Love Letters - Whiskey
TITLE: Whiskey
Series: Love Letters
Age | Sequence: 333 | 1
Author: von_gelmini
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Doctor/Master (Theta/Koschei)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2667
Contains: explicit sex
Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who. I am not writing this for profit.
A/N: In the Warp/Weft arc, I had Koschei regenerate. I've changed that in the timeline due to developments that happen later in the Outsiders arc (the story that comes after Weekend at Berni's). I haven't rewritten Warp/Weft yet as I'm waiting for that 2nd Outsiders story to be posted. But the upshot is that Koschei finds another way of dealing with the events at the start of Warp/Weft and doesn't wind up shedding his loomling body then. Sorry for any confusion this causes.
Whiskey
He wasn’t there when you got home, even though it was late. No message. No note. You toss your keypass into the bowl on the table and before you head in, your eye catches your reflection in the antique Earth hall tree you bought him for your 147th anniversary. So long ago. So old. The eyes that stare back at you are still green, just tired, lined with wrinkles now. Your hair is thinning and you try to hide it by combing it forward and wearing it short. Your scruff of a beard has sprouted silver. He’s aged too, of course, but neither of you belie your 300-odd years. Still to have clung to your loomling bodies for as long as you both have - none of your peers (there are none your peer save him) can comprehend it. He knows, as you do (though each of you would never admit it to the other), the real reason you can’t let go.
Sometimes, when the moonlight is just so and the stars align and the breeze is from the west, you see a flash of ginger in his now-auburn hair, a twinkle in his eyes, or a thought of the bluest blue of joy. And then he is yours again, so you resolve to cling to this body - long past its prime - just a little bit longer.
You pour yourself two fingers of 250 year single malt - another Earth affectation for which he’s given you a taste. Swirling the liquid in the glass, you stretch out on the sofa and stare out into nothing. The room is dim save one light beside his reading chair. He must’ve forgotten to turn it off before leaving this morning. You can’t think about this morning. You need to sort out your day, to plan and to plot. It’s not an easy task to overthrow the Gallifreyan government, but you have powerful friends in high places and your ideas move the masses’ xenophobia and want of order. You were on the short-list for the High Council, and eventually Lord President, before Pundat III scuttled your burgeoning career. Now that he was dead, it should’ve been you, not Chancellor Slann (never mind that you aren’t even on the Council), who should be Lord President. Your enemies work against you. Slann’s supporters, naturally, but he is just a stone in your shoe, easily removed.
Today though, you learned of a third faction. Anarchists, or near enough. Today, you killed one of your top advisers. Not a nice quiet ‘disappearance’ as you’ve often done before. No, you bodily attacked the man who’d dared (Impossible!) to suggest…. You crushed the life out of the bastard with your bare hands in front of three of your co-conspirators.
He might play the fool and the dilettante, but he is still yours. Forever yours. He would never betray you. It was that damned Arcalian (should’ve kept the coup strictly to Prydonians) adviser’s lies. Perhaps his name had been used without his knowledge. Perhaps, absent-minded as he could be, he was tricked into signing something he never even looked at.
~~~~~~~~~~
Remember that day? Those days? Too many to count. Even as adults old enough to know better. You’d throw your dignity to the wind and run with him through the fields of your estates until you would fall laughing, panting to the ground. Him atop you, his hands pinning your shoulders as he kissed you with his hungry mouth. You’d wrap your arms around his slender waist and roll him beneath you. You’d clasp his wrists in your hand and hold them above his head. Kissing and biting, all teeth and tongues, as your free hand would tear at clothing until you could claim what was yours. To feel him under you, struggling in his passion. The excitement as he could resist no longer. You felt him yield, giving every bit of himself to you. The awe you felt looking into his face as he revealed the depth of his love. The delight of hearing him scream your name. The tenderness of his touch after you’d spent inside him. The echoes of eternity as he whispered, even long after you’d both taken different names, “Yours, Koschei.”
~~~~~~~~~~
No pack of (probably) forged documents could negate one nanosecond of the time you’ve had together.
