Fic: Hot And Cold
Here's a thing I wrote for the fanworkathon going on over at clara_who. (There's some interesting things in there, by the way, and either way it's good to see something happening.) Clara/Eleven, though still only just about, and set before the finale; the prompt was the two of them playing Blind Man's Buff.
He reaches out, blindfolded, and finds the edge of the shelf. From what he’s been able to work out, that ought to leave her cornered, trapped somewhere in front of him.
“Warm-ish,” she tells him. Which would be great, except he’s almost sure her voice is coming from behind.
“Are you moving around? That’s cheating.”
“Of course not. I never cheat.” She says it right in his ear, then dances away again before he has time to turn.
The kids are out. So’s Mr. Maitland, not that it really matters. They’re free to do what they like, up in her room, and that includes playing games. He fumbles along, trying to identify his exact position from the objects on the shelf.
“Getting cooler,” she calls from across the room.
“Well, yes. I’m working on it.”
She laughs, and that’s the second sound from the same place; she’s standing still. And these are books, friendly spines under his fingers, so he’s here, and she must be just about there...
He tries not to telegraph his plan too much, but he has to turn, and stride, and duck his head to avoid the beam. His sightless lunge is probably futile, but when he reaches his target by the head of the bed, he finds a handful of the cotton of her dress.
“Damn.”
“Too slow,” she teases him, from somewhere that sounds nearer the door. He stays where he is, though, one hand on the rail, on the discarded dress hanging over it.
“But warm,” he murmurs, tucking his fingers in between its folds. His jacket and trousers are draped underneath; his own residual heat has bolstered hers. He likes the feel of it, smooth and soft, reminding him of hands on her back when he holds her, the warmth of her skin flowing through.
“You aren’t,” she declares. “I can see that from here.”
He smiles. He doesn’t need to see her to imagine her hands on her hips, her teasing expression. That mix of sharply raised chin and sparkling eyes, stern in a way that dares him to do it again. Though it’s true that it’s nippy up here; Naked Blind Man’s Buff isn’t a game well-suited to draughty attics.
“You’d like me to get warmer, then?” He asks the air, the rafters, to give the impression he’s got no clue what’s going on. At least that bit’s always easy.
“Absolutely. Don’t you know the rules?”
He knows them all too well. But if she’s decided they’re doing this, that this is the sort of game she wants to play, he’s not going to argue with her. He lets himself grin, the blindfold tightening across his face.
“Okay, then.”
He vaults over the rail, lands on the bed with a bounce, burrows his way under the covers.
“Hey! No fair!” She calls out in protest, but it’s too late.
“I’m getting warm,” he laughs. “That’s how you play the game, isn’t it?”
He’s still grinning, but there’s no answer. He pulls the duvet clear of his face, staring upwards, as if that’ll help much with a handkerchief still tied over his eyes.
“Clara?”
Silence. That’s definitely against the rules, and furthermore it’s unnerving.
“Clara!”
He sits up, blindfolded face turning ridiculously to and fro, trying not to think about what could have happened to her inside ten seconds. Trying not to think about how foolish it feels to ever let her out of his sight, his impossible girl, when he doesn’t yet know who she is or how she can be. Or, the treacherous thought pops up in the back of his mind, exactly when she’s next due to save him again.
The hand on his knee makes him jump. She laughs, and then he feels her slight weight settling down, on the other side of the bed; she’s been tip-toeing round it while he frets.
He leans back, hiding his relief in nonchalance, deliberately looking the wrong way.
“Cold. Definitely cold. In fact, practically freezing,” he announces.
She’s slipping up next to him, a hand across his chest, one elbow tucking in against his ribs. It gives him a tight feeling when he breathes, but he ignores it.
“Hmm. Starting to thaw, perhaps.”
She doesn’t answer, but there’s a knee next to his hip, and a brush of something soft then stiff against his arm; a breast, its cold-pinched nipple. The covers lift up off his body, her weight shifts again, and then there are thighs round his hips, the undimmed heat of her core against him.
“Ah... warmer. Definitely warmer.”
He can feel her hair brushing over his face, around the handkerchief and through it. Her breath comes soft over his lips, letting him know exactly where she is. He still lets her take hold of his hand, lift it to the curve of her waist, her hip. She lifts his other hand too, brings it to her face, his fingers cradling her cheek, the delicate curve of her jaw.
He has no idea what to say to her at times like this. He doesn’t know what she wants of him, only that he’ll do anything she asks him to in the meantime. His body, too; when she leans in to kiss him, he responds, so easily, as if there’s some part of them that belongs together. And he doesn’t know who she is or how she can be, but sometimes he stops worrying about it after all.
She pulls her mouth away, her hips rocking slow circles above his. She lets a hand wander down his chest, thumb flicking idly at a nipple until he tenses, stiffening under her. He can’t see her but he can feel her everywhere around him, and he can feel her smile.
