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best_enemies2011-01-23 07:22 pm
one-true-bee.livejournal.com) wrote in best_enemies2011-01-23 07:22 pm
Entry tags:
Convalescence (Ainley!Master/Five)
Title: Convalescence
Wordcount: 560
Rating: PG13
Characters: Ainley!Master/Five
Summary: During his convalescence at Castrovalva the Doctor can barely remember who he is. Why wouldn't the Master take advantage of that situation?
The Doctor woke to a grey-pink hue. The first thing he noticed, of all possible things, was something scratchy lightly resting against his forehead. He turned his head slightly. Definitely scratchy.
The second thing the Doctor noticed was that he was warm. He was warm and he was lying pressed tight against the source of yet more warmth. He snuggled a little closer. Warmth and scratching against his hair.
The Doctor blinked, why this grey pink? Why could he not move very far? He shifted again. He lay caught in an embrace. His arm was beneath the other person’s body, his other hand curled against the – he flattened his palm – firm, flat chest of his bedmate. He dragged his hand a little higher. There were wiry curls beneath his fingers.
The other man shifted and huffed, his warm breath tickling the Doctor’s scalp. The arms around the Doctor tightened.
The Doctor moved his head slightly, trying to look up, to get a glimpse of the man that held him, his mind seemed dull, why could he not recall? It was all he could do to remember his own name.
He shifted the hand beneath the other man’s body, seeking. He found the man’s neck with the tips of his fingers. Shuffling tighter against him, the Doctor gained enough freedom of movement to push his fingers up into the man’s hair. It was slick with something, oil he supposed, and ruffled. Exploring with his fingers, the Doctor decided that if he could see it, the dishevelled oiled hair would appear rather endearing. The Doctor had always loved entropy. Even the best efforts of the oil could not calm this sort of chaos. He smiled, feeling utterly content though uncertain why.
A warm feeling in his chest drove him to press his nose against the other man’s neck, nuzzle and drop his lips against his skin. In a daze he continued, touching with his tongue. He felt a heat pooling in his groin and knew he was getting hard. It was an absent-minded observation though, a lazy knowledge. He shifted to make himself more comfortable and continued what he was doing.
Fingers dragged through his hair and tightened and the Doctor allowed his head to be tilted back. His eyes felt heavy and he closed them gently as warm lips descended on his own. The man’s beard, for that was what he supposed it was, scratched at his cheek. The hand in his hair was firm and yet gentle. The man’s taste was familiar and he lapped against the Doctor’s tongue so sensually the Doctor felt himself tremble.
A moment later, the man broke the kiss. “Go back to sleep,” he murmured and instantly the Doctor felt heavy. He could remember that voice, he knew that voice…
The following day, his clarity renewed, the memory returned to him as he followed his companions back to the TARDIS. He turned and looked up the hill at the civilisation of Castrovalva.
“Master,” he whispered.
Castrovalva was crumbling before his eyes. He was hit by a sudden sadness and a sense of loss; he was mourning for the man the Master would never allow himself to be. Every time that disappointment took a new guise. It was such a terrible shame. With a flick of his new beige coat, the Doctor turned his back.
Wordcount: 560
Rating: PG13
Characters: Ainley!Master/Five
Summary: During his convalescence at Castrovalva the Doctor can barely remember who he is. Why wouldn't the Master take advantage of that situation?
The Doctor woke to a grey-pink hue. The first thing he noticed, of all possible things, was something scratchy lightly resting against his forehead. He turned his head slightly. Definitely scratchy.
The second thing the Doctor noticed was that he was warm. He was warm and he was lying pressed tight against the source of yet more warmth. He snuggled a little closer. Warmth and scratching against his hair.
The Doctor blinked, why this grey pink? Why could he not move very far? He shifted again. He lay caught in an embrace. His arm was beneath the other person’s body, his other hand curled against the – he flattened his palm – firm, flat chest of his bedmate. He dragged his hand a little higher. There were wiry curls beneath his fingers.
The other man shifted and huffed, his warm breath tickling the Doctor’s scalp. The arms around the Doctor tightened.
The Doctor moved his head slightly, trying to look up, to get a glimpse of the man that held him, his mind seemed dull, why could he not recall? It was all he could do to remember his own name.
He shifted the hand beneath the other man’s body, seeking. He found the man’s neck with the tips of his fingers. Shuffling tighter against him, the Doctor gained enough freedom of movement to push his fingers up into the man’s hair. It was slick with something, oil he supposed, and ruffled. Exploring with his fingers, the Doctor decided that if he could see it, the dishevelled oiled hair would appear rather endearing. The Doctor had always loved entropy. Even the best efforts of the oil could not calm this sort of chaos. He smiled, feeling utterly content though uncertain why.
A warm feeling in his chest drove him to press his nose against the other man’s neck, nuzzle and drop his lips against his skin. In a daze he continued, touching with his tongue. He felt a heat pooling in his groin and knew he was getting hard. It was an absent-minded observation though, a lazy knowledge. He shifted to make himself more comfortable and continued what he was doing.
Fingers dragged through his hair and tightened and the Doctor allowed his head to be tilted back. His eyes felt heavy and he closed them gently as warm lips descended on his own. The man’s beard, for that was what he supposed it was, scratched at his cheek. The hand in his hair was firm and yet gentle. The man’s taste was familiar and he lapped against the Doctor’s tongue so sensually the Doctor felt himself tremble.
A moment later, the man broke the kiss. “Go back to sleep,” he murmured and instantly the Doctor felt heavy. He could remember that voice, he knew that voice…
The following day, his clarity renewed, the memory returned to him as he followed his companions back to the TARDIS. He turned and looked up the hill at the civilisation of Castrovalva.
“Master,” he whispered.
Castrovalva was crumbling before his eyes. He was hit by a sudden sadness and a sense of loss; he was mourning for the man the Master would never allow himself to be. Every time that disappointment took a new guise. It was such a terrible shame. With a flick of his new beige coat, the Doctor turned his back.