More Things To Do In The TARDIS When You're Bored - Part 2

[or_timelords]

Second part of the somewhat epic chatplay with laser_not_sonic from the 20th of November. For the first part, go here.



culumacilinte: That reproachful little poke at his mental shields gets the psychic equivalent of an infuriating smirk. He's the Master, after all; he doesn't do reproach. His words, though, get more of a filthy little smirk. 'Not quite, no,' he says, drawing the words out- it's for effect, but the alcohol helps. 'Make-up sex'- he meets the Doctor's eyes, quirking an eyebrow- 'is the kind of sex you have immediately after an argument, when you're both still *furious*, and it leaves you with bruises and bite marks afterwards.' The kind of sex the Master happens to thoroughly enjoy, in point of fact. 'The cuddling- if any cuddling is necessary- follows that.'

teyla: The Doctor frowns, contemplating this explanation as he takes another slow sip of brandy. "That's not a very effective way of working out an argument, though," he says. "An argument is usually caused by a problem, and a problem needs an actual solution, not both parties deciding that they'd just rather have sex."

culumacilinte: 'Unless it's a problem to which there is no solution.' Our particular problem, he doesn't say. Of course, there is a solution- the Doctor letting the Master out of the TARDIS, but they both know about how likely that is. 'In which case, a good shag is just that much more *fun*'

teyla: "There's no problem that doesn't have a solution. If a problem seems unsolvable, it's usually because the solution would require one party to put up with something that they consider a bigger problem than the original one. And if that's the case, the situation still doesn't call for sex, but for a compromise that both sides are equally happy with."

culumacilinte: The Master's eyebrows knit together somewhere in the middle of his forehead, and he shakes his head disbelievingly. 'You sound like a pamphlet for anger management. Just-' He gestures vaguely in the Doctor's direction. 'Have another drink.'

teyla: The Doctor complies, not at all bothered by the fact that the Master doesn't seem to care about what he has to say. It's not like it's anything new, the Master refusing to listening to reason. Although the Doctor has to admit that the Master's version of make-up sex does sound sort of appealing, in a way.
Before he can think about what he's saying, the Doctor shares that last thought with the Master. When the words are out of his mouth, his common sense belatedly informs him that they were a mistake, but the damage is already done.

culumacilinte: Of course his version of things is appealing; much more so than warm and fuzzy cuddling. Naturally the Doctor would like that sort of thing, but really. The Master chuckles, and he's in the process of lifting his bottle to his lips again when it occurs to him that it's empty. Well, that won't do. 'Is it really?' He says, amusement lacing his every syllable, and gestures for the Doctor to hand him the vodka that's sitting over by his side of the couch. 'And in which way might that be?'

teyla: 'Oh, I don't know.' The Doctor is trying for a casual tone as he reaches for the vodka bottle and hands it to the Master. 'It's just - interesting, isn't it? That it's common enough for two people to engage in an act of love and belonging despite being spitting mad at each other so that there's an actual term for it.'

culumacilinte: 'Love and belonging?' The Master snorts. 'Fucking, Doctor, is what I think you mean. Emotions run high during an argument, the right chemicals are produced by the brain, the adrenal and limbic systems stimulated... A good argument isn't really all that different from sex, chemically speaking.' And as a finisher to that statement, a swig of vodka. It's *strong*, and he almost chokes as he swallows.

teyla: The Doctor frowns. "But people interacting isn't all about chemicals," he says. "*Sex* isn't all about chemicals, at least not when it's about emotions and not just casual sex. Sex is just about that, it's about emotions. And usually, it's performed because two people want to feel close to each other. Not because they want to tear each other's throats out."

culumacilinte: The Doctor sounds more like a parent talking to an errant child than anything else, and like an errant child, the Master rolls his eyes. 'When was the last time you *had* sex, Doctor? Since you seem to be such an expert on all the... messy details of it.'

teyla: The Master's question brings not only some rather unwelcome memories, but also a slight surge of anger. Trust him to care so little about the impact of what he did to already have forgotten all about it. The Doctor frowns. "The last time I had sex, Master, was with you. On the Valiant."

culumacilinte: Of course. The Master's lips curve in a slow smile, a different sort of heat joining the warmth of the vodka in his belly. But that wasn't what he'd meant. He waves a dismissive hand. 'Before that. The last time you... sought out sex? Of your own volition?'

teyla: The Doctor casts his mind back. Before the Valiant... it seems so impossibly long ago, and isn't it fascinating how one single year can seem to never-ending? But then he remembers Joan. "1913. She was the matron at the school where I worked as a teacher." He leaves out the fact that he had happened to be human at the time. John Smith might not have remembered the Doctor, but the Doctor certainly remembers John Smith.

