Eleven/Dream Lord fic: One Very Long Moment
Title: One Very Long Moment
Genre: Dark/kink
Rating: R18
Characters: Eleven/Dream Lord, Eleven/Rory/Amy
Summary: Eleven's self-loathing is hot.
Warning: There is sex in it?
Spoilers: Amy's Choice
Words: 1063
Disclaimer: Stolen from the BBC.
A/N: Blame nos, I don't usually write fic.
“The Last of the Time Lords just wants to be tied up and spanked. How grimly predictable.”
A stout silhouette framed in the doorway. The Doctor must be dreaming again. The figure lifts a disinterested hand to flick on a light-switch, and it seems the first colour is red: the man’s bow-tie. Now his drawn face, eyes downcast, blue suit, and an infinite row of books stretching out each side. The Dream Lord smiles, glad to be back.
The Doctor finds himself tied to a chair, spread-eagled.
“Your choice.” The Dream Lord adjusts his bow-tie, aware of his dreamer’s tastes. “Everything here is your choice.”
The man heads for a shelf, grabs the right book, pulls up a seat and props his feet up on a table. Still metres from the Doctor, thankfully, although there’s a physical presence forming nearer -
“Oscar Wilde’s De Profundis. No comment.” After a quick scan of the blurb, the Doctor’s captor flicks to the first page. “Suffering is one very long moment,” and there’s something metal between the Doctor’s legs, “We cannot divide it by seasons, blah blah blah, Byron was a symbolic figure. Fascinating.You take such an interest in human society Doctor. I think on one level or another,” and the Doctor feels the metal tighten, “You just want to know what could lead a species to invent the cock-ring.”
His shadow-self turns another page, feigning interest. “Oh, you can say it’s all about human history, or their art, or art-history. But who the fuck actually cares about Wilde’s take on theology?”
The Dream Lord finally makes eye-contact, an eye-brow raised. The Doctor wants to respond but blood pressure trumps articulacy and - “I’m taking your words anyway, like some demonic lesbian,” and with this he chucks the book over his shoulder, stands up and approaches the man who gave him birth.
“That book is boring already.”
And, as their faces nearly touch, the cock-ring tightens again. “One advantage of a dream,” his breath stinks a little, “I can tighten that tawdry thing without touching you.” The Doctor has to shut his eyes, and know that he’s enjoying this.
He has to know that he’s enjoying this.
“Oh, can you hear bird-song?”
* * *
Earth, or something like it.
“You read about this on Wikipedia.” And no, he doesn’t have to comment on how degrading that is. “Early 21st Century, human astronomers think they’ve found the first equivalent to Earth, the first planet able to sustain life. Oh, if you were an irresponsible man you might tell them how limited their definition of life is.”
A red-haired girl in a mini-skirt. A brown-haired boy in scrubs.
“But you’re not an irresponsible man, and these people aren’t humans. They’re about 20 light years from the nearest humans. These, things, are just biologically like humans in every way. They don’t understand what it means to be human.”
A man with hair and a bow-tie, leaving his blue box to catch up with the pair.
“On the other hand, that man is a Time Lord.” A hand placed on the Doctor’s, affectionately. The Time Lord draws his eyes away from the valley of doubles, to the man sitting next to him, on a park bench. The man in the bow-tie, in the sun, specifically Gliese 581. It’s pleasant.
And the Doctor says, “I love you. You know that, right?”
A pause. “It would be hard not to love a Dream Lord. I’ve taken you across galaxies as you sleep, and you’re still wearing that cock-ring.”
“Yes,” the Doctor agrees, looking back out to the valley. “Yes I am. Why am I dreaming of farmland? I never dream of farms, farms are boring.”
And the Dream Lord pulls the Doctor close, to lean on his shoulder, “Oh, Doctor,” and the Time Lord can hear bird-song, “Everything is boring to you.”
But the Doctor can’t sleep. A fake bird sings, fake humans continue their trajectory across the valley, and fake cows chew fake grass. A fake hand finds its way into his fake trousers and -
* * *
“Amy’s up for anything, but do you really think Rory would consent to that?”
