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It’s funny how, no matter how wild an adventure the Doctor may sweep Yaz away on, the simple prospect of a fancy party still gives her a thrill. She fiddles with her clutch as she makes her way up stone steps. The air is still warm despite the nights’ arrival, the spirit of the day bouncing back off the Earth. The lights from the hotel, her Mum’s hotel, its grand opening night, look beautiful against black sky. Just then, her phone chimes.
“HI. Cnt wt 2 see U.”
She rolls her eyes at the Doctor’s incessant use of shorthand. She’d argued if Yaz wouldn’t let her voice note all the time (for the sake of privacy), there was no way she was wasting so much time using full words.
“…All of U ;)”
Despite the cringe-worthy wink face, Yaz bites her lip to hide the smirk. She hasn’t seen the Doctor in almost three days and their newfound way of discreet communication meant all kinds of ideas had been shared.
“I mn I wnt 2 see U naked.”
She chuckles at the unnecessary clarification. Her body is positively thrumming with need, desperate to get her hands on the Doctor again. She takes one last look at the stars, almost hoping to catch a glimpse of her enigmatic woman before she enters the lobby.
“Mum!” She calls as she sees Najia, taking in the impressive venue. “It’s amazing!”
“Aw, thank you, love,” she pulls her into a tight hug, “do you think the chandeliers are too much?”
“No! They’re beautiful!”
She gives a grateful smile, taking in Yaz’s TARDIS-blue satin trousers and velvet blazer. “You look lovely… the Doctor coming?” She asks with a teasing tone.
“No. Well, I don’t know,” Yaz hopes to high heaven she’ll show up here, scrubbed up in an expensive black tux or maybe a rich velvet jumpsuit… the one that leaves cute little sucker marks on her pale skin like love bites and hugs her frame just—… but the odds are unlikely. “She’s not very reliable when it’s not life or death.”
“Why do you always say stuff like that?” Najia shoots her an accusatory look with a shake of her head. “Anyway, have a look around. Buffet is by the ice statue—don’t give me that look, it was on offer.”
“Didn’t say a word!” Yaz chuckles and raises her hands in mock surrender. “Thanks, Mum. You’ve done amazin’. Should be right proud,” she plants a quick kiss on Najia’s cheek before heading off to explore.
The crowd has started to grow and swathes of business folk politely sipping champagne surround her. Her outfit is definitely about a fifth of the price of everyone else’s in this room, and way too colourful amongst a sea of black, white and cream. She tries not to let it intimidate her. Bet they ‘ent seen alien planets.
Food is a welcome distraction when she spots the buffet is clear of other guests. She eyes the six-foot ice statue that towers above her: it’s of Donald Stacks, the hotel owner, dressed in his signature three-piece suit. The melting ice gives the impression he’s dribbling. Gross.
The platter before her looks amazing, a spread of colourful bite-sized appetisers and mini quiches. She grabs a plastic plate and begins loading it up with anything designated vegetarian by a green flag on a cocktail stick. She’s just tapping a dollop of fancy mustard on the side in her plate when a voice interrupts her.
“I love shrimp—“
“AHHH!!” Fear jolts her when she turns to see the horrific sight before her. She stumbles backwards, plate sent flying to the air before clattering on the floor.
“AHHHHHHH!!” Teeth bared, the creature screams right back. Neon green curls frame a petrifying face: ghostly white with a sickeningly large red smile. “Why y’screaming?!” It asks, a fried shrimp in its ghastly white-gloved hand.
When the adrenaline settles and no violent attack has occurred, Yaz edges a millimetre closer to analysed what’s before her. “....Doctor?!”
“Yeah?”
“Oh my god… What are you—?!” Yaz looks at the turned faces brought about by their screeching. “Sorry! Everything’s fine—Wrong event. Clearly,” she gives a polite chuckle, brushing off their snobbish indignant glances. The mess on the floor makes her wince: crumbled quiche and mustard splattered over polished wood; it’s all over her nice shirt too. “What the hell are you thinking?!”
