Hand in Glove (Nine, Ainley!Master; NC-17)
Title: Hand in Glove
Author: von_gelmini
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Nine, imagined Ainley!Master
Rating: NC-18
WordCount: 665
Warnings: explicit sex
Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who. I am not writing this for profit.
Written for 50_darkfics prompt #48 - Leather
Hand in Glove
The TARDIS was pretty much a self-cleaning environment. Which was a good thing because the Doctor didn’t do domestic. Other than picking up after himself, there was not much puttering about to do. Except when he got restless. He decided it was time for a good Spring Cleaning. Capital letters. Muttering to himself, he talked to no one about this and that while he found a place for everything. Neat and tidy, he liked things. More than in some of his other regenerations, less than in others. His fourth could get absolutely slovenly, his sixth was a martinet when it came to cleanliness. But in his ninth, he was simply satisfied with neat and tidy.
He didn’t recognize the glove at first. It didn’t fit him in this body, and he was sure it wasn’t his previous one’s either. Black leather, but not a practical style made for keeping the cold away. It was supple and soft. Warm, despite having spent years hidden away, wedged between his bed and nightstand. It irked him that there was only one, yet he couldn’t remember owning a thing like it.
He tried to put it on again. It was tight, but he could slip his fingers into place. Probably would never fit whoever it had before, he thought as he wriggled his fingers, stretching the fine leather. He raised his gloved hand to his face and breathed in deeply.
His eyes went wide and he pulled his hand away. He stared at his hand as if it were alien to him. It couldn’t be. Hesitantly he breathed in again. Not Earth leather. His expression saddened. Home. Gallifrey. And something else. Someone else. Time Lord.
He sat wearily on his bed, and after a moment, laid down and pulled the duvet over his head. The scent magnified beneath the warmth of the heavy cover and he felt his cheeks dampen.
He reached for his gloved hand with his bare one and held it as if it were someone else’s. But that someone was dead. And even if he weren’t...
He stroked his face with the glove and wiped away his tears, remembering. Remembering something he’d rather forget. An interlude. A momentary truce between enemies. He imagined another hand touching him through that smooth Gallifreyan leather. The kind of caress he would never allow in his ninth body but had opened to in his fifth. Never easily, but always eventually, he would yield to that familiar touch.
The gloved hand caressed his throat and he remembered the playful danger as the other would hold him there tightly, just enough to thrill and then release. He brought the glove to his mouth and kissed the fragrant leather before letting the finger part his lips.
The hand slowly trailed down his body, snaking underneath his jumper to caress his chest, to tweak a nipple. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to block everything except that touch from his mind. Fingers unfastened his trousers and slid down the zip. The leathered hand took hold of his erection and freed it from his flies. He tried to remember what it felt like, to have the other Time Lord stroking him. He remembered a time when he’d been bound, unable to move, and the other had done just that. He forced him to orgasm, forced him to admit it was more than just a bodily reaction, forced him to cry out his desire.
Alone, hiding in the dark beneath the covers, surrounded by scent and engulfed in remembrance, he sobbed the other’s name. And as the Doctor came, the other’s older name, the one he hadn’t spoken for centuries... a lover and friend long gone even before the fall of Gallifrey.
And despite his vow to destroy that lost then found old leather glove, he found himself cleaning it and then carefully, he tucked it back away between his bed and nightstand, hopefully to be forgotten again for a very long time.
Author: von_gelmini
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Nine, imagined Ainley!Master
Rating: NC-18
WordCount: 665
Warnings: explicit sex
Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who. I am not writing this for profit.
Written for 50_darkfics prompt #48 - Leather
Hand in Glove
The TARDIS was pretty much a self-cleaning environment. Which was a good thing because the Doctor didn’t do domestic. Other than picking up after himself, there was not much puttering about to do. Except when he got restless. He decided it was time for a good Spring Cleaning. Capital letters. Muttering to himself, he talked to no one about this and that while he found a place for everything. Neat and tidy, he liked things. More than in some of his other regenerations, less than in others. His fourth could get absolutely slovenly, his sixth was a martinet when it came to cleanliness. But in his ninth, he was simply satisfied with neat and tidy.
He didn’t recognize the glove at first. It didn’t fit him in this body, and he was sure it wasn’t his previous one’s either. Black leather, but not a practical style made for keeping the cold away. It was supple and soft. Warm, despite having spent years hidden away, wedged between his bed and nightstand. It irked him that there was only one, yet he couldn’t remember owning a thing like it.
He tried to put it on again. It was tight, but he could slip his fingers into place. Probably would never fit whoever it had before, he thought as he wriggled his fingers, stretching the fine leather. He raised his gloved hand to his face and breathed in deeply.
His eyes went wide and he pulled his hand away. He stared at his hand as if it were alien to him. It couldn’t be. Hesitantly he breathed in again. Not Earth leather. His expression saddened. Home. Gallifrey. And something else. Someone else. Time Lord.
He sat wearily on his bed, and after a moment, laid down and pulled the duvet over his head. The scent magnified beneath the warmth of the heavy cover and he felt his cheeks dampen.
He reached for his gloved hand with his bare one and held it as if it were someone else’s. But that someone was dead. And even if he weren’t...
He stroked his face with the glove and wiped away his tears, remembering. Remembering something he’d rather forget. An interlude. A momentary truce between enemies. He imagined another hand touching him through that smooth Gallifreyan leather. The kind of caress he would never allow in his ninth body but had opened to in his fifth. Never easily, but always eventually, he would yield to that familiar touch.
The gloved hand caressed his throat and he remembered the playful danger as the other would hold him there tightly, just enough to thrill and then release. He brought the glove to his mouth and kissed the fragrant leather before letting the finger part his lips.
The hand slowly trailed down his body, snaking underneath his jumper to caress his chest, to tweak a nipple. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to block everything except that touch from his mind. Fingers unfastened his trousers and slid down the zip. The leathered hand took hold of his erection and freed it from his flies. He tried to remember what it felt like, to have the other Time Lord stroking him. He remembered a time when he’d been bound, unable to move, and the other had done just that. He forced him to orgasm, forced him to admit it was more than just a bodily reaction, forced him to cry out his desire.
Alone, hiding in the dark beneath the covers, surrounded by scent and engulfed in remembrance, he sobbed the other’s name. And as the Doctor came, the other’s older name, the one he hadn’t spoken for centuries... a lover and friend long gone even before the fall of Gallifrey.
And despite his vow to destroy that lost then found old leather glove, he found himself cleaning it and then carefully, he tucked it back away between his bed and nightstand, hopefully to be forgotten again for a very long time.