John Smith (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dreamtofbeing) wrote2009-05-07 04:46 pm
dreamtofbeing) wrote2009-05-07 04:46 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Prison Sex
More playing around in the human!verse. The Master and the Doctor are both human, living in Cardiff respectively Washington DC, both under close observation of Torchwood. The title is a reference to Tool's song of the same name.
Angst and explicit sex. Word count at ~1,500; rated R.
They see each other twice a year. Three times if the Doctor is in Europe for a congress or a scientific convention. Otherwise, it's early spring and late summer, each time only for a few days--four, five at maximum. The Doctor feels it's better that way.
He's the one who seeks out the Master. That's one thing that's changed. The Master lives in Cardiff, under the strict supervision of Torchwood, and he's lucky when they let him go out for groceries. Travelling across the Atlantic to see the Doctor is a laughable idea. Usually, the Doctor is glad to be the one in control. Sometimes, he wishes he weren't completely.
This time it's early September, just a week before term starts again. Cardiff weather is cooler than Washington DC, but the Doctor knew that it would be. This is the third time he's here now at this time of the year.
It's the evening of the last day of his visit, and they're on the couch in the Master's walk-through space that he calls his living room. They've been talking all day. It's always how these visits go. They don't talk the first two days, the third day is spent on trading stories on their current lives, and on the forth day, old arguments are brought up to be run through like a familiar, versant script, never changing, and always ending up getting stuck in the same dead ends.
They've been talking all day, but they're not talking now. The Doctor is kissing the Master, one hand behind the other man's neck, the other snuck around behind his back, the Doctor's palm pressing flat against the fabric of the Master's shirt and his spine underneath it. He can feel the Master's hand on his back, and the other on his thigh, and the Master's tongue, brushing over his lips and teeth and sliding against his own.
This is part of the ritual as well. When they get stuck, when there's nothing left to say and they both know that their time is running out, they turn to the physical again. It's what they have left, the only way to make contact that goes beyond words. It's insufficient, but then, nothing ever sufficed to make them understand each other. This, being human, being unable to connect on any other level than speech or touch--it lets them pretend.
The Master's fingers slide down the Doctor's back, scrabbling at his shirt and slipping underneath, warm, dry fingers on his skin. They wander upwards, following the pattern of scars that the Doctor has never seen, only felt. The Master runs a fingernail along them, not hurting, just tracing, and the Doctor breaks the kiss, resting his forehead on the Master's shoulder, letting his hand fall from the back of the Master's neck to join his other in the hollow of the Master's spine. The Master's hands briefly abandon his back to slip around front and unbutton the Doctor's shirt. He shrugs it off, quickly, not looking up, and then holds completely still, letting the Master's fingers explore, run along lines that the Master carved into the skin not long ago.
Seven years. No time at all.
The Master's touch is gentle, and soon turns into strokes, his palms running over the skin, soothing. The Doctor has his eyes closed, but he can feel the Master's breath on the back of his neck, can feel his chin pressing into the muscle at the joint of neck and shoulder. Then the Master's hands go around to the front, over his sides to his chest, the Master's thumbs brushing over his nipples before the Master plants his flat palms against him and gives him a slight nudge.
"Lie back."
The Doctor does, resting his head on the arm rest. The Master's fingers, now quick and efficient, unbuckle his belt and undo his trousers, and very soon, the Doctor's naked, laid out on the sofa, aroused and vulnerable.
The Master is looking down at him, his features unreadable. The Doctor watches, waiting. He knows his body has changed. Some of these changes are the Master's doing, marks and scars marring his skin. The human body never forgets. But some of the changes are time's doing, time that he can't feel the passing of in his mind anymore. It shows on his body instead, a physical manifestation of every minute of his human life.
The Master leans in, one hand on the couch next to the Doctor's side for balance. His other he slides up the Doctor's erection, his fingers curling around it. The touch makes the Doctor want to close his eyes, but he doesn't. Instead, he watches the Master as he bends down, first planting a brief kiss on the Doctor's collarbone and then breathing a warm, moist breath over a perfectly round burn mark underneath it.
He continues downwards, his lips brushing over every blemish on the Doctor's chest and abdomen--skin that doesn't feel any different to the touch, not anymore, but the Doctor knows these scars are there. He's counted them. They're his.
Then the Master takes him into his mouth, and the Doctor closes his eyes after all, making a low, soft sound in the back of his throat as the Master's lips slide over sensitive skin, his fingers massaging as well, sending tingling impulses through the Doctor's nervous system.
The Doctor stares into the dark behind his eyelids. His human senses are sharper than usual, heightened by the stimulation, and his muscles are toned, a balanced tension that has taken hold of his whole body, every inch of every fibre. He can feel the Master's touch, his tongue, the brief, sharp graze of teeth, and his fingers, squeezing and letting off and caressing. He can feel the rough fabric of the sofa against his naked skin, and he can hear his single heartbeat pounding in his ears, almost drowned out by the sound of the air streaming in and out of his lungs. Something clicks in his throat; he makes another sound, a low, breathy moan, and the tension momentarily shifts, making his hips twitch upwards.
