#bed sharing

You hear the soft click of the door at exactly 11:07 PM. The apartment is dim, only the warm glow of the living room lamp and the low hum of the TV filling the silence.

Sunghoon stepped inside. the heavy oak door shut behind him with a dull thud, instantly locking out the frantic, loud world he had been trapped in all day.

His broad shoulders were visibly heavy, curved slightly inward under the weight of sheer exhaustion after a brutal, non-stop schedule. he looked smaller in the dim light, stripped of the stage lights.

He was wearing loose, black sweatpants that hung dangerously low on his lean hips. with a slow, fluid motion of his left hand, he pulled off his dark beanie, ruffling his messy, dark hair with a quiet, tired sigh that seemed to come from the very bottom of his lungs.

You're curled up on the sofa in one of his old shirts and tiny sleep shorts, legs tucked under you.

The moment he appears, you turn your head and smile softly, warmth blooming in your chest at the sight of him. even tired, he looks unfairly handsome—sharp jawline, those piercing eyes that always seem to see right through you.

​"Hey" you said softly, your voice a gentle, welcoming thread in the quiet room.

You uncurled your legs, your bare feet padding silently over the cool hardwood floor until you were standing right in front of him. "Long day?"

Sunghoon's gaze, usually so guarded and sharp in front of the cameras, softened just a fraction the absolute second it landed on your face.

He didn't smile outright—he rarely did when he was this spent—but the tiny corner of his mouth twitched upward in that subtle, almost painfully shy way he only used when he was genuinely relieved to see someone.

When he was glad to be home.

​"Yeah" his voice was incredibly low, a rough, gravelly baritone that sounded like it hadn't been used for anything other than repeating choreography counts for the last five hours. "schedules ran late again. the filming took forever."

His voice is low, a little rough from disuse. he lets you approach, and when you reach up to help him shrug off his jacket, he murmurs "you didn't have to wait up."

​"I wanted to" you replied with a small smile.

You reached again, your fingers gently brushed a stray, damp strand of dark hair away from his forehead.

His skin felt cool, almost icy to the touch from the midnight wind outside. "you look completely exhausted, Hoon. sit down. go to the couch, i'll heat something up for you."

​"You're too good to me" he said, the words slipping out almost under his breath.

There was a faint hint of teasing dryness in his tone, that typical cold-mocking edge he used as a shield, as if he were actively mocking his own rare display of softness.

​But despite the dry comment, he obeyed.

He dropped heavily onto the leather couch with a deep, dramatic exhale that sounded like a surrender.

His long legs spread comfortably across the rug, and he leaned his head back against the cushion, his throat exposed, closing his eyes as the warmth of the apartment finally began to seep into his bones.

​In the kitchen, the soft glow of the microwave light illuminated your face as you reheated the dinner.

While the plate warmed, the quiet whirring of the appliance filling the space, you poured him a tall glass of ice-cold water, knowing how parched he always was after practicing.

​When you walked back into the living room, carrying the steaming plate, Sunghoon sat up a bit straighter.

The essence of the food seemed to wake his senses, and he accepted the plate from your hands with a small, appreciative nod.

​"Thanks" he muttered, his fingers brushing against yours for a brief second.

You settle beside him, close but not crowding. he eats quietly at first, the only sounds the clink of utensils and the TV.

After a few bites, he glances sideways at you. "you ate already?"

"Mhm. saved the best portion for you, though." you smile, reaching out to rest a hand on his thigh.

He didn't pull away from the contact. instead, his free hand came down, his long, pale fingers covering yours briefly. his thumb brushed over your knuckles in a rare, incredibly shy gesture of pure affection before he caught himself.

"Bossy today" he teased lightly, that playful, mocking edge creeping right back into his voice along with a faint smirk. "making sure i eat like i'm a kid."

"Someone has to" you shot back playfully, nudging his shoulder with yours. "you'd completely forget to feed yourself if i didn't remind you."

Sunghoon chuckled softly—a low, genuine sound that vibrated right through his chest.

He shook his head, looking down at his plate. "maybe. but i remember the important things." His eyes flicked back up to you, holding your gaze meaningfully for a heavy, silent second before he returned to his food.

You smiled, leaning over to rest your chin on your hand as you simply watched him finish the meal.

The apartment felt entirely quieter now, softer, as if the rest of the chaotic world completely faded away the exact moment he walked through that door. this was your safe place—and it was his, too.

"Tell me about practice" you say gently. "you mentioned the choreo was rough today?"

Sunghoon swallows a bite and leans back against the couch, legs spread comfortably.

"Yeah. that bridge part in the new song… i kept missing the timing on the turn. Jay kept laughing at me." he gives a small, self-deprecating smirk, the kind that makes his sharp features look almost boyish.

You let out a loud laugh, the sound echoing beautifully in the dim room, and Sunghoon just watched you, his smirk softening into something so deeply tender it felt like a promise.. "sounds like a very normal day, then."

"Mhm." He takes another bite, chewing slowly. after a moment he glances at you again, his tone quieter. "it's nice coming back to this. to you. i don't have to pretend here.”

The words hang heavily in the narrow space between your bodies, incredibly simple but heavily weighted with a raw, rare honesty.

He is someone who spends twenty-four hours a day performing perfection under blinding stadium spotlights, but here, the ice melts entirely.

You reach out across the couch fabric, slowly brushing your fingertips over the smooth, cool skin of his wrist. he doesn't pull away.

Instead, with a soft, deliberate shift, he turns his palm upward and lets his long, elegant fingers slowly intertwine with yours for a few seconds—a quiet, shy display of affection he rarely ever risks showing outside these four walls.

​"You don't have to pretend with me, ever" you murmur, your thumb lightly rubbing the side of his hand.

He nods just once, his dark eyes softening until the cold glaze completely vanishes. "i know. that's why i like coming home to you."

The conversation drifts lazily after that, rolling out in a comfortable, unhurried rhythm.

He fills the quiet room with more details about the practice studio—mimicking the members' chaotic inside jokes, explaining with a small huff of a laugh how Heeseung kept deliberately messing up the vocal lyrics during the bridge rehearsal just to make everyone break character and laugh.

He talks about how the performance director praised his facial expressions during the centerpiece turn but kept instructing him to loosen his shoulders a bit more.

In return, you share the quiet pieces of your own day: a funny interaction involving a coworker, the new specialty café you decided to try near your office, and a few thoughts on the book you're currently reading.

At one point, Sunghoon sets his empty water glass down on the wooden coffee table and turns his torso toward you, a sudden, playful glint sparkling in his eyes. "Why did the scarecrow win an award?"

You already start groaning. "Hoon, no—"

"Because he was outstanding in his field" he finishes flawlessly, his face entirely deadpan, though the very corner of his mouth twitches upward into a rare, incredibly shy little smile that crinkles the edges of his eyes.

You let out a louder groan, burying your face in your open palms to hide your expression, but you're laughing entirely too hard to conceal it. "that was absolutely terrible. i genuinely can't believe you actually said that out loud with a straight face."

He shrugs his broad shoulders, looking immensely pleased with himself for breaking your composure. "You laughed. so it worked."

His amused expression slowly shifts, his dark gaze lingering on you as it traces the way his massive, oversized shirt has slipped entirely off the curve of one of your bare shoulders.

The playful edge in his eyes deepens into something slow, focused, and heavy. "you look incredibly cute like this, by the way. wearing my clothes... hair messy... absolutely no makeup on. it makes me want to just keep you locked here forever."

The compliment feels casual on the surface, but the sudden, deliberate drop in his voice sends a distinct, warm shiver straight down the length of your spine.

You can feel his eyes tracking lower, pausing on your bare thighs and the raw hem of his shirt that barely covers anything the second you shift your weight on the leather cushion.

He doesn't say anything more about it yet—he just sits back, letting the thick, electric tension hang in the air, slow and utterly delicious.

Needing to break the spell before your face burns completely red, you stand up from the sofa to gather his empty plate and cup, carrying them over to the kitchen.

As you run the tap, rinsing the ceramic under the stream of warm water, you feel his presence right behind you before you even hear his footsteps on the hardwood.

Sunghoon leans casually against the marble counter right next to the sink, his long arms crossed over his chest, watching your movements in a heavy, contemplative silence.

The air in the kitchen instantly feels five times thicker.

​"You really waited up for me again" he says softly, almost as if he's speaking to himself rather than to you.

There's a subtle hint of that teasing, slightly mocking tone he loves to hide behind, but it's completely wrapped in a deep, undeniable affection. "you're entirely too nice to me. it makes me feel incredibly spoiled."

​"I like spoiling you" you reply quietly, turning off the tap and reaching for a clean towel to dry your hands.

​When you finally turn around to face him, he is standing significantly closer than you had expected. he isn't touching you yet, but he is close enough that your senses are immediately flooded with his scent—that faint, expensive cologne.

​Sunghoon tilts his head to the side, his dark eyes studying every single line of your face the exact way he always does when he's trying to read your mind—intense, seemingly a little cold and unreadable on the surface, but radiating a deep, consuming warmth underneath.

"Yeah?" his voice drops an octave lower, turning raspy and intimate. "then maybe you should come here."

He doesn't pull you in by force. he simply waits, giving you the space to make the choice.

He lets you step forward entirely on your own terms until the front of your body is almost pressed flush against his broad chest.

One of his large, pale hands slowly comes up, his long fingers gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his knuckles lingering heavily against the sensitive skin at the back of your neck. the touch is feather-light, but it instantly makes your pulse jump erratically against his skin.

​"I missed this" he admits in a quiet, breathless murmur, his eyes flicking downward to track the shape of your lips before rising back to meet your gaze. "missed having you all to myself like this. no rush... no managers or staff waiting outside the door. just us."

You slide your hands up his chest, feeling the intense warmth of his body through the thin black shirt. "then don't rush tonight" you whisper, your voice small in the quiet kitchen.

​A small, teasing smirk pulls at his lips, his eyes darkening with a sudden, heavy hunger. "careful what you ask for."

His thumb brushes your lower lip slowly, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp. "because once i start touching you... i'm not going to want to stop."

The promise in his voice is quiet, but it settles low in your stomach.

He leans in and presses a soft, almost shy kiss to your forehead first, then to the corner of your mouth—deliberately not giving you the full kiss you're starting to crave. the restraint only makes the air heavier.

