A/N: This was supposed to be a prompt fill about the power going out on Twelve and Clara while they were watching television. The natural progression of things turned it into PWP and I'm not sorry.
Riding Out the Storm
"Thank goodness the DVD is still alive," Clara sighed loudly as she popped a disc into the side of her television. Thunder rumbled lowly in the distance, reminding her as to why she still kept her DVD collection around (not to mention added to it on occasion) despite living in the Age of Netflix. Work had exhausted her that day, which meant that for this particular Wednesday evening, she kept the Doctor grounded with takeaway and the desire to continue whittling down her queue to something more bearable to scroll through. After realizing the terrible weather had seemingly parked itself over her flat block, she had finally given up on her testy, rain-soaked internet and plucked a DVD off her shelf, waiting for the Doctor to start complaining.
"You know I can make it so that you never have internet problems again, even in this weather," he mentioned. Ha, spoke in near-record time too. "A couple sparks and a bit of wet shouldn't make it go in and out like that—it's not your fault that you're still in a primitive age when it comes to the internet and streaming technology…"
"Shut up," she ordered. He did so, keeping busy by arranging the containers of dumplings and spring rolls on the coffee table until she sat down next to him again. Curled up against the Doctor's side, Clara began to navigate the DVD menu—Pride and Prejudice—making sure the subtitles didn't automatically pop on like some of the discs in her collection did. "One word out of you during the movie and I'm putting in a musical."
"You wouldn't dare."
"I have Wizard of Oz, My Fair Lady, and an entire box set of Sinatra films; try me."
Instead of protesting, the Doctor reached for a container of dumplings and stuffed a particularly large one into his gob. There was no index card for this one… that much he knew thanks to the Mansfield Park Debacle from the month prior, and made certain that his mouth remained full while she set everything up.
Besides, the index cards were for dealing with pudding brains, not an evening in with Clara.
The pair sat silently on the couch, cuddled together as they ate. The opening credits had barely rolled when there was a crack of thunder, causing first a brownout, then a blackout twenty seconds later.
"Perfect," Clara groaned, her voice doused in sarcasm. She thumped her head on the Doctor's shoulder and exhaled in irritation. "Now there's nothing to watch."
"We could go into the TARDIS."
"No, we're staying here," she insisted. She took a spring roll and stubbornly began to munch on it. "We were going to have a night in, so we are having a night in."
"It would still be that, just a night in the TARDIS."
"No—no distractions. I enjoy wandering around in there as much as you do, but she provides way too many distractions when the goal is to sit still. We're staying here."
"Suit yourself," he shrugged. He thought for a second before opening his mouth again. "How about wiring up the television to the TARDIS interface? We can turn the power and internet back on that way."
"Again: no." Clara stood and walked over to a cupboard, where she produced a battery-powered lantern that she turned on before putting on the table. It lit the room well enough, still causing odd shadows thanks to the unusual spot it was in. "Let's finish eating before the food gets cold. You can handle that, yeah?"
Taking that as his cue, the Doctor stuffed more food in his mouth, as he knew it was the safest option. The storm outside grew in intensity as they continued their dinner, becoming more and more ominous with each passing minute. By the time they were done and everything cleaned up, it was clear as to why the power went out—it was a fairly intense system that was passing over them.
"I haven't seen a storm like this in a long time," Clara noted. She was in the kitchen now, putting their utensils in the sink for later while he stood by the doorway with the lantern in-hand. Staring out the window, she quietly observed the wind and rain battering down against the rest of the city. "Strange things, storms."
"How so?" the Doctor asked.
"They're so beautiful to watch, while still terrifying. You're watching and you know that there's going to be plenty of damage done by the time its gone, but that doesn't matter, because it's so thrilling you cannot look away until the very last moment."
Lightning splintered the outside sky, illuminating the kitchen brighter than the lantern could ever hope. The Doctor watched Clara as she took in the force of nature and a warmth ignited low in his gut. He placed the lantern down on the counter and stood behind her, wrapping his arms around her body and resting his chin atop her head.
"I'm not sure I like storms," he admitted. "They are loud and self-important, destroying everything in their paths."
"Not everything."
"Most things. Beautiful things."
"Only the things that need destroying, whether we think that's what needs to happen or not." She leaned backwards slightly, pressing her shoulders into his chest, and exhaled contently. "How long do you think until the power comes back on?"
"I'm a poor touch-telepath, not omnisciently clairvoyant."
"Are we getting humble in our old age?"
"I'm not old—we look the same age, give or take."
"You're daft."
"Clara…"
She turned around within his grasp and hushed him, placing a finger to his lips. After letting it trail down his chin, throat, to the zipper of his sweatshirt, she gazed up at him, a silent order to shut up and do as he was told.
For her, of course he would.
Taking the Doctor's hand in hers, Clara slowly led him through her flat, pausing just long enough for him to grab the lantern. They went into her room and shut the door to spare the TARDIS from their antics. She made him sit on the unmade bed as she opened the drapes, allowing the storm's full fury to preside over them.
"Shouldn't that be closed?" he asked as she straddled his lap. She took the lantern from him and turned it off before placing it on the floor.
"The closest building with a view capable of seeing into a flat this high up, at this angle, is well over three miles away and working against the weather," she explained. "I liked his block for a reason, you know."
