The Doctor and Clara were no strangers to each other's bodies. Ten times, he had counted, ten sexual acts, all random, unconnected and plainly the most enjoyable things they had ever done together. It was clear that it was always desired and there was sexual tension in the TARDIS that you could cut with a knife, even if neither party mentioned the acts afterwards, but they never forgot them. Oh, the feel of her beneath him, her legs around his waist, or the feel of him pushing her to the ground and ridding her of her shorts, his warm breath between her legs …

Nine out of the ten times he counted, were full on fucking and one was oral, him to her. And aside from the sex their shared, one off kisses, the total met nineteen. Not forgetting that one time two minute makeout session. And the eye fucking, of course we mustn't forget the eye fucking.

The Doctor always seemed to be the fully and fancily dressed type, always neat, tidy and professional, but that was not always the case in the TARDIS. Often he would walk around the interior in pyjamas or a robe, and Clara would do the same. They were just used to each other. It was like two best friends sharing a house. Well, a big … timey wimey … spacey house. And there was no denying it, The Doctor may not have been human, but he was a man.

Like all men, The Doctor had urges in the night. And the morning. And the afternoon. Just … urges. Though he did hide them and he didn't always have then satisfied and often had to do the task by hand: thank god the TARDIS always locked his door. But he was getting tired of his professional manner that was a constant.

It was almost a ritual that at nights – or what nights could be in the TARDIS – that about an hour before retiring to bed the two would visit each other in their rooms and it was almost definite that they would share a bed each and every night. Both had been through so much and it helped to hold each other while they slept, a silent cry out, being with each other to keep the night terrors away.

It was during one of his visits to her room, late at night, ten-ish they thought, that he decided to drop the professional manner and just act like all men.

The Doctor was reading to Clara from the book she was reading, as she was busy, talking to friends online on her phone. She was reading The Casual Vacancy and so he was reading it to her – he didn't even hesitate to swear and say all of the sexual things the characters were saying, though he could at least make an effort and do the accents. But suddenly he closed the book and she looked up at him, frowning. His next words surprized her, though she did not show it.

'I want to have sex tonight, Clara.'

Clara raised her eyebrows. 'Okay then?' she said in question and he spoke no more, but she stayed sitting between his legs, leaning back against his chest.

From that angle he had a good view down her tight top, and she wasn't wearing pants. Just a plain, tight vest top over her underwear. His warm, bare chest warmed up her cold back and his silky pyjama bottoms were soft against the skin of her legs. Finally she put her phone down and rolled onto her front, looking up at him through her lashes.

Clara had recently read a book – a book that was a mere spin off to a much longer and larger series, but the book was about a young girl who was a high class escort and from that she had learned a few tricks. The tone of voice she must use (the book had been made into a television series) and the faces she must make.

'What would you like to do?' she whispered, almost whispered, and she saw his eyebrows raise. Surely, he had not been expecting that, he'd been expecting her to laugh or exclaim in shop.

The Doctor cleared his throat and didn't move, but he felt a fluttering in his stomach at her voice and expression. He felt a tingling between his thighs and hoped she couldn't feel that things weren't as soft as they used to be.

What exactly did he want? He was randy, they hadn't done it in about a month and he hadn't wanked in about three days, but what did he want? There was one thing he hadn't done in over a hundred years, probably, and had never done with Clara. Trying to keep his tone light and casual and feeling a bit strange for saying it, he put on an expression of indifference.

'Well, I wouldn't say no to a blow job.'

Internally he cringed at his out of character words, but on the outside his face remained solid. Clara smirked at him and then she was gone.

At first he thought she had slid out of bed and onto the floor, but then he felt her hands sliding down his silk covered thighs, and suddenly they were at the waistband of his pyjama bottoms and her mouth at his navel, kissing down over his V lines as her clever hands slid down his bottoms; he wasn't wearing underwear. Invisible to him, she kissed each hip bone once before surprizing him with the swiftness at which she took him into her mouth.

Small, sassy and adorably cute, but she could be so darn sexual. He didn't see her once while she was going, but he felt her all the time and he felt his nails digging into her sheets and his head against the wall, trying not to make a sound as she kept going and going and going until he came, and she didn't let a drop escape her.

What's the difference between a dove and a swallow? One's the bird of peace, the other of true love, if you know what I'm saying.

And then she was up again, straddling him, and he could feel her heat through her thin knickers over his groin. She was as turned on as he was, and he was already growing hard again.

Then he pressed forward and he kissed her roughly and his hands were on her sides. She pushed him back against the head of her bed and kissed him back hungrily as his hands roamed up her sides under her top, pushing it up somewhat, and he undid her bra.

It escalated quickly. They were both fully unclothed and he had flipped her beneath him, then he was in there and it felt so good. And they had never used a condom or any other form of contraception, these random bouts of fucking were never planned.

There were no sounds other than Clara's pleasured whimpers and moans and high pitched callings of his name, his true name, which she had known since Tranzalore, and The Doctor's almost animal yells and shouts as they went faster and faster, him pounding in from behind now, having flipped them onto their sides, facing one wall.

And then they came together with the loudest cries and groans yet and then collapsed side by side, the blankets barely covering their legs as their sweat covered chests rose up and down in the darkness.

And then sleep came, to both of them, one at a time, and when Clara awoke in the morning The Doctor was gone and her discarded top and underwear folded at the end of her bed. They never spoke of what they did, both were often ashamed of embarrassed by the wild, loud, filthy love they made together, but neither one ever forgot it.

Eleven times, The Doctor thought to himself as he crept from her room in the early hours of the morning. And I still haven't told her how much I love her.