A/N: This was supposed to be short (very short, like about a fifth of the actual length short) and only lightly smutty. It is now neither of those things and is instead basically just almost entirely plotless smut. But there is a dearth of that for this pairing, so I guess it's not all bad that I can't follow my own plans.

Title and opening line are taken from the song "Deep Space" by Eisley.

so reach out your hands, we have reached deep space

The Doctor finds Clara in the observatory, on her back on the padded floor, the silhouette of one hand outstretched toward the stars. It's a projection, of course – there aren't any stars in the Time Vortex – but she doesn't seem to notice, or care.

There's a moment of hesitation before he makes his way to her through the dark, quietly, so as not to disturb her. She doesn't turn to look when she settles in beside her, but after a moment her arm falls to her side (whether from fatigue or from his presence, he's not sure) and her small hand seeks his out, their fingers threading together. Where the insides of their wrists touch he can feel her pulse, slow and steady and human.

"It's beautiful," she breathes. "The stars, all of it." Somewhere in his mind there's an echo of long ago – show me the stars.

"It is at that," he agrees, his voice quiet; anything above a whisper feels tantamount to sacrilege somehow. "Dangerous sometimes, though," he adds eventually, a confession (though she knows already, of course, after all they've been through). He doesn't look over to see her reaction, even in the dark unable to face the fact that the line between protecting her and endangering her is so fine that he's never sure which side he's on.

Next to him, he feels her shoulders move, the barest hint of a shrug. "The best things are."

"Lonely sometimes, too."

There's no verbal response, but her grip on his hand tightens, and he returns the pressure. For a time, their quiet breathing is the only sound. He drops her hand, shifting onto his side and propping himself up onto one elbow to watch the reflections of constellations and planets and galaxies in her eyes as they flick from spot to spot, taking everything in. He's seen them all, could name them if you had about a millenia to spare, but to Clara it's brand-new, all of it, and that's his favorite part. Well, brand-new except that galaxy there, down toward the bottom of the projection, slowly spiraling out of sight; they've been there, but she likely doesn't realize. (How could she, when she'd only seen it from the surface of a tiny planet?) He's considering whether or not to point it out to her before it's beyond their range of vision when he realizes she's no longer even looking at the stars. In the dark, her face is hard to make out, but suddenly she's reaching across to pluck at his bowtie. What she's doing doesn't immediately register, and he feels his brow furrow in confusion while his normally quick mind races to catch up with this human girl. As his eyes adjust slightly, he can see her grin and the way in which her eyebrows raise as she tugs more insistently, and it's then that it finally clicks.

"Here? Now?" he squeaks out, the sound jarring in the near-silence. It's not the strangest place she's ever wanted to, he just hadn't expected, hadn't come here expecting… but then, when has she ever done anything he expected?

"Shhhhh," she admonishes, pressing a finger to his lips. "And yes," she adds in a whisper. She shifts to a sitting postion, freeing up both her hands in order to more easily loosen his bowtie.

"But… I… we…."

"Doctor?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up," she hisses. As soon as she finishes with the tie her hands hover near the top button, waiting for the go-ahead he knows he shouldn't give her.

He does anyway, like he always does, because he can't help himself with her, hasn't ever been able to resist. Sitting up, he pulls her into his lap so that she's straddling him. It's easier for him to kiss her like this, hands on her face and neck and tangling in her hair while she works her way down the buttons on his shirt, one by one. The last one comes undone and he drops his arms to his sides temporarily so she can push the fabric down, sliding it off his shoulders and onto the floor. Her dress goes next, the Doctor pulling the thin, stretchy cotton over her head in one move. She shivers a bit from the sudden chill of air on exposed skin so he wraps both arms around her, holding her body flush against his for a moment. For warmth, primarily, only now he can feel the curve of her and the fabric of her bra against his chest and she's wriggling a bit into a more comfortable position from which she presses rough kisses to his neck and, well, if his trousers weren't feeling a bit tight before they certainly are now.

Clara chuckles into his collarbone when she notices, much lower and more throaty than her normal laugh, and yes, he could definitely do without trousers. She doesn't seem willing to oblige him just yet, though, choosing to kiss her way up his neck, trailing along his jaw to his ear. One of her hands strokes the hair at the nape of his neck. While she nips lightly at his earlobe he fumbles with the clasp of her bra, which takes longer than he'd like, almost embarrassingly so. (You'd think after over a millenia he'd be good at it, and he'd been much better in some other bodies, but everything about this particular one had very little finesse.) Eventually it comes undone and she pulls away briefly to slip out of it, the space between them suddenly flooded with cool air as she tosses it to join her dress on the ground a ways away. He slides his hands over her breasts and down her torso to her nylons, thumb dipping below the elastic to run along the skin just above the edge of her knickers, and her breath hitches. He does it again and she shudders, a third time and he elicits an audible moan from her, and this time it's his turn to shush her, albeit playfully, pressing a kiss to her temple as he does so.

Her hands finally move to his waist, fingers undoing the button on his trousers with the same ease with which she unbuttoned his shirt. She tugs at them, but the position the two of them are in makes them impossible to remove, so he takes his hand from her nylons and leans back on both palms, pushing his hips into the air. It's not an easy feat with her atop him, even small as she is, but she lifts up a bit as well, pushing them down and over his bum. When he sits back up he reaches past her, her breasts pressing into his bare chest, pulling at his trousers until the waistband is at his knees and he can kick them the rest of the way off.