​He takes your hand, his long fingers wrapping firmly around yours. "let's go to the room. i want to look at you properly."

His fingers are warm around yours as he leads you down the short hallway, pace unhurried.

You can already feel the shift in him—the calm, tired boyfriend slowly giving way to something hungrier beneath the surface.

But he's still gentle, still that same Sunghoon who needs this safe space with you before he lets the rest of his control slip.

Sunghoon's fingers stay laced with yours as he leads you down the short hallway, but his grip is firmer than usual—possessive in a quiet way. he pushes the bedroom door open with his free hand and pulls you inside, closing it behind you with a soft click that sounds louder than it should in the quiet apartment.

The moment the door shuts, he turns and backs you against it gently, one hand cupping your face while the other rests on your waist.

His thumb strokes your cheek with surprising tenderness, but his body presses closer, trapping you between the wall and his taller frame.

There's that contrast again—romantic and rough at the same time.

​"You have no idea how much i think about this when i'm gone" he murmurs, his voice low, heavy, and slightly raspy against your ear.

He leans in, brushing his lips against yours in a slow, teasing kiss before pulling back just enough to speak against your skin. "coming home... knowing you're here waiting for me..."

His hand slides down from your waist to your hip, fingers digging in harder as he kisses you again—this time deeper, more demanding.

His tongue slips past your lips, claiming your mouth with a quiet hunger. when you let out a small sound, he smiles against your lips, that mocking little edge appearing.

"Already making noise?" he teases softly, nipping at your bottom lip. "we haven't even started yet."

He walks you backward toward the bed without breaking the kiss, guiding you with both hands now—one tangled in your hair, the other gripping your ass possessively over the tiny sleep shorts.

When the back of your knees hit the mattress, he doesn't push you down immediately. instead, he pulls back and looks at you, eyes dark and intense under the low lamplight.

"Take the shirt off for me" he says, voice calm but leaving no room for argument. there's a shy flicker in his gaze for half a second, like he's still a little embarrassed by how much he wants you, but it disappears behind that hungry stare.

You obey, pulling his oversized shirt over your head and dropping it to the floor. Sunghoon's eyes drop to your bare breasts, and he exhales sharply.

He reaches out, cupping one in his large hand, squeezing it firmly while his thumb brushes over your nipple.

"Fuck… look at you" he breathes. the words sound almost reverent, but his grip tightens, bordering on rough as he leans down and latches his mouth onto the other breast.

He sucks hard, tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. he pulls back to admire the wet mark he left, then sucks again, harder, clearly intending to leave a bruise.

"Hoon—" you whimper.

He straightens up quickly, covering your mouth with his palm, eyes narrowing in that cold-yet-playful way. "shh. you know the rules. keep it quiet."

His other hand slides into your shorts, finding you already soaked cunt.

Two fingers push inside without warning, curling deep. "so wet already, baby. just from a few kisses?"

You moan against his hand, hips rolling into his fingers.

He adds a third, stretching you, pumping them slowly while his thumb circles your clit. his mouth finds your neck, sucking and biting, leaving visible marks along your collarbone and shoulder.

"Easy" he whispers against your neck, voice low and slightly raspy. his breath is warm on your skin. "we're not rushing tonight. i want to feel every little reaction."

He curls his fingers lazily, pressing against that sensitive spot inside you with precise control.

His thumb continues its unhurried circles on your clit—firm enough to make your thighs tremble, but never fast enough to push you over the edge.

Every movement is measured, almost lazy, as if he's savoring the way your walls flutter around his long fingers.

Your head tilts back. Sunghoon immediately kiss along your exposed throat, then sucking hard enough to leave another blooming mark.

"You're soaking my hand already" he murmurs, a teasing lilt in his voice. there's that faint mocking edge, but it's wrapped in affection. "so pathetic for me… dripping just because i'm touching you. my sweet, needy girl."

His free hand trails up your body, cupping one of your breasts and squeezing it firmly.

He rolls your nipple between his fingers, tugging gently, then harder, watching your face the entire time. when your breathing gets louder, he raises his hand from your chest and presses his palm tighter over your mouth.

"Shh… quiet, baby." his eyes are dark, intense, but there's a soft glint of possessiveness and care in them. "these sounds are only for me."

He keeps fingering you like that for a long time—slow, deep pumps, scissoring his fingers occasionally to stretch you more, his thumb never stopping its lazy torture on your clit.

His mouth stays on your neck and collarbones, sucking and licking, painting your skin with fresh hickeys that will be hard to hide tomorrow.

Every time your hips try to chase his hand faster, he stills his movements completely until you whimper in protest against his palm.

"Stop moving" he says softly, almost sweetly, but with clear dominance. "let me play with you."

You nod desperately, tears of frustration and pleasure already gathering in your eyes. Sunghoon notices and kisses the corner of your eye, surprisingly tender for how roughly his fingers are stretching you.

"So good..." he praises, voice dropping even lower. "look at how well you take my fingers… so tight and warm. i could do this for hours."

He finally pulls his hand away, but only to bring his glistening fingers to your lips. "clean them."

You obey immediately, sucking his fingers into your mouth with pathetic eagerness, tasting yourself on his skin.

Sunghoon watches with hooded eyes, that shy-boy flush barely visible on his cheeks even as his cock strains hard against his sweatpants.

He lets you suck for a while, slowly thrusting his fingers in and out, before pulling them free with a wet pop.

Then he finally guides you fully toward the bed, one arm wrapped securely around your waist.

He lays you down gently on your back, but there's nothing gentle about the way he spreads your legs wide, taking off your shorts and panties, throwing them on the floor, knees now pushed toward your chest.

He settles between them, still fully clothed, and simply looks at you—spread open, marked, flushed and breathing hard.

"So pretty like this" he murmurs, running his hands up your thighs.

He leans down and presses a surprisingly soft kiss right above your clit, then another on your inner thigh. "my pretty girl."

His mouth finally descends, tongue dragging slowly through your folds. he takes his time—licking, sucking, savoring—while two fingers slide back inside you.

The pace remains torturously slow, building the heat in your belly inch by inch. every time you get close, he pulls back slightly, kissing your thigh or your stomach until you calm down, only to start again.

He wants you desperate. he wants you shaking. and he's going to take all night to get you there.

Sunghoon keeps his mouth on you with devastating patience.

His tongue moves in slow, broad strokes through your folds, savoring every taste like he's been starving for it all day. he hums softly against your pussy, the vibration making your thighs twitch.

"Mm… so sweet" he murmurs, lips brushing your clit before he sucks it gently between them. two long fingers slide back and forth inside you, curling lazily as he works you open.

He doesn't rush. every lick, every thrust of his fingers is deliberate, drawing out soft, broken sounds from you that he quickly silences by pressing his free hand over your mouth.

Your eyes water from the overwhelming pleasure and the effort of staying quiet.

He looks up at you from between your legs, dark eyes intense, a faint shy flush on his sharp cheekbones even as he eats you out like he owns you. he adds a third finger slowly, stretching you wider, scissoring them while his tongue flicks steadily over your swollen clit.

Every time your hips try to grind against his face, he pins them down with one strong hand, holding you still. "don't move. just take it." his tone is soft but commanding— that perfect edge that makes you feel completely pathetic and safe at the same time.

He spends long minutes like this, bringing you right to the edge with his mouth and fingers, then pulling back to kiss your inner thighs or suck fresh marks into the sensitive skin there.

When you're shaking, whimpering desperately against his palm, he finally crawls up your body.

Sunghoon kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

His bare chest presses against your breasts as he settles between your spread legs.

Without delay, his hand went to the waistband of his pants, pulling them down and freeing himself.

You can feel his hard cock, heavy and hot, resting against your soaked pussy.

He breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against yours, breathing a little heavier.

One of his large hands cups your face with surprising tenderness while the other guides his cock to your entrance, rubbing the thick head up and down your slit.

"Look at me" he whispers.

The moment your eyes meet his, he pushes in — slow, steady, inch by inch.

The stretch is intense. he's big, and the size difference always makes you feel small and overwhelmed in the best way.

A broken moan tries to escape, but he covers your mouth instantly with his hand, eyes darkening.

"Shh… that's it. take all of me" he breathes, voice rough with restraint. "fuck, such a good little slut for my cock."

He bottoms out and stays there, buried to the hilt, letting you adjust while he leans down to suck one of your nipples into his mouth.

He plays with your breasts greedily — squeezing, kneading, biting and sucking hard enough to leave dark marks all over the soft flesh.

His hips start moving in slow, deep, rolling thrusts, not fast yet, but powerful. each stroke drags against every sensitive spot inside you.

Sunghoon keeps one hand over your mouth the entire time, muffling every whimper and moan while the other braces beside your head.

His gaze never leaves your face, watching every expression with that intense focus.

"You're dripping everywhere, baby… making such a mess on my cock" he groans quietly, picking up the pace just a little. "so wet you get for me. my perfect, desperate girl."

The position feels intimate and filthy at the same time.

He leans down to kiss and bite your neck, adding more marks, while his hips snap harder.

The sound of skin meeting skin starts to fill the room— wet and rhythmic. he hooks one of your legs over his waist, driving even deeper, grinding against your clit with every thrust.

When your walls start clenching around him, he chokes out a quiet curse and wraps his hand gently around your throat, applying light pressure. "cum for me. let me feel this pussy squeeze my cock."

You shatter hard, eyes rolling back, body shaking beneath him.

He doesn't stop. he fucks you through it, slow and deep, drawing out every second of your orgasm until you're trembling and overstimulated.

But Sunghoon isn't done.

He pulls out suddenly, flips you onto your stomach with strong hands, and pulls your hips up roughly.

This isn't the soft, loving version. he grips your hips hard, fingers digging into your skin, and slams back inside you in one brutal thrust.

The new angle makes you cry out, and he immediately reaches forward to cover your mouth again, muffling the sound as he starts fucking you hard. skin slapping against skin echoes loudly in the bedroom— wet, filthy, relentless.

"That's it… take it" he growls, voice low and strained. one hand stays clamped over your mouth while the other spanks your ass sharply, the sting blooming hot across your skin.

He does it again, harder, then grips your hips with both hands and pounds into you.

