Obligatory AN: Obviously not mine. No profit made. Just for fun. Rated :'( For the creys.
Contains: Masturbation, dirty talk, degrading name-calling, mansex, and bow ties.
If you catch any errors, please tell me. I have no beta and I like feedback. Plus if you catch an error I'll write one fic at your request.
Perhaps to Dream of Siren's Call
There is no hum of an engine, only the faint sound of existence around him. It has long been past bedtime on the TARDIS and all is silent. Faint ticks or titters from the console. Amy and Rory retreated to their room hours ago. He had heard their giggling and low tones for an hour or more before all fell to wordless hums and the cricks and ticks of his console. For a while all he could see before him were his big hands folding and contorting while his long, knobby fingers pulled and tweaked on the TARDIS' insides. The silence and the physical labor felt like madness, like crowds of isolation.
He put down his tools and wriggled out of his harness. His lips were parted slightly, as was their habit in this newest body, and when he breathed in deep (and smelled the tang of oil and tea) his bottom lip grazed against his teeth. He silently wished for noise, the banging and babble of life. Donna had been loud, her presence enough to fill the whole of the TARDIS. Martha's mind had always been churning; even in her slumber her mind tumbled. Mickey's discontent with himself had burbled around the confident excitement that Rose had radiated. He missed Rose's exuberance and charm about life. He missed how excited she was for existence.
He leans his head against the shower wall and doesn't think about any of them. He just closes his eyes and listens to the sound of water charging his body. Normally he'd make his hair stick up in funny angles and play with his collection of rubber ducks, but tonight he is tired and simply wishes to wash away the worry and weight of Amy's voice.
In his head a sonata plays. It is complex in its simplicity. He draws the notes on the shower wall with a sudsy hand. He has a separate sonata for every companion he has ever had.
Each sonata is expressly unique and displays everything he knows and feels about each of them. Some of the instruments are from far away lands, some of them from Earth and quite familiar to his human friends, and some of them- one of them- contain instruments found only one place and that place is long since gone. He had seen to it. But he doesn't let himself think of that one. Not that melody or of the sounds the TARDIS made when- he shakes the thought loose by bouncing his wet head on his pillow.
He scratches his chest lightly and sighs with a big, goofy grin. He is happy. He has friends aboard. His friends are happy. This is all he needs.
He pulls his blanket up to his ears and curls up onto his side. He believes himself. He has to. He begins to hum a song to himself; the melody will make him fall asleep. His eyes become heavy-lidded and his breathing becomes a little more labored, a little heavier. He can feel his hearts begin to beat along with the song. They beat in four-four time but the song is in three-four. His hearts will have to beat a little quicker to keep up. He wonders if he can summon the passion for that. He rolls over onto his back and presses one hand flat into his bed and the other, he presses against his stomach.
His sonata picks up, begins to swell, and he can't bear to look up and see the empty space above his bed. He imagines the console. The sonata swirls about him and he imagines his hand wrapping around a lever.
-He hums and feels his body vibrate. He can feel the pressure and noise that Amy and Rory make together, the knowing prodding and press of the two of them together. But oh, there's another hum in the air, one that hasn't entered Amy and Rory's duet before. It's a familiar melody with instruments far more known to him than any other. He peeks over his shoulder and, oh yes, he's here. Leaning against the railing with his arms crossed like he does sometimes when he's thinking intently and staring at him. -
He swallows and his legs push his blanket off to the side of him. His body begins a self-conscious wriggle.
-Looking at him like he knows what he's really thinking. Like he's suddenly telepathic and can see inside his brain and he knows. Oh, he knows. The slight smirk to his lips and the way his thick fingers stroke over his elbow broadcast his knowledge so well that he can't help but slide his grip down the lever and tense his unoccupied hand where it rests against the console.
He has to get out of there. Amy, Rory, they will notice. Eventually, they will see it with him in the room and the way he's just oozing-
He stands up abruptly and grabs his screwdriver. He doesn't bother to make an excuse because that would attract their attention and as of right now they are wrapped up in each other enough that they don't notice him or the way he is staring at him or the way he returns the stare like a helpless thing caught before a dangerous thing. He makes it into the corridor, just out of sight and stops, leaning over and resting his head against the cool wall. He breathes in deeply and exhales slowly. The press of a hot, firm body against his back stops his breath short. He can see his knuckles in the corner of his eyes whiten as they tense.
"Look how filthy you are, old man."
Little puffs of air lightly shift his hair as his voice talks directly into the fragile shell. His body tenses and the body behind his curls more firmly against him.
"Dirty thoughts from a dirty alien."
Two wide hands smooth their way over his back and sides until they reach his braces. His thick fingers wrap around the straps and pull up. He can feel his pants tighten around him but the pressure doesn't stop at pleasant. Big hands lift and lift until he is forced to go up on his toes to not get himself hurt on his trousers seem.
"Naughty little slut, look at you offering yourself for me."
His braces are stretched forward and grasped over his stomach in one hand. His free hand slides down and cups his groin; kneading with violent gentleness the flesh it finds there.—
A little, weak sound slips easily out from between his habitually parted lips. His hand firmly palms groin.
-The pressure increases until it becomes near painful. He flinches away from his hand and into the firm presence behind him. Hips undulate against his ass and his mouth slants open, breath coming a little faster.
