A/N: Sometimes, when I have the availability to fulfill prompts, I open up a window of time for people to submit an idea to my writing tumblr. This is the product of one of those times.

The prompt for this one was "Twelve is bored so he steals Clara's socks and makes them bigger on the inside. All the domestic fluff, please." Ended up as not pure fluff, but still somewhere around there. Takes place post-LC but obviously in a setting where they've been in a sort of quasi-living-together-with-major-benefits relationship for a bit and Clara maintains her normal life.

Bigger on the Inside

"Bored," the Doctor announced to the interior of the TARDIS. He languished in boredom—such a horrid condition for the sentient to endure, and even more so for someone as highly sentient as himself (not that he was to brag or anything). With a distinct ban on skipping ahead to the Clara parts of the day, he fiddled and tinkered much more often than normal, attempting to alleviate the crushing emotion. "Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored."

Fed up, the TARDIS opened the door that led out into Clara's flat. The Doctor, feeling as though he should be terribly offended, sauntered out into the tiny sitting room and glanced around. There was some unfinished marking, her unfolded laundry, a half-eaten bag of crisps, a pile of unsorted DVDs… yes! That was it!

He rummaged through the laundry basket and found a pair of Clara's favorite socks. They were rather long—he knew from experience they came halfway up her thigh thanks to her short stature—and incredibly tight. She loved having him take them off her, yet it always distressed him when he saw the deep marks the fabric made on her legs. He could see the rippling of the thread waft and weave, where the elastic cut into her skin, how things formed and fitted so that sock fit leg and leg fit sock, and it was all such a dreadful mess that he would think about it the entire rest of the night, no matter how intense things became.

Except now, he was going to fix that.

The rest of the week came and went and eventually the Doctor found himself on the couch in Clara's sitting room, the TARDIS still parked surreptitiously on the rug and Clara lying in his arms. It was a Friday night, which meant takeaway and telly and snuggling until the shorter of the pair began to feel frisky and it was off to the bedroom to take care of her needs. They were his needs as well, if he was completely honest, but the way she would nearly lose her mind as her hormones and endorphins overloaded and a switch clicked inside her brain, throwing her into auto-pilot as she flipped him onto his back and slammed him into the mattress… well… she craved it.

Sure enough, almost as if on-cue, Clara began to nuzzle her face in his chest, enjoying the softly-scratchy feeling of his jumper. "I'm going to go change."

"Call me when you're ready," he replied. He let his hand trail along her arm as she walked away, their fingertips being the final contact before she slipped off and went to her bedroom. The Doctor wasn't wholly sure why she liked to change clothes before she made him undress her again. The whole ritual seemed rather superfluous and detrimental to the overall goal, but Clara said that she got more enjoyment out of it than he realized, so instead of admitting that he was incapable of comprehending something, he would instead remind himself to not say anything and then work slowly as he let his fingers linger along her skin and delicately peeled her freshly-donned clothes off her body.

"Doctor!" she shouted. The tone suggested she was cross, and the way she narrowed her glare as she stormed into the sitting room confirmed that she certainly was cross instead of a myriad of conflicting things. She had one sock on her leg and one in her hand; the rest of her outfit was complete with her lacy undergarments and ridiculously-sheer nightie.

"Yes…?" he asked, keeping his eyes on the television as if he'd done nothing.

"What did you do to my stockings?!"

"They look perfectly fine to me."

"I cannot feel the inside of my stocking," she explained. "I can't feel it at all! What did you do?!"

"Oh, that…?" He gave her a grin, all but demanding praise. "I made it better—that way it doesn't mar up your legs like they tend to do. Good thing those are made of synthetic fibers, since the sonic doesn't do organics that well."

"That's what they're supposed to do," she snapped. "They're supposed to be tight and—you know what? I'm just going to get my garters and you better damn well do a good job on reversing this or no more Friday nights until you find a suitable replacement."

The Doctor bristled, trying to hide the fact the threat worried him as Clara stormed off back to the bedroom. Minutes passed and he didn't hear her call for him. Worried, he stood up and trudged over to the bedroom, composing a flowery apology as he went. One step past the door and a well-manicured hand clutched the front of his jumper and he was tossed onto the bed.

Seemed like Clara forgave him. Sort of.