A/N: I wanted to write first-time fic, so I wrote psychic-link first-time fic.

A Rule to Be Broken

They had eloped—there was no other way to put it. He had held out his hand and beckoned her to come with him, brows pleading and hearts racing. She put her hand in his and kissed him on the cheek, accepting his proposal, and they scurried from her room to the TARDIS. No packing a bag, no phoning relatives, no nothing. They eloped.

So it really shouldn't have been such a surprise when the TARDIS door shut and they were being flung into the time vortex for Clara to have pulled the Doctor down by the face and kiss him full on the mouth.

Except it was; it really, truly was. In an instant the Doctor was using the console as support as his knees buckled and he lost control of himself. He tried to keep his wits about him, but as Clara's tongue explored his mouth and her hands found their way into his hair and on his lower back he caved. A total loss of all other senses—if it had nothing to do with Clara, it did not matter. His skin tingled at her touch and citrus-scented body wash filled his nose. She'd had tea and chocolate biscuits before bed, his vision spun, and her moaning into his mouth became music to his ears. He touched their foreheads to complete the sensory overload, because that's what it was: all the senses at once going every which way possible. Now she had him, wholly unguarded and willing. He touched their foreheads and let her in.

Immediately Clara let go and pushed back, gasping for air as her eyes went wide. She stared at the Time Lord still crumpled against the console in abject horror.

"What was that…?!" she gasped.

"I touched my consciousness to yours," he explained gently. "In Time Lord society, it's a symbol of trust to lay one's consciousness open before another. When Gallifreyans are with someone extraordinary, someone they want to be with as long as possible, it is customary to share, to mingle…"

"…to scare me?!" she snapped. He raised his eyebrows, lips parted in confusion.

"What… what did you see?"

Clara blinked. What had she seen? Everything had been so fast the images were blurred before her. "Beauty," she breathed. "I saw beautiful things, divine things… things you can only see if you had all of time and space laid out before you… but I also saw hatred, war, destruction… everything side-by-side. I don't think I was supposed to see what I just saw… no human should."

The Doctor stood up straight again and smoothed out his jumper and sweatshirt, both having ridden up in the moment before he so stupidly forgot Clara's lack of psychic training. He threw the TARDIS into park and turned back towards her, holding out his hand.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It was in the moment, and I did it wrong."

"I forgive you," she replied, not taking his hand.

"Then let's go break a rule," he chuckled, the corner of his mouth twisting up. "I'd like to show you wonders, if you'll let me."

Hesitating, Clara looked at his outstretched hand. He had extended it in her direction so often that taking it had become second nature, but now it felt different. Even when she had put her hand in his minutes before there was a different feel to it than now—excitement, euphoria, ecstasy. Now it was not only pleading, but apologetic and adoring.

She took his hand and nodded slowly.

Keeping his pace shortened so that she could stay at his side, the Doctor led Clara through the TARDIS corridors, twisting and turning until they came to a plain, unmarked door. He placed his hand on the polished metal and it dissipated at his touch. Bowing, he escorted her over the threshold and into the unnamed sanctum. The door rematerialized and plunged the two into darkness.

"Lights," he commanded. A moment later and the room began to hum. Lights began to flicker on, illuminating the space around them. Desks and tables lay scattered across the room, littered with technological trinkets that were only half-assembled. In the corner, seemingly forgotten, sat a bed adorned with blue Paisley linens and a thin woolen bedspread. Clara couldn't help but laugh.

"What?" the Doctor asked, clearly ruffled.

"Nothing," she smirked. "It's just… my gran has sheets like those."

"Then she has good taste; she liked my appearance at Christmas if I remember correctly," he said, flicking his eyebrows cheekily. He pulled back the bedding and waved his hand, presenting it with a flourish. "This is what we want, what you want, yeah?" She nodded in silent agreement. "Then it's your move. Go at your pace—we don't have to do anything that you don't want."

