I couldn't possibly describe how beautiful Theta is. Not in one word, not in a thousand. Not even in a picture. No holoimage could comprehend the scope of his allure, and I pity them for that reason.
Thete is… Amazing. Gorgeous. Alive. Hyperactive, and annoying because of it, but for that same rationale does he smile. And his smile just shines.
He's got these deep blue eyes you can just suck your teeth into, like large blueberries with a lighter centre, and they've twinkled with mischief on more than one occasion. If you're close enough when he's grinning, you can see the corners of his eyes crinkle up as well as his cute little nose. It's got to be the most endearing thing I've ever seen.
The freckles splattered across his cheeks are an artist's work and I could count them, name them all, and point them out to anyone who asks days later. Because I have. See that one, two Earth centimeters to the right of his lips? Its name is Koschei. It's mine.
His lips are nearly perfect, the Cupid's bow of the right caliber, the lower lip just slightly too big when compared to his upper. They can pout or beam on the turn of a credit, and if you're lucky enough to have him kiss you they're the softest things you'll ever know.
His hair is fire incognito, hiding under the farce of a Gallifreyan feature. It's gotten long and unruly, always getting into his eyes, but it may just be suitable stuffing for Rassilon's pillowcase. It's both the deepest and the brightest scarlet, accentuating his aforementioned idiosyncrasies as well as his sharp cheek bones and long, graceful neck. I always tell him if he ever regenerates, he'd better stay a... a 'ginger', he calls them. He laughs and nods, and the tresses get in his face again only to be blown away from a petulant wisp of air escaping his nose.
The rest of his body is a masterpiece, and it's a shame he'll have to leave it someday. Taut or loose, the muscles in his back are fantastic to stare at—especially that one mark in between his shoulder blades, what he calls a 'birth mole'—and his limbs were obviously crafted by hand by those Earth artists he's always on about. They're pale and delicate, but capable of wielding great strength. His fingers are long and thin, bony beyond belief, but I've seen them covered in blood or tears and they're the steadiest things ever.
I know some people may claim to be as breath-taking as Theta—in ancient Earth myths, Helen of Troy and Aphrodite- but they can't hold a candle to how pretty he is when he cries.
When he cries, his blueberry eyes swell up around the edges and turn cherry red. The tears run down well-worn paths across his cheeks and face, and they pool at the dip between his collarbones. It's a great game of mine to try to kiss them away before they reach that dip, but I always get distracted, mesmerized by the way his orbs glisten.
His freckles, not just on his face but everywhere—arms, hips, back—are at their aesthetic best when complimented by a splatter of blood. Sometimes if I'm lucky, he gets cut on his high, aristocratic cheekbone and the seed of that wound dribbles down his face in rivulets, avoiding the tears, and falls on his shoulder. It's one of the most magnificent things I've ever seen. When his freckles are covered in blood, I own all of them. And all of him.
And then his lips. Rassilon, his lips. Thete knaws on his plump lower lip when he gets nervous, so by the time I've pulled myself out of the endless expanse of his eyes and his skin, it's already bleeding. When I kiss him I taste metal and honeysuckle, and the spearmint toothpaste he uses each morning, and it's simply heavenly. As are his yelps of pain when I add my own marks to his lip.
I could live on that sound.
I also quite adore his bare back when shivering in pain*. It's so rare Theta finds it in himself to willingly show his back to me, so I oftentimes have to force him to his knees. Once there he easily accepts the lacerations I give him with a knife or a belt, and the bruises and welts and scabs are like artwork. He's mine. My canvas. Oh, the howl he makes when I bite him hard enough on the shoulder is delectable, as are the whimpers he lets out when I kiss and suck on the mark. A symphony for the ages.
I didn't want to hurt you, baby, but you're so pretty when you cry.
The next morning Theta's back to being bubbly with the Deca in the mess hall, donned with his gorgeous grin and mischievous eyes, but I know of the pretty scars he's holding back. I know I'll be allowed to strip him of his clothes and dignity again to heal them. I've always liked doing that—healing him. He sometimes calls me his doctor. I tell him he's crazy and slap him playfully somewhere I haven't marked yet, and finish closing whatever wound or nursing whichever bruise I'm working on. I kiss every one of them, tenderly, and he begins to forgive me.
And then that's shattered the night I know he's healed enough for me to start again. It's a cycle, this. One of beauty. Refresh, demolish, and repeat. Thete's just as stunning when I claw at his hip as he was when I bit him on the shoulder. Just as perfect; just as mine.
The godly Theta Sigma is mine.
That gives me almost as much a thrill as when he calls me his doctor, when I know I'm his master.
Won't he ever writhe under my hands and call me, 'Master'?
A/N: Erm. 'Ello.
I swore I was going to write a more pleasant piece, but my inner Koschei's having too much fun being a sadist. And a masochist, if I take into account the mental bond thinger.
So. Possessive, sadistic Koschei is possessive and sadistic. I wonder who he's going to grow up to be.
Theta's also in denial, which is pretty good since so were Three, Five, and Ten.
Also, I quoted a song in here. It's 'Pretty When You Cry' by VASH, and I own it not. Obvious line is obvious when you look at the song title. Neither do I own Doctor Who, but I'd think that was also obvious, because if I did there'd be an Academy Era spin-off show with loads of Theta/Koschei, and Cumberbatch!Master would already be jumping out The Crack to greet Eleven. And River will have been revealed to be their daughter, because Time Lords are Loomed, not born, so apparently a same-sex couple can have little Gallifreyans running around everywhere. Hurrah.
Notice how I totally avoided talking about reviews till now. Now I feel like a chav.