CableFlame (c4bl3fl4m3) wrote in timeslipping,

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A Love of Self

Title: A Love of Self
Rating: Adult, explicit sex
Genre: Erotica, PWP
Pairing: Eight/Eight

Summary: Somewhere, deep in the TARDIS, the Doctor is sleeping. The Doctor dreams.

Author's Notes: If one Eight is hot, 2 Eights is hotter! (Wanted to explore Eight/Eight w/o it being Eight/Zagreus or Eight chopped up into aspects of himself. Also, worked in the selflove and tenderness that the Doctor needs but so rarely shows himself.)

(x-posted to halfhumandoctor and dwfiction)


Somewhere deep inside the TARDIS, the Doctor is sleeping...


I stand there before myself. No, not an incarnation of myself, not one of my regenerations, but myself, as I am now.

This... me... standing before me is wearing my usual clothes. White dress shirt, brocade waistcoat, silken cravat, velvet coat, and the shoes that Grace gave me.

I am standing barefoot in my nightshirt, the white one with the buttons down the front. My hair is bedraggled, mussed by sleep.

I stand there, regarding myself. Is it vain to be attracted to one's form, when one's form changes over the years? I could have been regenerated into any body, and this face could have been on someone else.

So, I ask again, is it narcissistic to love one's self?

As I look at me standing in front of me there, I realize I don't care. Let it all be damned.

I walk towards myself. My doppleganger reaches out his arms to me. I enter them and we embrace, our lips pressed together desperately, our penned up desire apparent.

Who knew that kissing one's self could be so enjoyable?

His kisses... my kisses... are perfect. Everything so right, exactly the way I want it to be.

My hands run down his sides and around his waist. One hand in the curve of his... my... back, the velvet crushing in my hands. The other underneath the coat, scooping the bottom of my bum.

His hands are on my face, holding it, stroking it lovingly with long fingers. I look into the eyes I know so well, and I hold myself in love. I've been through so much... there is much to go through yet. But these cares are not apparent on our faces. They live in our hearts... my hearts... and are hidden by my bubbly demeanor. But the other me knows this, of course.

His hands go to my nightshirt. One by one, the buttons are undone. I do the same with the waistcoat and shirt.

We strip each other nude, stand there, regard each other.

The lean body in front of me is the one I see in the mirror every day. Thin, not quite gangly, with a strength underneath not shown on the surface. I know those calves, those thighs. I know those hips and that pelvis. I know the tummy and the ribcage, the shoulders and the belly button. I know that genitalia.

It is me.

We use our hands and explore our bodies. A light touch here, a firm rub there. No surface is neglected. All of those beautiful little spots you forget about in your every day life get attention. The crook at the back of your knees. Your elbows. The curving lines of the ears. Wrists, the balls of your hands, the curving arches of your feet. Rubbing and massaging, teasing and touching and delighting in touch. Spots that have been neglected for decades, centuries, get the touch they've been craving, like cracks in the desert soaking up water.

We massage each other until all the tension is gone and we feel like liquid goo in the hands of the other. And then, lying on the ground, we stroke each other, reveling in the body before us. How beautiful it is to be humanoid! How beautiful it is to feel touch! How beautiful it is to be able to touch!

And, once again, our caresses turn stronger, passionate, as he grabs my body in lust. My hands, in need, fumble for his own, my own. Kissing again, our hands work their way to each other's genitalia. He grasps my penis first, I gasp. I grasp his next, he gasps too. I know this shaft, this head. Years of self pleasure has given me intimate knowledge of my member.

I stroke first and get kissed harder, with greater insistence. Our hands moving up and down each other's shafts, kissing turns to moaning, to nibbling, to biting, to feral sounds and explicit epithets. I let go of the penis in my hands, scissor my legs so that my dick is trapped between his, and his trapped between mine. And thus we ride each other, riding ourselves, bucking and moaning, all the way to climax. Sweet, delicious climax, one that overcomes like a wave and leaves you immobile, merely able to lay there and feel the sensations of the afterglow for some time afterward.

And lay there we do, I smiling at me, me smiling at I.


...and somewhere deep inside the TARDIS, the Doctor smiles.
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