The thrusts are deep and punishing, his cock dragging against every spot that makes your mind go blank. he spreads your cheeks slightly, thumb teasing your tight hole with light pressure— just enough to make you clench harder around him.

"So fucking pretty… creaming all over me again already" he pants, that mocking tone mixing with raw lust. "you love when i use you like this, don't you?"

He keeps the brutal pace, hips snapping forward so hard the sound of skin-on-skin is almost obscene. his hands stay locked on your hips, pulling you back onto his cock with every thrust, completely controlling the rhythm.

No soft kisses on your back, no gentle touches— just raw, overwhelming possession.

"Mhng… listen to that" he groans, voice low and rough. "hear how wet your pussy is for me? greedy little thing."

He spanks you again, the sharp crack of his palm against your ass echoing.

You moan helplessly into the mattress, but he slowly leans forward, clamping his large hand over your mouth and nose for a second, smothering the sound.

"Quiet" he hisses near your ear, that cold, slightly mocking tone sending shivers down your spine. "you know i don't like it when you get loud. be a good girl and take it silently."

He straightens again, both hands returning to your hips.

The angle is brutal — his thick cock stretching you wide, hitting so deep it makes your eyes water. the size difference hits you hard; he feels enormous like this, splitting you open with every snap of his hips.

Sunghoon spreads your ass with both hands, thumbs digging into the flesh as he watches his cock disappear inside you.

He spanks you again, harder this time, then reaches around to slap the side of your breast for good measure. without warning, he pulls out completely, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing.

"On your back again."

You obey shakily. The moment you're spread open again, he’s between your legs, shoving back inside in one rough thrust.

Missionary again, but far less gentle this time. he folds you nearly in half, your knees pushed to your chest as he drives into you with deep, punishing strokes.

The overstimulation is starting to build. you've already cum once, but he doesn't slow down.

His hips snap relentlessly, cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. sweat glistens on his toned chest and sharp collarbones. that pretty face is focused and intense, eyes locked on yours as he fucks you stupid.

"You're going dumb already, huh?" he teases, voice breathy but still in control. "eyes all glassy… my perfect girl. can't even think when my cock's inside you."

The overwhelming sensation — choking, silenced, stuffed full — sends you spiraling into another orgasm. your walls flutter and squeeze around him violently, but he keeps thrusting through it, fucking you even harder.

"That's it… cum on my cock again. make a mess."

He doesn't stop. the overstimulation turns blinding. your body shakes, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes as he keeps pounding into you, deep and raw, unprotected in the best way.

Finally, he pulls out and sits on the edge of the bed, stroking his glistening cock. "Come here. mouth"

You crawl to him on shaky limbs, pathetic and eager. Sunghoon threads his fingers through your hair, guiding you down. You take him into your mouth, tasting yourself all over him.

He groans quietly, head tilting back for a moment before he looks down at you again.

"Hm… use those pretty hands too."

You wrap both hands around the thick base — your hands obvious how small they look around him — stroking what you can't fit fully in your mouth.

He fucks your throat with controlled thrusts, he groans when you gag too loudly.

"Fuck… your mouth feels too good."

Sunghoon's voice is low and strained as he watches you work him with your mouth and hands. you pull back just enough to look up at him, lips shiny and swollen, breathing heavily.

"I want you so bad, Hoon…" you whisper, voice shaky with desperation. "please… i need you inside me again."

He lets out a soft, mocking chuckle, but his eyes are dark with lust. one large hand cups your jaw almost tenderly before he pulls you up.

"Then take what you want" he says, lying back against the pillows. "ride me. show me how pathetic you are for my cock."

You crawl over him eagerly, straddling his hips.

Your hand tremble slightly as you wrap it around his thick length — the size difference making your stomach flutter.

Sunghoon watches you with that intense gaze, hands resting on your thighs at first, letting you take control for the moment.

You line him up and sink down slowly, gasping at the stretch. "Ah— fuck, you're so big…" you moan, biting your lip hard.

Sunghoon's jaw tightens, his hands sliding up to grip your waist.

Once he's fully seated inside you again, you pause.

He reaches up, grabbing your breasts roughly and squeezing them, thumbs flicking over your sensitive nipples.

Then he pulls you down toward him, sucking one nipple into his mouth hard, teeth grazing the skin as he leaves another dark mark.

You start moving, rolling your hips in slow, deep circles at first. the pleasure builds quickly, and soon you're bouncing on him, hands braced on his toned chest.

"Hoon… feels so good" you whimper, trying to keep your voice down. "you're so deep like this…"

His eyes flash with that mocking edge even as he thrusts up to meet you. "you sound like such a slut when you get loud."

You moan against his palm, the muffled sound making him twitch inside you.

You ride him harder, the wet sounds of your bodies meeting filling the room. sunghoon's free hand spanks your ass sharply, then again, the sting pushing you closer.

"Faster" he demands, voice rough. "ride me like you mean it. show me how much you missed my cock."

You obey, bouncing faster, thighs burning. he keep playing with your breasts greedily, sucking and biting them while you move.

"Look at me" he orders. your eyes meet his and the intensity makes you clench hard around him. "…creaming all over me. my needy little slut."

The overstimulation hits as you cum hard on his cock, body shaking. Sunghoon doesn't let you slow down.

He grips your hips with both hands and starts thrusting up into you roughly from below, fucking you through your orgasm.

"Don't stop" he growls. "you're not done yet."

After a few more moments, you switch into reverse cowgirl, back facing him.

He pulls your hips down and immediately starts guiding you, spanking your ass hard as you ride him. his thumb teases your ass again, pressing in slightly while you move.

"Fuck, this view…" he mutters, voice thick. "such a pretty, ruined pussy taking me so well."

You brace your hands on his thighs, moving desperately. "Hoon— i can't… it's too much…" you whimper.

"Yes you can" he says, almost sweetly, but his thrusts are brutal. "you're going to cum again for me."

He reaches around to rub your clit, never stopping the rough pace.

Another orgasm crashes over you, leaving you trembling and overstimulated. leaving his cock creamy again.

Sunghoon flips you onto your side, spooning you from behind. He hooks one of your legs over his and slides back in, fucking you with deep, grinding strokes while one hand covers your mouth.

"You're shaking so much" he murmurs against your neck, biting down to leave another mark.

Sunghoon finally reaches his limit. he pulls you up against his chest, one hand covering your mouth as he fucks you with short, devastating thrusts.

"Gonna fill you up" he rasps against your ear. "take all my cum, baby.."

With a low, strained groan he buries himself to the hilt and cums hard, pulsing deep inside you. you feel every hot spurt as he fills you, grinding slowly to push it deeper while he rides out his orgasm.

He stays buried inside you for a long moment, breathing heavily against your neck, body trembling slightly from the intensity.

Sunghoon's grip slowly loosens. the rough dominance melts away as he carefully pulls out of you and turns you gently onto your back.

He looks exhausted — eyes heavy, shoulders slumped, the long day finally catching up to him now that the tension has been drained from his body.

"Come here..." he whispers, voice hoarse and soft.

He pulls you into his arms, cradling you against his chest with surprising tenderness. one hand strokes your back in slow, soothing circles while the other gently wipes the tears from your cheeks.

"You okay?" he asks quietly, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your temples, and the marks he left on your neck. "i was pretty rough tonight… but fuck, i needed that. needed you."

You nod weakly, curling deeper into him. "i'm okay… just sensitive."

He hums in understanding and reaches for the water bottle, helping you take small sips before cleaning you up with a warm towel. His touches are feather-light now, careful around every hickey.

"You did so well for me" he murmurs, that shy, gentle side fully returning. "always waiting for me… always taking everything i give you."

He pulls the blanket over both of you and holds you close, legs tangled together. the exhaustion is clear on his face — eyes already half-closed, body heavy and relaxed against yours.

"Today was endless" he admits softly, nuzzling into your hair. "but now… i'm more than satisfied. i can finally rest."

His fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin as his breathing slows. "stay right here with me" he whispers, already drifting off. "don't move. i've got you."

Within minutes, Sunghoon is fast asleep — completely spent, satisfied, and peaceful with you safe in his arms.

And he wasn't idly tapping his fingers before. He was tapping along to the beat.

"You're singing along?" He asks before he can stop himself.

Steve looks up, a faint smile on his handsome face. "It's not too bad."

"Not too--Not too bad." Eddie's nearly screeching. Can't wrap his mind around Steve--"You've been listening to Metallica on your own? You've been--you--" He jumps to his feet, notebook spilling onto the floor. Steve's just looking up at him with big eyes and a gentle grin.

"Sure, Munson. You like it, yeah?"

He nods, mutely, unsure how he so thoroughly lost the plot that Steve's been listening to Metallica just because Eddie likes it.

"Got a taste for any other metal bands I should know about, Harrington?" He flops down on the bed, making Steve bounce a little.

"Well, Dio's pretty okay."

This time Eddie does really, actually shriek.

---

Eddie swans into the kitchen to greet Steve, who's already lounging on the couch with a beer. There's another one on the coffee table, waiting for Eddie.

"Just helped yourself, Harrington?" He teases.

Steve shoots him a look. "Wayne grabbed them before he left. What the hell took you so long?"

He can't say it's because he wanted to look nice with Steve coming over, even if they are just getting high and watching movies. Of course taming his hair took so long that he didn't have time to find a shirt, and Steve's knock at the door had him grabbing the first thing he could and jamming it over his head.

"You want chips?" He asks.

"Wait--Eddie--" Steve stands, pointing at Eddie's chest.

"What?"

"That's my--oh my god, I've been looking for that."

And, well, he had thought it was a little strange that the t-shirt he grabbed was gray. He pulls at the fabric, stares at the upside down Hawkins Tiger with a basketball in its mouth.

"It's my favorite sleep shirt. I thought Robin took it and you--"

Eddie's face heats. Steve's shirt. Of course. Steve stayed over one movie night, forgot the shirt, and Eddie. Well. He was going to give it back, but--

"Here, man, my bad." He goes to pull the hem over his head. "I didn't know it was your favorite."

"Nah," Steve says. He's sitting back on the couch. "You should keep it. You look really--" he pauses and takes a sip of beer. "It's nice on you, Munson."