“What d’y’mean? You said it were fancy dress,” the Doctor steps back and proudly gestures to her outfit: red and yellow shoes, huge checkered pantaloons, a garish red top dons a flower and ruffle neck, a ghastly green wig finishes it off. She really did commit, Yaz has to give her that. The only things that remain of her usual self are the yellow suspenders and, presumably in a pocket somewhere, her sonic.
“I said dress fancy,” Yaz scolds, the adrenaline and embarrassment coming out in anger. “Oh god, I’ve got mustard on my top… and you look like fucking Ronald McDonald.”
Even below the face paint, Yaz can see the Doctor’s face scrunch apologetically. “Sorry, Yaz. I swear, I didn’t realise! Would you like a balloon?” She waggles a string of plastic in Yaz’s face before bringing it to her lips to blow into it.
“No! Y’cant be here like this Doctor, y’gonna get my mum in trouble!” She’s becoming more and more conscious of the lingering glances from irritated spectators. “Just...” she presses her hand to her forehead in frustration, “come with me.”
“Where?” The Doctor asks around the balloon in her mouth.
“Toilets,” she brushes past her with a huff.
“Ohh, good idea!” Her tone smug and full of anticipation.
“Not for that!!” Yaz shoots her an admonishing glare and tries to ignore her rather phallic balloon abruptly deflating with a pitiful whistle.
Yaz doesn’t really know where she’s going, she’s just picked the first corridor that seems devoid of guests — the fewer people who see the Doctor, the better. They seem to be alone; the only noises apart from the murmurs from the party are the Doctor’s unnaturally large shoes giving off sad squeaks with each step. Every cheep makes Yaz’s blood boil until she comes to a halt. “Can y’stop that?” She glares.
“They’re my shoes, Yaz. What d’y’want me to do? Take them off?”
She’s got a point. Yaz rolls her eyes and keeps walking - there’s got to be some loos around here somewhere. Just then, the crackle of a radio stops her in her tracks: security. In a panic, she shoves the Doctor, pantaloons first, into a utility closet before the threat can emerge around the corner. The little thrill reminds her of hiding from evil aliens in panelled alcoves and it soothes her irritation. As annoyed as she is, this is kind of fun.
She spies the muscle taking a leisurely stroll down the hotel corridor, stopping to giggle at his phone. “Bloody hell, get a shift on mate,” she mutters through the sliver of open door. Presumptive hands suddenly slip around her waist and hips push into her ass as she bends over to look.
Yaz, as usual, melts under the Doctor’s touch. She’s been waiting days for this, imagining all the ways she’d touch her. All the ways the Doctor would initiate things, the way she’d move, the things she’d say.
“Y’look amazin’ by the way.”
None of them compare to reality as the Doctor’s low voice drifts over her ear, sending shivers down her spine.
“Huge fan of these...” her hands slide up to grab eagerly at Yaz’s breast, “...trousers.”
Yaz gives a sly chuckle at her innuendo. Sighing as the Doctor’s thumbs find hardening nipples, brushing across them maddeningly. “I bet you are,” she gasps as nimble fingers pinch through the fabric.
When the Doctor plants a hot kiss at the side of her neck, Yaz spots something most distracting out the corner of her eye. It’s the Doctor’s ridiculous red clown nose, intruding her vision as she peers over Yaz’s shoulder to get a better view. She almost lets it go until she looks down to the spine-chilling sight of white-gloved hands groping at her chest.
With a sigh, Yaz pushes the keen fingers away. “Stop feelin’ me up.”
“Why?”
She turns to give the Doctor a perplexed look in the dark. “You look like John Wayne-Gacy.”
The Doctor tuts with genuine offence. “Yaz, he’s a rightful pariah in the clown community. An absolute blight on the name of clownery!”
“Clownery?”
“It’s a well-respected profession.”
“It’s creepy.”
“Oi, that’s coulrophobic. Some of my best friends are clowns,” she insists, no sign of comedic intent.
