Doctor: “You were asleep. I saw an opportunity. I took it.” *smirk* Master: “…..Shit…..” Doctor: *knows he’s going to get his ass kicked later ; doesn’t care*
Theta knows the moment he’s gotten what he’s after, and that moment brings with it sharp teeth against the soft flesh of his upper lip, piercing, that sends fire trembling through his veins and oh, oh how he burns. He ignites beneath the violent eroticism, the subsequent kiss scorching him, engaging every sense and every synapse at once, one domino in a line of many that seem to fall in rapid succession. Penny in the air, penny drops, penny spins round and round its’ axis until it glows beneath the velocity of force. It renders him nearly incapable of paying much attention to what the Master begins to say.
Drawn in, his eyes darken further, dilating until naught but a sliver of brown remains to line his pupils. It’s in that moment the Master speaks the truth, unfiltered, telling Theta what he wants in as near exact words as he’ll ever hope to get. His goal is met, he waits, knowing, burning just as the other suggests he might and he burns willingly. The flames are welcome as they lick at his flesh and cause his face to redden as that hand shoves into his trousers.
Mouth opening he can’t prevent the small gasp nor the way his body shudders in response. It’s only by sheer luck that he wears layers, fabric to cover up the millions of goosebumps the Master’s touch produces. Either way the darkness in his eyes is riotous and unfiltered, his fingers twitch at his sides, the back of his neck prickling in a way that has his muscles tensing. Before the Master’s even finished speaking the Doctor has already calculated the exact number of steps between his counterpart’s back and the wall laying just beyond. Has already determined force, velocity, weight distribution.
It takes everything within him to wait until the words are done, the second squeeze producing a twitch of a very different nature against the Master’s palm. A hand lifts to trail fingertips along his counterpart’s cheek and it seems, at first, as though the other’s requests will go unfulfilled. Then his hands both lift at once to twist into fabric, to shove the Master backward as he propells himself forward in tandem, unwilling to have that hand removed from his trousers as he pins him to the wall.
His teeth are bared, and his breathing hitched. It’s only then he speaks in a low voice that reverberates with that hunger, leaving his tone near trembling with the sound of a growl beyond the horizon of his words.
“You speak with such thinly veiled desperation, yet such a blatant vulgarity. Commanding things of me in a way that suggests you’re still begging for it and oh, oh the images that must be in your mind. I bet they’re delightfully pornographic, aren’t they… et si je te connais aussi bien que je le pense, je parie que je suis derrière toi, putain de te jusqu’à ce que tu cries mon nom… am I close?”
He pauses, the corner of his mouth twitching upward just a fraction as the Oncoming Storm billows in, a crack of proverbial thunder and a strike of invisible lightning besides.
“Such a lecherous little bitch you are…”
One of his hands shoves into the Master’s trousers, mirroring the action his counterpart took previously, but his hand doesn’t simply squeeze- it moves in a specified pattern, with a specified purpose as his mouth crashes against the Master’s, near bruising in the force of the ardent kiss.
The Master rolls his hips and cants back his chin, smiling with reckless vainglory. But then again, that’s so him, and he knows he is what the Doctor wants. Oh, the feeling of that … .
“D a r-ling, I am usually vulgar, and I am always a bitch.”
And then, cruel tease, he tosses the gauntlet:
"It doesn’t make you special that I act this way.”
Oh, what a move.
The Doctor’s Keeper, forced flush against a wall, is hard in an instant, but he squeezes yet a third time before lifting his palm off and sliding it harsh up the Doctor’s shirt, popping every single button on the hapless blue article. He cups his chin viciously. His lip ripples in a hungry snarl.
“I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again, I’d rather DIE than beg YOU. Essaies-toi plus fort, ma jolie. I’ll scream your name when you’ve REALLY … ”
He spins them and slams the Doctor hard into the wall in turn.
“ … put your BACK into it–”
At which juncture the Doctor’s touching his length, and kissing him so voraciously that he’s rendered silent, his mind hot red static.
The Master’s sprawled on his belly when he mumbles this, face squished into a pillow, with Jack in turn spayed on top of him, listening through his shoulder blades.
He reaches back blindly to pat his husband’s head, yawns and stretches, intentionally showing off the circuitboard tattoo across his right bicep; he knows Jack finds it arousing.
“Oh you little shit,” Jack says as he flashes that tattoo, knowing the action is fully intentional. He shifts so that he’s fully covering him, mouthing and licking at the inked skin. “Not gonna be sleeping much longer…”
A licentious growl of laughter rolls right off Koschei’s lips as Jack crushes him beneath. He wriggles his bare bottom, face screwed up, and turns away from the affections offered, trying half-heartedly to escape.
This will probably surprise most people, and I guess it’s just a personal headcanon, but I have always seen the Master as more sensual than sexual. He appreciates sensorial experiences, relishes things like taste, sound, sight, and sensation, and applies those EXTREMELY INTENSE experiences to romance. He is extremely tactile, but only if he loves you, and in that case he will always want to be touching and touched, and it needn’t be touch of a sexual nature: hair petting, beard scratching, touches to the back, shoulder, chest, belly, arms, legs, face. Reassurances. My Master muse is demisexual, but with those with whom he’s formed deep emotional attachments (read: the Doctor, tbh), sex is particularly gratifying. Incidents like the marriage to Lucy Saxon were entirely aberrational and part of a plot (involving the Doctor of course) that required the maintenance of appearances.
🛏What is their favorite bedroom activity to do with their partner?
Koschei adores being overpowered, but after a significant challenge. He doesn’t hand over the reins immediately, he wants his partner to charm and seduce him into total submission, and then, he wants to be restrained and dominated. He’s also shockingly romantic, in the traditional sense of courtship, flowers, poetry, but that’s a side you’ll only see if you’re truly favored. Occasionally he likes also to completely dominate. He enjoys measured roughness. He also likes to be aroused in public and try to hide it as long as possible before taking a partner aside in private and ravishing them.
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.”
Icarus 