Because now Rory has the Doctor’s testicles in his mouth. As the nurse lets out a hungry growl, the Dream Lord starts to laugh.
“Well, don’t leave me out,” declares Amy, and Rory snakes an obliging hand into her cunt. The Dream Lord is doubled over, slapping one knee, his eyes watering, as an intense burst of nervous energy shoots through the Doctor. He feels Rory’s - “Ooh, no, TEETH” - and another burst of laughter from the Dream Lord.
“Priceless.” Regaining his composure, drying his eyes, the fictional man surveys the writhing bodies. “Pity Rory isn’t getting any. Will you be expecting me to step in?”
The Doctor manages to form a full sentence in his head as Rory finally ceases munching his testicles, and Amy lets out a shriek. However, the last remaining Time Lord has barely got a syllable out before Rory swallows his cock.
“You know, in real life Rory has a strong gag reflex. But he’s also an excellent multi-tasker, so you’ve at-least kept him slightly in character.”
The Doctor tousles Rory’s hair with his left hand, as the right stretches out to feel Amy’s arse. It’s starting to feel just right, especially as he realises Amy’s hand has already found its way into his fringe, and as the Dream Lord turns to leave, a bird flutters onto the window-sill.
* * *
“Fuck!” Some of it shoots onto his belly, staining his pink shirt, some of it drains between the Dream Lord’s fingers and down, down, down his shaft. He settles. Opens his eyes. Feels the Dream Lord unbuckle the human contraption with one hand, sees the Dream Lord taste his cum with the other. Back in the library. Silence.
“Nature, whose sweet rains fall on unjust and just alike, will have clefts in the rocks where I may hide, and secret valleys in whose silence I may weep undisturbed. She will hang the night with stars so that I may walk abroad in the darkness without stumbling, and send the wind over my footprints so that none may track me to my hurt: she will cleanse me in great waters, and with bitter herbs make me whole. Not his best work.”
“Thanks for keeping me company.”
With a smile, his night-time lover vanishes.
Genre: Dark/kink
Rating: R18
Characters: Eleven/Dream Lord, Eleven/Rory/Amy
Summary: Eleven's self-loathing is hot.
Warning: There is sex in it?
Spoilers: Amy's Choice
Words: 1063
Disclaimer: Stolen from the BBC.
A/N: Blame nos, I don't usually write fic.
“The Last of the Time Lords just wants to be tied up and spanked. How grimly predictable.”
A stout silhouette framed in the doorway. The Doctor must be dreaming again. The figure lifts a disinterested hand to flick on a light-switch, and it seems the first colour is red: the man’s bow-tie. Now his drawn face, eyes downcast, blue suit, and an infinite row of books stretching out each side. The Dream Lord smiles, glad to be back.
The Doctor finds himself tied to a chair, spread-eagled.
“Your choice.” The Dream Lord adjusts his bow-tie, aware of his dreamer’s tastes. “Everything here is your choice.”
The man heads for a shelf, grabs the right book, pulls up a seat and props his feet up on a table. Still metres from the Doctor, thankfully, although there’s a physical presence forming nearer -
“Oscar Wilde’s De Profundis. No comment.” After a quick scan of the blurb, the Doctor’s captor flicks to the first page. “Suffering is one very long moment,” and there’s something metal between the Doctor’s legs, “We cannot divide it by seasons, blah blah blah, Byron was a symbolic figure. Fascinating.You take such an interest in human society Doctor. I think on one level or another,” and the Doctor feels the metal tighten, “You just want to know what could lead a species to invent the cock-ring.”
His shadow-self turns another page, feigning interest. “Oh, you can say it’s all about human history, or their art, or art-history. But who the fuck actually cares about Wilde’s take on theology?”
The Dream Lord finally makes eye-contact, an eye-brow raised. The Doctor wants to respond but blood pressure trumps articulacy and - “I’m taking your words anyway, like some demonic lesbian,” and with this he chucks the book over his shoulder, stands up and approaches the man who gave him birth.