“Yeah, mine too apparently,” she digs. Her tone’s harsh but after a pause, they’re both laughing with their eyes. God, I missed her. “C’mon, Paul Blart’s gone.”
“Who?”
“Doesn’t matter,” she rolls her eyes as she drags the Doctor from their hidey-hole.
They find the ladies toilets just around the corner: spacious and airy and smelling like potpourri. It’s started to rain and the hail slashes against frosted glass in the night. Cold water seeps through Yaz’s shirt as she dabs a tissue at the mustard stain. It’s no use, the shirt is ruined. Fuck sake.
When she looks up, thunder claps—“Fuck!!”
The sickening grin looming behind her in the mirror, illuminated up by ghostly flashes of lightening, sends a burst of horror right through her.
“Would you stop!” She spins to see the Doctor behind her.
“I’m just stood ‘ere!” The Doctor gives an exasperated sigh at her accuser, her tiny form smothered by the costume.
“Well stand over there!” Yaz gestures to the spot next to her.
“I think y’being quite unreasonable,” she observes as she leans against the sink, legs stretched out, all smug with her ankles crossed.
“Is that so?” Yaz asks, moving to grab a paper towel to dry her hands. In her haste, she forgets the enormity of the Doctor’s shoes and catches her toe on the lip of a rubber sole. It sends her tumbling for a moment, heels clattering on the floor as she regains her balance. She closes her eyes for a moment, composing herself before she snaps. “How big… are your fucking shoes?”
The Doctor purses her lips—at least, Yaz thinks that’s what she’s doing but it’s hard to tell under the makeup—trying to conceal a laugh. “Well, y’know what they say about big feet.”
Of course, of all Earth phrases, that’s the one she remembers.
“Hmm,” Yaz agrees, snatching a paper towel from the dispenser, “…big socks.” In one purposeful movement, she smothers the Doctor’s mouth with the tissue, wiping off a significant amount of red and white face paint. It leaves her skin beneath a little red but bare.
“Oi! I spent ages on that!” She cries, muffled at first.
“Well, I’m not kissing you with it on!” She says, tugging the fake nose off and leaving her pink nose stark again painted white skin.
“Oh, carry on then,” she says with a sniff, a lot less nasally than before.
She tastes like acrylic paint when Yaz finally leans in. But, if she closes her eyes and tries not to breathe through her nose, it’s still her Doctor. She sinks into her, thankful for the familiarity of her yellow suspenders as she pulls her closer and attempts to ignore the tickling strands of her awful green wig.
Hands are on her back, slipping up under her blazer. “I missed you,” the Doctor mumbles between kisses. It makes her chest ache a bit, never quite believing the Doctor even notices when Yaz isn’t around.
“I missed you too,” she whispers back.
The Doctor starts kissing down her neck, nipping lightly at the skin with her teeth and Yaz closes her eyes so she doesn’t have to see the image of an actual, literal clown sucking her neck in the mirror.
“I’ve been thinkin’ about this all day. Your hands on me,” her tongue pushes back into her mouth, “inside me.”
Her words send a hot rush of anticipation through her, despite the bizarre scenario she’s found herself in. “Not sure y’deserve it after all the chaos you’ve caused,” she teases.
“Then let me touch you,” the Doctor doesn’t miss a beat. Gripping her sides eagerly.
“Absolutely not,” Yaz pulls back. “I’m not getting fucked by a clown it’ll give me nightmares.”
They both chuckle as Yaz starts to undo her—she hates to say it—pantaloons. “What’s that?” She asks of the yellow cloth tucked below her waistband.
“Oh, handkerchief,” she observes as Yaz starts to pull.
As soon as she does she knows what she’s in for when the yellow one is neatly tied to a green one, and then a red, and then a blue. “Oh my god…” She tugs and pulls over and over as the line of fabric gets longer and longer, pooling on the floor between them. “How many are there?!” She speeds up, getting more and more annoyed with every taunting handkerchief.
“It can’t be that many more,” the Doctor observes, shocking even herself with the amount.