"Oh, I know," he replied. His voice dropped into a raspy whisper as she began to push his coat off. "Do you want me to—" He was cut off as she pressed her lips against his, silencing him as she removed the garment and tossed it towards her chair. It just barely made it, falling haphazardly against the armrest.
"No," she answered. Grabbing hold of him through his trousers, she leaned in and kissed his throat as she teased him, feeling him harden despite the layers of fabric between them.
"Why not?"
"…because the storm can't tame itself."
She worked slowly after that, taking care of his upper layers one by one. His sweatshirt first, then his t-shirt, then undershirt, revealing his pale, lean frame, drinking in what he hid from the world. Not wanting to be too selfish, she languidly peeled off her jumper and took time unbuttoning her blouse, taking satisfaction in watching him sweat as he watched her. She allowed him to undo the clasps on the front of her bra, exposing her breasts to the air. His hands went beneath them first, towards the fiery-hot skin that sat there, before easing up to cup them tenderly.
Now it was the Doctor's turn to work at snail's pace, kissing Clara as he slowly teased her nipples with his thumbs. He felt her begin to writhe in his grasp and her breathing quicken; at least he knew he was able to do this job well.
Thunder rumbled and she broke the kiss, too out of breath to continue as they were. She pushed his torso towards the mattress and stood, gazing down at her prey before continuing, working on his belt and trousers. Soon they were off—as were his pants and socks—and lightning showed her the body before her, ready and willing to do as she wished. She took off her own trousers, tights, knickers, and knew that there was little more they needed to do. Sitting down next to him on the bed, she leaned down and kissed his lips while fondling his lower bits, smirking as he squirmed at her touch.
"Clara, please," he begged into her mouth, "the storm will not last forever."
"It will come again."
"Not if you keep this up."
"Silly."
She shifted so that she straddled his lap again, her warm inner thighs against his hips. Taking him in-hand, she eased his erection into her, delighting in the long moan he couldn't contain as she did so. His eyes shut and his head went back as his back arched—he had been waiting for this for longer than that night and it showed. She swayed her hips, the satisfying feeling of his cock's pulse inside of her urging her on. He bucked against her to feel more friction and she playfully pinched the skin just above his hipbone.
The storm only believes it is the one in control; it is humanity's job to keep its damage in check. As the gales become stronger, the rains fiercer, the damage greater, mankind develops better ways to survive and figures out how to rebuild less. There is always loss, always a mess to clear, always damage that has been done, and yet life continues—stubbornly, bravely, cleverly—and life learns.
Clara sat still, watching the Doctor's brow furrow in concentration. He had to of been dedicating at least five layers of thought into their actions, which was a funnier sight than she was ever going to admit. She adjusted herself slightly and he was gone, grunting and gasping at his early performance. Leaves hit the window as the wind continued on, only increasing in ferocity.
Nearly a minute passed and he sat up again, a wild look in his grey-blue eyes as he came in and kissed her. One hand on her hip and the other on her shoulder blade, he eased her back until he could bend over and kiss her breasts, lavishing each one as she let out satisfied, approving moans. The moment he felt himself harden once more he brought her up again, looking her directly in the eyes.
"There is nothing I will not do for you," he solemnly confessed. She let her breathing even out, pressing their foreheads together as they held one another close.
"I know."
She pushed him back down, holding his shoulders in place as she began to shag him in earnest. Every sway, every thrust, every grind she did he mirrored in an attempt to match her. He grabbed at her breasts and kneaded and caressed them as she refused to let up, determined to get another full go out of him. The storm outside began to fall on deaf ears, as the only things either could hear were their gasping breaths and the blood pounding in their ears.
Just as the Doctor came a second time, however, Clara found herself orgasming as well. Every synapse and muscle in her body was alive and crying out in joy, making her head swim as she came down from the rush. She felt the Time Lord beneath her shift and sit up, taking her in his arms as he whispered things in his native tongue and pressed small kisses against her skin. He was careful to remain in her as he laid them both down, only sliding himself out when she was safely nestled in the bedding. It was now his turn to wash the sheets, he supposed, as his genetic byproduct was everywhere—it was all over his hips and legs, as well as spilling out of her. The previous time this had happened, that was what she had him do, and he would be damned if he wrote out an index card for this.
"Mmm… Doctor…?"
"Yes, Clara?" He laid on his side and propped his head up while brushing the hair from her face.
"Isn't that better than going in the TARDIS?"
"She'd be scolding us right now if we had done this," he said. "At least we can say this time that we didn't even make her listen."
"Another perk of the storm, hiding out naughtiness."
"Then you admit you're naughty?"
"So naughty that Santa killed a man to keep us together," she murmured. She rolled onto her side and snugged herself up against him, not caring about either of them being sweaty and sticky and overheated from sex. "There is nothing I will not do for you."
"I know."
Nestling his head on the pillow, the Doctor adjusted himself so that he was on his back and Clara against his side. The storm had given way to only rain, the sound of it beating and sluicing down the window pane soon joined by her soft snores. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to do equations, plan their next outing, relaxing as he felt their hearts sync, the three organs beating in harmony. Despite the atmosphere, there was still one very pressing thing nagging him, down at the lower layers of his thought processes where he shoved his darkest, most dismal thoughts.
Part of him knew that eventually there would be a storm to weather without Clara's hand to hold, and the very notion terrified him. He held her a bit tighter and kissed the top of her head—at least he knew that she would dream well that night, for that was what mattered.