Clara moved closer to the Doctor and unzipped his sweatshirt all the way open, tilting her face up to look at him. "Are you sure?"

"We both took one another by surprise in the console room; there's not much more we can do, I think."

"Then let's go." She eased the sweatshirt off his shoulders and allowed it to fall to the floor. "Just warn me if you want to do that psychic bit, okay? I'll try it, just not at-random."

"As you wish," he said, sitting down on the mattress. Clara pulled his jumper over his head and discarded it along with the sweatshirt before straddling his lap. She hesitated before gently pressing their lips together, shifting her weight onto his torso and leaning him onto his back. His shaky hands rested on her waist as she worked on him. She nipped his earlobes and undid his belt buckle and finally shed her nightgown while grinding their hips together.

Eventually he lay underneath her, watching intently as she took off her bra, the last bit of clothing on either of them, and tossed it to the floor. She rubbed up against him as she littered his thin, wiry torso with kisses and little curling waves traced by her fingers. Clara could smell her excitement as well as she could feel his—hot, hard, and very human in build—knowing that the timing was nearly perfect. Just as she was ready to reach down and grab him, however, she noticed a twitch in the Doctor's face, one that no man, or alien, would make during any time of pleasure. She stopped and instead of grabbing him, used her hand to prop herself up above him.

"What's wrong?" she asked. She shifted slightly and sat down on his waist, his stiffness still rubbing against her. "One end of you is saying one thing, but the other end is telling me something completely different."

The Doctor's ears turned red as he looked off to the side, unable to meet her eyes. "I'm fine," he muttered.

"No, you're not," Clara insisted. "Now tell me what's wrong, because I make it a personal rule not to ride any man into oblivion unless he's as into the idea as I am. Spill."

"I… I…" he started. The Doctor closed his eyes and bit his lower lip, exhaling heavily. "I'm blocked."

"What does that mean?" she asked. He shrugged, looking up at her.

"When you receive the Rites and graduate from the Time Academy, at first your senses are sort of jumbled," he explained. "Touch hurts, sounds grate, things like that. It's part of the process of becoming a Time Lord compared to a regular Gallifreyan. One can overcome it easily enough with help, but alone I've found it… difficult."

"Why didn't you tell me that before?"

"…because I didn't think you still wanted me like this. Now I know different but…"

"One thing that hasn't changed is that you're still an idiot," Clara sighed. She cupped his face with her hands and rubbed her thumbs against his cheekbones. "It's happening again because of the new set of faces, yeah?"

He nodded.

"Then what do I have to do to help? What do you still need to do?"

"I was able to fix most of it on my own, I think, but back on Gallifrey another Time Lord and I touched minds. Based on your reaction earlier, I'm not sure what you can handle without any training."

"At least let me try," she asked. "I ran away with you, Doctor—don't think I won't be willing to help you through this."

"Thank you," he murmured. "Now please, relax." The Doctor carefully put a hand on either side of Clara's face and guided her down. First their noses touched, then their lips, and then, finally, their foreheads.

Clara closed her eyes and suddenly found herself floating in nothingness. No, it was everything. She was naked in the sparse vacuum of space yet cradled in warmth and security. Reaching out, she phased her hand through a galaxy, all stars and planets and nebulae. It was fluid through her fingertips, somewhere between sand and water, and replaced itself as soon as it all drained from her palm. Her skin tingled in delight and soon she realized that she too was glowing a soft reddish hue; one of the stars in someone's night sky.

Clara Oswald.

The stars began to shift and suddenly she was moving. It was the Doctor's voice calling her, summoning her, amongst the cosmic haze. She stopped in front of a planet, large and red. It was Gallifrey. No one told her, but she knew—this was Gallifrey as it was, as it should have been. Had they met in a different time, the Doctor could have brought her here. He would have shown her wonders from his boyhood and enrolled her in the Time Academy. She held the planet in her hands like an odd-sized football, smiling to herself.

Clara.