culumacilinte: Well, that's interesting. The only reason the Doctor would have been working as a teacher would have been because he was undercover. Hiding from someone, or watching someone. And it hardly seemed like the Doctor to get *involved* with anyone whilst doing that. The Master regards him, slit-eyed, and takes another, leisurely sip. 'Tell me about it.' The words are casual, but they sound like a command.

teyla: The Doctor shrugs. Thinking about Joan and how she had rejected him once she'd found out who he really was - it does sting a little. The Doctor doesn't blame her, of course, but he does wish he had been able to make things right between them. "There's not much to tell. She was the matron, I taught history, we grew closer. Then the Family of Blood decided to demolish the village the school was in, and it - ended." He takes a swig from the bottle. "And I left."

culumacilinte: The Doctor's distant, too-casual tone is obvious; it's the one he uses when thinking about something he'd really rather not. Not that that's surprising. The Doctor has done a lot of things in his long life he'd rather not think about. But the Family of Blood, honestly. The Master arches an eyebrow. 'The Family of Blood? And I suppose there's a reason you didn't simply destroy them? Or just your usual *mercy*?'

teyla: The Doctor is running his thumb over the smooth glass of the bottle and doesn't look up as he speaks. "I did destroy them," he says, his tone quiet. "Eventually."

culumacilinte: 'But too late.' The Master jumps on the unspoken implication. His voice is even, unsurprised; the Doctor put it off as long as he could, he imagines, out of mercy. Didn't destroy the Family until he had no other option. At which point, blood would have already been shed. He really is sadly predictable, the Doctor.

teyla: 'Yes,' the Doctor says, drawing in a breath and nodding. 'Yes, too late. But if I'd done it earlier, I would never have met Joan. And if I hadn't met Joan, I wouldn't have destroyed them -" He trails off, pondering the paradox he's just described.

culumacilinte: 'Joan.' The Master savours the name, drawing it out. A matron at some parochial school in the eighteenth century- *Joan*. She hardly sounded worthy of the Doctor. 'Did you love her, Doctor?' He asks quietly. 'And then you had to *leave* her? Oh, poor you.'

teyla: Had he loved her? John Smith had, or at least he had been falling for her, hard. The Doctor doesn't know if he had been able to love her. Loving humans in any other but a platonic way always is - complicated. To say the least. He takes a swig of brandy. "It happens."

culumacilinte: 'Oh, all the time. Heaven knows I fall into bed with unsuspecting school matrons left and right.' He tilts his head back, watching the Doctor from under his eyelashes. 'Not much, then, with your talk of love and belonging, Doctor.'

teyla: The words honestly surprise the Doctor, and he looks around at the Master. "Not much? How do you figure?"

culumacilinte: 'Sex is supposed to be about emotion, is it not? According to your ideals. And yet you cannot even confess to feeling anything for this... Joan of yours.'

teyla: The words make the Doctor highly uncomfortable. He's not very keen on explaining about John Smith, that's opening a can of worms he'd rather not deal with right now. Or ever, for that matter. "It was complicated," he says, evasively.

culumacilinte: 'Many things are.' Bottle dangling loosely from his fingers, the Master leans forward, arms propped on his knees. 'Tell me, then, Doctor; why did you have her? Your Joan. There must be a reason.' He shrugs, gritting his teeth around another drink. 'She was beautiful, you were needy? She wanted you? If not love, then what?'

teyla: "How do you know it wasn't love?" The Doctor is actually a little irritated at the Master's assumptive statement.

culumacilinte: The Doctor's irritating is pleasing, and the Master arches his eyebrows. 'Well then, correct me if I am mistaken.'

teyla: "Well, consider yourself corrected." The statement needs more, but anything the Doctor could add would maneuver him in an even more precarious situation in this discussion, so he keeps silent and takes a drink. A part of him is well aware of the fact that he's properly drunk by now, but as long as talking is all he's doing, he should be fine. He hopes.

culumacilinte: The Master inclines his head in a mockery of a bow, but never takes his eyes off the Doctor. He's not sure why he should be so curious, but he is. He wants to look inside the Doctor's mind, see this Joan of his, see what he felt for her. See him in bed with her, yes, that too. He purses his lips, regarding the Doctor as if he could see his mind just like that. He can blame the liquor; a convenient excuse.

teyla: The Master is just looking at him, and it's unsettling. The Doctor's getting a bad feeling about this; the Master is too interested. For a brief moment, he considers just telling the Master that it hadn't been him with Joan, but him as a human. The mere thought feels repugnant, though. He doesn't want the Master in on this, on the few quiet months he's lived the life of a human, with human worries, concerns, and human loves. The Master would take it and turn it into something less, and the Doctor doesn't want that.

culumacilinte: 'Hmm.' The Master makes a low sound in his throat, neutral, and just slightly curious. The Doctor doesn't want to talk about it. Well, the Master has ways of making the Doctor talk. And if he keeps on drinking the way he is at the moment, his mental defences will be even weaker than usual. Though, he has to admit, his own offences won't be as strong either. 'Before that,' he says after a moment.