“Hot.” She whispers it in his ear, and he’s helpless to do anything but agree.
He reaches out, blindfolded, and finds the edge of the shelf. From what he’s been able to work out, that ought to leave her cornered, trapped somewhere in front of him.
“Warm-ish,” she tells him. Which would be great, except he’s almost sure her voice is coming from behind.
“Are you moving around? That’s cheating.”
“Of course not. I never cheat.” She says it right in his ear, then dances away again before he has time to turn.
The kids are out. So’s Mr. Maitland, not that it really matters. They’re free to do what they like, up in her room, and that includes playing games. He fumbles along, trying to identify his exact position from the objects on the shelf.
“Getting cooler,” she calls from across the room.
“Well, yes. I’m working on it.”
She laughs, and that’s the second sound from the same place; she’s standing still. And these are books, friendly spines under his fingers, so he’s here, and she must be just about there...
He tries not to telegraph his plan too much, but he has to turn, and stride, and duck his head to avoid the beam. His sightless lunge is probably futile, but when he reaches his target by the head of the bed, he finds a handful of the cotton of her dress.
“Damn.”
“Too slow,” she teases him, from somewhere that sounds nearer the door. He stays where he is, though, one hand on the rail, on the discarded dress hanging over it.
“But warm,” he murmurs, tucking his fingers in between its folds. His jacket and trousers are draped underneath; his own residual heat has bolstered hers. He likes the feel of it, smooth and soft, reminding him of hands on her back when he holds her, the warmth of her skin flowing through.
“You aren’t,” she declares. “I can see that from here.”
He smiles. He doesn’t need to see her to imagine her hands on her hips, her teasing expression. That mix of sharply raised chin and sparkling eyes, stern in a way that dares him to do it again. Though it’s true that it’s nippy up here; Naked Blind Man’s Buff isn’t a game well-suited to draughty attics.
“You’d like me to get warmer, then?” He asks the air, the rafters, to give the impression he’s got no clue what’s going on. At least that bit’s always easy.
“Absolutely. Don’t you know the rules?”
He knows them all too well. But if she’s decided they’re doing this, that this is the sort of game she wants to play, he’s not going to argue with her. He lets himself grin, the blindfold tightening across his face.
“Okay, then.”
He vaults over the rail, lands on the bed with a bounce, burrows his way under the covers.
“Hey! No fair!” She calls out in protest, but it’s too late.
“I’m getting warm,” he laughs. “That’s how you play the game, isn’t it?”
He’s still grinning, but there’s no answer. He pulls the duvet clear of his face, staring upwards, as if that’ll help much with a handkerchief still tied over his eyes.
“Clara?”
Silence. That’s definitely against the rules, and furthermore it’s unnerving.
“Clara!”
He sits up, blindfolded face turning ridiculously to and fro, trying not to think about what could have happened to her inside ten seconds. Trying not to think about how foolish it feels to ever let her out of his sight, his impossible girl, when he doesn’t yet know who she is or how she can be. Or, the treacherous thought pops up in the back of his mind, exactly when she’s next due to save him again.
The hand on his knee makes him jump. She laughs, and then he feels her slight weight settling down, on the other side of the bed; she’s been tip-toeing round it while he frets.
He leans back, hiding his relief in nonchalance, deliberately looking the wrong way.
“Cold. Definitely cold. In fact, practically freezing,” he announces.
She’s slipping up next to him, a hand across his chest, one elbow tucking in against his ribs. It gives him a tight feeling when he breathes, but he ignores it.
“Hmm. Starting to thaw, perhaps.”
She doesn’t answer, but there’s a knee next to his hip, and a brush of something soft then stiff against his arm; a breast, its cold-pinched nipple. The covers lift up off his body, her weight shifts again, and then there are thighs round his hips, the undimmed heat of her core against him.
“Ah... warmer. Definitely warmer.”
He can feel her hair brushing over his face, around the handkerchief and through it. Her breath comes soft over his lips, letting him know exactly where she is. He still lets her take hold of his hand, lift it to the curve of her waist, her hip. She lifts his other hand too, brings it to her face, his fingers cradling her cheek, the delicate curve of her jaw.
He has no idea what to say to her at times like this. He doesn’t know what she wants of him, only that he’ll do anything she asks him to in the meantime. His body, too; when she leans in to kiss him, he responds, so easily, as if there’s some part of them that belongs together. And he doesn’t know who she is or how she can be, but sometimes he stops worrying about it after all.
She pulls her mouth away, her hips rocking slow circles above his. She lets a hand wander down his chest, thumb flicking idly at a nipple until he tenses, stiffening under her. He can’t see her but he can feel her everywhere around him, and he can feel her smile.
“Hot.” She whispers it in his ear, and he’s helpless to do anything but agree.