He's sure his blush is a horrendous thing to witness, has to fight the urge to hide in his hands. "Right. Uh. Chips!" He whirls towards the cabinets, refusing to think about the matching pink stripes across Steve's cheeks.

---

"C'mon, Munson, you're hogging the covers." Steve's sleepy mumble cuts through the dawn quiet.

"Mmph," Eddie groans. Rubs the soles of his feet against Steve's shins.

"You're a dick," Steve grumbles. He shimmies closer, which is what finally does the job at fully waking Eddie.

"Wha--huh?" He blinks.

"You stole the blankets, man. If you're not going to share, the least you can do is cuddle."

"Uhh." Eddie is sure he's dreaming, but Steve's warm, strong arm slips around his waist, pulls them together.

Eddie doesn't know what to do. Where he should put his body. Does he relax into it? What do his arms do? They're not usually this rigid, right? But what do they do when he's sleeping? Somewhere in his gay panic, he has the presence of mind to grab the edge of the blanket and throw it over his friend.

"Better?" He asks. His voice is all wrong but maybe Steve will attribute it to tiredness.

"Mmm." Steve's grip tightens around his waist, his nose nuzzling against the nape of Eddie's neck. His breathing is already slow and deep.

Eddie can't imagine sleep finding him anytime soon. Not when Steve, his crush, his best friend, is holding him like this. Not when he now knows what the real thing would be like. Not when it's so impossibly out of his grasp.

---

Steve and Wayne are watching a Cub's game. Eddie's curled up on the couch between them, trying to work on a sketch, but his brain keeps skipping to a song he's writing. The lyrics have been easy, coming to him like nothing, but the melody...he wants it to be heavy, loud, wanting, but it won't fit.

He glances up at Steve, chatting with Wayne about some baseball thing called a ribee. His hair's not done, flopping softly around his forehead, and he's wearing his result-of-too-many-concussions glasses, the yellow sweater from that horrific boat ride, retrieved by one of the kids and painstakingly washed by Karen Wheeler.

Steve looks sweet, soft, relaxed. He laughs at something Wayne says, and Eddie's a lost cause. He's just fucking smiling at the pretty boy on his couch, hanging out with his uncle, too far gone to be able to fight it.

A melody forms in his head, and it's soft. Not sweet, no, but gentle. Almost tender. Nothing like he imagined.

---

It's early, early enough that Wayne's not home yet, but he got tired of trying to sleep. Didn't want to bother Steve, who still softly snored in Eddie's bedroom. So, he grabs his acoustic and his notebook, goes out to the couch to work on the song. It's coming along, really good, one of his best. He hasn't shared it with the guys yet. It's--he's not ready, lays him too bare.

There's a clatter from the kitchen, Steve's voice, deep and sleep rough, says, "Hey, Munson."

He pushes the guitar and notebook aside. "Did I wake you? I was trying to be quiet, I'll--"

Steve shakes his head, pads into the living room. He's wearing the yellow sweater, a pair of Eddie's sweatpants, bedhead rampant. He curls up next to Eddie, pulling the couch afghan over his feet. "What're you working on?"

Eddie's ears get hot. "Nothing much. New song I've been noodling on."

"Cool." Steve's smile is little and fond. "Play it for me?"

"Ahh," Eddie says. His hand twitches around the neck of the guitar. "Not sure if it's quite ready for that."

"Oh, yeah." Steve nods. His face does something weird and squiggly that Eddie's never seen. "Just never heard you play before. Thought now might be...you know."

Eddie swallows, hard. "Well, maybe we'll get a show up at the Hideout soon."

"Of course. It's just--this is just you."

He blinks at Steve for a few long seconds, can't believe he's about to do this, but--It's not like Steve will know it's about him, anyway. "It's not a full song yet, alright? Just a verse and half of a chorus, so like. Don't judge it too hard."

"I would never." He can sense Steve's smile but can't look directly at it, knows it would kill him.

He situates the guitar, spins the notebook to read the lyrics like they aren't already burned into his brain, starts to play. His fingers are deft and sure, his voice a little rough, a little raspy with nerves.

The song ends and he's afraid to look at Steve, to see the thoughts written plane on his face. The silence extends, though, and he asks. "So, what did you think?"

"It's--that wasn't what I expected." Steve's voice is weird. Wobbly. Eddie chances half a glance at him, but can't make anything definitive out from his expression. "I didn't think--that's not the kind of music I thought you made."

He licks his lips, swallows. Puts his guitar down. "It's not usually."

"It was a love song." Steve says. His eyes burn into Eddie's.

He can't say anything for seconds that seem to span minutes. "Yeah, Steve," he says in a voice cut with gravel. "It's a love song."

"Eddie," Steve whispers. He reaches out then, thumb tracing along Eddie's jaw, the scars that linger there from the bats. "Is this okay?" He can only nod as Steve's hand twines through his curls.

He's shaking, just a little bit, not because he's inexperienced but because this is Steve, because it's happening, because their lips are meeting and a trembling noise falls from his mouth at the sweet way Steve kisses him.

It's gentle and quick, but they don't part when the kiss ends, stay sharing air as their foreheads rest together. Eddie can't stop smiling.

"Please tell me I'm not dreaming, Stevie" he whispers.

"You dream about me?" Steve asks, eyes blazing.

"I wrote a song about you, and you think dreams are a reach?"

Steve laughs, brushes a kiss against the tip of Eddie's nose. "I loved the song."

"Yeah?"

"Can't wait to hear the whole thing."

"Well, stick around for a while."

Serving: Frigid

The thermometer in the hallway of Savanaclaw read a temperature that was, frankly, disrespectful.

Usually, the dorm was maintained at a balmy, desert-like heat. But the winter storm raging outside had managed to seep through the ancient stone walls, turning the air crisp and—dare you say it—frigid.

You walked into Leona’s room, carrying the textbooks he had supposedly requested (ordered) you to bring.

"Leona? I have the magical history notes. Ruggie said you were..."

You stopped. The room was dark. The curtains were drawn tight. And Leona Kingscholar was nowhere to be seen.

Instead, there was a massive, lumpy mountain of furs and quilts in the center of his bed.

"Leona?" you asked, stepping closer to the pile.

A low, vibrating growl emanated from the depths of the bedding.

"Go away," a muffled voice grumbled. "Or set the room on fire. Those are your options."

"It's not that cold," you laughed, setting the books on his desk. "It's just a little brisk. Come on, you have class in twenty minutes."

The mountain shifted. A single hand—dark-skinned, clawed, and looking searching—shot out from beneath the duvet. It grabbed your wrist with surprising speed and accuracy.

"Cold," Leona hissed, his head finally popping out from the nest. His hair was a mess, his ears were flattened against his head, and he looked genuinely miserable. "It is freezing. My blood is turning to slush. I am not going to class. I am going into hibernation."

"Leona, you're being dramatic. You're a lion, not a reptile."

"Shut up," he snapped, tugging on your arm. "You. You were outside. Are you cold?"

"A little, but—"

"Wrong," he interrupted. He tugged harder, effectively unbalancing you. You yelped as you tumbled onto the mattress. Before you could scramble up, Leona had flipped the heavy duvet over you, trapping you in the dark, warm cocoon with him.

"You," he grumbled, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you flush against his chest, "are warm. You walked here. You generated heat. I am claiming it."

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, letting out a long, contented sigh that rattled in his chest. His skin was burning hot—he was a furnace himself—but he acted as if he were freezing to death.

"Leona! I can't stay! I have things to do!" you protested, though you stopped struggling. It was incredibly warm in there.

"Cancel them," he mumbled against your skin. "It's a blizzard. Society has collapsed. We are prioritizing survival."

He threw a heavy leg over yours, effectively pinning you down. It was the Lion Trap. There was no escape.

"You're just using me as a hot water bottle," you accused, poking his arm in the dark.

"Yeah," he agreed shamelessly, his tail curling around your ankle under the covers. "And a pillow. You're multi-purpose. Now stop moving. You're letting the cold air in."

He squeezed you tighter, his breathing already slowing down as he drifted back to sleep.

"If you leave," he threatened sleepily, "I'll bite you."

You sighed, relaxing into his hold. The wind howled outside the window, battering the glass, but under the mountain of furs, pressed against the solid, steady warmth of the second prince, the frigid air couldn't touch you.

"Fine," you whispered. "Five minutes."

"Two hours," Leona corrected. "Wake me up when it's spring."

A "dish" served with heavy blankets and zero productivity! The kitchen is pleased to present this House Special.

She gazed up at the ceiling of her bed, smiling proudly at her work. Her evening had been spent gazing up, painting stars across the wood with the little white paint the steward had provided her. It were as if she was gazing up at a clear night sky. Here, in Kings Landing, the lights were too bright, the stars could be hardly seen. This was a special, private project of hers that maybe a daughter one day would view. A son even. As she gazed, her eyes began to feel heavy, welcoming her to sleep with open arms. That familiar door squeak echoed through her room, though at first she thought she had imagined it. It had been four, five days maybe since the last time. She rolled onto her side, more curious than fearful now, as the footsteps sounded across the stone floor.

She blew out her candle beside her bed and sat up slowly, recognising Daeron's silhouette once again. The messed hair, uneasy footing. He fumbled at his belt, trying to remove his clothing.

"Gods, these fucking th-ings." He huffed, as she felt his eyes on her suddenly. "Could you light that candle? I can't see a thing now."

"What are you doing?" She whispered, ready to leave her bed to help him.

"I'm trying to undress, Princess." He had a remarkable distaste for titles, the concept was absurd to him.

She knew it was most illicit. Of course it was. A Prince and Princess, both unmarried, could not behave in such a manner. Even just being in her chamber at night unsupervised. And what if her maid had caught them? Daeron was most troubled. He was Maekar's eldest son, and his behaviour had not been unpleasant like that of Aerion, but still off-putting to say the least. Lady's had come and gone. Tourney's, hastilude's, name-day's, coronations. All over the recent years. Maekar was at odd's with his sons, and for the time being directed his effort to Aerion. She had heard her name float through conversations. It echoed through the hall's, through the wood of the doors that Maekar and her father had closed on her.

Daeron was no fighter; he could not win a battle even against a puny belt. She slipped out of her bed finally, in just her thin gown, too impatient to watch him struggle further. As pathetic as it was, it seemed the darkness was the issue tonight. Not the wine.

