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Delusions
By Taleya
He is a mystery. An enigma. A dichotomy in and of himself. The slender form
that looks so easily broken, hiding woven steel under soft flesh, the
seemingly-innocent façade at glorious odds with those eyes that spark with
arrogant intelligence. His wicked angel, debauchery and sin under that childish
uniform and ingenuous smile.
Like a child himself the Doctor reaches out to touch, to feel this wondrous
creature, his hands running a teasing pattern down the stiff lines of that
blazer, feeling the other man's form turn willingly into him, the hands that
slide up his chest, under his clothing, quick, clever, setting every nerve
ablaze. And then he feels the other man's face nestle in the hollow of his
throat, the scent of him overwhelming, and he gives in gladly to the promised
pleasure.
He can't understand why Turlough turns away afterwards. Why he closes himself
down, hides away behind the mask. In the beginning, he's tender, playful,
everything lovers should be...but after...The Doctor can see the shutters come
down behind those blue eyes. Can feel the other man close him off, seal himself
away. And he doesn't know why.
Thoughts melt into need as he worships his dark seraph, cradling him down to the
bed with infinite care, as one should for something so precious. He takes his
time with this gift, unhurried, gently exploring the form beneath him, stroking
his fingers over places he has learned will bring pleasure to them both.
Turlough's head arches back in hedonistic pleasure as he touches him, and the
Doctor takes the opportunity, ducking down to explore the long column of the
other man's throat, his chest, the smooth skin warm against his face and
bringing faded memories of satin and silk to his mind.
It was Turlough who had made that first move so long ago. In the darkened
console room, in the dead of a night much like this. Even now the Doctor can
still feel his hearts quicken at the memory. The pause of the hand on his as
they worked on repairing the console. The lingering caress as he'd turned to
meet his gaze. And the silent offering and promises that had danced in those
blue eyes, in the tilt of his head. Turlough wasn't the first companion to make
such an offer to the Doctor, nor did he suspect he would be the last. But
instead of dancing around the issue, instead of playing the ever virginal,
asexual man in the manner he'd perfected so well over the years, for some
reason...The Doctor had taken the other man up on that offer.
His touch is light, playful, even joyful in this time and place, drinking in the
pleasure that crosses the other man's face as they turn and turn in a lovers
tangle over the twisted sheets beneath them.
It's the same instinct that drove him to take Turlough on board the TARDIS in
the first place. The recognition of a kindred spirit. Under that innocent,
carefully polished exterior he had seen the frightened eyes of an exile. The
painful secrets that shadowed his every move. Estranged from everything he had
ever known, never to return. Away from home, away from family, from the simplest
things that had structured his life - by choice or by force, the Doctor didn't
know.
And the Doctor himself, as a fellow exile, has never, ever pressed.
He closes his eyes, drifting in the pleasure as Turlough works his own
pleasurable magic, the barest touch of a tongue on his flesh here...here... A
groan works its way up from his chest and is answered with a chuckling purr from
the naked form beneath him, a warm mouth closing over his body.
Out of that recognition grew a tentative friendship, then a growing closeness.
And from that closeness came something else. A need. A love. He sees something
in that thin form that is so different from the humans he habitually surrounds
himself with. A technical knowledge respectable to his own. A quiet strength
that tests him at times far further in matters than Tegan can, a mental foil as
opposed to an emotional one. One who questions, not argues. Someone who,
somehow, in their own shadowed way understands the drifts and twists of time,
the pain of living and the enormity of the loneliness that accompanies being an
émigré.
He eases inside his lover, careful and considerate even as his body screams in
need. His eyes fall on the flesh melding against his own and a quiver strokes
along his spine at the sight. Pale on pale, fine red hairs brushing against his
own blonde, lean, strong muscles shifting under the skin as Turlough arches his
spine when he begins to move, tiny, satisfying sounds breaking from his mouth in
a rapturous flow, unintelligible, meaningless, the lovers idioglossia.
An equal, in all facets, at last. Something he never realised he had missed.
The mouth that latches onto his flesh is hot, hotter than he had ever imagined
as they move together, nipping, suckling, leaving a thousand white-hot trails
against his skin. The hands on his back turn to claws, digging into his flesh as
pleasure fuses them together. He feels his own grasp tighten around Turlough's
waist, muscles no longer quite under his control as he creeps closer and closer
to the edge. Strong, even teeth bite into his shoulder and the feeling is enough
to push him over, toppling forever, falling, shaking through endless clouds.
And on that night, long ago, when those blue eyes had offered he had taken the
outstretched hand gladly, and with no regrets.
His muscles tremble with aftershocks, head hanging low, resting against the
other man's chest as Turlough holds him. These moments he will hold forever, the
beat of the younger mans heart under his ear, the warm arms around him, holding
him until his fragmented world gradually pieces itself back together. Around him
and inside him, in the most intimate way possible, his safety in a world that
has been too twisted and confusing of late.
His twin hearts recover far more quickly than the single one beneath his ear and
he raises his head, a tender smile on his lips as Turlough's press against them
in a sweet moment, unspoiled, perfection, blue eyes oddly vulnerable and somehow
sad, unusually open and naked for once, at this time and place.
And as the Doctor reaches out to touch his face, he turns away once more,
closing himself off again, as neatly as a locked door.
The Doctor wishes he knew why.
And he wishes he was brave enough to ask.
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