teyla: The Doctor can see the gamble pay out to his favor in the Master's eyes, and for a moment, all he can feel is relief. He frowns at the Master's question. "Before what?"

culumacilinte: 'Before... Joan.' He pronounces the name with the greatest care. It's not quite disdain, but it dances around the edges of it. 'You make me curious, Doctor, with all your talk of what sex should be, what experience you have. And since you don't seem eager to be particularly vocal on the subject of this one, then enlighten me with another.'

teyla: 'Oh. Oh, right.' The Doctor considers. Before Joan... it takes him a moment, but then a grin spreads on his face. 'Before Joan, there was Shakespeare.'

culumacilinte: It takes him a moment to realise that the Doctor's being serious, and when he does, the Master's face transfigures in an instant. He giggles. 'Shakespeare? You *shagged* Shakespeare? Oh, go on.'

teyla: Now this, this is a much better topic to talk about. The Doctor sits up, eager to tell his story. Because it's a *good* story. "I went to 16th century London, and you can't really go to 16th century London without seeing a Shakespeare play, right? So I did. After the play, I ended up in the same inn as he did, and one thing led to the other, and, well, to make a long story short, I shagged Shakespeare." The Doctor grins a gleeful grin at the memory. Now that had been a good moment for once.

culumacilinte: '*That*,' the Master says, putting his own bottle down and stealing the Doctor's for another swig of brandy, 'is bollocks.' He gives the Doctor a filthy little smirk, crooked with liquor and his own amusement. 'If you're going to tell the story, tell it properly.'

teyla: The Doctor inhales a deep breath to protest, but then stops himself. Why *shouldn't* he tell the story? It was a really good one, after all, and it wasn't like Shakespeare would ever know or care. For all the Doctor knows, old William has related the details of their encounter to a whole group of his friends and fans. He had certainly not seemed like the type to be fussy about these things. "Well, as I said, I went to London in 1599. It was Martha's first trip, and we weren't really planning to do much more than see the sights. We saw Love's Labour's Lost at the Globe - and you wouldn't believe what they've done to the play over the years, it's barely recognizable. Anyway, as I said, afterwards we went to Shakespeare's inn. That's where I actually first met him. He recognized the psychic paper for what it was. Simple 16th century human, doesn't even know what a ballpoint pen is, but he saw right through the psychic paper like it was nothing."

culumacilinte: The Master takes in the Doctor's babble with raised eyebrows. Good lord, the man is a fanboy of the worst degree, he really is. He snorts a little, amused, and shakes his head. 'The good part, Doctor.'

teyla: The Doctor gives the Master a slightly annoyed side glance - he knows, of course, that the Master's only interested in the juicy bits, but he's not going to tell this story as if Shakespeare had been some kind of conquest of his. Even if he had been. Maybe. A little. "Alright," he says. "What happened was that the Carrionites were trying to use Shakespeare to write them back into this plain of existence, making him write Love's Labour's Won to their exact needs and wishes. I figured it out, we managed to stop them, and afterwards, everybody was in sort of a celebratory mood, so we went back to the inn. William and I ended up talking until everybody else had left for the night - the man was a genius, Master, just brilliant. Eventually, we retired as well, but I hadn't been in my room for five minutes when he knocked on my door. And, well, I wasn't going to turn down an offer like that."

culumacilinte: The *Carrionites*? Well, he's not heard about them for a while. Frankly, he's surprised they still existed in enough strength to attempt to wheedle their way back into this world. Interesting, though, he has to admit, and a clever way to go about it, using the words of a playwright like William Shakespeare. Still. The Doctor is being most uncooperative. He flexes the wrist that holds the brandy bottle, knocking it gently against the Doctor's leg, an encouragement and a reproach. 'Come now, Doctor; prudishness doesn't suit you terribly well.'

teyla: It's silly, but the Doctor has never liked actually talking about these things, let alone relate them to third parties. The alcohol in his system is making it a little easier, but he still feels the tip of his ears burning. "It wasn't particularly spectacular, except that it was, you know, Shakespeare." The Doctor grinned. "He got a kick out of the telepathy."

culumacilinte: The Master clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth, giving the Doctor a little pout. 'If you're not eager to talk, perhaps I should?' And his stockinged foot slips out, nudging where the bottle had before, and then further, along the Doctor's thigh. 'Queen Galleia of Atlantis? Ooh, she was a good one. The Marquis de Sade? My lovely Lucy?'

teyla: The Master wants to hear all the details, of course, but the Doctor's not quite drunk enough to give them to him. Being this close to a magnificent mind like Shakespeare had been a privilege, and he's not going to reduce it to something the Master could later get off on. He owes old William this much. He takes the bottle from the Master and takes a swig. "The Marquis de Sade. Why am I not surprised?"