"I'm surprised to see you this sober." She whispered. "It's late, is it not? Did I sleep through to lunch?" Her tone was not cutting, rather sarcastic.

Daeron smiled down at her as she unhooked the lapel he was struggling to sort. Her usually half-braided hair was fully loose and swathed over her shoulders. Through the dark, streaks of platinum hair emerged. With each full moon passing, more platinum appeared. Not grey, but bright platinum. In no time she would appear like her cousins, not her brothers. Not her mother, nor her father.

Where had this sense of humour come from? He wondered. Once the belt was free from his waist, he pulled off his black and red velvet tunic without further assistance. She stepped back and lit the candle on the table nearest to them.

"Surprised as I am," He exhaled, rolling his shoulders back until something clicked. "It came to mind last night, truth be told."

"And what was that?" She asked after a moment's silence, as he began removing his boots she climbed back into bed.

In the silence, as she realised he was removing his nightshirt she turned away from Daeron, resting onto her side. She felt vulgar for watching, but equally wanted to watch him move. There was a thud of clothing dropping to the floor and she glanced over her shoulder, sensing Daeron shuffle around the bed in just his briefs, his torso bare. He collapsed, initially on top of the sheets, with a long sigh, before pulling them up over his body. She turned to face him as he finally settled, brushing his arm mistakenly.

"You're cold." She whispered. "How can you be cold?"

Daeron blinked slowly at her, raising his eyebrows. Gods only know. He was tormented in his dreams, like a stranger wandering in another realm. When he was awake, he was plagued by what he had seen, what he thought he had seen, trying to make sense of it as much as he could. Dreams. His temperature barely mattered to him. She found her hands seeking his under the covers, gently touching him to see how he reacted.

It had been several nights since he had shared her bed last. She had counted each night, painfully, unable to fall asleep. After two she gave up wondering, she accepted it would never happen again. His drunken mistake. Three, she forgot what it had even felt like to begin with. Even convincing herself, it too was a dream. A torturous teasing.

"So?" She whispered, her hand gently moving across his to remind him her hands were still there.

"So." Daeron repeated, his bottom lip falling gently in thought. "I realised. I had the best night's sleep when I was here last."

She felt her chest tense and her hand ceased, remaining as it were. Her breathing became slow, laboured, as she became consumed by her thoughts. So he had not regretted it, he had not made an error.

"I forgot what it felt like actually." Daeron mumbled as he gazed at her face curiously. "That comfort."

There were parts of her he could see the family in. The streaks of platinum hair, the pigment of brown in the violet of her eyes. Daeron had always noticed that the touch of flame didn't bother her at all; picking up hot pots, cups, playing with candles, the flame, retrieving things from the fire was no bother to her, much like picking something out of one's hair. She never made a fuss over it, she never burnt herself. Fire was just like any other element to her. Fire never bothered a true Dragon.

"You know I would be struck on the back if Uncle found out." She gazed down at his body then back up to his face.

She closed her eyes as she felt Daeron's hand caress hers. She wondered where this path lead, though it had just started, how much longer could it go on for? It had only been the second time, but The Anvil swung heavy. It took one whisper for word to get across to him. Then to her father. It would be harder on her than Daeron most like.

"I would be sent away if they knew this was happening."

"No, no." He squeezed her hands then ran his thumbs against her inner wrists. He pulled them in to rest against his hairy chest. "Aerion is taking up the little attention he has for us all..Has he-" Daeron paused, about to ask but something stopped him in that moment.

She waited for him to finish, the words oscillating on the tip of his tongue. His steely gaze locked with hers. Those exhausted but welcoming eyes, almost boring into her. The dimple in his chin twitched.

"Cousin." He breathed as if he had been holding his breath.

She had not noticed him leaving the last time he had slept in her chamber, disappearing before she woke. She could not know for certain if it had done him any good, but she knew in herself that her sleep was more peaceful, she felt more rested in his company than another cousins'. Daeron's body had warmed.

"Has he come to your chamber?" He finally asked; he knew what his younger brother was capable of. He had tormented even Egg, she was no exception.

"Who?" She asked and then understood. "No. I pray to Gods he does not."

"Understandable. Maybe you should start sleeping with a dagger between your thighs." He spoke softly, and in that moment she felt his words as if his tongue were dragging along her neck.

"What makes you think I don't already?" She asked, noticing his steely eyes slightly widen at the idea.

Daeron hesitated to speak for a moment, his eyes glancing curiously down her body, covered in the sheets.

"You don't." He was unconvinced, his eyes flickering down her body again, wondering if she kept one clandestine on her bod. Daeron wondered where she kept it. When she had slipped out of bed to help him, he could make out the silhouette of her body beneath her thin gown. There would have been no room for a dagger. He imagined inspecting her soft body to be sure, patting down her curves, her inner thighs, but blinked it out of his imagination.

"You tease me. In my vulnerable state." He sighed unseriously, still holding her hands flat at his hairy chest by his own accord; he no longer shivered, he no longer trembled, sweated.

"Then again, it is Aerion. Maybe not a dagger needed, but a sword for protection." Dareon raised his eyebrows in thought.

"I would borrow yours, seldomly used." She whispered and he laughed softly through his nose.

"Indeed. I have no interest in it. Not like like Egg. Aerion. I'd rather raise a cup of wine."

She struggled to keep her heavy eyes open as he spoke. The tone of his voice like soothing ginger tea, his hands claiming her by keeping her in place at his warm chest.

"If I turn over onto my side, you won't be offended?" She asked. "You're most welcome to continue holding my hands."

"As long as you stay close." Daeron stipulated, releasing her hands reluctantly.

She turned over onto her other side, facing away from him, gathering her hair so it was out of the way. Daeron pulled her back into his torso, his arm wrapping around her chest, as the other arm moved carefully under her neck to support her. She felt his hand brush over her breast slowly, tenderly. Daeron's face nestled into the back of her head, his nose completely consumed by the scent of her recently washed hair.

She was too alert to sleep. Aware Daeron's body was pressed against the back of her's, feeling his hand at her breast, it was all a queer sensation she had never experienced. Intimacy. She looked to the candle and wriggled on the spot, her backside moving slightly back into him.

"Quit your squirming." Daeron sighed. "It's making it harder for me to not have you here right now."

She scoffed at his words and his arm around her tightened. She felt him stiffen at her backside.

"You sound not yourself." Her breathing was shaky, quivering almost.

"Neither do you, trembling like a Fossoway." Daeron teased.

"I am not." She protested quietly, trying to sit up to face him but he held her in place firmly, his fingers tracing the shape of her breast over her nightgown.

Daeron had closed his eyes, taking in her sweet scent, her soft touch. He could feel her nipples stiffen under her gown, her breathing had changed since she had changed positions. Daeron no longer wanted to sleep, but what were they to do now? He could think of a number of things easily.

Sleep with other women, Daeron did not. He was no fighter, but he was indeed a good lover. It wouldn't be long before his father ran out of patience with him, especially with one brother being imposed to the Citadel. It would please Daeron to no end for his Princess to be her. The others were rather a bore.

He opened his mouth to speak but there were no words. She took a deep breath as she moved her backside against his crotch again, and his hand gripped her doughy waist. A soft moan escaped her throat.

"What was that?" He smiled into her hair; he had never heard her make that sound before.

"Was what?" She lied as she opened her eyes, pressing her lips together; it had been totally involuntary.

Daeron did it again; he massaged her waist, just above her hip, and felt her head slightly move into the pillow against his arm. He pushed his hand up into her gown, finally touching her bare skin.

"You're not afraid to touch me." She whispered as his hand ran across her bare stomach, slowly up to each of her breasts.

"And why would I be?" Daeron said. "You act like you've not been touched, Princess."

"Gods," She moaned softly. "I have not. Not like this."

He massaged her hard enough to make her nipples stiff, and just enough to make her hum quietly. Daeron adored the sound; it was sweet and soft, and of total pleasure. His mouth found her neck, gently nuzzling against her skin, his lips kissing her, his tongue rolling across her. She wanted to turn around, and kiss him herself, but the sensation at her neck, like lightning trickling through her body, down her limbs, through her stomach, to her core. An intense heat consumed her. It was desire like she had never experienced before.

Daeron squeezed her chest hard, his entire hand flexing over her breasts and digging his fingers fervently into her skin. She exhaled softly, into a moan, as his tongue ran across the neck of her skin. His hand then moved down her body again, across her stomach, making her flinch from the sensation. Too much of her life had passed without this feeling, this sensation of being held, touched so. And as his hand continued down her body, he stopped at the apex of her legs.

"You're trembling still." Daeron whispered into her neck, his mouth still adoring her.

"I'm cold." She lied, opening her eyes, she focused on the sole candle dancing in the dark.

"You lie. You're never cold." Daeron's breath was hot against her skin as he smiled; her body was growing like a furnace. "Tell me."

Daeron's middle finger found her quick, warm and wet as he had hoped. He slowly grazed her, massaging gently, as he gently guided his finger inside her until she moaned again, sweetly. His arm underneath her neck bent as his hand moved to cover her mouth delicately, as to not suffocate her but to soften the sound. His thumb grazed her bottom lip and cupped the lower half of her face. She felt every movement of his finger inside her, and his thumb gently brushing over her clit.

"You make me nervous." She whispered against his hand and his mouth stopped at her neck, he kissed her loudly and removed his hand from her.

"Does this scare you?" He asked softly and she shook her head gently. "Do you like it?"

She nodded, as his finger inside her moved deeper until she groaned with her lips pressed together.

"Then you have nothing to be nervous about." Daeron sat up, his mouth finding hers and taking over her tongue.

You knew you were sick when Barry stopped teasing you.

No smug remarks. No playful eyebrows. Just soft eyes and the gentlest hands imaginable tucking you into bed like you might dissolve if he moved too fast.

Which was ironic, really.

Because Barry Allen always moved fast.

But not with you.

Not when you were like this—pale, weak, sweating through your pajamas and shivering under three blankets. Not when you could barely lift your head without groaning.

Not when he was scared.

He didn’t say it, of course.

He never did. Not the way most people would.

But you’d been together long enough to know what fear looked like on Barry Allen.

