He catches her by surprise, and that is the only way he would get the best of her. The Master’s hand grips her jaw, pushes her back against the wall and pins her there by the throat. It is only because it’s him and no one else that he’s not unconscious on the floor with the help of her Venusian aikido skills.
The Doctor trusts her husband implicitly never to hurt her, but that doesn’t stop a brief flash of fear from running through her before she catches the look in his eye. Her own hazel gaze grows dark and she lets her hands run down his chest instead of gripping his arm.
“Interesting… can’t say I’ve ever seen you get quite like this… Can’t say I don’t like it, though.”
His mouth hangs slightly ajar with his arousal. Oh, there it is. That flicker of terror which might otherwise send him shrinking to a corner with shame at a relapsed evil. But now? With carefully staged, moderated “force”? He’s deeply satisfied. The Oncoming Storm, a tiny bit afraid, because of him; the Doctor, horny and playful and possessive and smug, because of him.
Nobody but nobody can do that to her.
Except him.
“I thought,” he explains, throaty, husky, “I’d surprise you with something I know you really. Really. Like.”
A knee presses up between her legs. He self-indulgently shivers at the nails scraping his chest.
“There’s a whole book written about you,” he breathes, ghosting his lips, his teeth, over her mouth, pinching her jaw hard. “But am I in it? Do they know what I can do to you? Do they know how I can make you go incandescent with pleasure? Do they know how I can undo you and leave you unfurled like ripe flower? Hm?”
send 💁 for our muses to be stuck in a small space together
They’re a pair of idiots. Idiot old men, too stubborn to cede each other exit from the TARDIS ceiling through the small hole the asteroid made–the asteroid that is the result of the Doctor’s poor driving, mind–so, in trying to crawl out the top simultaneously, they’ve gotten stuck. Arms free, but chest to chest, belly to belly, groin to groin.
The Master’s first impulse is to be furious.
But in mere seconds, the whole foolish situation has him laughing. At first, a delicious scrumptious little chuckle, and then a big bawdy cackle. As the laugh dies down into a hungry growl, he wiggles around, applying suggestive pressure to his lover’s crotch.
He wiggles his eyebrows at the Doctor, leering close,
“I know what you like, you slut,” he teases, and cackles again. “Let’s give the people who rescue us something to talk about …”
He ruffles the Doctor’s hair into helpless disarray.
The Doctor knew very well how to rile Koschei up. After this long, he had become intimately familiar with the particular looks, touches, words that made his husband squirm. That part was easy. What he wasn’t used to was admitting how desperately he needed Koschei.
He continues his work at the console, glancing up at his husband lounging in the jump seat every few seconds, but the longer he stands there, the more his desire grows. The Doctor finally clears his throat. “Koschei…? Think I might get your help with somethin’?
Koschei knows what he’s doing.
Koschei knows EXACTLY what he’s doing.
He’s reclined in the jumpseat–which, on raunchy occasions like this, he’s amusedly coined the “humpseat”–booted legs crossed at the ankle, up on the console, arms crossed behind his head, with a lordly and proprietary gaze at the ceiling.
“Only if you tell me from over there what ‘something’ is,” he leers, ever so smugly.
Send “Mating Season” to catch my muse in a lustful state & needing release.
Koschei has been preoccupied with some new project in his workshop, so the Doctor is left to her own devices. Nevermind that she’s been aching all day, she hasn’t wanted to bother her husband.
So… she retires to their room. It can’t hurt to indulge her desires, so she relaxes, her hand trailing down her body. She can almost, almost pretend it’s him touching her. As her hand slips beneath the covers and between her legs, she exhales a soft, whimpering moan of the sort that Koschei absolutely adores. She’s so caught up that she doesn’t hear the footsteps outside.
Koschei peels off his t-shirt and rubs work-callused palms down his cheeks, scratching the dampness in his trim little beard, dampness that causes the silvery-blond hairs to gleam more on his head, his face, and his chest. He heaves a sigh and sheds his trousers, too, and then his boxer-briefs, padding toward the bedroom and the connected shower.
He hears that whimper, a noise his boisterous wife ordinarily only makes in the throes of their lovemaking. And he stops dead, and licks his lips, as his eyes darken.
He strides in with twice the confidence, but softly, climbs onto the bed and drapes himself across her, slipping his hand inside her trousers.
He says absolutely nothing, but smiles down at her, and presses his naked hips down on top of her, and kisses her with a hungry open mouth.
“Did you really think,” he half-gasps, through another kiss, “that I would have objected to you interrupting anything for this … ?”
Koschei looks up from his favorite lounging spot, naked, on Jack’s chest, leeching his warmth like a cat does a spot of sun, and the dictionary definition of smug.
“Flattery may get you everywhere but don’t expect me to want to move anywhere anytime soon, regardless.”
Jack laughs, hard enough to shuffle his husband. “Actually, I’m more concerned about the Time Lord-shaped tan line, but hey, as long as you’re comfortable, right?”
“Well alright, you bounder, turn over onto your stomach and I’ll make sure both sides match.”
//….Thanks to St.a.te of P.la.y I now know what Jo/h//n Sim//m’s orgasm noises sound like. ¬v¬
Icarus 