Fic: Crooked Line (Three/Master)
Aug. 10th, 2008 09:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bagheera_sanI keep cheating. This is another anon kink meme fic I'm using to fill a prompt on the table, but since there are thirty, and I'm not having much luck with the new stories I started, this is better than nothing. Though I really don't expect to make the deadline.
Title: Crooked Line
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Three/Delgado!Master
Length: 615 words
Prompt: Regard
Warnings: Contains Third Doctor in a dress.
When they started their tradition of detente, their secretive meetings in the no man's land of hotels and deserted country roads, each word was weighed in gold, and few were spoken; they kissed hurriedly, and had no patience for games. But by now the Master can sit and watch patiently as the Doctor paints his lashes and lips. He sits across the room, like a spectator, but each time the Doctor glances up at the mirror, and in the mirror sees the Master, looks at him in a broken, refracted line, it sends a shiver down the Master's spine.
The Doctor isn't putting on a costume. Even as he bends to pull up a stocking and fasten it to a garter, he is undressing, revealing the boy the Master first met many, many years ago. That mismatched child, always sticking out, always wrongly dressed for every occasion, always too naked, always confident. Always wearing a costume, always playing to an audience, always fully himself. That bent, crooked, beautiful creature, a mirror image glancing slyly at the Master.
Getting up from his chair, the Doctor is graceful as always, enviably so, but his stance is still that of a man, his feet too firmly planted. His shaven skin looks soft and fair, but his shoulders are too broad and strong, his hips too slender for the burgundy silk dress. "Well?" he asks with a cocky raise of a brow, fully aware that this look doesn't suit him, but still vain enough to demand praise. "Do I meet your expectations?"
Always. Never. The Master smiles at him. "You rather exceed them, my dear."
The Doctor comes over to the Master's armchair and perches on the armrest. He's tense as a flock of wild birds, ready to scatter at the slightest disturbance, and the Master puts his hand on the Doctor's waist, stroking the skin-warm silk, possessive and soothing. "Then you're not just having a laugh at me?" the Doctor asks.
The Master kisses the Doctor's exposed collarbones, his neck, that bobbing, male Adam's apple, now carrying the sweet, heavy scent of perfume. "Playing coy, Doctor? There's no need to."
"Just wondering. You're usually more conservative than this."
The Master chuckles, and pats the Doctor's hip, half caress, half slap. "Always the critic." He gets up, and like this he is taller, so he bends down and whispers into the Doctor's ear, "I always loved you best like this."
The Doctor looks bemused, even more so when the Master goes down on his knees by the side of the chair, before the Doctor, and picks up one stockinged foot to kiss the Doctor's ankle. He's thoughtful, after a moment he even smiles a little, his hooded glance faintly impressed. The Master kisses the inside of the Doctor's calf, his knee, the spot of bare skin on his thigh between garter and dress. He pushes up the dress. Now the Doctor starts to look like a glorious mess: flushed, his hair disheveled, his lipstick too bright, his pale eyes glittering beneath the painted lashes, his cheeks flushed, his breath hitching a little as the Master's fingers glide under his dress.
"You were born to bend rules," the Master tells him. The proof is not the dress, the paint and the perfume. It's the fact that the Doctor is here, that he'll come again, that next time the Doctor will, inevitably, suggest something even more creative.
Above him, the Doctor closes his eyes. Perhaps to hide a passing regret, but the Master doesn't believe it. What the Doctor truly wishes to hide is pleasure, the love of the forbidden, the crooked line of his glance which flirts with disaster.
Title: Crooked Line
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Three/Delgado!Master
Length: 615 words
Prompt: Regard
Warnings: Contains Third Doctor in a dress.
When they started their tradition of detente, their secretive meetings in the no man's land of hotels and deserted country roads, each word was weighed in gold, and few were spoken; they kissed hurriedly, and had no patience for games. But by now the Master can sit and watch patiently as the Doctor paints his lashes and lips. He sits across the room, like a spectator, but each time the Doctor glances up at the mirror, and in the mirror sees the Master, looks at him in a broken, refracted line, it sends a shiver down the Master's spine.
