A/N: NOTE: if your name is Sammy or Emily and you somehow still get email alerts from me for fanfiction, AVERT YOUR EYES NOW. No, but seriously, you're both way too innocent to read this, so... don't? Or do, I guess. Oh, and if you're Pony; you should know that right now I'm cackling maniacally aboard the whouffle ship. You're welcome.

This is M-rated, but it's not technically smut. Also, it's the first time I've ever attempted semi-smut, so please bear with me. It's not spellchecked either...

This is written for letyoursoul on tumblr :) hope you like it, dear! x

She's most definitely suspicious of them. Oh, yes, they hold hands and arms and gaze at each other longingly - she's no doubt that they're in love. The thing is, it seems both new and old at the same time. They play flawless parts because on some level they already belong to each other, but Mrs Gillyflower knows that they aren't married.

If they're not in Sweetville because they want to be, then it must mean that they've been sent by someone.

"No children, then?" she asks them, one day when the two are sitting in the gardens with someone of the other people. "Oh, surely with your age, newly married and all…" She trails off, sipping her tea primly, hiding her smile when Mr. Smith's face turns bright red. Mrs. Smith is flustered, almost as much as her 'husband.' The two awkwardly stammer, stutter, and inch away from each other as discreetly as they can.

"Oh, I don't know about that." Mr. Smith finally manages. "Children… they're messy, and loud, and they do get into a lot of trouble—"

"This one wouldn't be able to cope." Mrs. Smith interrupts, rolling her eyes at him. "I'm brilliant with children, thank you very much." When Mrs. Gillyflower raises her eyebrows, she adds, "Not that I want any."

Mrs. Gillyflower tuts at them, shaking her head. "Two young things - why, you ought to have little ones running around everywhere. The whole point of Sweetville is to have a beautiful, perfect community, going on for generations."

The looks she gives them is so pointed that even Mrs. Smith's cheeks flush. "Really, we're fine."

"Oh course you are, dear." Mrs. Gillyflower says, leaning back and lacing her fingers around her teacup. "But you're both married, and yet the maids say your room is dead silent every night… there's no need to be coy." She fixes them under a scrutinizing stare. "You are married, aren't you?"

Mr. Smith's eyes widen; he's realized what she's been hinting at. "Well of course we are!" he exclaims, clearing the two inches separating himself and his 'wife' so that he can plant a kiss on her forehead.

"If you say so, dear." Mrs. Gillyflower says coolly. She can barely contain her smirk - this is more fun than it should be. Of course, it's probably because she's spent most of her time worrying about launching the poison into the atmosphere. She hasn't had time to mess with anyone, not properly.

She gets up from her chair suddenly, saying, "Well, I think it's about time to turn in, don't you?"

She offers to walk them to their room, and they both look more uncomfortable by the minute. As soon as they're ushered in, she says, "I'll make sure the servants stay clear of your room tonight, eh?" she casts them a wink, and both seem to flinch as the door shuts. "Watch them." she orders to the nearest maid. The girl looks confused but nods and kneels by the door to peer in the keyhole.

Oh, they're faking, and she'll find them out by morning.

The Doctor grips Clara's hand tightly as the door swings shut. Of course Mrs Gillyflower is on to them. They're in a building full of young, married couples and they have the only bedroom that's silent at night.

Clara's looking up at him anxiously, puzzled as to what's just happened. His eyes dart between her and the door. He can already see someone's silhouette there - he doesn't know if it's Mrs. Gillyflower or one of her cohorts, but he knows what she's watching for.

"Doctor?" Clara asks at last. "What's going on—?"

She gasps sharply when he draws her into a hug. He angles them at the door so that neither one of their mouths can be seen, so whoever is lurking won't know they're talking. "Clara, she knows we're lying, and she expects us to…" he trails off.

"Well, how's she too know that we haven't?" Clara whispers back. "I'll mess your hair up, she'll never knows the difference."

He shakes his head, taking a deep breath. "Someone's watching us at the door."

"They're what—?!"

He shifts, one hand soothingly tracing circles around her back. "Just listen, please. We're trapped here if she has a reason to suspect us, and she can do away with us easily enough. We have to make her think we're married."

"Excuse me?" Clara's voice rises slightly, and he shushes her. The hug has been going on rather long, as it is. Whoever is watching them is probably already suspicious enough.