He knows it wouldn't have taken much more, so when the Master pulls back, it's not a surprise. He still makes an unwilling sound at the loss of touch, the sudden cool air against his skin as the Master moves away. The Doctor opens his eyes to see the Master shrugging out of his clothes, quickly, efficiently, revealing his own arousal without shame or reservation. When he's naked, his left hand goes back to caressing the Doctor--slow, gentle strokes, just a caress, nothing more--while his right goes further down and back.
The Master's fingers are cool and moist and slick against the Doctor's opening, and the Doctor seeks out the Master's eyes. The other man is looking at him, as open as he ever looked at him. The Doctor knows that he's the only one who would even know that the Master is asking a question. He closes his eyes as an answer, and his mouth falls open slightly as the Master's fingers penetrate him, slipping into him easily and painlessly.
The Master doesn't waste a lot of time. As soon as the Doctor is ready, he hooks his legs over his shoulders and enters him. He leans in, his face close to the Doctor's now, and the Doctor's eyes are open. He looks up into the Master's hooded, green eyes as the Master begins to move in a steady rhythm that the Doctor knows matches the drums that he can't hear any longer.
The tension returns, pushed to its previous level and beyond. The Master moves in even closer, burying himself even deeper and catching the Doctor's mouth in a kiss as he catches his hands with his own, interlacing their fingers tightly. Close, they're so close, wrapped up in one another, and when the Master pushes into him again, the tension maxes out.
The Doctor bites down as he comes, catching the Master's lip between his teeth. He flicks his tongue over the soft flesh, and then lets go as he can feel the Master tense, his fingers clenching and his body freezing in mid-motion. The Doctor tips his head back as pleasure ripples through him, and then his body uncurls and relaxes as the Master slips out of him, falling down against him, chest resting on chest, single hearts beating in unison and creating a double heartbeat that should be four-timed.
They don't talk much after that. Only the bare necessities; not because they have nothing to say, but because everything has been said. They sleep, the Master's not-quite-double-size bed providing just enough space, and early the next day, the Doctor packs his things and leaves for the airport. He'll be seeing the Master next spring, he says. The Master just nods.
Angst and explicit sex. Word count at ~1,500; rated R.
They see each other twice a year. Three times if the Doctor is in Europe for a congress or a scientific convention. Otherwise, it's early spring and late summer, each time only for a few days--four, five at maximum. The Doctor feels it's better that way.
He's the one who seeks out the Master. That's one thing that's changed. The Master lives in Cardiff, under the strict supervision of Torchwood, and he's lucky when they let him go out for groceries. Travelling across the Atlantic to see the Doctor is a laughable idea. Usually, the Doctor is glad to be the one in control. Sometimes, he wishes he weren't completely.
This time it's early September, just a week before term starts again. Cardiff weather is cooler than Washington DC, but the Doctor knew that it would be. This is the third time he's here now at this time of the year.
It's the evening of the last day of his visit, and they're on the couch in the Master's walk-through space that he calls his living room. They've been talking all day. It's always how these visits go. They don't talk the first two days, the third day is spent on trading stories on their current lives, and on the forth day, old arguments are brought up to be run through like a familiar, versant script, never changing, and always ending up getting stuck in the same dead ends.
They've been talking all day, but they're not talking now. The Doctor is kissing the Master, one hand behind the other man's neck, the other snuck around behind his back, the Doctor's palm pressing flat against the fabric of the Master's shirt and his spine underneath it. He can feel the Master's hand on his back, and the other on his thigh, and the Master's tongue, brushing over his lips and teeth and sliding against his own.
This is part of the ritual as well. When they get stuck, when there's nothing left to say and they both know that their time is running out, they turn to the physical again. It's what they have left, the only way to make contact that goes beyond words. It's insufficient, but then, nothing ever sufficed to make them understand each other. This, being human, being unable to connect on any other level than speech or touch--it lets them pretend.
The Master's fingers slide down the Doctor's back, scrabbling at his shirt and slipping underneath, warm, dry fingers on his skin. They wander upwards, following the pattern of scars that the Doctor has never seen, only felt. The Master runs a fingernail along them, not hurting, just tracing, and the Doctor breaks the kiss, resting his forehead on the Master's shoulder, letting his hand fall from the back of the Master's neck to join his other in the hollow of the Master's spine. The Master's hands briefly abandon his back to slip around front and unbutton the Doctor's shirt. He shrugs it off, quickly, not looking up, and then holds completely still, letting the Master's fingers explore, run along lines that the Master carved into the skin not long ago.
Seven years. No time at all.