You feel his soft fingers touch yours. You must’ve been sitting there for hours, toying with your unsipped glass. You didn’t hear him come home. You close your eyes, steeling yourself for the inevitable verbal onslaught as he retells his day. You normally take it with aplomb, but today… please not this day.
Without a word, he takes the glass from your hands. You look up at him. He is showing his age every bit as much as you, but to your (biased) eye, he wears it lightly. He smiles a little and as he tilts his head, his hair picks up the light and it’s suddenly shot through with the fiery sunset over Mount Perdition. And he is so beautiful you bite back tears.
He sets your glass on the table and holds out his hand to you. You take it and rise. He takes your other hand and leads you, as he walks backward, into your bedroom. For a moment you stand there in front of him, as if an uncertain virgin, unsure of what comes next. He raises both your hands to his lips and demurely kisses them.
The soft touch awakens you slowly. You cup his chin and raise his face. With the other hand you brush aside the ever-unruly fringe of his hair.
He unfastens his heavy robes and lets them fall. You watch those deft fingers unlace his formal shirt. Once it’s open, you push the silken fabric from his pale, freckled shoulders revealing his sparsely-haired chest. You pull your hands back again and watch as he unbuttons his fly. He kicks out of his shoes and slides his trousers and pants over bony hips and curved buttocks. You can’t help but take a moment to devour him with your eyes. You’ve seen that body every day for centuries. Why does the sight of him still take your breath away?
He steps back; you step forward. Repeat. Repeat. The backs of his knees brush the bed and he falls into a sit. He circles your waist with long arms and pulls you close, resting his head against you. You look down the smooth expanse of his back. Your hands, at a loss for something to do, begin to unbutton your shirt. Sitting back a little he works at your belt, button, and zip. With the inadvertent brush of his hand, you breathe in sharply. You keep expecting him to say something to ruin it all with his talk. You’re tired of talking and discussing and arguing and fighting and then fucking so hard just to take the pain away. Just this night…. “Please.” Did you say it or think it? You cover your slip up by stroking the back of his head, which he takes as encouragement.
He hefts your balls in his hand. The sensation a tantalizing preview of things you know are to come. His long finger slips behind them and presses along your perineum. You don't make a sound, but you know he felt the muscles of your legs tighten as you try to hide your weak-kneed response.
On his knees before you. His breath hot on your prick. His mouth just inches away. He looks up at you with hooded indigo eyes. Tonight he needs this as much as you do.
His eyes still locked to yours in an unblinking stare, he takes his hand back and touches his lips with the tip of his finger before putting it in his mouth. He sucks on it, rather than your cock. His face, cheeks hollowed, lips red, eyes dark with lust, and you can't resist. Your hand runs through his hair, tilting his head back so you have a better view.
Finger slick with spit, the palm of his hand rolls your balls on his way farther back. You feel them contract, anticipating what he will do next. He lowers his head, staring at your straining prick. His finger enters you at the precise moment you enter the warm wetness of his mouth. He gets his reward as you try and fail to bite back your moan. No one's mouth - and you've had scores - has ever been as good as his. The perfect cocksucker and he's only ever yours.
Swirling his tongue around the head, he licks the slit down to the frenulum and already it's nearly too much. His finger twitches and goes deeper. He opens his mouth wide to swallow more of your shaft. That deft finger of his finds the right spot and that earns him another moan.
You curse inwardly that he can so easily draw a response from you. You don't want to give it to him. Yes, you still love him. That is forever. But you don't give, you take. Only... that mouth! He's sucking you down farther and farther each time and your hips begin to rock - they do, you certainly don't! You seek more until his face is pressed against your groin and he has all of you.
He could make you come right now, into that sweet mouth of his. It takes a gargantuan effort to pull yourself back, to take your dripping cock from that warmth, to slide your arse off that skillful finger, but you do it. Time to turn the tables.
He crawls backwards on his knees until he reaches the bed. He scoots back on it. His cock is hard and he wants you. You want to smirk, preen, gloat at his need for you, but it was only a moment ago you were panting and moaning and needing him. He'd see straight through your posturing. So you let him see the truth instead. As much as he needs to be possessed, you desperately need to possess him. He defines you as much as the reverse.
