Master/Doctor PWP
Because I needed some simple, plotless porn to balance my Nano-addled brain. No beta, and I'm getting quite tired, so no guarantees for quality. It's only 400 words, and really nothing fancy.
The Master loves control.
The Doctor can see it in his eyes, in his mind. The Master likes to be the one who calls the shots, who makes the decisions, who runs the game.
But the Master doesn't understand. Lying here on the bed, his face pressed into the pillow and the ropes cutting deep into his wrists, the Master's fingers buried in his hair, pulling and tearing just like the fingers of his other hand are pulling and tearing somewhere else, the Doctor knows that he's the one in control. He's always been; from the day they first met, he was the one setting up the rules for this game.
Because the Master needs him. The Master needs this. There's nothing else for him.
The Doctor utters a muffled sound and chokes a little on the soggy rag stuffed in his mouth when the Master jerks his head back and shoves his fingers in deep. It hurts, the pain tearing all the way up the Doctor's spine. Control, the Doctor thinks, this is what control feels like, and he feels his arousal deepen.
He's roughly pressed into the mattress as the Master shoves his cock into him. The Doctor's tied up, and tied up well, but he still tries to push back to meet the hard forward thrusts that bring surges of burning pain. The knots tighten, and the coarse material of the bonds chafes against his skin.
The Doctor doesn't need this. He walked away, such a long time ago, and he could do it again, at any given moment. He doesn't need this, not like the Master. He's the one in control.
The Master's fingers are digging into the Doctor's shoulders, the Master's weight is pressing on the Doctor's joints, straining them. The Doctor clenches his teeth around the gag and tastes blood; he must have bit his tongue. The Master thrusts faster; it won't be long now. Not long until the Master will lose the last of his control.
When it happens, the Doctor can feel it, with his body, with his mind. It's a tidal wave breaking, and he makes sure the Master is oblivious before he allows himself his own release. When the Master's focus returns, the Doctor's does as well, and for a very brief instance, they are equal.
The Master loves control. The Doctor does not. For him, it's merely a necessity.
The Master loves control.
The Doctor can see it in his eyes, in his mind. The Master likes to be the one who calls the shots, who makes the decisions, who runs the game.
But the Master doesn't understand. Lying here on the bed, his face pressed into the pillow and the ropes cutting deep into his wrists, the Master's fingers buried in his hair, pulling and tearing just like the fingers of his other hand are pulling and tearing somewhere else, the Doctor knows that he's the one in control. He's always been; from the day they first met, he was the one setting up the rules for this game.
Because the Master needs him. The Master needs this. There's nothing else for him.
The Doctor utters a muffled sound and chokes a little on the soggy rag stuffed in his mouth when the Master jerks his head back and shoves his fingers in deep. It hurts, the pain tearing all the way up the Doctor's spine. Control, the Doctor thinks, this is what control feels like, and he feels his arousal deepen.
He's roughly pressed into the mattress as the Master shoves his cock into him. The Doctor's tied up, and tied up well, but he still tries to push back to meet the hard forward thrusts that bring surges of burning pain. The knots tighten, and the coarse material of the bonds chafes against his skin.
The Doctor doesn't need this. He walked away, such a long time ago, and he could do it again, at any given moment. He doesn't need this, not like the Master. He's the one in control.
The Master's fingers are digging into the Doctor's shoulders, the Master's weight is pressing on the Doctor's joints, straining them. The Doctor clenches his teeth around the gag and tastes blood; he must have bit his tongue. The Master thrusts faster; it won't be long now. Not long until the Master will lose the last of his control.
When it happens, the Doctor can feel it, with his body, with his mind. It's a tidal wave breaking, and he makes sure the Master is oblivious before he allows himself his own release. When the Master's focus returns, the Doctor's does as well, and for a very brief instance, they are equal.
The Master loves control. The Doctor does not. For him, it's merely a necessity.