Once they're gone Clara settles back in, grinding into him more than he's sure is strictly necessary. A low groan escapes him. It's just a couple very thin layers of fabric separating them now, and he can feel heat pooling where she sits, making everything else feel cooler by comparison. His hand goes back to the top of her nylons, but this time he moves lower, underneath her knickers, until he can flick one thumb lightly over her clit, the surrounding curls already wet. Clara gasps, fingers tightening around each of his arms as she arches into his hand, and the friction from her forward motion gets another involuntary groan out of him. He wants to buck into her, to feel that friction again, but he doesn't have the right leverage so he settles for touching her, over and over, making her move against him until finally she yanks him in, mouth crashing against his. It's all lips and tongue and teeth then, catching her bottom lip and sucking at it, feeling her sigh when his free hand moves to her breast and tweaks a stiffening nipple between thumb and forefinger. With his other thumb he brushes again over her sex.

"Doctor," she mumbles out against his mouth, between heavy breaths.

"Mm?"

When she doesn't answer he slips his hand farther down, letting first one finger slide inside of her, then a second. Her breath catches and shudders and he presses in more and she bites hard at his lip and his other hand leaves her breast to encircle her waist and pull her in closer and-

"Doctor."

She's leaning back, tugging at him insistently, and it takes him a second through the fog to realize she's trying to pull him down onto the ground with her. He takes his hand from her nylons and uses the arm around her waist to lower her down, moving carefully even though the observatory floor is soft. Once she's situated he balances himself above her, his knees on either side of one leg (which is still, frustratingly, covered in black nylon), hands planted firmly in the space abover her shoulders. She looks small beneath him, small and fragile and innocent, but then she reaches up to rake nails lightly from his collarbone to his chest down to his pants to where she can run her fingers over where he's straining against the fabric. His hips jerk involuntarily as he sucks in a breath and he can just make out the wicked grin on her face when he does and okay, maybe innocent isn't as applicable as he thought.

"You just gonna stare at me, Chin Boy, or are you gonna get on with it?" Clara asks, voice low and teasing as she arches up, hips lifting off the ground. He's itching to tear away what's left of the offending clothing, to push her knees apart and bury himself in her and feel the familiar pressure of her legs around his waist. Instead, he shifts his weight, pressing a hand to her cheek, thumb stroking the soft skin there. He leans down enough to ghost his lips over hers, pulling back almost immediately. "Don't you dare," she warns as she makes a grab for him, but he ducks out of the way and begins to kiss her jaw, her neck (there's a place just above her collarbone where he lingers long enough to leave a mark), her chest, sucking at first one nipple and then the other. Clara's fingers catch in the hair at the top of his head. As he starts to move even lower she pulls on it, almost hard enough to hurt, dragging him back up to where she can press her lips to his, and then she's lifting her legs, using her feet to push at his pants until they begin to slip down his hips. He breaks the kiss to climb out of them and as soon as he repositions himself Clara grabs him, moving her hand once up and down the length of his cock, and a low curse escapes him.

"I believe I said something about getting on with it?" He tries to respond but she does it again and all he can manage is another curse. "That's what you get for not listening."

He hooks his thumbs around the elastic of her nylons, yanks them down along with her knickers. "Better," she breathes, releasing him so that he can pull them all the way off and toss them somewhere into the dark of the observatory – he doesn't remember where their clothes are anymore, doesn't particularly care. Because now she's naked underneath him, faint starlight on her skin, and he's climbing in between her legs and her hand is guiding him and her hips are rising to meet him and suddenly it feels like she's everywhere, all around him, like the stars. He pauses, just for a moment, resting his forehead on hers, letting himself be part of something in the vastness, a place with Clara as an anchor.

And then she's saying "please" and she's moving against him and he's responding, with slow, steady strokes. Clara's small hands cup his face, tilting his head just enough so that she can kiss him, gasping into his mouth with every thrust. Her bony heels dig into the small of his back as she brings her legs up to wrap them around his waist. The new angle makes her cry out involuntarily the next time he pushes into her, makes her hands move from his face to his back, makes her rake trails all the way down to his waist (it should probably hurt but it doesn't, just sparks off something deep inside him that makes him buck into her harder). She stops with a hand at each of his hipbones, fingernails digging hard into the skin, pulling him against her, forcing him to speed up. He watches her face every time he goes into her, runs the fingers of one hand lightly over the lids of her tightly closed eyes, tracing the oval of her mouth. Her tongue darts out and he kisses her again, harder than before.

There's tension building now, coiling more tightly every times she yanks his hips, and his vision is going blurry at the edges and he's can't tell if he's saying Clara's name over and over aloud or if it's just in his head and he's sure her nails are leaving permanent imprints and he brings his hand to right above where they join and runs his thumb over her and then there's a split second of stillness where she clenches tight around him before she falls, gasping, and the pulse of her orgasm combined with his last frantic thrusts are enough to send him over too, light bursting at the edges of his vision like stars going supernova.

He collapses atop her, careful even in his fatigue not to put all his weight on her, resting on his forearms to create a sort of coccoon. His face buries in her collar; one of her hands strokes absently at the back of his neck. They rest together for a few seconds before he rolls off of her and onto his side, and she moves next to him, using one of his arms to pillow her head.

There's a stretch of silence in which he just traces nonsense patterns on her hip with one forefinger, over and over, and he assumes she's asleep until she mumbles, "Thanks."

"For what?" he asks, hand stilling for a moment.

She waves a hand vaguely, sleepily, as she curls into him with a yawn. "The stars," she says into his skin.