You crawl on the bed after him, seeking the comfort that only his body can give. You could just start fucking him. He's so hot and he needs no preparation beyond his spit on your cock. But that's not enough. For you. You need more.
You lie atop him, feeling the flush of his usually cool skin beneath you. You feel the press of your erections against each other. You slide up - he's always been taller than you - and cradle his head in your hands. Your kisses are slow and sensual. You need to feel him, to taste him, to make him open to you. Even more than your cock in his mouth, this feels so good.
His arms circle your back, his hands soothing you, reassuring you that he's there, that he will always be there. Each touch says 'forever.'
His legs wrap around you, reminding you of your purpose. You push away from him (reluctantly, and you pray he doesn't notice) on your arms. He curls back on himself, bending double, his knees beside his shoulders, exposing himself to you. You expect him to say something, but it's all in his eyes. And your own give him answers.
You hike up your hips and your cock finds his opening, the movement so familiar you need no guidance from your hand. Slowly, ever so slowly, you press forward. His muscle pulses to the beat of his hearts. He's almost pulling you in, but you go no faster. You want him to feel every inch of you. You want to feel him part for you, opening that hot passage to your need.
And gods, how you do need him. That war in your mind between loving him and hating him all for the same reason - your bloody NEED of him. But right here, right now, it is almost perfect. Your needs compliment each other. There is no imbalance, and that alone is strange enough in your relationship to make this moment memorable.
At last you settle into him. Your length finding home in his depth. You lean over him, his cock pinned between you, and you kiss him one more time. He moans softly when your lips part - the first sound he's made all evening.
You pull your body back and your hips nearly pull you out. You fall into him again, letting gravity (the planet's or his?) draw you in. Settling into what would usually be a maddeningly slow rhythm, you watch his face as you fuck him. His eyelids flutter. He bites his bottom lip. He closes his eyes and gives a blissful sigh. He likes it hard. He likes it rough. But sometimes... he needs it just like this. Not quite tender - tender isn't something you do anymore - but sensual. Time enough for the body to feel everything. For the mind to process each sensation individually and then join them together.
His cock, untouched, is hard, arched back against his stomach. It bobs against his navel in time to your thrusts. Your eyes take him in from head to arse and back again. Will his beauty ever cease to amaze you? When you both finally have to shed these bodies - bodies you grew up together in, you fell in love in, you had your first touches and first kisses and first fucks in, bodies you matured together in - will it still be the same? Your love for each other won't change, but what about this? What, by Rassilon, will you do if you lose his touch?
It won't happen, you tell yourself. It simply can't. You love him. You desire him. No matter the shells, your bodies will always sing together like this.
The heat and the tightness and the feel and the look of him drive you mad. Your movements quicken steadily and you are fucking him. His cock dampens his belly with pre-come. He's panting and gasping and those deeper sounds? - your own grunts and groans and your ragged breaths.
You know just the right angle, just the right pressure, just the right speed, to make him come as if on your command. But you're not ready for it to end. Or to end it that manipulative way. You want him to come naturally, in his own time. You steal glances, watching it play on his face. Almost, then not, then almost again, as if he's teasing himself.
You keep relentlessly fucking him, neither quickening or slowing. He looks up at you, his eyes questioning, expecting your control by now. You look back at him. Balancing on one hand for a moment, you stroke his cheek. But by the time he turns into the touch, your hand is back on the bed. You had to do it. You had to let him know. He stops his self-teasing and abandons himself to fly wildly into the cloud of his pleasure. You let him go, a kiter reeling out more string, holding tight but letting him loose.
His eyes open and he stares at you, his mouth gapes in one of his trademark screams, but no sound escapes other than a strangled gasp when he comes.
The intensity of his orgasm washes over you as if it were your own. But that's still building. The beauty of his pleasure all on its own is almost enough to bring you there. Your thrusts become shallow and hard. He's smiling dreamily and you realize he's watching you as intensely as you've ever done him. It's the friction, yes, but it's that look. He still loves you, no matter what. He's still yours. And that's what sends you over. You collapse onto him. He holds you tightly.