A hand rested on her shoulder, large and assuring. She turned and saw it was the Doctor, the same as she with no clothes and glowing blue. He gazed lovingly at her, eyes full of adoration.

"It's your home, isn't it?" she asked.

He shook his head and let out a syllable. It was low and foreign and belonged to no language she had ever heard before. Holding out his other hand, a miniature version of Earth hovered quietly above his palm. It was beautiful and perfect, with green-brown and blue and white. He spoke more, a string of noises that made no sense, yet flowed from his tongue smoother than silk. She only recognized one word out of them all: Clara.

They both let go of their planetary orbs, letting them hover side-by-side in the mess of space. Facing the Doctor, Clara could feel herself float upwards to be at eye-level with him… or did he move down? No matter, because they looked deep in one another's eyes, seeing the reflection of time and space against wide-blast pupils.

"Are you speaking Gallifreyan?" she asked. He nodded. "Why can't I understand you?" He spoke again, tapping his temple. They were in his mind; of course he could only speak in his native language and the TARDIS wasn't able to translate for them. Brushing some hair from her face, he leaned in close, whispering her name in a tone that did all the speaking for him.

I love you, Clara Oswald.

Gingerly, he took her hand in his and brought it up to his lips. First he kissed her fingertips, then her knuckles, palm, wrist, leaving a trail of lavender along her skin the same hue as what was spreading across his own lips and fingers. His hair, which had grown increasingly pyroclastic as of late, contained the makings of a billion galaxies as he bent down to move up her forearm. As he reached the crook of her elbow he spoke, reverent and imploring.

"Yes," she replied. "You may, because you are everything to me."

Very suddenly, the Doctor's hands found Clara's hips, holding her by the bone. He began to kiss her everywhere he could—stomach, breasts, shoulders, the hollow where her neck met her chest, up the neck itself. Starlight enveloped them, swirling around like comets of red and blue and violet. He pulled her closer, his erection betraying him even in this form, corporeal and stiff as though they were more than projections of the mind. Her knees separated and found either side of his waist as he eased himself into her and everything burst into hot blasts of pure emotion. They both gasped and hissed, the comets around them moving faster now, picking up speed as they did. Clara adjusted herself and the Doctor suddenly cried out, throwing his head back in pleasure though he did not climax.

Clara!

"I'm here," she said soothingly, wiping beads of sweat from his brow. They sparkled and shone—new stars for the universe—and she tangled her fingers in his hair. She tugged until the strands in her grasp were taut, bringing him back to her for a kiss. "Keep going; I am here."

And he did, holding her close and murmuring into her hair of stardust. Reverently, imploringly, he worshiped her as he came, the act of which triggered Clara's own. It was most clear at that moment their ecstasy was intertwined, because within her own consciousness Clara could feel the jumble that was the Doctor's mindset. It was pure adoration, devotion, longing, and the more she heard, the clearer the words were to her own brain.

Clara…

Gasping, Clara opened her eyes as the Doctor collapsed on top of her, pulling out with a soft, unpleasant sound. They were sweaty, sticky messes with entwined legs and clingy arms. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder and kicked the bedding towards his hand, pulling it up to cover them.

"That was… incredible," she said breathily.

I know, he replied, his voice loud and clear within her own mind. She looked at him, confused, and he chuckled. We're bonded now. Try it.

This is weird… she thought. Clara's eye then twitched as she felt the Doctor's chest rumble in laughter. "You heard that?"

"Yes," he said. "I can teach you to block it out, to make your mind your own, but just then you were broadcasting powerfully. I'll make a psychic out of you yet."

"Like to see you try." The jest then vanished from her face as she picked up his hand and entwined their fingers. "Are… are you okay?"

"Hmm?"

"Did it do the trick? Are you better?" she asked. He buried his face in the curve of her neck and hummed.

"Not entirely, but I'm getting there," he said. "You're not a Time Lady, so you don't know the configurations, though you do have one thing that no one else alive can lay claim to, and that counts for something."

"What's that?"

"My hearts."