#not the selected ones unthankfully)

[wearily-confused]

fuck FUCK fuCkkKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!

[dingdongsnogbox]

Bedtime Stories

Chapter: 2/?

Rating: M

Word Count: 1891

Description: When the Doctor shows up at Clara’s flat one Wednesday afternoon, he’s surprised to find the place empty. Deciding to wait for her to return home, he takes it upon himself to occupy his time by routing through her things. What happens when he stumbles upon a racy book stashed underneath Clara’s pillow?

Author’s Note: So apparently I wrote most of this a year ago and only just found it lying around on my computer... 20 minutes later and I’ve finished it off and now it’s here for anyone who’s still interested in reading this story. I think the award for the longest time taken to update a fanfic ever definitely goes to me...

The Doctor strides up to the TARDIS console purposefully and promptly pulls down on the leaver to send the ship into flight. He doesn’t go far; just takes her to drift in the vortex. Sort of like the equivalent of storming out of one’s own home, only to find one has nowhere to go and winding up hovering about outside uselessly. The Doctor has never been particularly good at storming off and thinks he’s done well to even dematerialise the TARDIS out of Clara’s flat.

“Well, I think I’ve certainly surpassed myself in terms of downright stupid ideas today, hey old girl?” He gazes up at the ceiling of the console room as he finally acknowledges the sheer idiocy of the situation he’s landed himself in. In response, he feels something distinctly resembling amusement tickle the edges of his mind from his ship. The Doctor rolls his eyes. “I should have known you’d be on her side. You women are always ganging up on me.” He remarks as he spins away from the console.

Now all he has to do is solve this mess he’s gotten himself into. There is of course the option of taking a quick trip into the distant future, finding an erotic novel and passing it off as something he’d written himself, but somehow the Doctor can’t quite bring himself to deceive Clara in such a way. Besides, anything written by a human is bound to be pure drivel anyway.

With a resigned sigh, he ponders his options and decides that to write a book, one must first conduct an extensive amount of research. Thankfully, research is an area he is particularly skilled in. Unthankfully, he does not fancy conducting extensive research into this particular area. No, that definitely won’t do. He’ll have to make do with researching existing books within the genre and go from there. He briefly ponders the thought of paying a visit to the library onboard the TARDIS, but dismisses the idea as quickly as it comes. Whilst there’s undoubtedly some literature with a hint of an erotic nature lying around in there, the Doctor likes to consider himself above keeping a collection of such books.

First stop: the nearest bookshop. Well… strictly speaking that could be any bookshop really what with the whole ship that travels anywhere in time and space thing and all, but some locations are easier to land accurately in than others. 21st century London is always an easy one and there’s bound to be no end of bookshops stocking inappropriate novels there. London bookshop it is.

When they land, the Doctor sticks his head out of the TARDIS doors to examine his surroundings. A dank alleyway greets him, and he promptly exits the ship to take a closer look at the street sign in order to remember where exactly he’s parked. It wouldn’t be the first time he forgot where he’d parked the TARDIS, and the idea of wandering around looking for the ship whilst carrying a collection of erotic fiction is far from an appealing one.

Once satisfied that he’s aware of where they are, he leaves the alleyway and strolls out onto a relatively busy street. Conveniently, almost directly opposite the alleyway sits a large, yet somewhat rundown bookshop. Perfect. With a smile, the Doctor makes a mental note to congratulate himself on his excellent piloting skills later.

The inside of the shop is brimming with wall-to-wall books of every genre. Each section is vaguely categorised by a faded sign above the shelves and the Doctor makes a beeline for the one which reads ‘romance’. There, he begins to scan the shelves, skimming the title of each book with a frown of concentration. Unfortunately, the titles seem to give him little clues as to the actual contents of the books. The Doctor is about to resign himself to taking out each one and reading the blurb in the hope of finding those which might be on the more er… exotic side when he catches sight of a sign which reads ‘erotica’ off towards the right. Bingo.

He doesn’t bother to read the titles of the books, simply starts to drag them off of the shelves one by one until half of the section is empty and he can no longer see where he’s walking from behind a precarious tower of inappropriate literature.

Miraculously, he manages to find his way to the checkout desk without falling over anything or bumping into anyone and promptly sets the pile of books down in front of him with a soft thud. The woman behind the counter eyes the collection with a raised eyebrow and slightly widened eyes, clearly alarmed by his choice of purchases.