And you let him.
Series: Love Letters
Age | Sequence: 333 | 1
Author: von_gelmini
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Doctor/Master (Theta/Koschei)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2667
Contains: explicit sex
Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who. I am not writing this for profit.
A/N: In the Warp/Weft arc, I had Koschei regenerate. I've changed that in the timeline due to developments that happen later in the Outsiders arc (the story that comes after Weekend at Berni's). I haven't rewritten Warp/Weft yet as I'm waiting for that 2nd Outsiders story to be posted. But the upshot is that Koschei finds another way of dealing with the events at the start of Warp/Weft and doesn't wind up shedding his loomling body then. Sorry for any confusion this causes.
Whiskey
He wasn’t there when you got home, even though it was late. No message. No note. You toss your keypass into the bowl on the table and before you head in, your eye catches your reflection in the antique Earth hall tree you bought him for your 147th anniversary. So long ago. So old. The eyes that stare back at you are still green, just tired, lined with wrinkles now. Your hair is thinning and you try to hide it by combing it forward and wearing it short. Your scruff of a beard has sprouted silver. He’s aged too, of course, but neither of you belie your 300-odd years. Still to have clung to your loomling bodies for as long as you both have - none of your peers (there are none your peer save him) can comprehend it. He knows, as you do (though each of you would never admit it to the other), the real reason you can’t let go.
Sometimes, when the moonlight is just so and the stars align and the breeze is from the west, you see a flash of ginger in his now-auburn hair, a twinkle in his eyes, or a thought of the bluest blue of joy. And then he is yours again, so you resolve to cling to this body - long past its prime - just a little bit longer.
You pour yourself two fingers of 250 year single malt - another Earth affectation for which he’s given you a taste. Swirling the liquid in the glass, you stretch out on the sofa and stare out into nothing. The room is dim save one light beside his reading chair. He must’ve forgotten to turn it off before leaving this morning. You can’t think about this morning. You need to sort out your day, to plan and to plot. It’s not an easy task to overthrow the Gallifreyan government, but you have powerful friends in high places and your ideas move the masses’ xenophobia and want of order. You were on the short-list for the High Council, and eventually Lord President, before Pundat III scuttled your burgeoning career. Now that he was dead, it should’ve been you, not Chancellor Slann (never mind that you aren’t even on the Council), who should be Lord President. Your enemies work against you. Slann’s supporters, naturally, but he is just a stone in your shoe, easily removed.
Today though, you learned of a third faction. Anarchists, or near enough. Today, you killed one of your top advisers. Not a nice quiet ‘disappearance’ as you’ve often done before. No, you bodily attacked the man who’d dared (Impossible!) to suggest…. You crushed the life out of the bastard with your bare hands in front of three of your co-conspirators.
He might play the fool and the dilettante, but he is still yours. Forever yours. He would never betray you. It was that damned Arcalian (should’ve kept the coup strictly to Prydonians) adviser’s lies. Perhaps his name had been used without his knowledge. Perhaps, absent-minded as he could be, he was tricked into signing something he never even looked at.
~~~~~~~~~~
Remember that day? Those days? Too many to count. Even as adults old enough to know better. You’d throw your dignity to the wind and run with him through the fields of your estates until you would fall laughing, panting to the ground. Him atop you, his hands pinning your shoulders as he kissed you with his hungry mouth. You’d wrap your arms around his slender waist and roll him beneath you. You’d clasp his wrists in your hand and hold them above his head. Kissing and biting, all teeth and tongues, as your free hand would tear at clothing until you could claim what was yours. To feel him under you, struggling in his passion. The excitement as he could resist no longer. You felt him yield, giving every bit of himself to you. The awe you felt looking into his face as he revealed the depth of his love. The delight of hearing him scream your name. The tenderness of his touch after you’d spent inside him. The echoes of eternity as he whispered, even long after you’d both taken different names, “Yours, Koschei.”
~~~~~~~~~~
No pack of (probably) forged documents could negate one nanosecond of the time you’ve had together.
