slide my thumb across the fold of your arm. I know the way your knees quiver when I whisper in your ear. I know the way that your head floods with hormones when my leg brushes yours.”

 Clara was whimpering now, and the other Clara was directly in front of her, the two almost touching. And then future Clara snaked a hand behind her head, running her fingers through her younger self’s hair and firmly holding the back of her skull.

 “I know you want to take my tie off and pull me into your lips with it. I know you want me to run my fingers down your neck and claw at your back. I know you want to take my shirt off one button at a time and I know you won’t even get to the fourth button before you lose patience and tear it off me.”

 The two were chest to chest now. Younger Clara’s heartbeat pulsed through her skin and older Clara felt it. She wrapped her other hand around her back. The vibrator fell to the ground, unmourned.

 “I know you want me to start underneath your breast and spiral my tongue around slowly until I reach the nipple. I know you want my fingers to play with your waistband until I venture further south. And I know you’re wishing you’d shaved more recently, but I also know the way it bristles against you and you know you’re going to regret it if you don’t shove my face down there as. Soon. As. Possible.”

 Clara couldn’t bear it any longer. The other her was drawing it out and she just couldn’t wait. She pressed her face into hers and her hands turned into claws against her lover’s back. She felt her opposite respond with vigour so instantly she wasn’t sure who’d made the first move.

 And in the minutes that followed, lust completely overtook them. For a while they didn’t think, only acted, grabbing like the other was oxygen, holding like the other was life. The bed creaked a little as they both slammed down onto it with enough velocity to rebound against the wall. Then clothes started flying off in various states of disrepair. The jacket- gone. The shoes- discarded. The tie was gone from Clara’s neck but still firmly clenched in her fist for leverage. Then her shirt came off as predicted. Buttons flew everywhere. Young Clara’s pyjama top was flung away to reveal her bare chest where future Clara’s stayed concealed behind a layer of ebony lace- her teddy.

 There was a pause for breath. Both were panting, staring intently, lustfully, at the other. And then they began again.

 More grabbing, more caressing, more clawing, more pressing, more biting, more gasping, more moaning, more grunting. But fewer clothes. Off came the suit trousers, with young Clara playing with the flies just long enough to slip a hand in and caress the silken layer underneath with her finger. Out came the breasts as Clara pulled them from their cups and off came the pyjama trousers, at last, exposing Clara’s entire, naked frame. Small, but dripping with sweat, Clara looked at her bed-mate, a sensual woman clad in lingerie that left little to the imagination and stockings that set her passions ablaze. She looked at her with a face that said; ‘fight me or fuck me’.

 That was when the other Clara pounced, pinning the younger woman to the bed and gnashing at her neck. Clara hummed in pleasure, knowing that if she opened her lips for a second, she’d let out a wail that would wake the whole street.

 The older woman’s fingers dug in around her wrists as the Clara on top pulled herself up until their faces were level. A shark-like grin spread across her face, but her hips still strived and wrestled against her lover’s.

 She leaned in close to her underling’s ear and whispered “I’ve just remembered” she paused for a quick nip at her earlobe, “what I do next…”

 Her grip lessened and she moved her hands down Clara’s body, nails scraping against her curves. Young Clara could sense what her counterpart was doing, moving her head slowly down her body, nipping away in preparation for the coming event, and though Clara longed to ravish her lover, she found all her energy was turning into anticipation.

 She froze as a finger teased her lower lips and squirmed as another finger moved in to part them. The other Clara’s tongue was almost there with them, but it was leaving a trail down her stomach first. She mmmmmm’d until the moment of impact and then… oh!

 It had started slow and delicate but more and more Clara needed it faster and harder and faster and harder. She grabbed the other Clara’s head and pressed it in as far as she could. She wrapped her thighs around the other Clara’s head, all of her body egging her pleasurer on and on and on and…

 And then the first orgasm struck. Clara bit her lip and moaned in pleasure. But the woman between her thighs didn’t stop for a second. And soon another orgasm rocked her. Bigger this time, throughout her whole body. Clara must have felt the shivering of her thighs, because she kept going and going and going. Clara hit number three. And number four. Number five arrived hot on its heels and the two mingled. The young Clara couldn’t tell what she was doing, the pleasure was so great, but many sounds of satisfaction spilled out.

 With number six, she blacked out.

*****

 She came to, drenched in two types of moisture and panting like a dog on a hot day. Her body was still tingling with afterglow.

 An unknown amount of time later, she looked over at her companion, who was grinning mischievously.

 “wow” was all she could say.

 “wow indeed.”

 “that was amazing.”

 “I could tell. you weren’t exactly hiding it.”

 “I mean... wow.”

 “I remember having more of a vocabulary than that” Clara goaded.

 “I know. I do, it’s just, you know, it’s really nice to know you’re good in bed and I think this is probably the best way to ever find out.”

 “yeah. Time travelling twosome. I can totally recommend it.”

 The older Clara paused a second as if contemplating how many Claras one could conceivably have in one place at one time.

 “I mean this won’t cause a paradox or anything, will it?”

 “Nah. I mean for one thing, I remember you- me- doing this to me- you- from a long time ago, so it probably would have been more of a paradox if I hadn’t. It’s entirely possible that your climax is a fixed point in space and time.”  

“Wow. That makes me feel really important.”

 “You are important. You have no idea how important you’re going to turn out to be.”

 “Can I ask about the future? I know the Doctor has rules about that sort of thing.”

 “Pft. Rules. I don’t remember being such a nerd when I was younger.”

 “So what happens?”

 “Brief overview, then. And this isn’t really in order, either. But there’s a lot of running and a lot of danger and a lot of stuff about soufflés for some reason. But it’s all worth it. Then it turns out that there are actually a lot of Doctors, and a lot of Me’s, actually.”

 The older Clara paused a second as if contemplating how many Claras one could conceivably have in one place at one time.

 “And what about you? Are you with someone?”

 “Long story that. Lots of good times. Lots of heartbreak. There was a guy for a while. And then you had a bit of a fling with a celebrity- I won’t tell you which one- and now I’m with this pretty amazing lady and I don’t know. I think she might be the one.”  

“And she doesn’t mind about us?”

 “Why would she? This is just masturbation really. Hell, she’d probably want to join us.”

 Young Clara blushed and future Clara laughed.

 “Look at you! Aw, I forgot I was that sweet. And don’t worry. You get better at the whole me-time thing. Just remember” she took her younger self’s hand. “your hands are my hands, and you know what my hands can do.”  

“well, yeah, and, uh, well done on that, by the way.”

 “Thanks. I learned from the best.” Her smile widened. “speaking of which, do you think you remember all of that?”

 “Well, if me from the future remembers it all, then I must do.”

 “Excellent.” She said, repositioning herself towards her younger self, her lingeried legs parting, “because now you’re going to do the same to me.”