A/N: Short fic written for the Whouffaldi First Kiss Challenge by antennapedia on Tumblr. Enjoy the fic and please let me know what you think of it :)
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The first time the Doctor kisses Clara, he doesn't kiss her. Clara kisses him.
They've done it, they've eloped, ran in the snow hand in hand like children. They're inside his TARDIS and the time machine is drifting in the Time Vortex and Clara Oswald is stepping towards him looking like someone who knows every single little thing that's going on in his head. Funny, that. He thought he was the mind reader.
She's smiling a puzzling smile, as though knowing something he doesn't. Her eyes are doing that thing, that thing when they widen and darken and get a little brighter, that thing that means she's decided to act on something and she's never ever going to change her mind. That look always takes his breath away, because that look is always followed by something extraordinary, brilliant, a tiny bit impossible. Something like Clara herself, and he likes Clara. Truly. Adores her, actually. He's not sure how to put it in words. She's everything he has and everything he doesn't have at the same time. She's everything.
She's regarding him from below, her chin lifted showing her throat and his chin dipped against his chest so that their eyes can meet. Her smile widens and melts into a giggle. He doesn't know what's so amusing, and he would like her to share. She really seems to know everything today.
She shakes her head lightly, stands on her tiptoes and cups his cheek with her palm. He stills, his brain short-circuits and he knows something amazing is about to happen. What, exactly, he hasn't the foggiest.
She tilts her head to the side. He blinks repeatedly in confusion. Their faces are close, so close. They've never been this close. For some reason, it makes him feel all warm inside.
She closes the gap between them, kisses him. Presses her lips on his firmly but gently, as though requesting something. Electric sparks fly down in his spine. Her lips are full, and soft like rose petals. They're so hot on his cool ones he thinks he might get burned. He realizes he's not breathing at all. Not that he strictly needs to.
She's moving her hands, one up in his hair in a caress and the other at the back of his neck holding him to her. He feels like he's burning, like he's being lit up. Not literally, just… inside. Beneath every inch of his skin and deeper too, in his muscles going rigid and in his nerves set aflame. This he remembers being the expected reaction to this sort of situation. He wishes she'd given him a written notice a couple of decades in advance before doing this, so maybe he would have had time to remember what he's supposed to do. He will have to improvise: good thing he's used to it.
He bends down, because their height difference just won't do. He cups her face with both hands to keep her close, because he never wants this to end. He smiles against her lips, because Clara Oswald is kissing him and yes, it's amazing and extraordinary and brilliant and something he'd never thought possible, and it's making his head spin. He's quite sure heads aren't supposed to do that.
He opens his mouth to her, because she seems to want him to, parting her lips and breathing hotly on his, pulling at his lower lip with her teeth. He lets her inside him, because it's the easiest act possible for him and because being reunited with a piece of yourself that had gone missing it's most beautiful thing in existence. Because that's what Clara is to him: half of his very soul -if such a thing exists-.
Their tongues play, caress each other, and he's still not breathing and still feeling hot inside, except what was a mere flicker is now a raging fire. He wraps his arms around her, because it feels good, because he needs to keep her here and close and safe, because his instinct has kicked in and he's kissing her passionately, with all the feeling he's fought and denied and pushed down for months. Who knew he even had an instinct anymore. His body seems to know, because when Clara moans and gasps into their kiss it shudders violently without licence or permission.
He's ended up trapped between her round warm body and the harsh cold lines of the control panel, and what a feel that is. He shivers and inhales sharply, as Clara tries to catch her breath, breathing erratically and hard just against his lips. His hands fall back, leaving her body and landing on the panel for support. He's shaking and his knees are weak. He wonders if this isn't just another dream, but he rapidly discards that thought. No dream could feel like this, could take his breath away like this, erase every thought, every image, every perception in his head that isn't related to Clara Oswald. She looks stunning, her cheeks flushed and her lips swollen. She looks more beautiful than ever, eyes so wide they'll swallow her face and both his hearts, which are hammering against his ribcage with the force of two spark-ignition engines and will probably leap out of his chest any second now.
"Clara… I…"
He's not sure of what he wants to say. There's a concept in his mind, of need and want and loyalty and protectiveness, of affection and admiration and adoration and worshipful, blind faith that no three-word sentence can hope to encapsulate, that no essay or novel or poem can expect to explain. His mouth opens, then closes.
"I know. I know it all," Clara says in reply to his silence. "Deep down, I've always known."
Her eyes are bright with tears. He can't allow that. He feels the overwhelming urge to kiss those tears away. She knows. She's always known. That's good. That's brilliant. Perfect, stellar. It's a relief. He thinks he's about to cry too, but with joy. Maybe Clara's tears are of joy too. Maybe she feels it all too, this living, burning sun of feeling inside his chest that's devastation and salvation at the same time. He's about to ask, but Clara silences him with her lips. The way she kisses him is all the answer he needs.