When she finally reaches the end of the line—and her tether—she chucks it on the floor and shoves her hand into the Doctor’s underwear without warning. She’s not wasting any more time. She smirks when the Doctor gasps and she feels the warm wetness under her fingers. “Dressin’ up as Pennywise always get you this wet or is this all for me?” She teases.
“You’re the one fucking a clown, Yaz,” the Doctor shoots right back through her sighs.
“Just wait til y’see my party trick,” she cocks an eyebrow and she begins thrusting into her with firm movements, nuzzling in to bite an earlobe. The wig smells like someone’s old attic and, by the taste, Yaz’s pretty sure she’s painted her ears as well as her face.
Over the angelic sounds of the Doctor’s gentle moans and sighs, Yaz starts hearing a peculiar sound. With every drive of her fingers, pathetic wheezing matches the rhythm. What is that? She blinks to clear her head of distraction and resumes her focus. They don’t have long, after all. But when she picks up the pace the wheezing turns into aggressive honks marking every thrust. “What the fuck is that?” She stops and pulls her hand out, causing the Doctor to mewl defeatedly.
“It’s m’spare nose,” she sighs. “In my back pocket. It honks.”
“I can hear that, thanks,” she rolls her eyes and dips into her back pocket to pull out the second red nose of the day. It’s not even children-in-need. She chucks it into the sink behind them.
It’s not long after she resumes her movements that the Doctor is moaning loudly in her ear, careful not to rest her head on Yaz’s shoulder like she usually would lest she cover it in face paint. Green strands of synthetic hair are getting in her mouth so, without a second thought, she yanks the wig from her head to reveal a skin-toned wig-cap. “Oh god, that’s worse,” she winces at the sight.
“Don’t stop again,” the Doctor whines, voice riddled with panicked need.
Yaz grumbles but keeps up the pace, unfortunately transfixed by her weird alien head. First time it’s actually felt like fucking an alien. She curls her fingers inside to press into the spot she knows drives the Doctor wild.
“No!” The Doctor suddenly claws at her shoulder, bowing her knees together. “Out! Out—I’m gonna—”
The flower attached to the Doctor’s shirt with a safety pin suddenly squirts a pathetic spurt of water right into Yaz’s face. “Doctor!!” She blinks the water from her left eye and puffs it from her lips.
“Sorry!! Don’t stop!”
“Oh my god… this is insane,” she complains as she pulls her fingers out to rub circles over her clit instead. She takes the break in momentum as an opportunity to pull off her wig cap. The hair underneath is a bit sweaty but she looks a lot more like herself nonetheless.
Within less than a minute of quick circles, the Doctor is tumbling over the edge, hips jutting out into Yaz’s hand as breathy moans echo into her mouth. She shudders and collapses back against the sinks. “That was amazin’, you’re amazin’,” she sighs through her afterglow.
Yaz grins and combs her messy flattened hair with her clean hand. “You’re so ridiculous,” she laughs, “y’look absolutely terrifying.”
The Doctor beams through her haze, the last remaining smudges of face paint are entirely incoherent and her straggled hair is down around her face. She looks remarkably like the Joker. “You love it,” she smiles, zipping up her p— trousers.
She doesn’t even try to hold back the grin on her face as she watches the Doctor in the mirror, washing her hands. “C’mon, we’ve gotta find a back exit. We’re not walking through the party like this,” she says, turning towards the door.
“True, you’re a right state. What is that? Mustard? That’s shameful, Yaz,” she’s laughing before she’s even finished talking when she sees Yaz’s incensed expression.
“I’m gonna kill you. I’m actually gonna kill you, see if y’come back somewhat tolerable,” she warns but the threat is lost when she can’t control her smile.
“Love to see you try… Clownfucker.”
Yaz’s jaw drops at the insult and the Doctor pauses to mimic her aghast expression for a second before dashing off. “Oi!!” She yells after her but she’s gone, carefully skipping down the corridor, shoes emitting gleeful squeaks.