It wasn’t panic. It was quiet.

It was the way he slowed his steps when he walked into your bedroom. The way he held your tea like it was something fragile. The way he’d pressed a hand to your forehead and murmured, “You’re burning up,” and then didn’t let go for five whole minutes.

The way he never left your side without promising, “I’ll be right back.”

Like you’d slip away while he wasn’t looking.

You’re half-asleep when he comes back this time—arms full, hair windblown, still dressed in sweats and a hoodie that definitely wasn’t his when you fell asleep (Cisco’s? Maybe? You’re too feverish to care).

He sets a tray down on your nightstand, all soft clinks and quiet care. You blink up at him, dazed.

“Soup,” he says gently. “Tea. Ginger chews. Two kinds of cough drops. And—” he leans closer, grinning, “a new thermometer. Because I know the old one lies to me.”

You huff a tired laugh. “You bought a new thermometer?”

He shrugs, clearly unrepentant. “I may have stolen it from STAR Labs.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love,” he replies, kneeling beside the bed. “It’s a terminal condition.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart squeezes.

Barry reaches up, brushing his knuckles along your cheek. You lean into his touch instinctively.

“How’s the fever?”

“Still awful.”

He hums, reading your face. “Headache?”

You nod.

“Sore throat?”

You nod again.

He kisses your forehead softly, then mumbles, “Don’t move.”

Before you can ask why, he’s gone.

Gone-gone. Speedster blur gone.

You blink. He’s back three seconds later holding—

“A cool rag,” he says proudly, tucking it behind your neck like he’s just performed a miracle. “Dampened to exactly 74°F.”

You squint at him.

“I used my watch,” he explains.

You sigh. “You’re gonna set the bar so high for other men it’s gonna mess with the timeline.”

He smirks. “Good. Let them fear me.”

You open your mouth to tease him again but dissolve into a coughing fit. It racks through your chest, makes your eyes water. Barry’s there instantly, hand rubbing slow, soothing circles between your shoulder blades, whispering the whole time:

“I’ve got you. Breathe. I’ve got you.”

And when you finally go still, exhausted and slumped against him, he whispers something even softer.

“I hate seeing you like this.”

You rest your cheek against his collarbone. “I hate feeling like this.”

“I know.”

His arms stay wrapped around you as you drift again, body warm but safe, heart fluttering slow under the press of his.

Barry sits behind you in bed, legs on either side of yours, your blanket-swaddled body resting against his chest like a human marshmallow. You’re tired, overheated, and grumpy, but he’s determined to get you to eat something before you pass out again.

So now? He’s got a spoon in one hand and your hair tucked behind your ear with the other.

“C’mon,” he coaxes gently, bringing the spoon to your lips. “Just one more bite.”

You groan. “No more. I’m a sick little sack of soup now. I’m done.”

“You’ve had, like, six spoonfuls.”

“Which is, like, five more than I wanted.”

He chuckles softly, pressing his nose into your hair. “You’re dramatic.”

“Says the man who sped across town for three brands of cough drops.”

He shrugs. “Your suffering makes me reckless.”

You laugh—quietly. It hurts your throat. But it’s real.

Once he’s finally convinced you to sip some tea, he sets everything aside and settles in again. His arms wrap around you automatically, blanket and all, his hands rubbing lazy circles over your ribs through the fabric.

“Feel a little better?” he asks.

You nod against his shoulder. “Warm. Full. Safe.”

He presses a kiss to the side of your head.

“That’s kinda my whole brand.”

You don’t mean to fall asleep.

You just sort of drift.

Your head tucked under his chin. His hands never leaving you. The sound of his heartbeat steady in your ear, rhythmic and grounding.

And in that hazy, half-conscious space between dreaming and waking, you murmur:

“I think I wanna marry you.”

It’s soft. So soft you almost don’t hear it yourself.

But Barry goes still.

You’re too far gone to notice—eyes closed, breath even, fever making the world heavy and slow.

But he hears it.

He feels it.

And god, he’s never been so in love with anything in his life.

He holds you a little tighter. Presses a kiss to your temple. And whispers, almost inaudibly:

You weren’t much more energetic about your entrance, throwing your coat next to his and moving to slump against the circular console.

“Can we please take a break from the running?”

“We haven’t been running that much,” he groaned, though you could tell he was thinking the same thing. He might have ‘superior Time Lord biology’, but he was clearly as tired as you were. Maybe there was a limit to the running he could do.

“Daleks, New New York, then that weird Bio-tech company, followed by the literal end of the universe, and wrap it all up with diamond rain on Saturn.”

“Suppose there has been a lot of running,” the Doctor grumbled again, admitting defeat. “How about a day or two of rest? Get some sleep and relax a bit?”

You nodded, glad he finally understood what you were trying to say. All you wanted was to sleep for at least 8 hours uninterrupted. Ideally, 12 hours.

“Don’t fall asleep in that chair,” you scold, noticing how he already appeared to be half asleep, “you’ll get back pain and then you’ll be insufferable. Go to bed, I know you have one somewhere.”

The Doctor grumbled, not bothering to form a full and coherent sentence. You kicked his leg, not hard enough to truly hurt him, just enough to get him out of the chair. He grumbled again and sat up in the chair, stretching his slender arms above his head.

“I won’t.”

“Promise?”

He nodded, already looking slightly more alert. Slightly. Satisfied that he wasn’t going to fall asleep, you decided to head off to your bedroom.

You walked slowly down one of the numerous, winding halls of the TARDIS. You’d walked to your room hundreds, if not thousands, of times by now. You knew exactly where it was, and it wasn’t there. In the space where your door would normally be was… nothing. You tapped around the wall, wondering if perhaps the Doctor replaced your normal door with some kind of seamless door mechanism.

When the wall didn’t yield you let out a frustrated grunt, “What did you do?” you asked the TARDIS, resting your hands on the smooth surface of her walls. The wall was cold to the touch, colder than usual that is. Normally, you felt something when you touched her. The best way you could describe it was a presence. But, at the moment, you felt nothing.

Aggravated, you sulked your way back to the control room.

“Where is my room?” you glared at the Doctor, hands on your hips. Normally, you’d play along. Hide his Sonic Screwdriver or coat somewhere he couldn’t find it. This time, you were far too tired to humor him.

“What d’ya mean?” the Doctor frowned in confusion. “Did you get lost in the hallways again?”

“No, I know where my own room is and it’s not there!”

The Doctor’s frown deepened as he got up from his seat, brushing past you and into the hallway. He took long strides down the corridor, stopping in front of where your room normally was. He slipped his glasses out of his inner pocket, sliding the specs onto the bridge of his nose. His head tilted to the side as his hands ran over the smooth wall, examining the space with his characteristic curiosity.

“Did you do this?”

“What? No, why would I steal your room?” He peered over his shoulder, almost offended that you would suggest such a thing.

“You’ve done weirder things,” you argued, crossing your arms.

“Name one,” the Doctor challenged, mirroring your defensive stance.

“The time you put a pigeon in my shower,” you responded immediately, not needing time to think about weird things the Time Lord had done. It was one of the things you liked best about him, he was constantly strange. It made things fun, but it could also make things incredibly aggravating.

“He needed a bath. Have you met pigeons? They’re filthy.”

“Wash your pigeons in your own shower!”

“That's… that’s not the point here,” he mumbled, clearly deflecting the conversation. “Your room is missing.”

“I noticed,” you deadpanned, not looking away from him. “Can I have it back?”

“I told you, I didn’t take it.” The Doctor threw his hands up defensively.

“Rooms don’t just walk away,” you say, glaring at him. By now, your irritation was bordering on anger. All you wanted to do was fall into your soft bed and not leave until this exhaustion wore off, but you needed a bed to do that.

“Maybe the TARDIS sorted it away,” he shrugged. As if accentuating his point, the TARDIS let out a soft hum. You weren’t even sure it was real at first, maybe it was just the air conditioning kicking on.

“Did she just…?”

The Doctor nodded, confirming your theory that the TARDIS had responded to him. What reason did she have for storing your room away? You were about 98% sure that you still lived on the ship.

“Is this her way of kicking me out?” The TARDIS let out another hum, this one in clear disapproval. Not kicking you out, then.

You let out a small sigh of relief. You’d never admit it, but you had never felt more at home anywhere else in your life. Realistically, that wasn’t because of the TARDIS. It was the Doctor, he could make any place feel like home to you.

“Well then, can I have my room back please?” you asked the TARDIS

The corridor was silent. In fact, the whole ship was silent, if that was even possible.

Something you learned early on in your travels with the Doctor was that the TARDIS was the one really in charge. What she says goes. Always. It doesn’t matter if you were promised a beach vacation and ended up in the middle of winter in Victorian England. And it most certainly didn’t matter if you wanted a bedroom or not. She was a force to be reckoned with, and you respected that.

“I’ll sleep on the couch in the library, we can deal with this in the morning.” You decided it was easier to just let the TARDIS work through whatever tantrum or scheme she was cooking up. Sometimes when traveling with the Doctor it was better to just go with the flow - and that didn’t just apply to ship malfunctions or sleeping arrangements.

You trudged down the corridor, heading for the vast library. It really was an impressive library, even better than the one in Beauty and the Beast. Shelves lined the walls and extended up high for multiple stories. It was easy to get lost in the room because it was so large. Most of the time you just asked the TARDIS for directions if you needed a specific book. Mostly, you just used it as a calm and quiet place to take a break between your chaotic adventures with the Doctor.

Usually, there were at least three couches in the room at a time. Your favorite was a mustard yellow, not a particularly nice color (especially for a couch), but it was beyond comfortable. The issue was that the couch wasn’t there. Furthermore, there wasn’t any couch in the large room.

“Doctor!” you call out loudly, staring blankly at the space where there should be a couch. There were small circles on the wood where the legs of the couch would normally sit, leading you to assume that you weren’t going crazy. The TARDIS had stolen your room and now your favorite couch.

“What’s the issue now?” the Doctor grumbled, rubbing his face tiredly as he strode into the library. He came to a standstill next to you, staring at the empty floor with equal confusion.

“She got rid of the couch.”

“I can see that,” the Doctor said, his eyebrows raising in interest.

