A/N: Leave me a review and let me know what you think? This will be a multi chapter fic, so this is just a taste of what's to come. Enjoy!
Clara woke from a fevered, confused dream that was half grief stricken nightmare, and half burning images of tangled limbs and hoarse whispers. Her dreams had been so strange since Danny died, she'd chase him down dark corridors and past vast expanses of dark and gloomy graveyard, stretching on for as far as the eye could see.
And then there were the moments where she was back in the TARDIS, pressed against the console with something poking in her lower back, and something harder against her inner thigh, and his hot breath on her neck.
The numbers on her alarm-clock glowed a familiar blue in the dark of her room, and a sheen of sweat covered her skin. She kicked the duvet off her legs, twisting her fingers into the sheets beside her. There was an undeniable warmth between her thighs, a tingling rising up her chest and across her breasts until her she could feel her nipples chaffing against the cotton of her shirt. She hadn't been with anyone since Danny, she'd been getting her kicks off adrenalin and copious amounts of flirtation; there had been that night with Jane, but even as they'd kissed she had sensed Clara's sadness, and traded their passionate embrace for a comforting one. Clara needed that, someone who knew when to slow her down, and she'd lost someone who could do that for her when she lost Danny.
Her explorations of herself had been limited as well, she'd spent so much time on the TARDIS chasing adventure that the bottom draw in her bedside table had gone unopened in well over a month. Perhaps that's why she was being haunted by thoughts that she should have been shunning, and not being able to stop herself from loving it.
The Doctor was lonely, reclining in the seat beside the TARDIS console, and tapping his fingers against the armrest. He was thinking about Clara, which he had a tendency to do when she wasn't onboard. It was a lot easier to focus when he knew she was there, and safe. He tried to convince himself it was only her safety he was concerned about, but memories kept bubbling up to remind him that he was being far from selfless. They'd spent a lot of time in the late 1700s that past summer, before the solider had died, skipping only years to find that the weather was just as bright and pleasant then, if a little chillier. Clara had donned white lace and silk gowns that Jane had picked out from her own closet. The Doctor had watched them giggle at the pooling of extra material around Clara's feet, as Jane sent for the dresses to be shortened and gave his companion a chaste kiss on her sweet neck. He'd left them, then, retreating to Jane's study and back to the new works she'd asked him to look over. When the lanterns went out he heard the giggles become breathier until the night air was split by a moan. He'd stopped reading then, the words blurred together with whispers and gasps.
Jane had wandered from the bedroom, leaving a sleeping Clara, deep into that impassioned summer night. The Doctor was still sat at her desk, editing her latest novel with such apparent fervour that he appeared not to notice her come in. She knew better, however, by the tremble in his nimble hands.
"I could write it for you, Doctor. What it's like. What she looks like when-"
"No, that's quite alright, thank you." He said, gruffly, and she smirked at the back of his head, his silver hair ruffled by the number of times he'd run his hands through it, listening to them through the wall. It was always the storytellers that could read him like a book, see that part of himself he wished so badly to keep hidden away. He had waited until the swish of skirts told him she'd returned to her warm bed before burying his face in his hands, enough of this, he thought he'd have outgrown it, this regeneration.
The companion had been trying her hardest to force herself back into sleep for the past half an hour to no avail. She tightened her grip on the sheets and twisted in her bed, rubbing her thighs together as desire burned her insides and made her groan out loud into the darkness. Each time she tried touching herself it conjured up images of Danny that weren't the ones she'd been looking for, the last time they made love, their last kiss, the last moments they shared with him a corpse in a metal suit of armour. Their love making, however fantastic at the time, now hurt to remember.
Then there were the thoughts she tried desperately to suppress, because they made her want to curl up and die of embarrassment should he ever find out. Her best friend wasn't like her, human and hormone-driven, he wouldn't be transformed from the frantic, fantastic, and untouchable man he was just because a pretty face sent a needy glance his way. And still she imagined him pressing himself against her, a shiver making its way down her back as he pulled her hair aside and his breath hit her neck. She gave in slightly to the desperation between her thighs, pressing her palm against the cotton of her panties and biting her lip at the pleasure, however limited.
A few thousand years in the past the Doctor was trying to push the perky teacher from his thoughts, at least long enough to catch some much needed rest. It was hopeless, he could smell her on the blanket he had pulled over himself, and his selfishness won as it always did. He flipped a few switches and spun some dials, the TARDIS made a tutting sort of sound as the lights of the console began to pulse and they began the familiar journey forwards through time and into the living room of her little flat.