John Smith (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dreamtofbeing) wrote2009-11-16 11:52 pm
dreamtofbeing) wrote2009-11-16 11:52 pm
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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."
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."
no subject
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.