You feel his soft fingers touch yours. You must’ve been sitting there for hours, toying with your unsipped glass. You didn’t hear him come home. You close your eyes, steeling yourself for the inevitable verbal onslaught as he retells his day. You normally take it with aplomb, but today… please not this day.
Without a word, he takes the glass from your hands. You look up at him. He is showing his age every bit as much as you, but to your (biased) eye, he wears it lightly. He smiles a little and as he tilts his head, his hair picks up the light and it’s suddenly shot through with the fiery sunset over Mount Perdition. And he is so beautiful you bite back tears.
He sets your glass on the table and holds out his hand to you. You take it and rise. He takes your other hand and leads you, as he walks backward, into your bedroom. For a moment you stand there in front of him, as if an uncertain virgin, unsure of what comes next. He raises both your hands to his lips and demurely kisses them.
The soft touch awakens you slowly. You cup his chin and raise his face. With the other hand you brush aside the ever-unruly fringe of his hair.
He unfastens his heavy robes and lets them fall. You watch those deft fingers unlace his formal shirt. Once it’s open, you push the silken fabric from his pale, freckled shoulders revealing his sparsely-haired chest. You pull your hands back again and watch as he unbuttons his fly. He kicks out of his shoes and slides his trousers and pants over bony hips and curved buttocks. You can’t help but take a moment to devour him with your eyes. You’ve seen that body every day for centuries. Why does the sight of him still take your breath away?
He steps back; you step forward. Repeat. Repeat. The backs of his knees brush the bed and he falls into a sit. He circles your waist with long arms and pulls you close, resting his head against you. You look down the smooth expanse of his back. Your hands, at a loss for something to do, begin to unbutton your shirt. Sitting back a little he works at your belt, button, and zip. With the inadvertent brush of his hand, you breathe in sharply. You keep expecting him to say something to ruin it all with his talk. You’re tired of talking and discussing and arguing and fighting and then fucking so hard just to take the pain away. Just this night…. “Please.” Did you say it or think it? You cover your slip up by stroking the back of his head, which he takes as encouragement.
He hefts your balls in his hand. The sensation a tantalizing preview of things you know are to come. His long finger slips behind them and presses along your perineum. You don't make a sound, but you know he felt the muscles of your legs tighten as you try to hide your weak-kneed response.
On his knees before you. His breath hot on your prick. His mouth just inches away. He looks up at you with hooded indigo eyes. Tonight he needs this as much as you do.
His eyes still locked to yours in an unblinking stare, he takes his hand back and touches his lips with the tip of his finger before putting it in his mouth. He sucks on it, rather than your cock. His face, cheeks hollowed, lips red, eyes dark with lust, and you can't resist. Your hand runs through his hair, tilting his head back so you have a better view.
Finger slick with spit, the palm of his hand rolls your balls on his way farther back. You feel them contract, anticipating what he will do next. He lowers his head, staring at your straining prick. His finger enters you at the precise moment you enter the warm wetness of his mouth. He gets his reward as you try and fail to bite back your moan. No one's mouth - and you've had scores - has ever been as good as his. The perfect cocksucker and he's only ever yours.
Swirling his tongue around the head, he licks the slit down to the frenulum and already it's nearly too much. His finger twitches and goes deeper. He opens his mouth wide to swallow more of your shaft. That deft finger of his finds the right spot and that earns him another moan.
You curse inwardly that he can so easily draw a response from you. You don't want to give it to him. Yes, you still love him. That is forever. But you don't give, you take. Only... that mouth! He's sucking you down farther and farther each time and your hips begin to rock - they do, you certainly don't! You seek more until his face is pressed against your groin and he has all of you.
He could make you come right now, into that sweet mouth of his. It takes a gargantuan effort to pull yourself back, to take your dripping cock from that warmth, to slide your arse off that skillful finger, but you do it. Time to turn the tables.
He crawls backwards on his knees until he reaches the bed. He scoots back on it. His cock is hard and he wants you. You want to smirk, preen, gloat at his need for you, but it was only a moment ago you were panting and moaning and needing him. He'd see straight through your posturing. So you let him see the truth instead. As much as he needs to be possessed, you desperately need to possess him. He defines you as much as the reverse.
