Clara had recently begun to have bizarre dreams; not being able to run fast enough from a being that was chasing her; or vise-versa, where she was constantly chasing down something in the distance, as it moved farther away with each step she took.
Some of the dreams were nightmares. They were nothing concrete or out of the ordinary; being trapped in a burning building, or hiding from some evil being. Nevertheless she always awoke shook-up. Sometimes she could fall asleep again, and sometimes she would fight to slip back into unconsciousness.

She'd just awoken from a dream in which she had been trying in vain to help a man who was badly wounded. She tried numerous times to shout for help or bring him out of unconsciousness. But her voice, no matter how hard she tried, sounded like barely more than a whisper to her. This man was dying and she, alone with absolutely no medical knowledge, tried everything she could think of to save him. She couldn't even tell whether or not he was still living.

Sitting up covered in a cold sweat, Clara looked around the bedroom that she slept in. The Doctor had told her to wander the corridors of the TARDIS, and choose any room she wanted. This one was the most spacious and luxury of the rooms she'd looked at. Although she was never really a girl who found value in luxury, she figured that taking the grander of the rooms on a time machine was something anyone in their right mind would do.

Clara was startled by a soft rhythmic knock on the door. She smoothed out her hair and clicked the bedside lamp on.

"Who is it?" she sang jokingly.

"King Henry the VIII," came the Doctor's voice.

"You can come in, your majesty," Clara said. The Doctor gently opened the door, then closed it behind him. He was wearing a dark green button-up flannel shirt, with plaid flannel pants the were a matching shade of green. His hair was slightly disheveled. He said nothing at first.

"Yes?" Clara said expectantly.

"You yelled," the Doctor said, as if this was quite obvious.

"Did I?" Clara said, a bit surprised. "I was just having this dream…" He listened as she told him all about the dream, and the ones like it.

"Clara Oswald," he said, sitting down on the edge of the sizeable bed and put his hand on hers. "I know a thing or two about nightmares."
They talked for a bit. The Doctor stood up.

"Please don't go," Clara said quickly, with such urgency that she surprised even herself.

The Doctor turned back toward her and smiled. She patted the bed next to her. Just as the Doctor was about to lay down on top of the covers next to Clara, she pulled down the blankets to let him in. She looked at him expectantly.

"If it's alright with you," he said, climbing in. He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. His body was warm and their feet danced together under the covers. She nestled her head onto his chest, and his familiar scent calmed her at the same time that it sent her heart racing. She reached over and dimmed the lamp; it cast a soft blue-ish glow over the room. She reached for his other hand and interlaced her fingers in his. His warm hand held hers tightly. They lay like that for quite some time.

She felt daring and cowardly at the same time as she crept her hand up his chest. He shifted slightly toward her. She was completely ignorant of the fervent battle raging inside of him. She looked up at him.

"No, I really can't,"he mumbled, almost incomprehensibly and very unconvincingly; he'd said it more to himself than to her. Her hand gently crept up to the side of his face and, locking it loosely in his tossled hair, she softly pulled him toward her. They were eye-to-eye now. He looked so hesitant that Clara almost immediately regretted even trying. Then, he let go of her hand and put his on her waist, pulling her toward him. Their collective three hearts pounded out an off-beat rhythm. Their noses were touching. The Doctor put his forehead against Clara's and opened his eyes to gaze into the depths of hers.

"Are you sure?" he asked Clara. She nodded silently. The Doctor closed his eyes. "I am so sorry, Clara Oswald," he whispered, and pressed his warm lips against hers. They both knew that in the long-run, at some dreaded point in their future, that apology would mean something.

The kiss lasted for a lengthy period of time. She pulled his hair slightly as she felt him harden, his body giving as he grinded his hips against her hips. She slipped her tongue into his mouth, and they made out with built-up passion. He put his hand on the side of her face and ran it through her smooth, dark hair. He pushed his hips against hers. She dragged her hand down his neck to the collar of his shirt, where she gently undid the top button, and slowly made her way down. When she got to the bottom she ran her hand up his muscular torso again. He took the green shirt off and slowly, almost hesitantly, ran his hand up her soft, oversized cotton t-shirt. He realised that she wasn't wearing a bra, which made sense since she had just woken up when he had initially come in to check on her. His hand gently squeezed and rubbed her breasts, and turned her on more little by little. He ran his hand down her side and grasped the end of her shirt, slowly pulling it up. She worked it off the rest of the way and climbed on top of him. Her hand travelled down his abdomen, and she felt goosebumps form in the wake of her soft touch. She pulled down on the waistline of his straining flannel pants, and he kicked them down and off. She grasped and played with his shaft over his boxer-briefs, building his anticipation. His mouth travelled down over her breasts, his hot tongue working over them; this really got her. They were both breathing hard, shuttering breathes, and sweat was building. He pulled down on the elastic of her fleece pants and grabbed hold of her ass over her lace panties as she worked her pants off. He gently slid his hand into her underwear and massaged her middle, feeling that she was extremely wet. He put in one finger, then two and three, sliding them in and out, slow and gentle at first then faster and rougher.
She let out a soft, drawn out moan, pulling down on his last remaining layer of clothes. She wrapped her hand around his cock, somewhat surprised by the largeness of it. Running her hand over his ass, she pulled his undergarments down and he worked them off. She pressed herself against him roughly, rubbing his shaft fervently.

They rolled over and he was on top of her. His hands travelled up her stomach to her breasts, and she had her hands on his cock. Only their lower legs were under the covers by now. They kicked them out and she looked at his perfectly sculpted body in the dim blue light. He was thin but muscular, gentle but strong. His muscles created dramatic shadows as they worked beneath his smooth skin.

She wanted him so badly, but they were both dragging this on as long as they could. She lowered herself. He sat up and leaned back, moaning, laying with his head at the foot of the bed. She lowered her head between his bare legs, one stretched out along the length of her body. She slid her mouth over his cock and put her hands on his ass, closing her lips, sucking and pulling the shaft in and out, down into her throat and back up. He could feel it building up quickly.

She sat up again and laid on her back. As she slid off her panties, he pulled himself up and against her, spreading her legs. She firmly grabbed ahold of his shaft and finally forced it in. She was very wet and it went in easily. She adored the feeling of him inside her; she undulated her hips and muscles. He shot his body back and forth, leaning his head back, eyes closed, mouth agape and sweaty strands of hair falling into his face; he had a strong hold on the edge of the mattress.

She clamped her hands to his back. Letting out a long, loud moan as she orgasmed, she dug her fingernails into his back. He barely noticed. He fondled her breasts and and tangled his hands in her sweaty hair as they kissed passionately. She pulled at his hair and bit at his lower lip.
He let out a deep, loud moan as he came inside of her. His body shifted. He pulled himself out, then slid it back in again.
This continued for some time. They both knew that this was the beginning of their undoing; for the Doctor especially. But right now, neither cared the slightest bit.

They lay on their sides, her in front of him, both exhausted and on the verge of sleep. He had one arm wrapped around her waist, the other stretched out along the bed , her head resting on his shoulder. Their legs were intertwined under a thin sheet. Their skin was still hot and their labored breathing was just beginning to stabilize. The Doctor leaned his cheek against Clara's head, taking in the sweet, intoxicating scent of her tangled hair.
"Doctor," she whispered sleepily,"I am so sorry," she said, echoing his earlier words. They both smiled a bit and he kissed the top of her head.