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A Lot of Running

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The Director calls ‘Cut!’ and John laughs breathlessly as he comes to a stop, immediately bending over and dropping his hands to his knees as he recovers his breath. God, he’s out of condition; he’d been down the gym fairly regularly as the date filming was due to start had loomed, but he’s getting lazy, he knows. He’s in his fortieth year now and he’ll have to start working at it if he wants to be able to keep up with the likes of David Tennant. Look at him, cocky sod; hardly out of breath at all, the skinny bugger.

He straightens up and tries to look as though his heart isn’t pounding fit to leap out of his chest as David saunters over and claps him on the back. He resists the urge to cough (the fags don’t help, he knows, but he’s tried to quit and so far he’s managed six months before caving in) and grins, knowing his face is shining with sweat but able to do sod all about it.

‘That was fun, wasn’t it?’ David grins; he knows, the cheeky sod!

‘Oh yeah,’ he grins back, wishing for a drink and five minutes in which to collapse in a heap far away from prying eyes. ‘I could go again, easy!’

David eyes him doubtfully before nodding. ‘Yeah – but not yet awhile I think. Look, I’m going to retire to mine for a brew while they set up the next scene – want to join me?’

John’s heart sinks but he knows it would be churlish to refuse, so he nods with as much enthusiasm as he can muster and follows David as he steps over cables and heads for the trailers. The last scene had actually been filmed just yards from their temporary base at Alexander Docks so they’re climbing the steps to David’s trailer in minutes. Luckily John has stopped panting by then but he realises something else to his embarrassment as they enter the confined space.

‘Christ, I stink like a fucking pig,’ he moans. ‘Sorry. Maybe I’d better go and shower...’ he looks up in surprise as long fingers grab his arm as he reaches for the door handle.

‘Better not, John – you’ll only wash off all that dust and they’ll have to send you back to make up.’

John groans. ‘I’d forgotten about that...’ he settles for shrugging out of the thick hoody the Master has taken to wearing this time, dropping it on the floor since it won’t exactly matter if it picks up any more grime. ‘That’s better,’ he sighs, as his body temperature starts to drop. ‘Sorry about the smell, though.’

David grins at him from the kitchen end of the small trailer. ‘I don’t actually mind it, to be honest,’ he says quietly. ‘Nothing wrong with a bit of strong, manly sweat...’ he looks down, ostentatiously to remove the tea bags from two mugs, but John, glancing over at him in surprise, notices a flush creeping up David’s neck. Bloody hell. He isn’t, is he? Is the Doctor actually coming on to the Master? Talk about life imitating art... he swallows, racking his brain for a suitable response.

‘Funny... Kate often says that.’ Ouch. He feels David flinch even from his own position by the door and realises that the honest response will have seemed like a rebuff. He quickly crosses the kitchen to take the mug which David may be about to either hand to him or fling at him, anxious to put things right between them.

‘I mean... you too?’ he mumbles, because he’s making a right pig’s ear of this now isn’t he? He’s far from upset by the remark – anything but, in fact. He’s been nursing an almost permanently half-hard cock since arriving on set two weeks ago , and thanking the costume designer for the Master’s thick denim jeans which are pretty good at hiding it. He feels sorry for David in his too-tight Doctor’s suit – his arousals are so easy to see that they’re something of a joke on set. ‘Ten-inch is as it again!’ someone will call, and of course David being David plays up to them, flaunting himself like the shameless tart he is, but somehow never being offensive with it. And now it appears that some of that may have been for him. Bloody hell.

‘You don’t mind?’ David looks at him with a panic-stricken expression and John realises that he’d been genuinely afraid of rejection. He’d taken a hell of a risk, hadn’t he, declaring himself while they still had weeks left on set. Time to put him out of his misery, then.

‘Mind? Bloody hell, I’ve been fucking praying for it, mate. I’ve been like a bloody teenager since I got here, stiffys all over the place. And I’m not the only one, am I?’

