*Hey guys, another day, another chapter. This one was nowhere near what it was supposed to be and needed a complete rehash before the amazing Chantelle took over, so I owe her so much for this one. It's very smutty, but there's also a big fight scene and I hope that you guys enjoy it. As ever, thanks to everyone who has read, reviewed, followed and favourited! Please please review and let me know your thoughts. TPD*

Clara knew that this was bad. The Daleks had blown up Gallifrey, they had taken everything from the Doctor and that he had wiped them out. What seeing that picture must have done to him…brought back memories that he had hoped to avoid for the rest of his life. Clara didn't even stop to consider the implications for her or the rest of the team, fighting a foe so deadly, all she was thinking about was the Doctor. He had looked utterly broken and devastated and she hated seeing it. She had taken off after him the second that Jake had said the word: Dalek. She knew that he would need her, whether he was willing to admit it or not. Nobody said a word as she raced from the room, they were all still in shock themselves. Well, most of them. One of them was putting on a good show. Clara wasn't as optimistic that there wasn't a traitor as the Doctor was and she couldn't help but wonder which of them that it might be. Still, it did her no good to speculate, so Clara didn't think it over too much, for her own sanity.

She rapped lightly on the door to the Doctor's bedroom, a million and one thoughts swirling through her head. She didn't expect a response, but it still stung slightly when she didn't get one. She tried the door but it was locked and she wasn't going to force her way in. She knocked again, in her distinctive manner. The Doctor would be under no illusion who was stood outside his bedroom.

"Doctor?" she called lightly, trying to transmit as much care as she could through the steel separating them. "Doctor, it's Clara. Can you let me in? Please?"

The 'please' did it. She heard the whirring of the sonic and the door clicked. She waited a couple of seconds and then placed her hand on the door and it opened, allowing Clara to step into the Doctor's room, which was very like hers, only a lot more cluttered. No matter how many times she told him to tidy it, the best he'd do was shove a lot of his junk under his bed and that would be it. It was no surprise, after all she'd seen what his lab was like and she didn't even mind, it was part of his eccentric charm. It was also deep blue, the walls, carpet, bedding, every inch doused in navy. There was a photo of Clara and the Doctor on his dresser, a photo that still tugged at her heartstrings even though she'd been in his room dozens of times since he'd put it there.

The Doctor himself was sat on his bed, staring at his hands, which were between his knees. Clara approached tentatively, clicking the door shut behind her and locking it so that they weren't disturbed. He didn't look up, but he knew she was there, as his demeanour had shifted ever so slightly, inviting her to sit beside him. Clara moved slightly to his side, plonking herself on the bed and edging along it until she was inches from him. She reached out, touching his shoulder lightly with her hand and then she trailed lightly down his arm until she found his hands, feeling him shiver at her touch. He was still looking down, so she looked down at the same place he was, stroking his knuckles gently with her fingers. She tried to take his hand and he released it so that she could. She squeezed it gently and he looked up so that their eyes met as she followed suit. Then he was burying his head in her shoulder, still shaking slightly. She stroked his soft, quiff and he breathed heavily on her neck in response, which he knew was a massive turn on for Clara. Either he was trying to take his mind off of it, or he had genuinely forgotten the effect that he had on her.

When his lips met the soft flesh between her neck and jaw, she had her answer. She knew what this was, of course, he needed her comfort. And right now, she needed his just as much. She moved her head slightly to expose her neck, her grip tightening on his hair. He reached up to remove her hair from its bun and it cascaded down onto her shoulders and his face and she heard him moan softly at it. She threaded her fingers from his hair to his neck, just ticking his nape with her nails. His jacket was annoying her, so she squirmed him out of it, throwing it with a casual ease and then she was stroking his jawline, the grizzly bits of his facial hair, with her thumb, easing his face closer to hers so that there was no real movement required on her part when they kissed. The kiss was soft at first, Clara and the Doctor still trying to hold back; still trying to relax when relaxing was the last thing they felt like doing.

Clara broke the kiss and the awkward tension hung between them, the Doctor's eyes met hers and she could feel him. She could feel his anger, his burning resentment, his anguish and his pain. He wanted to be violent, he wanted to punch and kick and scream. She felt that too, she understood his frustration on a deep level. But they were both being tentative, both afraid to hurt the other, both too petrified of breaking the thing that they valued the most to really push it.

Clara made the first move, broke the intense stalemate that had descended between them. She reached out, precise, measured movements, reaching down to slowly unbutton his shirt and place her hand on his cold chest, the change in temperature sending a shudder rushing through her. His eyes were burning, but his grip was tender as he brushed her hair off of her shoulder and reached down to pull off her top. Clara obediently raised her arms and then he reciprocated as she slid off his shirt, returning her hand to his chest, her breathing heavy.