culumacilinte: The Master's foot slips further, toes kneading at the spare flesh of the Doctor's thigh. As far as drunks go, he's being remarkably uncooperative. 'Ever read his works, Doctor? I'd be surprised if you hadn't, man with an obsession with Earth culture like you. They're a, hmm, stimulating read. If the prose is occasionally a bit on the purple side of things.'

teyla: The Doctor has, actually, read some of the Marquis' work, and while he wouldn't call it stimulating, it had certainly been interesting. He simply shrugs, though. "I might have. If I did, I forgot about it."
The Master's toes are nudging him, digging into his thigh, and it's somewhere between uncomfortable and, yeah, stimulating. The Doctor shifts a little in his seat.

culumacilinte: 'Not quite your *bag*, no.' Foot slipping further, grinning evilly as he sees the Doctor's uncomfortable shift; his toes brush idly over the flies of those pinstriped trousers as he speaks. 'Excellent lay, though, the Marquis. For a human. *Very* creative with a riding crop.'

teyla: 'I'm sure he is.' The Master's toes are doing more than digging into his thigh now, and a slight tingle creeps up the Doctor's spine. He figures he should probably push the Master's feet away or do something else to indicate the Master to stop, but he doesn't, only curling his fingers a little tighter around the bottle. 'So where did you meet him?'

culumacilinte: 'During his time in the Bastille,' the Master drawls, sinking a little further down on the couch. It's to make himself more comfortable, his body feeling warm and loose from liquor, but the effect is also to press his foot a little more firmly against the Doctor's groin. He smirks lazily, toes tracing up and down pinstripes. 'I may have served as dear Alphonse's *muse* in there; he wasn't only on the S side of S&M, you know.'

teyla: The Doctor really doesn't think he wants to hear this. If he tells the Master, though, the Master will probably never stop talking about it, so he only turns his head to give the Master a slightly put-off glance. He's distracted, though, as the Master presses his sock-clad foot against his crotch. There's more tingling, and the Doctor can feel his cock give a small twitch. He frowns down at the Master's feet in his lap. 'What are you doing?'

culumacilinte: Ooh, *hello*, that was a twitch under his toes, how very nice. The Doctor's confused little frown makes the Master- giggle? Well, perhaps a bit more to drink than he'd thought; perfectly alright. So giggle he does, letting his head fall to one side, his stockinged toes continuing a steady, kneading motion. 'Fondling, I believe is the term. Though of course there are others, if you'd prefer them.'

teyla: The Master's giggle - and now that's something you don't get to see often, the Master not cackling or laughing gleefully, but actually giggling - makes the Doctor smile. He's still grinning when the full hilarity of the situation hits him, and he starts giggling as well, not sure if he'd be able to stop if he were to try. 'Terms like what?' he asks.

culumacilinte: It's a stupid, drunken giggle- the Master can recognise it as such- but that doesn't stop it from bubbling out of him, only encouraged by the Doctor's laughter. It takes him a few moments to draw enough breath to calm himself, and when he does, the smirk he gives the Doctor is not so much lewd as it is giddy. 'Groping?' He suggests after a moment, swallowing down the last of his laughter, biting his lip as he slips his foot back to where it had been a moment ago. 'Stroking? Caressing? Feeling up? Toying with? Stop me any time.'

teyla: Each of the Master's suggestions seems funnier than the previous, and the Doctor starts laughing properly, midriff clenching. The Master's toes are indeed fondling him, and without thinking about it, the Doctor spreads his legs a little to give better access. 'What about nuzzling?' he asks between gasps of not-quite-silent laughter.

culumacilinte: He's drunk enough to enjoy the Doctor's laughter, and the way he spreads his thighs on either side of the Master's foot sends a little tickle of heat snaking up from his toes. All the way up his leg to his belly, where it curls, resting itself like a contented cat. But when the Doctor speaks, he withdraws his foot. 'Mmm-mm, no. Nuzzling-' he shifts forward onto his knees, parting the Doctor's legs further with a hand on each knee- 'would be like this.' And, hands braced on the Doctor's thighs, he leans down, nudging against the inseam of the Doctor's trousers with his nose, nuzzling against him and inhaling his scent. It makes him slightly dizzy, but when he pulls back, he's wearing a wide, smarmy smirk. He flops back against the end of the couch, doing nothing to conceal the bulge that's begun to form in his own trousers. '*That* is nuzzling.'

teyla: Blinking tears of laughter from his eyes, the Doctor watches the Master come closer and bend down. There's a nudge against his thigh - no, not a nudge, it's a *nuzzle*, the Master is nuzzling the inside of the Doctor's thigh - and this definitely makes the Doctor's cock more than just twitch. He gasps, his laughter interrupted for now, as he can feel the Master's warm breath through the fabric of his trousers. But then the Master moves away, wearing a smug grin, which makes the Doctor grin as well. "I'm sorry," he says, "I think I missed that. Could you show me again?"