"Do they know how much of a whore you are?"
Sharp hips caress their edge against him and more little sounds work their way out of his throat. His whole body is tense and vibrating slightly. One of his hands slides down the smooth wall.
"What would they think of you if they could see you now?"
Teeth graze his neck lightly and the hand on his groin is removed. He whimpers pathetically and swivels his hips in an attempt to retrieve the hand. There's a chuckle that rumbles the chest against his back. He pushes back against him, rubbing his body against the solid form behind him in a shuddering arch. He feels something tugging at his trousers and then thick fingers delving into the folds to reach his sensitive parts.
"Do they know you'll beg for it? Hum? Do they know you'll spread your long legs for a long cock?"—
He squeaks as his fingers wrap around his member and his unoccupied hand wraps around the bars in his headboard.
-He fumbles with the doorknob, a persistent mouth on his neck and fingers, thick and imposing on his pant's band. When the door gives he just uses the momentum to fall all the way to his bed. He hears the door close and turns around onto his back and watches him approach. He grabs his ankles and yanks them out and up. He takes the queue and wraps his long legs around the thick torso that bears down above him. He feels teeth on his ear.
"Look at you on your back. Do they know that you're such a slut?"
His body jerks and slides back on the bed, he spreads his arms out above his head and stretches for something to hold on to. That mouth presses against his open mouth and it feels like he's searing his name on his lips. Strong fingers pull off his braces and nimbly open the buttons of his shirt. One arm rests on an elbow next to his head so close that he fears that if he moves his head that it will pull the hair trapped under his arm. Simultaneously, his mouth closes down on his neck while his hand squeezes his thin hip firmly.—
A moan breaks through his sealed lips and he grips the headboard tighter. The beginning of a single word is strangled out from between his lips. His face and chest are flushed and his hearts are beating staccato. "J-j-jaa-ah-."
- His trousers and pants are gone and his shirt has been roughly yanked off his body, only one article of clothing remains on him; a blue bowtie. Thick fingers pet their way up his body, pressing into all of the soft hollows of his body before cupping his neck. They curl briefly around the tendon in the back of his neck before descending again down his body. Resilient fingers knowingly grip around his member.
"Do they know you like dirty talk? Do they know you how filthy you are?"
He licks his lips and drags his teeth down his throat while his hand moves. His body is rising and falling, arching towards and flinching away, wriggling to the beat he sets. He kisses him with intent, plunging a flexible tongue into his mouth and lapping away what is rest of his sanity. His fingers finally connect with what they were searching for. The solid feel of his headboard allows him to lose himself completely in the feel of him.
"Do they know why your headboard has bars? Do they know you like to hold onto your headboard while you're fucked into ecstasy?"-
A low keening noise erupts from his mouth and he arches against his bed, moving faster, gripping tighter.
-He lifts his legs higher, pulling him more on top of him. His hips involuntarily snap in desperation towards him. He can feel the seam of his trousers against his buttocks and it tickles him lightly, makes him wriggle against him. He hears his breath, loud in contrast to his silent breaths. The hand is moving so quickly now that it makes a wet rasping sound as his calluses rub against the sensitive flesh under their ministrations.
"Do they know you like to be jerked off first, you dirty old man? Do they know you like to be fucked while wearing your own cum?"
His belly is jerking and his body is shaking and his legs burn but he doesn't want to put them down. He begins to move, just barely, above him. His trousers rub against him just hard enough to hint at what is hidden beneath them but light enough that it's no solid feeling of body to body. He wants it- he craves it- he needs it. Just to feel it there, against him. He uses his arms, holding tight to the headboard for leverage, and wriggles and stretches, attempting to feel the hard length hidden inside those impersonal trousers.
It eludes him. Always just barely out of reach. He begins to whine, a small, desperate noise that gurgles up from between his dry, parted lips.
"How do you think they would feel about you if they knew you fantasized about being fucked roughly against that pretty consol of yours? Do you think they'd ever look at you the same way if they knew?"
And with that last question he pressed his trouser covered groin against him and rubbed the rough fabric against his sensitive flesh.—
With a dainty gasp, he curls around himself; his body so taught that his legs and torso pull up and around his chest, his hand anchors him down, clinging to his headboard.
He inhales sharply, smelling a scent that had been missing from the TARDIS for a very long time. Olfactory misdirection: good for more than just parties. He holds his breath in for as long as he can, his body still tense, before releasing it in one sudden burst of life. His head, still wet from his shower, hits his pillow and he gasps sharply. His hearts beat three-four time in sixteenth notes. He stretches out his lanky frame and spreads his arms above his head.
When his heartsstop beating so quickly he can't tell one thump from the next, he rolls back over onto his side and tucks his blanket back up to his ears. He stares out at his room and hugs the extra blanket to his chest. Closing his eyes so he doesn't have to see himself do it, he whispers, "Jack," and all of the melody that went with the word rushes to his mind. He focuses on the sounds the TARDIS made when he was there, on the even metronome Jack's boots kept when he wandered the TARDIS at night, on the accompaniment of Jack's voice as he hummed softly to himself while tinkering with some alien gadget he had found in a cupboard somewhere, he focuses on his memories of all of this and wishes himself asleep.