dreamtofbeing | Untitled

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with: dntfretprecious

Untitled

The Doctor is drunk.

He hadn't quite realized this until the Master had shown up at his apartment, wanting to drop off some paperwork, and had started to drop some dry remarks. The Doctor had protested--he wasn't drunk, he hadn't meant to get drunk. He'd had a glass of wine, no more than two, maybe. But as he had followed the Master's dry sideglance at the bottle, he'd seen that it actually was mostly empty. He's still not quite sure how that happened.

He doesn't really care right now, though. The Master refused to stop his taunting, invading the Doctor's personal space, and at some point, the Doctor lost his patience. They had ended up on the couch, the Doctor straddling the Master's lap, kissing the other man and touching him, his hands under the Master's shirt running over smooth, warm skin. A sudden desire had washed through him--to claim the Master, to own him, make him his. When he'd told the Master as much, the other man had seemed intrigued by the idea.

They're in the bedroom now. The Doctor followed the Master from the living room and is now leaning in the doorway, watching, arms crossed as his heart beats in his chest and his erection strains against the fabric of his jeans. The Master stands before him, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. There's a red bitemark on the side of his neck, and the top two buttons of his shirt are undone.

The Doctor licks his lips. "Take your clothes off."

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"Forward." The smirk grows, and the Master reaches up to continue unbuttoning his shirt. Slowly. In no rush. "Faster?"

The casual arrogance of the Doctor leaning in the doorway, watching, the urgency in that paradoxically distance posture, pins the Master's consciousness down, focuses it entirely on the Doctor. You're being interesting, Doctor. Tell him what you want right now. Be specific. Be clear. He wants to know what you're thinking.

"Yes." He doesn't move, just shifts his stance a little. "Hurry up."

His pants rub against his cock, and without thinking about it, he reaches down to palm himself through his trousers. His eyes never leave the Master, though. Come on, get out of those clothes. Now.

"Your wish." Is my command. The smirk breaks into a sharp grin as the Doctor touches himself through his clothes. He is in a hurry, unselfconscious and intent. What got into you, Doctor? Besides the wine.

He hurries, but doesn't rush, taking off his clothing quickly but fastidiously—unbuttoning his shirt and putting it aside, pulling down his trousers and putting them over the back of a chair, rolling off his socks and balling them to toss aside. Efficient, clean motion.

As the Master unbuttons his shirt, the Doctor does the same with his--less quickly, though, clumsier, as he is not looking at what he's doing, his eyes still on the Master. He gets rid of shirt, undershirt and socks, but is still wearing his jeans when the Master tosses aside his socks and straightens up to look at him.

The Doctor, instead of unbuttoning his trousers, steps up to the Master and takes his face into his hands, his thumbs on the other man's cheekbones, the fingers of his right hand brushing over the red bite mark on the Master's neck. He keeps this position only for a short moment--giving the Master no time to react, which he would, if the Doctor let him; the gesture oversteps quite a few boundaries, lines in the sand drawn a long, long time ago--before he pulls the other man into a kiss, his hands traveling down over the Master's chest around his waist underneath the waistband of his boxers. He pushes them out of the way, unceremoniously, and cups the Master's ass in his palms, squeezing not-too-gently as he presses his hips against the Master's.

Then he breaks the kiss and steps back, trying to keep his breathing level. "Lie down. On your stomach."

"On my—" the Master blinks at the Doctor, expression caught between surprise and consternation, boxers pooled around his feet. He would have pulled away from the Doctor's hands on his face, that possessive gesture—or have tried to turn it and own it for himself—but he hadn't been given the chance. The Doctor's quick this evening. Decisive. Impulsive.

He could fight this. The Doctor's drunk. He could shrug and gather up his clothes and walk out, leave him to sober up—or he could counter the Doctor's aggressiveness with his own.

But maybe not. Maybe he'll explore this unusual mood.

"On my stomach." He runs his eyes down the Doctor, standing in front of him still half-clothed, and then back up to meet his eyes. He smiles. "No."

What do you do now, Doctor?

The Master denies his request--or order, really, it was more of an order than a request, the Doctor has to admit--and for a moment, the Doctor's certainty wavers. What if the Master means it? What if he really doesn't want this?

The smile on the Master's face says different, though. The Doctor knows that smile; he's being tested. He answers with a slow smile of his own, lowering his hands to his trousers, undoing buckle and button and zipper and slowly undressing, tossing aside his jeans and boxers to join his shirt on the floor.

Then he just stands there before the Master, running his hand idly over his cock, waiting. He believes he told you to lie down.

The Master tips his head, appreciating the scenery as the Doctor finishes undressing. There we go. This isn't entirely new to you, Doctor. You know how to be absolutely certain of your own right to command. Your wants.