Clara could sense his frustration and unclipped her bra lightly, flicking it at him. He frowned at her as she moved closer to him, her hand on his zipper. He leaned forwards and his hands were on her trousers. The wriggling managed to detract from the tension slightly, as did the seconds that followed as they slid out of their underwear. But then they were kneeling there, as naked as the day they were and it came back, bigger, hungrier. Clara wanted to fuck him against that backboard until it broke. And the look in his eyes made her so wet she was practically frothing. She splayed her hand against his chest; his hand was on her cheek.

She took a deep breath. They were staring intently at each other, inches apart. Then they were kissing and it felt like a release, Clara let her tongue roam free, the pent up energy instead her threatening to rip her apart as she tried to release it. The Doctor's tongue was fighting back, the two dancing frenetically as her hands found his shoulders and his were wrapped around her, pulling her closer. Clara got lost in the kiss, her loins burning as she felt his hand slide up and down her back and she wanted him inside her so desperately. She pressed her body against his and they toppled, the Doctor gasping as she mounted him.

There was no foreplay, no teasing, because this wasn't a teasing situation. She didn't want to wait, she couldn't wait and neither could he. It felt like everything around her was collapsing, there was only the Doctor and she focused on that. She focused on the feeling in the pit of her stomach and focused on making it shatter her. She rode the Doctor, closing her eyes, imagining that they weren't there, that they were somewhere else, anywhere else.

They were wrestling for control, their hips rattling against each other, trying different angles and each motion made Clara feel better, stronger, more in control. She was chaos, swirling through the vortex, and she needed to fix her location. Her hands were against his shoulders, all the energy in her body flowing like never before, every extremity alight to the point where she felt like she could blast off into space, leaving the planet behind her. She probably could. She moaned softly, the noise seemingly spurring him on because he flipped them and she heard the bed creak and screech under their motion.

He was on top now, it was his turn to lead the way and now Clara felt powerless, her entire world in his hands and it felt good. She felt like she was placing complete trust in him as he took his time, every movement deliberate, keeping Clara at his mercy as she let out inhuman noises at what he was doing to her. She clamped down on his shoulder and he put a hand to her chest lightly, indicating his desire. She refused to do what he wanted, refused to fall back against the bed instead rising up to meet his mid-thrust, throw him off his rhythm. It had become something new now, a desperate tussle for supremacy and Clara loved every moment of it. The Doctor was stroking her breast, each time his nail grazed her erect nipple she let out a gasp and her hands were in his hair, tugging and twisting, as if she could somehow pull his back under her command, like she would a horse.

That feeling in the pit of her stomach was rising and falling in tandem with her, every time she rose up to meet the Doctor, she felt it screaming, to the point where she was sure that that would be it, that she would be gone, but just as she thought she'd reached breaking point, it would be over, they'd reached another trough, before rising back up to the next peak.

If he was close, he wasn't showing it, no traces of strain on his face at all, only blunt pleasure. To see him so turned on, to see him so happy, like he'd finally been able to strip away the torments of his life, made her heart sing and then that singing slipped lower and lower until it had joined with the feeling in her stomach, leaving Clara fit to burst. She pushed up, one almighty thrust and she and the Doctor left the bed, just for a moment.

They were hanging there for what seemed like an eternity, caught in an instant of perpetual pleasure, Clara's entire body sighing simultaneously at the release, as she came and she felt him join her, his warmth filling her. And then they came crashing down, the bed splintered beneath them and they were amongst the plethora of junk that the Doctor had stashed under his bed. Clara found herself laughing, a very playful, child-like giggle that didn't fit the time or place. It was what the Doctor had done to her. He'd taken her out of her own time and space and plonked her down in this one. With him. He rolled off her and they were just lying there, their hands slowly reaching towards each other and meeting in the middle.

"I love you," she whispered, not even realising that it was the first time she'd said it.

"I love you too," he replied and Clara felt completely and utterly content.

Jake hadn't warned them that he was coming. He hadn't had the time. As soon as Clara had shown him the picture of that Dalek, he knew what had to be done. This had to end. Now. He was going to take down Saxon and once he knew what Saxon knew, he would dismantle the Master's entire operation. Despite Rory's protests that he needed to at least give himself time to recover from his injuries picked up on that damned space station, he hopped straight into the TARDIS. He was tired, so very tired and his entire body was battered, but he didn't need to be at full strength to take care of one stupid fucking human. And in any case, he was running on adrenaline, his body pumping, ready for a fight, assuming Saxon could even give him one. He might let Saxon throw the first punch, it might even be funny. Then, he'd break every bone in his body when he smashed him into the wall.

They had a traitor. There was no denying it. The Doctor could search the system fifty times, he wouldn't find anything. The Master had infiltrated them and Jake didn't know how or who. That worried him and it angered him more. He would find out which of them had sold him out and he would make them pay. The worst thing was, he didn't want to believe it.