culumacilinte: The Master's eyes trail down once again to the Doctor's groin, the unmistakeable evidence of a burgeoning erection tenting those unfashionable pinstripes. He licks his lips. 'Sorry,' he says, returning his gaze to meet the Doctor's. 'One shot and all that; pity if you missed it.'

teyla: The Doctor pouts. He doesn't feel particularly pouty, but he likes the expression it puts on the Master's face. "I'll just have to figure it out myself then." He puts a hand on his thigh and slowly slides it down towards the inseam of his trousers, fingers trailing along it and upwards, sending tingles to his groin and all the way up his spine. "You put your mouth right there, didn't you?" He never takes his eyes off the Master. "You put it there, and then you - what did you do then?"

culumacilinte: The Master suspects that the vodka may have had a particular effect on his ocular muscles, because his eyes drop right back to follow the Doctor's hand as it makes its leisurely way up to his crotch. He swallows, licking his lips. 'Well, a hand is different than a mouth, of course; different- techniques should be employed.' Some of his muscle control returns, and his gaze snaps back up to the Doctor's face. His voice is low, and growls ever so slightly on the consonant sounds. 'But I'd start by rubbing.'

teyla: The Doctor trails his fingers even further up, sliding down a little in his seat and spreading his thighs some more. His thumb brushes against his cock, which is fully hard by now, and he runs the flat of his thumbnail along it, pressing down to increase the friction. Then he puts his palm over the bulge, pressing the heel of his hand down in slow, gentle rubs. The arousal he's feeling is starting to make his throat close up a little, but he mostly manages to keep a neutral expression. "Like so?"

culumacilinte: Watching the Doctor palm himself through his trousers, the Master's cock swells with blood, and he swallows down an undignified noise. He's watching- certainly *not* avidly, thank you very much; more with... idle interest- and shifts a little against the couch. Even that little friction against his arse feels good, and he scowls faintly. 'Passable,' he says. 'But clumsy. You never did understand the concept of refinement.'

teyla: "Refinement." The Doctor wets his lips and then takes his eyes off the Master, letting his head drop back against the couch's headrest, exposing a long stretch of throat. "Maybe more like this?" He slides his hand further down and gently cups his balls, not doing much more but giving them small, soft strokes through the fabric of his pants. The teasing touches make his throat dry up, and he swallows.

culumacilinte: This time, the Master doesn't quite manage to swallow back on the undignified noise he makes. He's not sure how it happened that the Doctor got himself in control of this situation, but somehow, weirdly, he finds that he doesn't mind. Or at least, certain parts of him don't mind. Parts which are, at the moment, aching to be touched the way the Doctor's touching himself. His gaze tracks from the steady motion of the Doctor's hand, up his skinny chest to that long throat, and his teeth clench, wanting that soft, pale flesh to sink into. 'Better,' he manages. 'Clearly you've had practise.'

teyla: "Oh, you know, a little." The Doctor sounds casual. "It can get a little lonely here in the TARDIS from time to time." He's still fondling his balls, very gently, and his thumb is stroking the sensitive skin on the inside of his thigh. It's quite arousing, and the small sound from the Master makes the heat in the Doctor's groin contract to a knot.

culumacilinte: 'Funny, for a species that has no technical need for sex, that that's the way you should choose to spend your free time.' He twists one hand against the upholstery of the couch, staving off the need to grab himself. One knee he props up, a casual position from which to casually watch the Doctor, but the sudden constriction of fabric against his groin draws the faintest of whines from the back of his throat. He swallows, still watching the Doctor's hand.

teyla: "Technical need," the Doctor repeats, smiling somewhat indulgently. "What about satisfaction and enjoyment, Master?" He can hear the Master give a small *whine*, and his smile broadens. He slides his hand upwards, slowly, pressing down as it trails over his cock, and his fingers find the button of his trousers.

culumacilinte: 'If you're looking for satisfaction and enjoyment,' his fingers twitch against the couch as the Doctor presses down, drawing firm fingers up over the outline of his erection, 'Standard procedure is generally to find someone to enjoy yourself with, not to sit around wanking like a sad bastard.'

teyla: 'Well, you know me, Master,' the Doctor says as he pushes the button through its hole and slowly pulls open the zipper. Without lifting it from the headrest, he turns his head around to look at the Master. 'I'm shy with strangers.'

culumacilinte: The Master snorts, somehow managing to look scornful and incredibly distracted at once. 'Come off it, Doctor; as if any of your precious pets wouldn't have jumped at the opportunity.'