The Master's touch is gentle, and soon turns into strokes, his palms running over the skin, soothing. The Doctor has his eyes closed, but he can feel the Master's breath on the back of his neck, can feel his chin pressing into the muscle at the joint of neck and shoulder. Then the Master's hands go around to the front, over his sides to his chest, the Master's thumbs brushing over his nipples before the Master plants his flat palms against him and gives him a slight nudge.
"Lie back."
The Doctor does, resting his head on the arm rest. The Master's fingers, now quick and efficient, unbuckle his belt and undo his trousers, and very soon, the Doctor's naked, laid out on the sofa, aroused and vulnerable.
The Master is looking down at him, his features unreadable. The Doctor watches, waiting. He knows his body has changed. Some of these changes are the Master's doing, marks and scars marring his skin. The human body never forgets. But some of the changes are time's doing, time that he can't feel the passing of in his mind anymore. It shows on his body instead, a physical manifestation of every minute of his human life.
The Master leans in, one hand on the couch next to the Doctor's side for balance. His other he slides up the Doctor's erection, his fingers curling around it. The touch makes the Doctor want to close his eyes, but he doesn't. Instead, he watches the Master as he bends down, first planting a brief kiss on the Doctor's collarbone and then breathing a warm, moist breath over a perfectly round burn mark underneath it.
He continues downwards, his lips brushing over every blemish on the Doctor's chest and abdomen--skin that doesn't feel any different to the touch, not anymore, but the Doctor knows these scars are there. He's counted them. They're his.
Then the Master takes him into his mouth, and the Doctor closes his eyes after all, making a low, soft sound in the back of his throat as the Master's lips slide over sensitive skin, his fingers massaging as well, sending tingling impulses through the Doctor's nervous system.
The Doctor stares into the dark behind his eyelids. His human senses are sharper than usual, heightened by the stimulation, and his muscles are toned, a balanced tension that has taken hold of his whole body, every inch of every fibre. He can feel the Master's touch, his tongue, the brief, sharp graze of teeth, and his fingers, squeezing and letting off and caressing. He can feel the rough fabric of the sofa against his naked skin, and he can hear his single heartbeat pounding in his ears, almost drowned out by the sound of the air streaming in and out of his lungs. Something clicks in his throat; he makes another sound, a low, breathy moan, and the tension momentarily shifts, making his hips twitch upwards.
He knows it wouldn't have taken much more, so when the Master pulls back, it's not a surprise. He still makes an unwilling sound at the loss of touch, the sudden cool air against his skin as the Master moves away. The Doctor opens his eyes to see the Master shrugging out of his clothes, quickly, efficiently, revealing his own arousal without shame or reservation. When he's naked, his left hand goes back to caressing the Doctor--slow, gentle strokes, just a caress, nothing more--while his right goes further down and back.
The Master's fingers are cool and moist and slick against the Doctor's opening, and the Doctor seeks out the Master's eyes. The other man is looking at him, as open as he ever looked at him. The Doctor knows that he's the only one who would even know that the Master is asking a question. He closes his eyes as an answer, and his mouth falls open slightly as the Master's fingers penetrate him, slipping into him easily and painlessly.
The Master doesn't waste a lot of time. As soon as the Doctor is ready, he hooks his legs over his shoulders and enters him. He leans in, his face close to the Doctor's now, and the Doctor's eyes are open. He looks up into the Master's hooded, green eyes as the Master begins to move in a steady rhythm that the Doctor knows matches the drums that he can't hear any longer.
The tension returns, pushed to its previous level and beyond. The Master moves in even closer, burying himself even deeper and catching the Doctor's mouth in a kiss as he catches his hands with his own, interlacing their fingers tightly. Close, they're so close, wrapped up in one another, and when the Master pushes into him again, the tension maxes out.
The Doctor bites down as he comes, catching the Master's lip between his teeth. He flicks his tongue over the soft flesh, and then lets go as he can feel the Master tense, his fingers clenching and his body freezing in mid-motion. The Doctor tips his head back as pleasure ripples through him, and then his body uncurls and relaxes as the Master slips out of him, falling down against him, chest resting on chest, single hearts beating in unison and creating a double heartbeat that should be four-timed.
They don't talk much after that. Only the bare necessities; not because they have nothing to say, but because everything has been said. They sleep, the Master's not-quite-double-size bed providing just enough space, and early the next day, the Doctor packs his things and leaves for the airport. He'll be seeing the Master next spring, he says. The Master just nods.
no subject
And kinda needy. Are you sure there were still emo pills in the jar you gave me?
no subject
Hee. Glad you enjoyed it! Yes, the Master so will. No giving up for him. B|
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I'm not one for this sort of thing (seriously xD Not a joke. I tend to shy away from NC17 stuff unless I know the writer) but this is fantastic.
*this totally doesent count as a comment BTW. Just so you know. Your imagining things*
no subject
Hee, well, I'm glad you liked it despite your NC-17 reservations. Although this was actually R. ;) Anyway, thanks for the comment! Yep, it's pretty sad, but otoh, it's Doctor/Master. I think this is as happy as they get y/y?