The sight of the Doctor standing in front of him, naked, erect and stroking himself, sends a frisson through the Master, a shiver of appreciation that encourages his own erection.

He moves one hand to touch himself, in a mirror to the Doctor. The movement is deliberate, telegraphed.

Challenge him.

The Doctor reaches out, a quick, sudden gesture, and locks his fingers around the Master's wrist. No. No touching yourself. For a moment, he wants to push further, wants to step in close and make the Master yield, but he doesn't. He's not going to force this. If you want this, Master, you'll have to make a conscious choice.

He lets go of the Master, pulls his hand back, and waits again. He's not touching himself now.

He's curious. Can you admit you want this?

The Master looks down at the Doctor's hand on his wrist—and, when the Doctor pulls away, he doesn't look back up. He holds still, hearing the drums quiet in the back of his head, waiting. His eyes go distant and inward-turned, as he follows his own thoughts.

He could challenge again.

Or he could choose to obey.

He looks up at the Doctor, and meets his eyes, unsmiling and serious. Without another word or gesture, he steps over to the bed and lies down, as per the Doctor's almost-orders.

The Doctor spends a tense moment watching, waiting--and when the Master looks up and meets his eyes, the Doctor's breath catches in his throat. The Master is going to do it. He is going to obey the Doctor.

When the Master has settled down, lying on his stomach, arms spread over his head, the Doctor takes a deep breath and joins him, kneeling on the bed next to him. He slides his left hand over the Master's ass and then trails one finger upwards along the Master's spine, his fingernail grazing the skin. His other hand settles on the Master's shoulder--loosely, it's just touch, but if the Master decides to move, it'll be easy for the Doctor to hold him in place.

"Oh, yes, right there." The Master props his chin up on his hands and tips his gaze up at the ceiling, tone dry as toast served on a plate of desiccant. Is this it? Really?

The Master hasn't finished speaking when the Doctor grabs the back of his head and pushes him back down, his touch not gentle at all now. He leans in closely, bringing his mouth to the Master's ear, his weight shifting to the hand in the Master's hair and pressing the other man's face into the pillows.

"Shut. Up."

He pulls back and curls his fingers into the Master's hair, jerking backwards as the Master lifts his head. Then, in a quick motion, he straddles the Master's thighs, his fingers letting go of the Master's hair and trailing over his back to his buttocks. The Doctor squeezes with his right, hard, and runs the index finger of his other hand along the cleft to the Master's anus. He pushes against it and feels resistance. Pressing harder, he lets go with his right and slaps his palm against the already reddened skin of the Master's ass. Come on. You wanted this, now play along.

Mmph. The Doctor shoves him hard down into the pillows, and he was expecting a reaction but he wasn't expecting that. The muscles of his shoulderblades tighten reflexively and his fingers curl into the sheets of the Doctor's bed, preparing to push his body up.

He catches himself before he moves on the reaction, and breathes. He can still breath. The Doctor isn't pushing him down to smother him, to demonstrate to him that he no longer possesses a respiratory bypass system. He's fine. Breathe.

And then the Doctor jerks his head up by the hair, and the quick run of sensations that follow—the release of the grip, the hand on his back and buttocks, the pressure at his anus, the smack and sting of the Doctor's hand against his skin, brings him back to himself. He pushes up and back against the Doctor, a violent ruck of hips that rubs his own erection against the bed under him and presses his anus harder against the Doctor's finger.

He's forgotten, in his reaction to that moment of surprise and airlessness, that he's chosen to submit.

The Master reacts as expected. He bucks his hips against the Doctor, almost as if trying to throw him off--which he would have managed if the Doctor hadn't known this was coming. As it is, the Doctor gets up on his knees, resting his weight on the mattress rather than the Master's body, and balances himself with one hand while his other stays on the Master's buttock, just resting loosely--just touch, a reminder that he's still here, and that they're playing.

It's just a game, Master. Calm down.

The heightened sensitivity of his skin following the Doctor's slap makes the touch of the Doctor's hand distinct—warm and hyper-present. The Master closes his eyes and shakes his head, a half-smile quirking at his lips and smoothing the moment's tension from his forehead. Doctor. You're so very bad at aggression.

Except, of course, when you're not and you put him in hospital. But you save that for special occasions, and this, he thinks, isn't one of them.

He relaxes back down onto the bed, arms out to his sides, shoulders loose. "Go on."

As the Master settles down, so does the Doctor, lowering himself down and reclaiming a stable position. He leans forward, one hand on the mattress next to the Master's body, until the head of his cock just so brushes against the Master's ass. His other hand is still resting on the Master's buttock, and he begins trailing it inward, when the Master speaks up.