teyla: The Doctor shakes his head - or rather, rolls it from side to side on the headrest - and slips his hand into his trousers. His cock, freed from its confinement, is now lying against his stomach, and the Doctor runs his fingers along it over the smooth fabric of his boxers. The waistband brushes against the head, and a tremble runs through him. "That's not the way to do it," he says. "If I wanted that, I would have got married."

culumacilinte: The Master can *hear* the Doctor's cock as it slaps against his stomach, freed from the constraints of his trousers, and his own throbs with need. It's absurd to call any part of his body *jealous*, but at the moment, his cock is burning with jealousy for the Doctor's. The Master swallows hard, and needing something to do with his hand, reaches down for the vodka. He gulps down a swallow, thankful for the burn which distracts from the other heat in the pit of his stomach. His fingers trail idly up and down the bottleneck. 'Yes, well, you always were rubbish at weddings.'

teyla: A small tug, and the head of the Doctor's cock slips out from under his briefs. The Doctor uses his thumb to flick along the rim, and a small sigh escapes him. He nods. 'They're one of these things that you always end up being late for, no matter what you do. Best to stay away.' He runs his hand along his cock a couple of times, slowly and leisurely, then slips his hand underneath the waistband and trails his fingers along his erection as he slides them downwards to stroke his balls.

culumacilinte: It seems slightly surreal, this; the Doctor sat here in front of him, leisurely tossing himself off as though it's something he does every day. Doesn't stop it being any less enticing, of course, and eyeing the flushed head of the Doctor's cock showing above the waistband of his pants, he swallows. His mouth's gone a bit dry, and he lifts the bottle to his lips again. He most certainly *doesn't* let his lips linger against the mouth of it any more than is necessary. 'Dunno.' He clears his throat. 'I've always enjoyed my weddings, the few I've had.'

teyla: 'You've always been one for formal celebratory occasions, though.' Every brush from his fingers against the sensitive skin of his balls sends sparks through his groin and up his spine, and the Doctor's breathing is becoming somewhat more unsteady. With one long finger, the Doctor reaches down and strokes across his perineum, and this time around, the air he exhales creates a low, moaning sound in the back of his throat. He pulls his hand back and wraps his fingers around his cock.

culumacilinte: 'I was thinking more of the wedding *night*,' the Master starts to say, when the Doctor pulls his hand out of his trousers and finds a proper grip on his prick. The sentence breaks off into a growl, and he downs the rest of the bottle. Half-choking on it, he lunges forward, batting the Doctor's hand away, tugging his pants down the rest of the way and leaning down to swallow the Doctor's cock.

teyla: Suddenly, *finally*, the Master decides to join the fun. The Doctor's only too happy to quickly pull his hand away when the Master yanks his pants out of the way. The next moment, hot wet warmth engulfs the Doctor's cock, and at the sudden rush, the Doctor lets out a small cry, his hips bucking upwards.

culumacilinte: It's been a long time since he's done this; a bloody long time, and he almost gags when the Doctor bucks up into his mouth. He pulls back slightly, giving the Doctor a little glare, but more important than that is the cock in his mouth. Much more important at the moment. The Master pulls back, bringing all the saliva he can to his mouth, taking the Doctor deep to slick his length with it, wet so it slides easily between the Master's lips. The taste is honey-sweet and precome- the taste of a Time Lord, and he hums around the Doctor's length as he tongues the underside, finding the frenulum and flicking his tongue against him. He's well aware that he's quite thoroughly intoxicated, and that's why this is quite so important at the moment, but it doesn't detract from that importance any.

teyla: The Doctor hears the Master gag, and he tenses his muscles, keeping himself from thrusting upwards again. The Master takes him in, eager, almost greedy, and when the head of the Doctor's cock brushes against the back of the Master's mouth, the Doctor moans. The Master is doing incredible things with his tongue, sending surges of pleasure into every nerve ending and making the Doctor's head swim.

culumacilinte: Every little noise the Doctor makes spikes the heat in his veins higher, and he slips one hand down, finally pressing against his insistent erection. He *groans* around the Doctor's length, sucking hard for a moment as he- yes, *fondles* himself through his trousers.

teyla: The Master sucks him in, and the Doctor inhales sharply as the knot at the base of his spine threatens to burst. He digs his fingers into the fabric of the couch, anticipatory of that last push that will send him over the edge. "Yes," he breathes, "oh, yes -"

culumacilinte: The Doctor tenses under him; the Master can feel it, and he presses his tongue flat against the crown of the Doctor's prick, feeling every tensing and vibration. But just as the Doctor's about to come- *almost* there, he pulls back. It's very nearly as hard for him as it is for the Doctor, and he swallows hard, licking his lips of the Doctor's flavour. 'Lubricant, Doctor,' he says after a moment. 'I trust you have some.'