"No, Clara, not like that. We have to… erm… pretend. Like we've pretended to be married." As an afterthought, he adds, "Or we could jump out the window and start running. That's always an option too."

To his utter surprise, she pulls back, looks him in the eye, and says, "It's alright."

He doesn't have time to process her statement because all of a sudden she's kissing him. It's gentle and chaste, at first. Then he feels her tongue against his lips, seeking entrance.

He retaliates, battling her for dominance for a moment before he realizes that it's a battle he's destined to lose. When he moans into her mouth he can practically see her smirking.

"Little keen, aren't you?" Clara teases him playfully. In a lower voice she adds, "What next?"

He doesn't answer, just gently moves her to the bed. Clara edges up until she's flat against the headboard, allowing him room to crawl on the bed with her. The Doctor thinks maybe he has it under control when she's straddling him, and he thanks his stars that he can control where his blood flows to. Otherwise he'd be explain certain things to Clara that he'd rather not have to deal with.

Clara bites her lips to keep from moaning when he starts peppering her neck with kisses. She doesn't understand why there's absolutely no reaction from him, not even when she's on his lap, hips rocking into his ever-so-slightly. He's just being professional, she tells herself. They're friends, after all, not lovers. It's just pretend so they'll—

"Doctor!" Dammit, how does his tongue even do that?

It's the Doctor's turn to smirk. "Something bothering you, love?" he asks, leaning back down to nibble at her neck.

"N-Not at all." she gasps. Intent on getting him back, she fumbles at his shirt. Well, shirts, really considering how many layers he's got on. Eventually she manages to wrestle it off, drawing her fingers down his back and grinning when she feels him shudder. "Alright, darling?" She asks, saccharine-sweet.

"Yeah, y-yeah, fine." He gasps.

They practically have to dig through layers of cloth before Clara's in her Victorian 'underwear' (though it resembles a dress more than anything else) and he's in his trousers.

He pins her to the bed, panting heavily. "Ready for the show of your life?" He whispers.

"Yes. No… yes." She replies, shivering beneath his gaze. He's awfully good at pretending, if it's that at all.

The Doctor's hands slide down her body, her breath hitching in her throat when one disappears under her white, cotton skivvies. He wouldn't, would he?

He places a hand on her stomach, gauging her reaction. She'd almost looked nervous for a second, and her heaving chest belies her calm demeanor. He gives her a pointed look, pressing down on her stomach. Clara's mouth forms an 'oh' of recognition, and she whimpers.

He keeps at it, drawing his hand in small circles around her stomach while she fakes it. Whoever watching them sure is getting one hell of a show. He hopes it'll be enough to convince Mrs. Gillyflower… of course, more of his mind is focused on how Clara's writhing beneath, him, and how he wishes that she actually had a reason too.

He withdraws, leaving her panting. planting a light kiss on her forehead, he asks, "Ready for the finale?"

"Wouldn't miss it." She says, grinning cheekily.

The Doctor discreetly pulls the sheet above their waists, then mimes undoing his trousers before he slowly lowers his hips down until he's directly on top of her. Clara stifles a groan, and the Doctor desperately tries to think of anything but the woman beneath him.

They rock back and forth, Clara's moans and the Doctor's grunts reaching higher and higher octaves as he speeds up. Clara finds that she's starting to enjoy it a little too much, fingernails digging into his back. He leans down to kiss her, the word, "Now" on his lips as he pulls away.

Clara screams his name, back arching, and she shudders at the feel of his cold nose buried in her neck and he holds her close and cries her name too. His hands are on her shoulder like he doesn't ever want to let go.

They lay there for a while, panting and coming down from their imaginary high. Clara's head feels cloudy; all she can think of is the Doctor between her legs, shivering as though what they'd just done was real.

He's trying to compose himself, willing his face not to betray him. Eventually he lifts himself away, rolling onto his back and pulling Clara to his side. His lips brush hers briefly before she settles with her head on his chest. "Good enough, you think?" Clara whispers.

"Oh yeah." He mumbles. The shadow at the door moves, then is abruptly gone. "Perfect."

"Night, then." Clara says, sighing happily as her eyes flutter shut.

He holds her tighter, and even though he knows there's no one around to pretend for anymore, he whisper, "Goodnight, love."