The Doctor quirks an eyebrow, tongue wetting his lips as his mouth has abruptly found itself unreasonably dry. His own biological response seems to have taken on a mind of its’ own and, much like the Master, he is visibly affected. In stark contrast though, he refuses to attempt to hide it. Face flushing only enough to allow the tips of his ears to turn pink, his trousers also find themselves a bit tighter than they had been previous and there is a sizzling electricity in his blood that causes his fingers to twitch at his sides.
He also refuses to allow this deluge of
endorphins
to interfere with this new game they’ve created that is not, in fact, a game at all. Far from it. The power shifts for a moment but the Doctor is determined to regain it, reclaim it as his own. He speaks in a tone that trembles around the edges, near guttural in its’ low and lascivious nature as he begins striding toward the other slowly, each step determined and each step a promise that he will not be backing down from this.
“Vénère-vous… avec ma bite peut-être.”
He is mere centimeters away now, close enough to touch the other though he does manage to refrain from it. Instead he merely shoves hands into pinstriped pockets and leans in so that the Master might feel his breath ghost along the flesh near his ear as the Doctor continues to speak.
“Veux-tu çà? Si je m’agenouille derrière toi … toi sur tes mains et tes genoux … en me disant d’aller plus vite … plus profond? Je pense que tu aimerais ça. Je pense que vous en demanderiez plus. Je parie que vous ne pouvez pas arrêter d’y penser. Je me demande combien de temps cela prend avant que tu ne m’appelles Maître à la place. Mais si je dois demander gentiment …”
A hand withdraws from his pocket and a single, slender finger extends to trace over the back of one of the hands folded in front of the Master’s crotch. His chocolate eyes are dilated black as he leans back slightly, meeting the other’s gaze without hesitation.
“S’il vous plaît, Maître… Laisse-moi apprivoiser la bête.”
The Master’s features tellingly compete between hot arousal, mouth ajar, and knowing bemusement. There he goes, the Walking Mouth, showing off in the seductive lilt of a Romance Language from this damned little blue planet, laying out his oldest friend’s most salacious needs, like it’s a grocery list, and simultaneously, an erotic poem. Typical. Damn this idiot, he loves him so much that his head tingles with the intensity of it.
Koschei challenges that tease. He calls that bluff, though he knows it’s more a promise, as he turns to close his teeth hard around the upper lip that speaks such sauciness. That bite becomes a crushing kiss. He pulls back, arching one eyebrow.
“Tu n’es pas équipé,” he fires back, wryly, simply. “Trying to dominate fire, you great fool, fine, burn yourself, your pain still turns me the hell on.”
He shoves a hand right down the Doctor’s trousers and squeezes.
“Overplay your hand. See if you can even get me on my knees, eh? I don’t want you to ‘ask nicely.’ I want you to show me every second you missed me and longed for me. Every fraction of every second. I want to see your unslaked hunger. Here and now. Try and make me scream. What a pleasure that’d be.”
“Come then, Oncoming Storm, I remember well how fiercely you can play.”
The Doctor’s eyes follow the visage of his love from the moment he begins to speak, the corner of his mouth tilting upward just so with an appreciative hum as the Master slides his own pair of erudite spectacles atop his nose. Funny how a small item comprised of metal, plastic and glass can have such an arousing effect.
Immediately the Doctor wishes to skew those glasses in various ways, none of which are appropriate but all of which would give both Time Lords tremendous satisfaction. He refrains and nudges away the onslaught of vivid imagery in his mind, even as the Master sits just beyond his reach as though to say ’catch me if you can’. He can. He knows this. The fingers attached to the palm that his chin now resides on twitch a fraction against his cheek but he remains steadfast and does not move.
The Doctor listens silently as the Master regales the poetry back to him in his own words, combing through it and subsequently responding to each and every part. The act of this retelling procures a tenderness inside of him that permeates his hearts and leaves his skin tingling with affection. It’s endearing to say the absolute, very least. Oh how he loves him, more than the other will probably ever realize. It consumes him.
As the Master finishes there lay a small smile on the Doctor’s face and he finds he has to take a breath inward as he hasn’t done so thus far. He does so now, and his hand falls from beneath his chin to dangle freely in the space between his knees alongside his other hand.
“As you have lit mine. I don’t think I’ll ever grow tired of hearing you put these verses into your own words. Your mind is captivating. I could immerse myself in your telepathic brilliance for eternity and never find it to be enough. In fact I believe I demand more.” His tone is pure and honest, and for once there’s no hint of teasing or playfulness beneath. No dramatics, no hint of the normal never-ending gob, no bravado- he isn’t saying this to garner a reaction, no, but rather because he feels it.
Contemplative, he retrieves the book he’s just read from and thumbs through it briefly before settling on another page and reading aloud, his glasses slipping down his nose in the process.
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands.“
The Master watches the Doctor struggling with self control and he laughs a laugh like a furnace kicking on in the first days of winter.
“Have I at last rendered you speechless?” he asks, but just at that moment the Doctor springs to exuberantly recited verse.
Koschei pinches his nose, suppressing a snort. But he listens, secretly enrapt.
{ though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself }
“Really,” he inetrjects, in a sultry whisper. “Do I really.”
He realizes it, but perhaps only through the venue of his own experience. Only through being equally, unequivocally consumed. By possessiveness, tenderness, humor, ardor. He can feel that tingling of skin, and his whole torso leans toward it.
He kneels in front of the Doctor’s chair and takes those dangling hands, which simply beg for company: for rescue.
“I would open to you as well. Beyond all reasoning. I would explore your mind forever.”
He closes the book in the Doctor’s other hand, seals it shut, as though to command attention, uncertain why remarks of his “fragility” and “smallness” haven’t caused ire. No, rather, he’s strangely undone, undressed, flattered, to be seen at his most distilled essence. Yet cherished. Cherished, praised, to unfurl and bare all, by the one who knows him nakedest, anyway.
Four simple lines, succinct and unwavering, a perfect foil to his beloved, who is an erratic kite dancing through some sort of storm, flashing hues left and right with the capricious winds, making a strangely elaborate mating dance of his poesy.
Icarus 