Clara had got inside him, he knew it. He hated it. She had gotten under his skin, changed him and convinced him so entirely that she wasn't the traitor that he was looking at River and Amy, people that he had loved and trusted for so long, that this shouldn't even be a question. And yet it was. Because he truly didn't believe Clara would betray him. He wanted to. More than anything. More than anything, he wanted to be able to look at Clara and see the eyes of a traitor staring back at him. But he didn't see that. And it shook him to his core.

So he should have known how this was going to go down. If he'd stopped for even a second to think, he would have realised. But he didn't, because he was so angry, so shaken, that his only goal was vengeance. Vengeance and clarity. And 10 Downing Street was the only place to get either. Hopefully both. The guards recognised him and didn't stand in his way. Maybe it was the white hot fury in his eyes, warning them that if they so much as looked at him funny, he would break them. Or maybe it was the fact that his hands were already glowing white with power, ready to punch Harold Saxon in his fucking arrogant face.

Saxon had been waiting for him. Of course he had. In contrast to Jake's agitated state, Saxon was quite calm, as he sat behind his desk, smiling warmly when Jake kicked his door off of its hinges. Then he stood and moved around his desk with an elegance and grace that was almost poetic. He stood, about half a metre from his foe and loosened his tie, ever so slightly. His grin only infuriated Jake more.

"Mr Hunt!" he greeted, extending his hand for Jake to shake. Jake was thrown. He didn't know what was going on, but Saxon's confidence riled him up and when he took Saxon's hand, expecting to crush it, he was met with fierce resistance and he felt his wrist straining to the point where he thought it might snap off before Saxon finally broke the handshake. Jake didn't stagger back but his hand was in agony.

"Saxon," Jake snarled. "Where's the Master?"

"Oh dear," Saxon laughed, the noise ringing in Jake's ears. "You really are failing to impress me," he sighed, shaking his head. "Haven't you worked it out yet?"

"Worked. Out. What?" Jake could barely breathe. He was shaking.

"The traitor in your organisation?" Saxon raised an eyebrow. "I mean isn't it obvious?"

"You will tell me," Jake said quietly. "Or I will break you."

Saxon spat in his face, and then he laughed again. This was too much for Jake. He threw the first punch in anger, moving impossibly quickly and savouring the moment where it shattered Saxon's jaw. The moment never came. Saxon moved faster and caught the punch as if he were swatting a fly. Jake barely had time to register surprise before he was being flipped and he went through the table with a sickening crunch.

Saxon didn't move. Jake couldn't believe what had just happened as he picked himself up. Saxon should have finished him there and then. But he hadn't. He was just stood there, mockingly, waiting for Jake to make his next move. So Jake moved. He let his hand swell up with power and then unleashed it, blasting Saxon off his feet. At least, that's what should have happened. What did happen was that Saxon raised a hand and the stream of energy dissolved into it. Saxon cricked his neck and then returned fire with Jake's own power, which collided with his chest. Jake was thrown across the room, colliding with the far wall and feeling bones break as he hit it. He didn't know what was worse, the fact that he was losing, the ease with which Saxon was winning or the fact that Saxon was mocking him.

"I was promised a fight," Saxon sighed. "Maybe my informant overestimated you. Bless."

Jake launched himself with the speed of a bullet at Saxon, but he wasn't quick enough. Not even close. Saxon took one step to the side and stuck out a leg casually. Jake went tumbling over it and lost all balance. He managed to use it to grab Saxon and turn him, shifting his weight to press all his strength against Saxon, who crashed into the drinks cabinet against the wall. The minor victory gave Jake a grim pleasure for about half a second, until he realised that Saxon had let him have it. As the glass fell around them, the remnants of a bottle of whiskey spooling out onto the floor, Jake realised that the brown was mixed with red and it took him a moment to realise that the blood was his and that it was coming from a gaping wound in his neck where Saxon had stabbed him with a shard of the broken cabinet. He fell to his knees, gasping for air and feeling dizziness and fatigue wash over him. Saxon stepped forward, a distasteful look on his face. He used Jake's face to wipe the blood off of his hand and sighed happily, as if what had just happened was normal fare.

"Well," he said cheerfully. "This was fun wasn't it?"

Jake didn't respond. He couldn't respond. He was focusing every ounce of strength he had into not bleeding out on the floor.

"Well you're boring when you're dying," Saxon sighed. "Never mind. I'll tell you what. I'm going now, because, well this job has outlived its usefulness. And also because if you survive this, I don't really want to broadcast my address. So, have you worked it out yet, or do I need to spell it out for you?"

"Saxon…"

"SAY MY NAME!" he kicked Jake as he screamed and Jake fell, almost whimpering.

"Master…" Jake whispered. And then Saxon smiled, nodded and promptly left.