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The Internet was not created for children, and I see no reason to hand it to them now |
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Misconceptions Turlough thinks he understands it now. The Doctor's hand drifts gently along his back in a silent invitation, and his body automatically responds to the motion. He turns into the body behind him, so close, the scent of age and youth mixed seamlessly together filling his nostrils, reminding him of some ancient tome, full of marvellous secrets and wisdom, and his hands slide up under the other man's suspenders, pushing them aside. The skin underneath his hands is firm, the lips on his own are soft, the hands cradling him down to the bed are infinitely gentle, unhurried as they roam his body, touching him in all the right places. His head arches back at the feeling, and that soft blonde hair tickles the underside of his chin as the Doctor's lips explore his chest. His body responds automatically, but his mind is far away. Everyone in the TARDIS crew has a function. The Doctor is selective of who he allows to travel with him. Nyssa was a biochemist, a scientist in her own right. Specialising in fields where the Doctor's knowledge was weaker, a compliment to him, her use to the TARDIS crew was incalculable. They're both naked now, the Doctor's weight somehow comforting on his body, fingers dancing in wicked patterns across his most private places as they writhe on the bed, that kind face above him endlessly shifting and morphing expressions as Turlough works his own magic. There's a light tang of salt on his tongue as his mouth sings decadent tunes on the Time Lord's flesh, a hand restlessly clenching and unclenching in his hair as sounds of pleasure reverberate through them both. Tegan is his foil. His grounding. Her voice grates, but it forces the Doctor to slow, to think. To explain his reasoning, the way his mind works and through these explanations he gains greater clarity of thought. Strong in her own right, she is an equal to his will. Everyone on the TARDIS has to have a function. To be of use. The Doctor is inside him now, that fine blonde hair beginning to mat lightly with sweat, strong thighs against his own, pale against pale, and his spine arches almost impossibly as the Doctor strokes against him, again and again. Turlough is desperate to escape. He won't go back to Earth, and he can't go back to his home planet. Forced exile was the weaker choice, but now he has broken that. Death would be his sentence now, and forever. He has nowhere else to go. His hands scrabble against the other man's back, feeling the grip around his waist tighten to almost painful proportions. His teeth bite down on the strong arch of muscle between shoulder and neck, and the Doctor's head falls back with a groan of wanton abandon as he shudders and climaxes. He tries to match the Doctor on technical matters, but fails. His knowledge, incredible as it is against the humans the Doctor surrounds himself with, is little more than childhood supposition against the Time Lords. He can't be strong, he can't be a foil, his standing is too weak, too terrified of being ejected from this haven, of facing a life that has nothing for him but pain and death to dare to speak up in opposition. So he finds another way to be of use. Another way to survive. And when the Doctor reaches out to touch his face in a lover's caress, he can't understand why Turlough turns away. |
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All Content Copyright © 2001 Taleya Joinson
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