It was a black tie affair. One that he'd felt compelled to attend, had seen it coming up for weeks prior. At least for weeks according to the people around him. The place was called the Gala or something along those lines. A high-end little to do on the rich side of town.

"Shh, shh, shh… you're thinking far too much and it's been far too long."

That's odd. He shakes his head, as though taking in a scent too strong. Not too foul. Just too strong. Someone's here, and they're not here for the food, the music, or the social standing.

They're here for him. He bites his lip, stuck in a corner with a glass of wine and a frown. Who is it? Who are you?

"Any song on the request line…?"

He looks up at the speakers as thick bass lines and ragged guitar twangs resonate through the hall. The people around the room perk up, and listen. He recognizes the musicians, and shakes his head. He likes this band, and someone knows it.

Suddenly, he's pressed against the wall, lips on his, hands fisting in his shirt. Rough, angry, assaulting and oh so welcome… A knee spreads his legs, his head feels fogged, he purrs against the teeth biting into his lower lip.

He opens his eyes, breathing minutely labored and his cheeks burning. Why aren't they showing themselves? This has to be some form of sexual harassment or assault.

Or both. He wouldn't go so far as to say rape, and he ignores the fact that he responded.

"You've been on your own for a while now, Doctor. Aren't you lonely?"

He hisses under his breath, placing his wine glass down on a small table nearby and weaving his way into the mass of dancing people. As he walks through them, his mind is attacked again.

A warm tongue trails up his neck, strong hands grip his wrists and he shudders against the carpet. He's blindfolded by his own tie, and he struggles barely, straining to see who's doing this. Who is it? Who is it?!

He stumbles over his own feet and almost lands in a couple of girls at the exit of the ballroom. He needs to get out. This is maddening, and he can start to feel his body react to what's assaulting his mind. This onslaught is getting to him, and he can't understand how. Who has that strength? That kind of mental and psychic tact?

Teeth bite into the nape of his neck as hands slowly unbutton his shirt, and he can't hold it back any longer, a low moan slipping from his lips.

In the hall, he realizes he's moaned aloud and quickly looks around to see if anyone heard, if anyone noticed. No one did, and he sees that he's thankfully alone. He decides to head for the bathroom. Cold water and a chance to calm and center himself before he can get mentally molested any further.

He staggers into the men's room, bracing himself against a glistening white sink. Somehow, this stranger knew that he was weak- he's still recovering from saving the Earth from the Reality Bomb, and his 'mental immune system' is in shambles. Somehow, this stranger knew this, like they knew him. Who was there in the universe that could pick him apart so well?

Still blindfolded, still being pinned- it all prevents him from seeing the culprit, and he growls low in his throat in frustration. His belt is unbuckled, his pants unfastened, and this is going too far. Hands trail over his protruding hips, across his thighs, causing him to buck up for more. More, more, more…

"Sixteenth floor. I'm waiting."

It's not a matter of making the images in his head a reality- he keeps telling himself that. It's a matter of finding out who's doing this. Who's inside of his head, blinding him and binding him and kissing all the right ways and biting all the right places…

He shakes his head. Focus, focus now!

"Good luck with that." His attacker whispers, tongue trailing across his hips, hands roaming over his body freely. He gasps, he writhes, his head falls back against the floor with a soft 'thunk'. He doesn't struggle.

"Oh god…" He breathes, slamming the '16' button on the elevator panel. "Stop it!" He snaps finally, shaking his head, wincing at the flurry of senses and emotions. The elevator is too muggy, his pants are too tight and his vision is faintly hazed at the corners. The stranger won't let him focus.

Every second, it flashes through him. Kisses, bites, touches. And then, the hem of his blindfold rides up slightly and he catches a glimpse of a smile. A familiar, triumphant smile.

"Stop, just stop… oh my god…"

"Even the Doctor needs a little help. Even the Doctor gets a little lonely, a little weak, a little… desperate."

His tongue darts out to wet his lips and he slowly walks out of the elevator on the sixteenth floor. There a couple of women at the end of the hall who spot him. The look him over and start giggling and blushing to each other. "What room number? Now."

Lips trail over his ear, "212." Teeth clamp onto the lobe, driving him further up the wall.

"Oh, fuck…." He trails off, trying and failing to remain composed as he turns away from the girls and heads in the other direction, turning the corner to the rest of the floor. He's never been one to get this riled. He's always been composed, always put more important things first- his libido is rather nonexistent under normal circumstances.

"But we both know it wasn't always that way. I've seen you writhe like a cat on a wire."

He leans against the door for room 212 and takes a breath. "Who are you?"

Finally, hands pull his pants down completely, and he's taken into warm, wet bliss. He's swallowed, and he lets out a startled moan, then completely gives up. He feels palms against his thighs, pinning him still. A hand fists in short, soft hair and the other slams uselessly against the floor. He doesn't bother with the blindfold, though he knows he could if he wanted.

"I-I'm going to…"

It's only fuel for the fire, fingers and lips and tongue driving him to climax. He thrashes, he cries out and he succumbs.

He realizes too late that his orgasm hadn't only been forthcoming in his mind, but in reality as well, and he looks around in a mild horror to see if anyone is present to see what he's involuntarily done. His pants cling to his heated, sensitive skin, and he balls a hand into a shaky fist, knocking on the door.

The door opens and he's pulled in by his tie to live the mental onslaught in true time. Those dark, brooding eyes. That sly, arrogant grin. Those knowing hands that roam over his clothes. "Look at you. And I haven't even touched you yet."

"But how-"

"No questions. Just names." Is the calm, self-assured interruption, and he pushes the Doctor onto the floor. Their lips collide, and the brunette doesn't struggle. He welcomes it, emotionally wrecked and physically spent.

"I missed you-"

"I know." The other man replies in a low, purring voice. He really had won that day on the Valiant, and now he gets to reap the rewards. "Say it."

The Doctor lets it roll off his tongue like some sort of sinful word, infecting the room with a new wave of molten lust, uncurling and intertwining the two.