The Doctor isn't putting on a costume. Even as he bends to pull up a stocking and fasten it to a garter, he is undressing, revealing the boy the Master first met many, many years ago. That mismatched child, always sticking out, always wrongly dressed for every occasion, always too naked, always confident. Always wearing a costume, always playing to an audience, always fully himself. That bent, crooked, beautiful creature, a mirror image glancing slyly at the Master.
Getting up from his chair, the Doctor is graceful as always, enviably so, but his stance is still that of a man, his feet too firmly planted. His shaven skin looks soft and fair, but his shoulders are too broad and strong, his hips too slender for the burgundy silk dress. "Well?" he asks with a cocky raise of a brow, fully aware that this look doesn't suit him, but still vain enough to demand praise. "Do I meet your expectations?"
Always. Never. The Master smiles at him. "You rather exceed them, my dear."
The Doctor comes over to the Master's armchair and perches on the armrest. He's tense as a flock of wild birds, ready to scatter at the slightest disturbance, and the Master puts his hand on the Doctor's waist, stroking the skin-warm silk, possessive and soothing. "Then you're not just having a laugh at me?" the Doctor asks.
The Master kisses the Doctor's exposed collarbones, his neck, that bobbing, male Adam's apple, now carrying the sweet, heavy scent of perfume. "Playing coy, Doctor? There's no need to."
"Just wondering. You're usually more conservative than this."
The Master chuckles, and pats the Doctor's hip, half caress, half slap. "Always the critic." He gets up, and like this he is taller, so he bends down and whispers into the Doctor's ear, "I always loved you best like this."
The Doctor looks bemused, even more so when the Master goes down on his knees by the side of the chair, before the Doctor, and picks up one stockinged foot to kiss the Doctor's ankle. He's thoughtful, after a moment he even smiles a little, his hooded glance faintly impressed. The Master kisses the inside of the Doctor's calf, his knee, the spot of bare skin on his thigh between garter and dress. He pushes up the dress. Now the Doctor starts to look like a glorious mess: flushed, his hair disheveled, his lipstick too bright, his pale eyes glittering beneath the painted lashes, his cheeks flushed, his breath hitching a little as the Master's fingers glide under his dress.
"You were born to bend rules," the Master tells him. The proof is not the dress, the paint and the perfume. It's the fact that the Doctor is here, that he'll come again, that next time the Doctor will, inevitably, suggest something even more creative.
Above him, the Doctor closes his eyes. Perhaps to hide a passing regret, but the Master doesn't believe it. What the Doctor truly wishes to hide is pleasure, the love of the forbidden, the crooked line of his glance which flirts with disaster.
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no subject
Date: 2008-08-10 08:12 pm (UTC)could quote all of it as an example of why it's so great, but that seems vaguely redudnant. so i will just say that i particularly love how true it is and the kissing of the ankle. lovely, even though the idea of pertwee in a dress is kind of hilarious.
no subject
Date: 2008-08-10 08:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-11 11:01 am (UTC)but anyway - the doctor's maleness is so obviously apparent here, and the tension between that and the dress/dressing up and not fitting in is what makes this amazing.
so to quote a man who knows what he's talking about - you rather exceed my expectations ;)
no subject
Date: 2008-08-10 11:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-11 08:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-11 02:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-10 11:52 pm (UTC)pats the Doctor's hip, half caress, half slap. That remains a gorgeous, completely evocative physical moment.
with a cocky raise of a brow, fully aware that this look doesn't suit him, but still vain enough to demand praise.
Oh, how utterly Three that is.
the Master puts his hand on the Doctor's waist, stroking the skin-warm silk, possessive and soothing.
And this is such a good /them/ moment.
Though slight typo right here, with hides and hide:
What the Doctor truly hides wishes to hide is pleasure
no subject
Date: 2008-08-11 08:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-11 02:59 am (UTC)and of course i am all over three in a dress, uh :D
no subject
Date: 2008-08-11 09:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-11 11:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-12 08:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-15 04:17 am (UTC)Getting up from his chair, the Doctor is graceful as always, enviably so, but his stance is still that of a man, his feet too firmly planted. His shaven skin looks soft and fair, but his shoulders are too broad and strong, his hips too slender for the burgundy silk dress.
That is one of the best descriptions of Three that I have ever read, in cross-dressing context or not. You are officially one of my favorite fanfic authors for being able to pull this off.