The Doctor stops in his tracks, his grip on the Master's ass tightening ever so slightly.

"What did I just tell you?"

The Master grins into the pillows.

"To shut up."

He doesn't tense up in anticipation of correction; instead, he remains pointedly relaxed under the weight of the Doctor, hands open against the bed, the lines of throat and shoulders at ease, not a twitch under the Doctor's hand—though he does twitch at that slightest-touch of the Doctor's cock.

He centers himself on his breath, funneling the anticipation he feels into the muscles of his abdomen and diaphragm and out with the push of air.

"Exactly." You've been listening. The Doctor is almost impressed.

He can tell that the Master is waiting for him to hit him again--the way the other man goes entirely still, entirely relaxed under his fingers is clue enough; he does know the Master pretty well--so he doesn't. He simply runs his hand over the smooth skin of the Master's ass, down along his side and to the back of his thighs, and tilts his hips forward, his cock once more nudging against the Master, with more pressure this time. He waits until he feels the Master tense with disappointed anticipation, and then raises his hand and hits him again, harder than before.

He leans in close, bringing his mouth close to the Master's ear. "Then do so."

The slap, timed against expectations, breaks his controlled breathing into a quick hissed intake of breath and disrupts his amusement. You're supposed to be predictable, Doctor, even in this. Play your part.

"Yes, master." He turns his head, trying to catch the Doctor, so close to him, in a kiss. Moving his hands and arms in as he does so, he's poised to push up, to make the kiss the opening of a bid to reassert control, to tip the Doctor off and over.

When the Master turns, the Doctor pulls back--he's not letting the Master kiss him. But he doesn't push him down, either. There's a tense moment as the Doctor waits for the Master to make a decision--he can break this off, now, or he can let the Doctor continue.

Come on, Master. Aren't you the least bit curious?

The moment hangs for an instant, because the Master is curious. He allowed this, because the Doctor initiated it, and because that was something new. Something to be explored.

But the Doctor isn't measuring up. He isn't taking. He's allowing the Master to interrupt the game at every move.

The Master pushes himself up on his arms and twists, pulling his legs out from under the Doctor and turning over, shoving a foot into the Doctor's chest and toppling him over the end of the bed.

He follows the Doctor over the end of the bed, onto the floor, pressing a hand down around the Doctor's throat. "Don't ask my permission."

The Doctor was expecting the Master to call this off--he could tell that the Master wasn't comfortable with this, and was getting less comfortable with it by the moment--but he wasn't expecting to be physically attacked. The Master's foot hits him in the chest, and he loses his balance, pulling part of the covers with him as he unsuccessfully tries to keep himself from falling off the bed.

He lands on his back, and there's a moment of breathlessness as the impact stops him from drawing in the air that the kick knocked out of him. Then there's the Master, putting more pressure on his chest as he leans on him with one hand, his other closing around the Doctor's throat.

The Doctor's reaction is instinctive. He jerks his legs up and out, trying to shake the Master off. His right knee only brushes against the side of the Master's leg, but his left hits soft tissue. The Master makes a choked sound, and his grip on the Doctor loosens enough so the Doctor can push him off easily. He rolls out from under him and to his feet in one quick motion, then turns around to see the Master lying curled up on the floor, his hands between his legs.

The Doctor takes a couple of deep breaths. "As you wish."

He quickly gathers up his shirt and trousers and leaves the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him. He needs a moment. He's sure the Master does, too.

Yes. He does need a moment.

He lies curled around himself on the floor, naked, consciousness centered on the pain between his legs. The posture screams self-protection, but it's very much too late for that.

The sheet, crumpled up and thrown to the end of the bed by the Master's lunge and the Doctor's fall and grab at the coverlet, slithers off under its own weight and drapes over his hips and side. He curls up tighter, waiting mindlessly for the pain to go away.

He hates being human. In a moment, he will also hate you, Doctor, but that will be a moment.

The Doctor goes straight into the bathroom, closes the door behind himself, and leans back against it, taking deep, controlled breaths.

One. Two. Calm down.

It takes him a few moments, but when he finally feels his heart rate slowing down, he stoops down to retrieve his clothes that he dropped onto the floor next to him earlier. He picks them up and stops in his tracks with a short sigh. These aren't his trousers. In his hurry to leave, he must've picked up the Master's.

He carelessly lets them fall to the floor again and, after shrugging into an old ratty bathrobe he keeps on a hook on the inside of the bathroom door, he returns to the living area of the flat. He hesitates briefly, eying the bedroom door, but then heads into the kitchen instead.

He'll make coffee and wait. The Master will have to come out eventually.

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