teyla: He's almost there, right up there tethering on the edge, and when the Master instead of pushing pulls back, the Doctor lets out a frustrated groan. He's trembling, his balls small and tight, and his breathing is going hard. It takes him a moment to register that the Master has spoken, and another to realize what it was the Master said. When he does, he opens his eyes, somewhat surprised. He gestures at the small side table that's sitting next to the far end of the couch. "Top drawer."

culumacilinte: The Master awkwardly gets himself off the couch, swaying slightly when he gets to his feet. He hasn't actually stood up since he started drinking properly, and now he finds it slightly more difficult than it ought to be. With only slightly less difficulty (though just as much indignity), he rids himself of trousers and pants, leaning over to pull open the top drawer of the table indicated. He squirts a generous measure of lubricant into his palm, and then tosses the tube to the Doctor. But instead of reaching down to slick himself with it, he falls back onto the couch, kneeling with his legs spread, and reaches behind himself to stroke lubed-up fingers over his arsehole, coaxing himself open. Easing a finger into himself, he meets the Doctor's eyes, a little smirk curling around his lips; he's displaying himself just as much as the Doctor had been before.

teyla: Oh. Ooh. Now that's different. The Doctor, the tube of lubricant in his hand, watches the Master reach behind himself, finger himself, and for a moment, he's sure the sight will make him come. He clenches his teeth and presses two fingers against the base of his cock, and the moment passes. Tearing his eyes away from the Master takes a lot more effort than it should, and the Doctor quickly fumbles open the lube. He sits up and, somewhat uncoordinated, shakes off his trousers and pants that had been pooling around his ankles, then scrambles so he's kneeling on the couch as well. The movement makes the world around him sway and blur for a moment, but he catches himself and squirts a helping of lube into his palm, quickly slicking himself up. It's not the first time he's done this with the Master, but the last time had been a long, *long* while ago, and the thought of fucking the Master is exhilarating. He moves in closer, wrapping one arm around the Master's waist and pulling him in, pressing his crotch against the Master's. His free hand reaches around and slides in between the Master's cheeks, finding the Master's lube-slick arsehole with ease.

culumacilinte: The Doctor's cock drips with lube, and the Master's own spit, and the way it slides against the Master's elicits a throaty moan. His head tips forward, and he sinks his teeth hard into the knotted muscle between shoulder and neck. His teeth stay clamped there, biting so hard as to draw blood, and his groan vibrates wetly against the Doctor's skin as one long finger slips down to find the crease of his arse, dipping in to continue the work he'd started himself. The pleasure of it makes the room spin disconcertingly around him, and he clings to the Doctor to stay upright

teyla: The Master is *clinging* to him, making the Doctor sway a litte himself, but he manages to keep his balance. He growls deep in the back of his throat, tightening his grip around the Master's waist. The Master has clamped his teeth into the Doctor's shoulder, and the pain sends sparks and tingles up and down the Doctor's spine. The Doctor crooks his finger, pulling and stretching not-too-gently, quickly adding a second one. If they're not going to do this very soon, they're probably not going to do it at all.

culumacilinte: It's a strange feeling, the Doctor stretching and preparing him, and it verges nearly on the painful- if it's been a while since he's given a man a blowjob, it's been even longer since he's been fucked. But he *wants* it, oh he does, and he exhales harshly as that second finger curls itself into him, his cock twitching against the Doctor's, slapping against his balls. 'You want to end this now?' He snarls, pulling away from the Doctor's shoulder to push him hard onto the couch, sliding atop to sit with a knee on either side of his hips, his cock once again sliding against the Doctor's.

teyla: At the push, the Doctor loses his balance that hadn't been the steadiest to begin with, and falls back onto the couch. The Master straddles him, their cocks sliding together, and *yes*, the Doctor wants to end this now. He grabs the Master's hipbone with one hand and uses his other to align his cock against the Master's slicked-up arsehole. 'Come on,' he says, breathlessly, and thrusts his hips upwards.

culumacilinte: The Doctor's cock is much larger, and much blunter than those two fingers had been, and the Master can feel himself clenching as he nudges against him. But he bites his lip, relaxing himself as he sinks down; easy at first, to get past that first ring of muscle, but once that's done, he *seats* himself on the Doctor's prick, head falling back as all the breath leaves him in a huff. 'Gods,' he mutters, and he feels so *penetrated*- open and exposed and it's near painful again, sitting still like this, so he rocks his hips- once, and again, and he groans when suddenly it stops being painful, and his cock slaps against his belly.

