[Fic] Blink
TITLE: Blink
AUTHOR: Andromeda
FANDOM: Doctor Who
SUMMARY: None, a little PWP.
RATING/WARNING: NC-17, Slash, Doctor/Master, BDSM, Non-con.
WORD COUNT: 666 words
EMAIL: fiandyfic@livejournal.com
AUTHOR'S NOTES: For darthfi, who requested something to cheer her up and also beta'd this. I hope it worked honey.
DISCLAIMER: Doctor Who is copyright BBC. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made.
Blink
Imagine, if you can, a very male person; not human, though very human-looking; leaning with his back to a smooth, dark wall. Imagine his habitual suit ruched at the back as he presses to and fro, sliding slightly up and down the wall. His head thrown back against the wall, mussing his brown hair, his eyes dark with lust and slitted with pleasure.
The source of that pleasure is immediately apparent. Another man, on his knees, black-clad fingers tangled in his hair. His eyes closed to the sensation as he licks and sucks along the length of cock in front of him.
This is what you see, this is what you imagine.
Now blink.
The man on his knees is naked. His only adornments are the leather cuffs holding his wrists behind his back, a leather collar and leash around his neck and red whip-marks down his back and legs.
The leash is wrapped around the wrist of the black-suited man in front of him. He is a personal pet in every way.
The man on his knees is almost completely silent. He does not growl or moan. Even the suckling noises he makes as he is hard at work are muffled. He will only speak on demand and he will only ever say one thing.
“Master.”
And now blink again. Other things are now apparent.
Those fingers tangled in the kneeling man’s hair are clenched tight. If they weren’t encased in soft black leather gloves, the knuckles would be standing white against the man’s dark hair. They are hard, controlling every movement, pulling him off balance against the other man’s body. His master’s right hand is pressed against the kneeling man’s throat, fingers clenched around the jaw, controlling the mouth, forcing him to accept what is offered.
Blink.
The man’s eyes are not closed in supplication, but in pain. Fine lines radiate from the corners and the beginnings of tears are trapped there, threatening to spill off the long, dark lashes. The forehead creases and uncreases as the scalp is pulled forward and back in time to the thrusting of the master’s hips. His hands clench, also in time, fluttering like birds wings beating themselves against the walls of a glass cage.
Seen from this perspective, this is not worship, this is defiance. This is the constant struggle against the oppressors of freedom, against those who would impose their will.
Now blink.
Like a magic trick the scene changes. An optical illusion created to test your mind. No longer love, no longer mutual, no longer even defiance. This is now a battle won. The victor celebrating his triumph, grinding his enemies into the dirt.
Grinding his cock into his enemy’s face, he comes with a guttural moan, beating his tattoo against the skull of his fallen foe.
Now stillness. A silence punctuated by only the harsh breathing of both men. They have both worked for this new equilibrium, expended the effort, earned the silence. Slowly the rhythm slows down, becomes more normal, less tense. His master straightens, his jacket sliding against the wall, dropping back perfectly straight has he shifts forward, pushing his pet back on his knees, pushing him backwards and over. And the silence is now punctuated by the slap of flesh on the cold marble floor.
And blink.
The kneeling man is now the prone man. Unable to push himself upright he can only lie there as his master comes closer, running the toe of his leather shoe down his chest and down the length of his cock. He cannot help but curl in, slightly bracing himself, closing his eyes; so vulnerable there, unable to defend. But the expected blow doesn’t come. His master is instead standing over him, his eyes dark with power and slitted in triumph.
And now the scene is done, the man in the suit turns and walks away, his heels clicking on the ground, a perfect counterpoint to the drums inside your head.
Blink.
Nothing changes.
fin
AUTHOR: Andromeda
FANDOM: Doctor Who
SUMMARY: None, a little PWP.
RATING/WARNING: NC-17, Slash, Doctor/Master, BDSM, Non-con.
WORD COUNT: 666 words
EMAIL: fiandyfic@livejournal.com
AUTHOR'S NOTES: For darthfi, who requested something to cheer her up and also beta'd this. I hope it worked honey.
DISCLAIMER: Doctor Who is copyright BBC. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made.
Blink
Imagine, if you can, a very male person; not human, though very human-looking; leaning with his back to a smooth, dark wall. Imagine his habitual suit ruched at the back as he presses to and fro, sliding slightly up and down the wall. His head thrown back against the wall, mussing his brown hair, his eyes dark with lust and slitted with pleasure.
The source of that pleasure is immediately apparent. Another man, on his knees, black-clad fingers tangled in his hair. His eyes closed to the sensation as he licks and sucks along the length of cock in front of him.
This is what you see, this is what you imagine.
Now blink.
The man on his knees is naked. His only adornments are the leather cuffs holding his wrists behind his back, a leather collar and leash around his neck and red whip-marks down his back and legs.
The leash is wrapped around the wrist of the black-suited man in front of him. He is a personal pet in every way.
The man on his knees is almost completely silent. He does not growl or moan. Even the suckling noises he makes as he is hard at work are muffled. He will only speak on demand and he will only ever say one thing.
“Master.”
And now blink again. Other things are now apparent.
Those fingers tangled in the kneeling man’s hair are clenched tight. If they weren’t encased in soft black leather gloves, the knuckles would be standing white against the man’s dark hair. They are hard, controlling every movement, pulling him off balance against the other man’s body. His master’s right hand is pressed against the kneeling man’s throat, fingers clenched around the jaw, controlling the mouth, forcing him to accept what is offered.
Blink.
The man’s eyes are not closed in supplication, but in pain. Fine lines radiate from the corners and the beginnings of tears are trapped there, threatening to spill off the long, dark lashes. The forehead creases and uncreases as the scalp is pulled forward and back in time to the thrusting of the master’s hips. His hands clench, also in time, fluttering like birds wings beating themselves against the walls of a glass cage.
Seen from this perspective, this is not worship, this is defiance. This is the constant struggle against the oppressors of freedom, against those who would impose their will.
Now blink.
Like a magic trick the scene changes. An optical illusion created to test your mind. No longer love, no longer mutual, no longer even defiance. This is now a battle won. The victor celebrating his triumph, grinding his enemies into the dirt.
Grinding his cock into his enemy’s face, he comes with a guttural moan, beating his tattoo against the skull of his fallen foe.
Now stillness. A silence punctuated by only the harsh breathing of both men. They have both worked for this new equilibrium, expended the effort, earned the silence. Slowly the rhythm slows down, becomes more normal, less tense. His master straightens, his jacket sliding against the wall, dropping back perfectly straight has he shifts forward, pushing his pet back on his knees, pushing him backwards and over. And the silence is now punctuated by the slap of flesh on the cold marble floor.
And blink.
The kneeling man is now the prone man. Unable to push himself upright he can only lie there as his master comes closer, running the toe of his leather shoe down his chest and down the length of his cock. He cannot help but curl in, slightly bracing himself, closing his eyes; so vulnerable there, unable to defend. But the expected blow doesn’t come. His master is instead standing over him, his eyes dark with power and slitted in triumph.
And now the scene is done, the man in the suit turns and walks away, his heels clicking on the ground, a perfect counterpoint to the drums inside your head.
Blink.
Nothing changes.
fin