“You want to buy all of these?” The young woman asks, voice laced with mild disbelief. The Doctor stares at her as though she possesses all of the brain capacity of a turnip. “Well I didn’t carry them all over here just for fun.” He answers dryly and the woman, clearly taken aback by the bluntness of his response, simply ducks her head and begins to scan and bag up the books. The Doctor frowns slightly and wonders if this has something to do with that being nice thing Clara is always babbling on about…

He’s in the middle of pondering over whether he ought to try to engage the woman in further conversation when she interrupts him to state how much his purchase totals to and he hands her over a wad of money without another word. He isn’t often in the habit of keeping money on his person, but he keeps an amount stashed away onboard the TARDIS for emergencies. Buying a bookshop’s entire collection of erotic literature is clearly one such an emergency. The woman behind the counter accepts the cash with some muttered thanks and the Doctor begins to gather up the numerous carrier bags of books that are now sat gathered on the counter in front of him. It’s a struggle but, somehow, he manages to hold all of them at once and hurries rapidly out the shop door and back towards the TARDIS.

Once inside the ship, he practically begs her to move the library as close as physically possible to the console room so that he doesn’t wind up hauling his ridiculous collection of carrier bags along miles and miles of corridors. The TARDIS, for a change, decides to be generous and he finds the door to the library off to the right, a couple of doors down from the console room.

Off to the left-hand side of the extensive room is a large wooden desk, and it’s here that the Doctor empties out the entire contents of his carrier bags in an unceremonious heap. There. Now all that’s left to do is go through the pile and try to figure out what on Earth he’s actually going to write about…

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Two hours in and after reading the words ‘engorged member’ for what feels like the millionth time, the Doctor tosses yet another book over his shoulder into the growing pile of discarded novels behind him. “Humans. You’d think with all of the canoodling they get up to that they’d actually be capable of writing about it, but apparently, that’s too much to ask of a bunch of pudding-brains.” He remarks to himself with an exaggerated sigh.

The Doctor thinks to himself that if he has to read one more poorly written description of ham-fisted foreplay then he might actually select the largest of the novels in the pile and proceed to beat himself over the head with it. It rapidly becomes too much to bear and the Doctor swiftly pushes himself up from the desk.

“Well, you know what they say old girl. If you want something done properly, ask a Time Lord to do it for you.” He speaks to his ship with a grin and feels what seems distinctly like an eye roll in response. One of these days, somebody around here will actually appreciate his wit.

Deciding that it’s about time he starts attempting to write this dreadful book, the Doctor seeks out another desk free from pornographic clutter and seats himself at it with a stack of paper and a pen. He could have done the human thing and used a computer, but he’s a little old fashioned and finds that his superior writing speed hardly makes it an inconvenience to write the whole thing out by hand.

His pen moves to form the cursive lettering that reads ‘Chapter One’ at the top of the first sheet of paper, and then begins detailing the beginnings of his story about an enigmatic, scarily handsome Rockstar from outer space who happens upon a petite, bossy young woman who knows exactly how to put him in his place…

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He’s been writing for some time, when the Doctor hits a mental block and freezes with pen on paper. Despite bragging to Clara about his extensive knowledge in the area, it has actually been a while since he last engaged in… relations with anyone and he finds himself stuck as to the correct response one might give to the situation his story is currently depicting. Frowning to himself, he tries to conjure up the words to describe the reaction he’s looking for and repeatedly comes up short. Blast.

Then an idea pops into his head and he’s jumping out of his seat and running out of the library before the rational part of his brain can catch up and explain to him exactly why said idea is one of the less intelligent ones he’s had.

Back in the console room, the Doctor plugs in the coordinates for Clara’s flat and sends the TARDIS into flight. Moments later, the ship has materialised back in her bedroom and the Doctor is striding out through the doors.

“Clara?” He calls out, his Scottish accent thick as he annunciates her name.

On cue, she appears from the living room with what appears to be a smug grin on her face. “Given up already, have you?” She teases with her arms folded across her chest.

“Not exactly.” He responds, eyeing her calculatingly.

“Well then, where is this master-,” her words die in her throat to be replaced with a sharp intake of air as the Doctor closes the distance between them, winding his arms around her waist and bringing his lips down to suck hard at the soft skin of her throat.

“Doctor-,” Clara manages to squeak out, the word tinged with a mixture of shock and a hint of arousal. In fact, the Doctor feels her go slightly weak in his arms and tilt her head back ever so slightly in encouragement, before she seems to catch herself and places her hands forcefully against his chest.

“What the hell are you doing?!” She exclaims, eyes wide in alarm.

Now, with his gaze on her face, the Doctor takes the time to note the pink flush that has crept over her face and neck and the way her breathing rate has substantially increased. He flashes her what can almost be described as a cheeky smirk and answers: “research, Clara.” And with that, he turns on his heel and walks straight back into the TARDIS, dematerialising and leaving a flabbergasted Clara Oswald in his wake.