“I’m exhausted, I'm grumpy, and I just want to sleep,” you whisper urgently, almost on the verge of tears. It felt silly to be upset over such a small thing, but you were beyond tired. Your brain was functioning on sheer willpower and that was quickly running out.

“I know, I know,” the Doctor whispered sympathetically, gently lifting your face up to look at him. “Look, you can sleep in my room. She hasn’t taken that.”

“That's where you sleep,” you point out, trying not to show how flustered the endearing touch had made you.

“Normally, yes,” the Doctor smiled slightly, finding your response slightly comical. “It’s a nice bed, though I’m not sure it would matter much to you either way at this point.”

“Where would you sleep?” You frown, knowing that he needs the sleep just as much as you do, even if he would never admit it.

“I don’t need to-” he started but cut off once he saw your glare. “I can sleep in the console room, that chair isn’t really that bad,” he amended.

“You’ll hurt your back, I already told you not to fall asleep there.”

“It’s not like we have any other options,” the Doctor shrugged. It wasn’t that big of a deal to him. He would do anything for you, sleeping on a chair that hurt his back was nothing in comparison.

“I’m not letting you sleep in the chair,” you insisted, crossing your arms defensively. “I’ll sleep in the chair.”

“No one is sleeping in the chair!” the Doctor sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“I could just sleep on the floor, it’s not that big of a deal.”

“No, I’m not letting you do that,” he said seriously.

“What do you propose then?”

“Well… we could…” the Doctor trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. By now, you knew it as one of his many nervous tics. “We could share the bed,” he finally said, his eyes glued to the floor.

“Share your bed?”

The Doctor nodded, still not fully looking at you. At this point, you were too tired to question it, or even really think about it.

“Can we even do that? Are you ok with that?”

“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I wasn’t. As you’re comfortable with it,” he said back, his tone only slightly less panicked. He wasn’t even sure when the last time he shared a bed was.

“Alright,” you whisper with a slight blush.

“I’ve never seen your room,” you add after a few seconds.

“You haven’t?”

You shake your head, “it could be a torture dungeon for all I know.”

“It’s- it’s not-” he struggled before realizing you were joking. “It’s a normal bedroom,” he whispered, already walking out of the library.

You smile to yourself and follow him down the hall, the only sound the soft tap of your footsteps. His room wasn’t far from where yours would normally be, just a few turns down the hall and to the left. The door was the same blue as the TARDIS, almost identical to the front doors of the ship.

The Doctor opened the door and slipped inside, leaving it ajar so you could follow.

Whatever you had expected when it came to the Doctor’s room, it wasn’t this. Almost every square inch of the place was covered with things. Gadgets and gizmos, rocks, keys, books, alien-looking things, and-

“Is that Starry Night?” you frown, looking at a framed picture leaning against a corner.

“Oh, yeah, Vincent gave that to me,” the Doctor shrugged like he didn’t have one of the most recognizable paintings in all of history on his bedroom floor.

“Isn’t it supposed to be in the MoMa?”

“That one’s fake. Don't tell anyone though, I’m not really supposed to have this one,” the Doctor shrugged, undoing his tie and slipping it off his neck. You tried to not follow the movement with your eyes, the nimble movement of his hands as he undid the knot capturing your attention.

You looked away embarrassed, turning your attention back to the painting. “Did you steal Starry Night?!”

“No, I told you, Vincent gave it to me,” he frowned at you, wondering if the exhaustion was finally getting to you. He had just told you that.

“And you just… decided to keep it on your bedroom floor? Next to your trash can and first editions of Lord Of The Rings?”

“That’s not a trash can, it’s an artifact from B-739. Priceless, don’t touch it.”

“Right, 'cause that’s the priceless item in here that I’m worried about accidentally defacing.”

“If you’re going to bully my possessions, I’m not gonna let you sleep in here,” he grumbled, a pout barely evident on his face.

“I’ll shut up,” you say, looking around the rest of the room. You kept your comments to yourself, instead taking the time to admire the strange collection of things the Doctor kept in his room. It was like a personal museum of all of time and space. That is if the museum prioritized shiny objects and children’s toys from the early ‘90s.

It was all very him, and you couldn't help but feel safe in the room. Sure, you felt safe everywhere on the TARDIS, but this was different. If you could, you would have spent hours scouring every inch, wanting to learn everything you could about the Doctor.

You tugged your attention the the bed. It wasn’t a small bed, but it also wasn’t ridiculously large for one (albeit, strangely tall) Time Lord. The sheets were dark blue silk with a thick woolen blanket on top, also in a matching blue.

“Do you need PJs?” he asked, poking his head out of the closet he was currently in. The doors were a dark oak with a row of ties hanging on the inside of one. The patterns ranged anywhere from solid colors to cartoon characters from your childhood you had forgotten existed. You smiled as your eyes caught on a brightly colored tie with Winnie the Pooh on it.

“Yeah, that would be nice,” you nod, turning your attention back to him. A few moments later he came back into the main room carrying two sets of PJs. You’d only seen the Doctor out of his trademark suit once or twice, for all you knew he just slept in it. Maybe he invented some kind of sleep suit, like a three-piece made entirely out of comfortable knit fabric.

He handed you one set of PJs, a classic striped set. He held in his hands another set, that one also striped, just in a different colorway. You’d never put much thought into what the Doctor wore to bed, but for some reason, this made sense to you.

“Bathroom’s over there,” he tilted his head in the direction of a door in the corner. You took the clothes and made your way over to the room, closing the door gently behind you, the ‘click’ reverberating through the silent space.

There wasn’t anything spectacular about the bathroom. By most standards, it was a perfectly ordinary bathroom. Even still, it’s clear to you who this bathroom belonged to. Various products (mostly ones for hair styling) were scattered across the countertop, but you didn’t feel like it was a mess.

There was a bright, puffy, flower-shaped rug in front of the sink that reminded you of something you might find in a Barbie Dollhouse circa 2002. In contrast, the shower curtain was a bright striped pattern that reminded you of a beach ball. In any other room, the decorations wouldn’t have matched, but knowing this was the Doctor’s doing made it all make sense to you.

You slipped the pajamas on quickly. You looked a little ridiculous in the Doctor’s clothes, like you were playing dress up in his closet. They didn’t fit you perfectly, but that much was expected. Even still, the fabric smelled like the Doctor, leaving you with the aching feeling that he was hugging you. You pressed your nose against the sleeve, breathing in the familiar smell before realizing you were smelling the Time Lord’s pajamas.

You shook yourself out of it and exited the bathroom, poking your head tentatively into the main room. The Doctor was sitting on the bed, having already changed into his PJs. His head turned at the sound of the door, smiling slightly at the sight of you.

“Do y’a need anything else?” he asked.

You shook your head, standing in the doorway awkwardly. Seeing him sitting there, on the bed, made it all seem real. You couldn’t do this. How could you share a bed with the man you had the biggest crush on ever?

“I- well, I can’t-” you stammered, trying to put your thoughts into words. Your brain was tired and panicking, the combination leaving you unable to fully express anything. “I can just sleep on the floor.”

“I’m not letting you sleep on the floor, just get in the bed.”

You shift anxiously, tugging at the sleeve of the PJs he gave you. There was no way to explain it to him without admitting your feelings. It was a double-edged sword. Or maybe it was paradoxical. It didn’t really matter.

Begrudgingly, you slide under the covers next to him. You lay like a corpse, your hands firmly tucked at your side as you stare up at the ceiling. He had those ridiculous glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling. They weren’t even just haphazardly stuck up there, he took the time to form them into actual constellations. The ones that he’d shown you up close.

You felt a twinge in your heart. It took everything in you not to turn to your side and hug him right now. His hugs felt like oxygen to you. You could be having the worst day ever, but a hug from your favorite alien never failed to brighten it.

The Doctor turned the bedside lamp off, sending the room into darkness. Your eyes were still glued to the stars, their soft glow highlighting them against the black of the room. He settled down in the bed next to you. You felt every single shift as he got comfortable, the feeling of him next to you distracting. It was hard not to think about how much you liked the Time Lord when you were literally in his bed. It was impossible not to feel his presence next to you, the weight of another person weighing down your mind.

“You ok?” the Doctor whispered, pulling you out of your spiral.

“Yeah,” you whispered back. Maybe if you said it, it would be true.

You felt his hand slide against yours, his fingers brushing against the back of your hand. You didn’t dare move, you didn’t even pull your gaze from the cluster of glow-in-the-dark stars above your head. Tentatively, he slid his hand into yours.

This wasn’t the first time you had held his hand. Far from it, actually. You held his hand almost every day. It was easy to get lost in space, it was just easier if you held onto each other. But this time was different, the intimacy of it making your heart thunder against your chest.

Neither of you said anything, the silence filling the room. Eventually, your eyes fluttered closed, the fluorescent greenish afterglow of the plastic stars remaining in your mind. It didn’t take long for you to slide out of consciousness, the heavy weight of sleep taking over and dragging you down.

-

You woke up of your own accord, a pleasantry you couldn’t remember the last time you experienced. No droning alarm, blinding rays of early morning sunshine, dogs barking, or anything else of the sort. Just your mind and body, having decided they were thoroughly rested, arising of their own accord - an internal affair rather than an external one.

After the initial fogginess of waking up after hours of deep sleep, you became quickly aware of your surroundings. Not just the Doctor’s bed or even his bedroom, but the Doctor himself. More specifically, his arms wrapped tightly around you.

At some time during the night, the exact timing unbeknownst to either of you, the two of you had found your way into each other’s arms. The action was seamlessly smooth, so much so that it almost felt rehearsed.

Your legs slotted together like expertly crafted puzzle pieces, fitting together in a way that made more sense than it should have. Could legs even fit together? You suppose they must if you were experiencing it. His chin rested on top of your head, his nose occasionally bumping the crown of your head as he shifted and nuzzled in his sleep. Your own head was tucked against his chest, your ear positioned right between his beating hearts.

The steady thumping of the twin organs pumping blood through his system was mesmerizing, the sound strangely familiar and comforting. You could feel the vibrations through your body, the asynchronous beats reverberating around in your head.

Slowly, the panic started to creep in, invading the sense of calm you had felt seconds before. You were in the Doctor’s arms. You woke up in the Doctor’s arms. Even worse, the Doctor was going to wake up and find you in his arms.