“That book is boring already.”
And, as their faces nearly touch, the cock-ring tightens again. “One advantage of a dream,” his breath stinks a little, “I can tighten that tawdry thing without touching you.” The Doctor has to shut his eyes, and know that he’s enjoying this.
He has to know that he’s enjoying this.
“Oh, can you hear bird-song?”
* * *
Earth, or something like it.
“You read about this on Wikipedia.” And no, he doesn’t have to comment on how degrading that is. “Early 21st Century, human astronomers think they’ve found the first equivalent to Earth, the first planet able to sustain life. Oh, if you were an irresponsible man you might tell them how limited their definition of life is.”
A red-haired girl in a mini-skirt. A brown-haired boy in scrubs.
“But you’re not an irresponsible man, and these people aren’t humans. They’re about 20 light years from the nearest humans. These, things, are just biologically like humans in every way. They don’t understand what it means to be human.”
A man with hair and a bow-tie, leaving his blue box to catch up with the pair.
“On the other hand, that man is a Time Lord.” A hand placed on the Doctor’s, affectionately. The Time Lord draws his eyes away from the valley of doubles, to the man sitting next to him, on a park bench. The man in the bow-tie, in the sun, specifically Gliese 581. It’s pleasant.
And the Doctor says, “I love you. You know that, right?”
A pause. “It would be hard not to love a Dream Lord. I’ve taken you across galaxies as you sleep, and you’re still wearing that cock-ring.”
“Yes,” the Doctor agrees, looking back out to the valley. “Yes I am. Why am I dreaming of farmland? I never dream of farms, farms are boring.”
And the Dream Lord pulls the Doctor close, to lean on his shoulder, “Oh, Doctor,” and the Time Lord can hear bird-song, “Everything is boring to you.”
But the Doctor can’t sleep. A fake bird sings, fake humans continue their trajectory across the valley, and fake cows chew fake grass. A fake hand finds its way into his fake trousers and -
* * *
“Amy’s up for anything, but do you really think Rory would consent to that?”
Because now Rory has the Doctor’s testicles in his mouth. As the nurse lets out a hungry growl, the Dream Lord starts to laugh.
“Well, don’t leave me out,” declares Amy, and Rory snakes an obliging hand into her cunt. The Dream Lord is doubled over, slapping one knee, his eyes watering, as an intense burst of nervous energy shoots through the Doctor. He feels Rory’s - “Ooh, no, TEETH” - and another burst of laughter from the Dream Lord.
“Priceless.” Regaining his composure, drying his eyes, the fictional man surveys the writhing bodies. “Pity Rory isn’t getting any. Will you be expecting me to step in?”
The Doctor manages to form a full sentence in his head as Rory finally ceases munching his testicles, and Amy lets out a shriek. However, the last remaining Time Lord has barely got a syllable out before Rory swallows his cock.
“You know, in real life Rory has a strong gag reflex. But he’s also an excellent multi-tasker, so you’ve at-least kept him slightly in character.”
The Doctor tousles Rory’s hair with his left hand, as the right stretches out to feel Amy’s arse. It’s starting to feel just right, especially as he realises Amy’s hand has already found its way into his fringe, and as the Dream Lord turns to leave, a bird flutters onto the window-sill.
* * *
“Fuck!” Some of it shoots onto his belly, staining his pink shirt, some of it drains between the Dream Lord’s fingers and down, down, down his shaft. He settles. Opens his eyes. Feels the Dream Lord unbuckle the human contraption with one hand, sees the Dream Lord taste his cum with the other. Back in the library. Silence.
“Nature, whose sweet rains fall on unjust and just alike, will have clefts in the rocks where I may hide, and secret valleys in whose silence I may weep undisturbed. She will hang the night with stars so that I may walk abroad in the darkness without stumbling, and send the wind over my footprints so that none may track me to my hurt: she will cleanse me in great waters, and with bitter herbs make me whole. Not his best work.”
“Thanks for keeping me company.”
With a smile, his night-time lover vanishes.