teyla: The Master is *tight*, and distantly the Doctor can tell that he's making an effort to relax. Most of him, though, is beyond making such observations, because the tight, hot, slick wetness of the Master engulfing his cock is enough to make his head spin. He lets out a long, drawn-out groan, his fingers clamped on the Master's hips. The Master slides all the way down and then stops, and the Doctor takes the moment to regain some measure of orientation. Then the Master starts to move his hips, and the Doctor is quick to join the rhythm, thrusting upwards, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

culumacilinte: It's not hard to find a rhythm, swivelling his hips, grinding *down* every time the Doctor thrusts up, and every tiny exhalation from the Master is edged in a whimper. This pleasure is so different, building internally, not just in his bollocks, and he can feel, already, that he's close. The Doctor's fingers are bruisingly firm on his hips, and that's good too, their grip setting off all those little pain receptors the Master so favours. The muscles in his thighs tremble as he lifts himself slightly, and he chokes down on a groan as he *slams* back down, impaling himself afresh.

teyla: The Master is making small noises that sound a whole lot like whimpers, and the sound of them make the Doctor want to lose himself right then and there. The Master is coming undone, and the knowledge that it's him that's doing this to the Master is what finally undoes the Doctor. He thrusts upwards, once, twice, and then stills as his climax rips through him and he empties himself into the Master.

culumacilinte: He squeezes his eyes shut as the Doctor suddenly tenses, and the Master can *feel* his climax, can feel him pulsing inside him, coming and coming. Again, a strange sensation in this body, but it sends him those few notes higher, and he reaches down to fist himself roughly, the strokes eased by lube and precome. Just a few pulls, grinding himself down on the Doctor's softening cock, and he swears as he comes, thick stripes of come splashed over his fist and the Doctor's heaving chest

teyla: The Master clenches around him as he comes, sending surges of painful pleasure through the Doctor that push through the aftershocks. The Doctor can feel the warmth of the Master's come streak his chest, and he loosens his grip on the Master's hipbones, his fingers unwilling to unclench. His nerves settle down somewhat, and he relaxes into the couch, his head swimming pleasently from the combination of orgasm and alcohol.

culumacilinte: After several long moments, the Master pulls himself off the Doctor (there's an unpleasant squelching noise that accompanies the action), flopping back onto his side of the couch. He feels even more boneless than before, the world unsteady with liquor and his limbs warm with dopamine and endorphins. 'Rassilon, I feel filthy,' he says after a moment, the comment directed more up at the ceiling than at the Doctor. 'Bet you planned this; get me drunk so you could fuck me.' His tone is idle, though, amused, if anything.

teyla: When the Master climbs off of him, the coolness of the air around his private parts clears the Doctor's head a little. He doesn't move, though, listening to his own breath going in and out of his chest. When the Master speaks, his words make the Doctor laugh. "Yeah," he says, "that's me. I planned this out from the very beginning." His tone doesn't carry any sneer, if anything, he sounds amused.

culumacilinte: 'Slag.' The Master flips over onto his stomach, pulling back open the drawer that had held the lube. Like many things aboard the TARDIS, the inside is far larger than the outside, and he makes a satisfied little noise in the back of his throat as he produces a large blanket. 'S fucking cold,' he offers as explanation, as he pulls the blanket over himself, still staring up at the ceiling. He doesn't bother to flick the other end of it over the Doctor, even though it's easily large enough.

teyla: The blanket is a good idea, it really is rather cold. The Doctor reaches out and gropes for the part of the blanket the Master is not using, pulling it over himself with as little movement as possible. He then lies back and closes his eyes, resuming to listen to the calming, familiar sound of his own breathing. It's soothing, and part of him realizes that he's falling asleep, but he doesn't even consider preventing it. doing anything that involves anything but lying here is not an option at the moment.

culumacilinte: The room around him is spinning in what's really a rather amusing manner, and the Master can feel himself melting into the couch limb by limb. Alcohol and sex, he thinks, with the sudden clarity of the quite properly drunk, are a brilliant combination. His toes are nudging slightly against the Doctor's, but he's too lethargic to bother withdrawing his feet. Instead, he turns his head to nuzzle into the cushions, hmphing a little in the back of his throat. Idly, he sends a psychic prod over at the Doctor; just a little annoyance to no real purpose

teyla: The Doctor is nudged out of a half-doze, and it takes him a moment to figure out that it had been the Master. Too sleepy to do anything else, he nudges back, not in an unfriendly way.

culumacilinte: If the Master had been the type prone to nostalgia, instead of the type who considered it nearly a curse word, he might have thought that this moment felt weirdly like when they were kids. In their respective beds, across the room from each other, too tired to get up, but poking mentally at each other until they fell asleep just because they could. But, because the Master is not the kind of man prone to nostalgia, he doesn't think this. Instead, he chuckles a little into his pillow, feeling himself lulled further into haziness and sleep.

teyla: The Doctor catches the thought the Master isn't thinking, and since he absolutely is the kind of man prone to nostalgia, it puts a smile on his face. He turns his head into the pillow and feels himself drift off once more, for the first time in a long while feeling completely content.