John Smith (
dreamtofbeing) wrote2009-11-16 11:52 pm
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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."
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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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.
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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.
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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.
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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."
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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?
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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.
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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.
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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?
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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.
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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.
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"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.
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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.
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It's just a game, Master. Calm down.
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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."
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The Doctor stops in his tracks, his grip on the Master's ass tightening ever so slightly.
"What did I just tell you?"
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"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.
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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."
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"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.
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Come on, Master. Aren't you the least bit curious?
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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."
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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.
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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.
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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.