You crawl on the bed after him, seeking the comfort that only his body can give. You could just start fucking him. He's so hot and he needs no preparation beyond his spit on your cock. But that's not enough. For you. You need more.
You lie atop him, feeling the flush of his usually cool skin beneath you. You feel the press of your erections against each other. You slide up - he's always been taller than you - and cradle his head in your hands. Your kisses are slow and sensual. You need to feel him, to taste him, to make him open to you. Even more than your cock in his mouth, this feels so good.
His arms circle your back, his hands soothing you, reassuring you that he's there, that he will always be there. Each touch says 'forever.'
His legs wrap around you, reminding you of your purpose. You push away from him (reluctantly, and you pray he doesn't notice) on your arms. He curls back on himself, bending double, his knees beside his shoulders, exposing himself to you. You expect him to say something, but it's all in his eyes. And your own give him answers.
You hike up your hips and your cock finds his opening, the movement so familiar you need no guidance from your hand. Slowly, ever so slowly, you press forward. His muscle pulses to the beat of his hearts. He's almost pulling you in, but you go no faster. You want him to feel every inch of you. You want to feel him part for you, opening that hot passage to your need.
And gods, how you do need him. That war in your mind between loving him and hating him all for the same reason - your bloody NEED of him. But right here, right now, it is almost perfect. Your needs compliment each other. There is no imbalance, and that alone is strange enough in your relationship to make this moment memorable.
At last you settle into him. Your length finding home in his depth. You lean over him, his cock pinned between you, and you kiss him one more time. He moans softly when your lips part - the first sound he's made all evening.
You pull your body back and your hips nearly pull you out. You fall into him again, letting gravity (the planet's or his?) draw you in. Settling into what would usually be a maddeningly slow rhythm, you watch his face as you fuck him. His eyelids flutter. He bites his bottom lip. He closes his eyes and gives a blissful sigh. He likes it hard. He likes it rough. But sometimes... he needs it just like this. Not quite tender - tender isn't something you do anymore - but sensual. Time enough for the body to feel everything. For the mind to process each sensation individually and then join them together.
His cock, untouched, is hard, arched back against his stomach. It bobs against his navel in time to your thrusts. Your eyes take him in from head to arse and back again. Will his beauty ever cease to amaze you? When you both finally have to shed these bodies - bodies you grew up together in, you fell in love in, you had your first touches and first kisses and first fucks in, bodies you matured together in - will it still be the same? Your love for each other won't change, but what about this? What, by Rassilon, will you do if you lose his touch?
It won't happen, you tell yourself. It simply can't. You love him. You desire him. No matter the shells, your bodies will always sing together like this.
The heat and the tightness and the feel and the look of him drive you mad. Your movements quicken steadily and you are fucking him. His cock dampens his belly with pre-come. He's panting and gasping and those deeper sounds? - your own grunts and groans and your ragged breaths.
You know just the right angle, just the right pressure, just the right speed, to make him come as if on your command. But you're not ready for it to end. Or to end it that manipulative way. You want him to come naturally, in his own time. You steal glances, watching it play on his face. Almost, then not, then almost again, as if he's teasing himself.
You keep relentlessly fucking him, neither quickening or slowing. He looks up at you, his eyes questioning, expecting your control by now. You look back at him. Balancing on one hand for a moment, you stroke his cheek. But by the time he turns into the touch, your hand is back on the bed. You had to do it. You had to let him know. He stops his self-teasing and abandons himself to fly wildly into the cloud of his pleasure. You let him go, a kiter reeling out more string, holding tight but letting him loose.
His eyes open and he stares at you, his mouth gapes in one of his trademark screams, but no sound escapes other than a strangled gasp when he comes.
The intensity of his orgasm washes over you as if it were your own. But that's still building. The beauty of his pleasure all on its own is almost enough to bring you there. Your thrusts become shallow and hard. He's smiling dreamily and you realize he's watching you as intensely as you've ever done him. It's the friction, yes, but it's that look. He still loves you, no matter what. He's still yours. And that's what sends you over. You collapse onto him. He holds you tightly.
And you let him.