(no subject)
The Master wakes up in an unfamiliar bed - an unfamiliar room, for that matter, but he can tell that he's still in the TARDIS, thanks to the omnipresent background hum. He stretches and yawns, and he realises that something doesn't feel quite right - his body feels distinctly different. He's still a Time Lord, but -
"Oh, for Rassilon's sake," he growls as he looks down at his body, which definitely isn't his body, but rather the idiot skinny Doctor's. He likes his body, and he's quite tired of the castle taking it from him. Being a cougar for a week had been nice - a bit reminiscent of being infected with the Cheetah Virus - but this? This is positively ridiculous. He picks up the journal, scowling at it as he flips through the pages - and now the Fact has his body? His day is definitely going downhill rapidly.
He tosses the journal aside, smiling a bit at the satisfying thunk it makes when it hits the wall - and his teeth are strange, a bit too big for his tastes. And, God, the sideburns. The Master grumbles under his breath as he strips off his ridiculous stripy pyjamas to get a proper look at his body in the mirror.
As he expected, the Doctor's body is bony, the skin pale and freckled. He's always had unusual taste in regenerations - nothing the Master would ever choose for himself, at any rate. Still, the slender frame isn't completely unattractive. He tries out a sinister smile in the mirror, but it just ends up looking goofy - he scowls at his reflection then, running his hands through his hair to try and tame it. It remains stubbornly unruly, and he scrubs the stubble on his face in frustration, which leads to running his hand down his body.
He hasn't had the chance to touch Ten yet, to figure out his weak points and exploit them, and he figures that, given the Doctor's reticence, this is probably the best opportunity he's going to get. So he closes his eyes and tries to ignore the strange feeling of incongruence, letting his fingertips drift over his (the Doctor's?) skin. His breath hitches as his fingers ghost over the curve of his hip and follow the crease of skin along the top of his thigh. That feels nice, he thinks just before he wraps his hand around the base of his cock.
The Master opens his eyes and starts stroking himself, watching his reflection in the mirror. For such a skinny moron, the Doctor doesn't look half-bad when he's horny and panting for it. He spreads his legs a bit and tips his head back, imagining what it would be like to fuck him. God, it's been ages - long overdue, he thinks. imagining himself kneeling between those skinny thighs and thrusting in as the Doctor cries out beneath him. He bucks his hips, thrusting into his fist wildly as he imagines it's the Doctor's arse, that the other man is the one making mewling aroused noises, pleading breathlessly for the Master to make him come.
It's the Doctor's voice that cries out when he comes, cursing in Gallifreyan. He studies himself dazedly, his eyes wild, the iris barely showing as a ring around the dilated pupils, and his chest heaving as he pants.
And then the door swings open, and the Fact is standing there - but some coherent corner of his mind knows that it's the Doctor in Jack's body. "What the hell are you doing?" he demands.
The Master gives him a lazy, satiated smile, turning to face him shamelessly. "Good morning, Doctor," he purrs.
616 words
"Oh, for Rassilon's sake," he growls as he looks down at his body, which definitely isn't his body, but rather the idiot skinny Doctor's. He likes his body, and he's quite tired of the castle taking it from him. Being a cougar for a week had been nice - a bit reminiscent of being infected with the Cheetah Virus - but this? This is positively ridiculous. He picks up the journal, scowling at it as he flips through the pages - and now the Fact has his body? His day is definitely going downhill rapidly.
He tosses the journal aside, smiling a bit at the satisfying thunk it makes when it hits the wall - and his teeth are strange, a bit too big for his tastes. And, God, the sideburns. The Master grumbles under his breath as he strips off his ridiculous stripy pyjamas to get a proper look at his body in the mirror.
As he expected, the Doctor's body is bony, the skin pale and freckled. He's always had unusual taste in regenerations - nothing the Master would ever choose for himself, at any rate. Still, the slender frame isn't completely unattractive. He tries out a sinister smile in the mirror, but it just ends up looking goofy - he scowls at his reflection then, running his hands through his hair to try and tame it. It remains stubbornly unruly, and he scrubs the stubble on his face in frustration, which leads to running his hand down his body.
He hasn't had the chance to touch Ten yet, to figure out his weak points and exploit them, and he figures that, given the Doctor's reticence, this is probably the best opportunity he's going to get. So he closes his eyes and tries to ignore the strange feeling of incongruence, letting his fingertips drift over his (the Doctor's?) skin. His breath hitches as his fingers ghost over the curve of his hip and follow the crease of skin along the top of his thigh. That feels nice, he thinks just before he wraps his hand around the base of his cock.
The Master opens his eyes and starts stroking himself, watching his reflection in the mirror. For such a skinny moron, the Doctor doesn't look half-bad when he's horny and panting for it. He spreads his legs a bit and tips his head back, imagining what it would be like to fuck him. God, it's been ages - long overdue, he thinks. imagining himself kneeling between those skinny thighs and thrusting in as the Doctor cries out beneath him. He bucks his hips, thrusting into his fist wildly as he imagines it's the Doctor's arse, that the other man is the one making mewling aroused noises, pleading breathlessly for the Master to make him come.
It's the Doctor's voice that cries out when he comes, cursing in Gallifreyan. He studies himself dazedly, his eyes wild, the iris barely showing as a ring around the dilated pupils, and his chest heaving as he pants.
And then the door swings open, and the Fact is standing there - but some coherent corner of his mind knows that it's the Doctor in Jack's body. "What the hell are you doing?" he demands.
The Master gives him a lazy, satiated smile, turning to face him shamelessly. "Good morning, Doctor," he purrs.
616 words