dreamtofbeing | 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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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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