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Turlough looked at the assortment of candles, thinking about which one to choose. They had all been prepared and lit, to warm up the wax, to get it to that perfect dripping temperature. Yes, the blue one first, he decided, took it from its holder, and walked over to where the Doctor was laid out on a plastic tarp, on his front, naked.
His canvas.
He turned the candle to its side and dripped one experimental line down the Doctor’s back. The Doctor gasped in surprise at the sensation. Turlough smiled.
“I’m sorry, Doctor,” he said while dripping a second line, parallel to the first one. “But since you cannot sit still anywhere for long enough for me to set up my canvas-“ A bit of a thicker line then, more wax in one spot on the small of the Doctor’s back, earning him a whimper. “Then it’s only fair that I make you sit still and make you my canvas. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Of course I can sit still, Turlough, what am I doing right now?” The Doctor grumbled. Turlough turned around and picked another candle, the purple one this time.
“It took me half an hour to get you to lie down. And even now, you’re squirming.” He crouched down next to the Doctor and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Stay still, Doctor.”
He dripped the purple wax in a spot on the Doctor’s shoulder blade. The Doctor cried out – it must have felt hotter, falling from such a short distance.
“Shhh,” Turlough shushed him, pressing his hand to the back of the Doctor’s neck. “One on the other side now.” He moved the candle and created a twin purple spot on the Doctor’s other shoulder blade. The Doctor whined. Turlough hummed.
“You look so pretty like this,” he whispered, and he felt the Doctor moan quietly at the praise. He rewarded it with a quick caress on his soft hair and created another line on the Doctor’s back, standing up as he did so. The sound the Doctor made at this changed as the distance between their bodies grew – louder when the candle was closer, growing quieter and lower when it was further.
This too could be the part of this work of art, Turlough decided. Combining the painting on the Doctor’s back and the symphony of the sweet sounds he made. Curious, he painted another line across the Doctor’s back, but this time, he started high, dipped low in the middle, and pulled it up again at the end, holding it there for longer. The Doctor’s whimpers grew louder and more surprised at the sudden proximity of the heat, then peaked in a quiet whine as the cooling wax pooled around his hipbone. Turlough decided to try dripping some over the Doctor’s arse, and was rewarded with a breathless yelp.
“I should record you one of these days,” he mused. The Doctor chuckled quietly.
“I don’t think I-I’d enjoy hearing m-myself like this.” He sounded self-conscious, and Turlough would not have that.
“Who says anything about you listening to it?” He asked, dipping the candle lower again, crisscrossing the lines he already made. A quiet moan. “This would be for me, not for you.” More hot wax over the Doctors side, a small cry. “And I like hearing you like this. And you like me hearing you like this, don’t you?”
The Doctor’s face was hidden from Turlough behind his hair, but he can still tell the Doctor was embarrassed. He looked down and scraped a bit of wax he wasn’t happy with using his free hand, and pressed his fingers into the sensitive skin he had uncovered. The whine he got in return was high pitched and desperate, and made Turlough smile.
“Don’t you?” He pressed his question as he pressed his fingers.
“Yes.” It was quiet and broken. Good. The Doctor needed breaking from time to time. He had so much responsibilities, even if most of them self-imposed, and Turlough liked being the one who could bring him down from it, make his body and mind stop moving for a while.
“Very good,” he praised. “So good for me, laying still and letting me work. Pretty as a picture.”
He got up to put away the purple candle, and considered which colour would work best for the finishing touches. Red, he decided. Red would be perfect. He grabbed the candle he had picked and lowered himself next to the Doctor, considering.
He lowered the candle over the centre of the Doctor’s back, just below his ribs, and held it here for a few moments to create a bigger spot. The Doctor whined, loud and desperate – the candle was the closest it had been to his skin the whole night. Even still, Turlough notices with pride, he did not move, did not squirm away from the sensation. He traced his fingers over the Doctor’s back and felt him shiver under the unexpected gentle touch.
“You’re doing so well,” he whispered. The Doctor moaned. “I’m almost done now. Just a little bit more.”
He dipped the candle in a couple of quick, controlled movements to create the line of small spots on the Doctor’s side, each one accentuated with a small, quiet cry. Then he created another line, diagonal, as the Doctor whined helplessly.
“One last thing,” he hummed, and lowered the candle over the Doctor’s arsecheek, the unmarked one. The wax dripped as the Doctor’s yelps grew smaller and quieter as he got used to the sensation, to finally quiet down entirely as Turlough pulled the candle away. He stood up to put it away, and admired his artwork.
The Doctor’s back and arse was a mess of colourful lines and spirals, accentuated with a few red dots, standing out from the colder colours of the other two candles. A bit more abstract than what he would usually do, but he was happy with it nonetheless. The Doctor himself was another work of art, panting quietly on the floor, almost completely still. Given how difficult it was for the Doctor to keep still at any time, just this alone was an accomplishment that Turlough could be – and was – proud of.
He kneeled down in front of the Doctor and nudged his head lightly, encouraging him to look up. He did, his eyes unfocused and tired but happy, and gave Turlough a small smile.
“Was I good?” He asked with a quiet voice, resting his cheek on Turloughs thigh. Turlough smiled warmly at the sight.
“You were so very good, Doctor,” he said while stroking his hair. “So very good.”
“That’s nice.” The Doctor closed his eyes. “This was nice. Is the art nice?”
Turlough looked down at the sight before him.
“The prettiest I’ve ever seen.”