As if on cue, the Doctor started to stir awake. Low grumbles left his mouth as he buried his face further into the pillow beneath him. You stiffened, the change in posture immediately noticeable. You cursed yourself for drawing more attention to the situation.

The Doctor looked down at you, his tired brown eyes boring into yours. You blinked slowly, unsure what else to do.

“Good morning,” he whispered groggily, his voice at least an octave deeper than usual. You felt your cheeks heat up, almost certain that a blush was rapidly spreading across your face. He wasn’t moving you away or screaming in horror. If anything, he was holding you tighter now.

“Good morning,” you patored back, unable to form any words of your own. What was there to say? “Sorry, I’m a compulsive sleep cuddler, this totally isn’t because I have a massive crush on you please don’t read into it.”

The Doctor’s thumb rubbed small, concentric circles on the small of your back, his eyes still hung up on your face. You wished he wouldn’t look at you like that, like the most beautiful thing in the whole galaxy, like it was nothing.

As if suddenly realizing what he was doing, the Doctor stopped immediately. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and released his arms from around you, the sudden loss of contact disjointed. You frowned slightly and scooted to the other side of the bed, sitting up in the process.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered hurriedly, his eyes purposefully avoiding you.

“It’s ok, I really don’t mind, I mean honestly it’s probably my fault,” you responded too quickly, your words falling out of you without much thought. “It’s really not that big of a deal,” you lied.

The Doctor finally looked over at you. By now, you were in expert in reading him. The secret was to look in his eyes. It didn’t matter what face he had, his eyes always told you everything you needed to know. You’d never seen them like this, though. An unfamiliar emotion him, a combination of his emotes you were so familiar with creating something you didn’t know. That worried you.

“Yeah,” he whispered, the look gone almost as quickly as it had appeared. He was back to his cheery self in minutes, stretching his body and springing up out of bed. “Let’s get on with it, maybe the TARDIS has found your room. I’d like to go visit The Beatles, what do you think?” he babbled on, striding across his room.

You scrambled out of his bed, almost begrudged to leave the silky warmth of his sheets. You scurried after him, practically running into his back as he came to a sudden stop. An annoyed groan escaped your lips as you peered over him, searching for the cause of the sudden stop.

The Doctor was pulling on his door handle, struggling to get it open.

“Forget how to open a door?”

“I’m over 900, I didn’t forget how to open a door,” he frowned, still tugging on it.

“Let me try,” you pushed him gently out of the way, tugging on the door handle yourself. Sure enough, it refused to budge. You pulled on it again, using both hands this time. Nothing.

Sheepishly, you turn back to the Doctor, ashamed to admit that he was right. “It’s stuck.”

The Doctor crossed his arms and nodded, an ‘I told you so’ look plastered on his face. He swiftly pulls the Sonic Screwdriver out of his pocket, pointing it at the door with his usual flourish. When it does nothing, he presses a few buttons on the device before trying again. After a few minutes of this, he finally gives up and resorts to kicking the door.

“Doctor!” you cry, grabbing his arm and forcibly dragging him away from the door before he can damage it or himself.

“Do you think…” you sigh, feeling guilty for even insinuating such a thing, “that the TARDIS locked us in here?”

“The TARDIS didn’t lock us in my room,” the Doctor says like it’s the most preposterous thing he had ever heard.

In response, the ship lets out a low groan of disagreement. More versed in the language of the ship, the Doctor noticed first. “You locked us in here?!” he hisses at seemingly nothing, but you know who it’s directed at. The TARDIS hums again, this time in a more approving tone.

“Why?” you butt in to ask. You’re met with nothing but silence.

“I don’t think she’s going to answer that,” the Doctor whispers in your general direction. The ship lets out another hum of approval.

You groan loudly, throwing your hands up in defeat. Not knowing what else to do, you slump back down onto the Doctor’s bed. You sit there for a few seconds just staring at the carpet (‘90s arcade patterned, of course) before the mattress dips next to you. You pull your eyes way from the garish carpet to look at the Doctor, his face equally as dejected as yours.

“I suppose there are worse places to be stuck,” you offer, “could be Mars.”

“There’s more to explore on Mars.”

“There aren’t ‘priceless’ artifacts from B-739, a mobile of the solar system that I’m pretty sure is intended for children, a box of Hotwheels cars, and a collection of pirate maps all in the same corner.”

“The mobile was a gift,” the Doctor defended.

“That’s what you got from all of that?” you chuckle. “It’s like the world's most clustered, excentric, space museum in here.”

“I don’t really sleep in here much. I suppose it’s just become a storage room of sorts,” the Doctor says sheepishly, almost embarrassed to be this open with someone. Sharing this much of his life with you felt strangely raw.

“I think it’s perfect,” you smile, the expression lighting up your whole face, “it’s very you. Chaotic, unorganized, other-worldly, and… beautiful,” you whispered, eyes scanning across the room. It didn’t matter how much you looked at it, there always seemed to be something new and fascinating to look at.

The Doctor, on the other hand, was looking at you. He was flabbergasted at how interested you seemed in it all. The tiny twinkle in your eye reminded him of all the stars he had shown you, all of the alien planets and beautiful corners of space. Yet, you weren’t looking at something particularly odd or beautiful, you were looking at his room. His messy, haphazard collection of strange objects and patterns.

Then, you turned that curious gaze in his direction. He felt his hearts speed up, a subtle but noticeable shift within his body. It was a nasty habit, his body getting excited every time you looked at him like that. He was 903, pretty people smiling at him shouldn’t make him react this way. Yet, you did.

-

Neither of you could figure out what the TARDIS wanted from you, so you eventually gave up trying. There was no point in fighting with the ship, both of you knew that was a losing battle.

You read the Doctor’s first edition of The Hobbit in the comfy warmth of his bed. In that time, the Doctor opted to pace back and forth and fiddle with the door relentlessly. Finally, he gave up and joined you on the bed.

“Do you have any ideas of why we’re in here?” he asked, pulling the book from your hands. You let him slip the paperback from your hands, throwing it on the duvet without bothering to mark your place in the book.

“If I did, we wouldn’t be in here,” you pointed out, looking at the discarded book longingly. The Doctor popped his head back into your field of vision, clearly not taking ‘no’ for an answer.

“It has to do with both of us, otherwise she wouldn’t have hidden your room.”

“Maybe she just thinks we need a few days off.”

The Doctor shakes his head, “She wouldn’t lock us in a room for that, she would just refuse to fly anywhere.”

“Maybe she thinks we’re fighting. Are we fighting?”

“Not that I know of,” he shrugs.

“I didn’t think so. Maybe we pissed her off?”

The Doctor shook his head again, “she doesn’t seem mad.” You didn’t need to question any further, you knew that the Doctor could read the TARDIS’ emotions better than his own sometimes.

“If it’s not anger, what is it?”

“Annoyance?” he said. You couldn’t tell if he was guessing or just generally unsure.

“Has she ever done this before?”

“Once she locked me out of the ship when I complained about her never taking me where I wanted to go, but this is different.”

“Have you said anything mean about her lately?” you asked more out of curiosity than animosity, but the Doctor interpreted it as the latter. He could be quite sensitive.

“No! Have you?”

“I have nothing but love and respect for the ship. She has put up with you longer than any of us ever could.” The TARDIS hummed in agreement while the Doctor scowled.

“I don’t know what we did!” he groans, falling back dramatically on the bed.

“Are you hiding something from me? A big secret?” you say as if you aren’t the one hiding feelings for the other.

The TARDIS lets out a quiet hum that lets you know you’re on the right track and you grin, poking the Doctor.

“I’m not hiding anything!” he swats you away, “maybe you’re the one hiding things away.”

You shake your head. For a second the two of you just look at each other. It’s hard not to get lost in his deep brown eyes, they’re endless pools of wisdom that can only come from centuries of living. Beneath the wary tiredness and stoic armor you can see who he really is, a lost wanderer looking for a place to call home. It was foolish, but you secretly wished you could be that home.

“You have really nice eyes,” the Doctor whispered.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” you whisper back.

“You were also thinking about how nice your eyes are?” he frowns in confusion.

You laugh, a smile taking over your face at his blatant obliviousness. “No, I was thinking your eyes are nice. I like them.”

“Oh… thank you?”

You nod, momentarily getting lost in his eyes again. Your mind was a mess, a kaleidoscope of him, the TARDIS, and your feelings for the former. You wanted so desperately to tell him how you felt, as you often did. Albeit, now was not the opportune moment. If he reacted poorly, you’d still be stuck in the room with him for an unknown amount of time.

And then it hit you. The TARDIS wanted you to admit something. She knew you had a secret, she maybe even knew what the secret was.

“Doctor?” you whisper shakily, surprised to find your voice uncertain and wavy.

“Mhm?” He pulled his attention to you.

“I just wanted to say that I love you.”

The room was silent for a moment. Neither of you moved or said a word, the normally quiet sounds of breathing and movement heightened by the lack of words between you.

“You too,” he finally said, his voice quiet. You knew admitting feelings was hard for him, especially when it came to things like love, so you couldn’t really blame him for the lackluster response.

You nodded, “I mean as more than a friend.”

“I know.”

Now it was your turn to sit in silence, your brain whirling as it tried to process his words. Was it hopeful to assume that he felt the same? That was what he had said, no?

“I’m very fond of you,” he added, sensing your confusion on the matter. “As more than a friend.”

You studied his eyes again. That unfamiliar look was back. For a minute you entertained the thought that it might be a look of admiration, love even.

The Doctor moved his hand into yours, his thumb brushing across the back of your hand. It was a normal action from him, but it still sent your stomach into a frenzy.

“It’s quite an inconvenience, honestly. Makes it hard to get anything properly done when you’re around.”

You chuckle, a small smile forming on your lips.

“You’re my favorite distraction,” he said earnestly. In his own way, it was his way of saying you were the most fascinating, beautiful, unique, and magnificent thing he had ever seen. He’d rather have a day with you than centuries with anyone or anything else.

He leaned closer to you, his face hovering inches away from yours. He waited, giving you time and space to move away or protest. When you didn’t, he slowly closed the gap.

His lips connected with yours, the kiss short and light, but it conveyed the years of affection and yearning. He pulled away, both of you smiling like love sick idiots.