A very short bit of 11/Clara fluff that I just had to write after 'The Bells of Saint John' on Saturday xD Cute, fluffy, very lighthearted and altogether not very serious. Not the best thing I've ever written, but I'm never going to start my next multi-chapter piece until all these fluff bunnys are out of my head xD

Basically, this is the story of how the TARDIS finally becomes a snog box.

L_M_D

"Thank God for the snog box!" Clara laughed as she collapsed, exhausted, into a seat on the TARDIS, the Doctor close behind her.

"Will you stop calling it that?!" the Doctor exclaimed, as he always did. Clara pondered the idea of telling him she only said it to annoy him, but the prospect of winding him up more was too good to resist.

"Calling it what? Snog box?" She gave a wicked grin, the tip of her tongue pressed against her teeth.

"Yes, snog box. This is a powerful and frankly brilliant space ship that also travels in time. It is not a snog box." He half muttered as he gazed intently at the monitor, trying to ensure the Troglodean they had been running away from had given up the chase.

"Oh, I'm pretty sure it's a snog box…"

In his self-righteous annoyance at her persistence, the Doctor span around, determined to give her a lecture on the precise workings of his beloved TARDIS in the hope that if he didn't convince her, he could at least bore her into calling it by its proper name. Unfortunately, the Doctor found himself pinned to the console by an uncomfortably close Clara, who was still smiling in a way he found increasingly worrying.

"Definitely…" his statement started somewhat weakly as his voice cracked, his eyes transfixed on the tip of Clara's tongue; it was currently making a slow progression over her bottom lip. He coughed. "Definitely not a… um… not a…" he broke off once more as Clara seemed to press herself even closer to the Doctor.

"Not a what?" she mocked him.

"Not a… um… snog…box…" He finished as weakly as he began, feeling a very unfamiliar rush of heat and the somewhat characteristically human emotion they called lust. And she knew it, goddamn her, goddamn the twice dead girl who could tease him with such casual ease. He knew that she knew because of that infuriating smile, and the even more infuriating tongue poking through her teeth. The Doctor felt his hands, almost of their own volition, make their way to Clara's hips. He felt the smoothness of her skin beneath the cheap cotton t-shirt, one finger brushing the small strip of bare skin between shirt and jeans. Her breath hitched in her throat, and the Doctor gave an infuriating smile of his own, because he knew she wanted him. Not in the way previous companions had wanted him, not with the puppy dog stare of adoration, but with the dark eyed heat of lust.

Her arms had found themselves situated around his neck, and the space between them no longer existed. Then, in an altogether not tender crash of his lips onto hers, the Doctor finally claimed his exasperating, beautiful, intelligent, and altogether wonderfully irritating companion.

And, as Clara thought smugly to herself after the heat and lust subsided some time later, that is precisely why the TARDIS was a snog box.