‘Thank Christ for that,’ David breaths, taking a huge gulp of his tea and then choking on it. When he’s recovered, he makes his way to the couch where John is now sitting, leaning back with legs akimbo. Unlike the half-hard state, his full arousal is obvious, the dark denim tented over his groin. He gives David a very Master-like smirk but says nothing. David falls to his knees and shuffles forward until he’s within the semi-circle of John’s spread legs. He takes a deep breath, breaths out.

‘Christ, you smell good,’ he sighs. ‘Sweaty and manly and sort of ... Masterly.’

John takes a deep breath. So that’s his kink, is it? All right, then...

‘I am the Master and you will obey me,’ he intones, feeling a distinct thrill as he speaks the words the Master has been denied by the scriptwriters. Apparently Russell had written the line (the Master had been supposed to say it to Lucy when he had been resurrected) but the censors felt that it was a step too far and it had been cut to ‘You will obey me!’ Christ, they’ve got a bondage chair, a straight jacket and a leather collar – a bit late for censorship he’d have thought.

‘Yes, Master...’ David responds and John feels his cock twitch. Down, boy. He brings his legs together and pulls David in until his groin is resting again John’s own. He swallows.

‘Oh fuck this, John – get those bloody clothes off!’ David is up on his feet and pulling at his own clothes; clearly the desire to get naked with the man who plays the Master is more important than any role-play. In seconds David is standing naked in front of John, the infamous ten-inch bobbing gently against the dark line of hair leading from his navel to his groin. With impatient fingers he’s now working on John’s zipper and tugging the stiff denim downwards.

‘Bloody hell, John - you’ve been keeping that quiet!’ David exclaims with relish as John’s not inconsiderable length bobs into view.

John takes hold of himself proudly and strokes the length of it proprietarily. ‘Say hello to Big John,’ he grins, swiping a thumb over the leaking tip. ‘His Masters’ choice,’ he adds cheekily.

The next few moments are devoid of speech but full of the sound of lapping tongues, throaty murmurs and stifled groans as the two men explore each other’s flesh, becoming more and more aroused until finally David pulls back with a gasp.

‘Stop, stop – or I’m gonna shoot myself in the eye.’

‘Try explaining that to make up,’ John quips; he’s close too but the few years he has on David seem to have lent him a little more control.

‘Oh Christ – how long have we got?’ David looks around towards the clock. He slumps. ‘We’d better be quick I guess,’ he says sadly. ‘Can’t have the Doctor going around with a stiffy the size of the Eifel tower, now can we?’

‘Boasting again,’ John murmurs as he leans forward and licks the tip of David’s cock. The other man yelps and thrusts helplessly forward until he’s halfway down John’s throat. The smell of arousal is almost overwhelming and John pulls back and flips his tongue against the underside of David’s cock. With a yell of surprise he comes; once, twice, three times, his seed splattering the underside of John’s chin and his chest.

‘You bastard...’ David laughs. ‘You did that on purpose!’

‘Shut up and return the favour – we’re running out of time...’ John holds himself steady as David dips his head and swallows him whole. Bloody hell... he tries not to jerk too violently as he comes, because breaking David’s nose would not be the best outcome of this little tryst.... he slumps back into the seat, his softening cock slipping out of David’s mouth to fall against his sweaty thigh.

‘Now I definitely need a shower,’ he chuckles as he catches his breath. ‘Can’t have the Master stinking of sweat and spunk...’

‘Nah, you just need a quick wipe with a flannel,’ David opines as he runs shaking fingers through his wild hair. ‘And if anyone gives you a funny look you can just say there was a lot of running and you need a shower. No one will dare say anything, even if they might think it.’

‘I feel as if I’ve run a bloody marathon,’ John mutters as he takes the proffered flannel and wipes David’s fluids from his chin. ‘What a state to get into...’

‘Yeah. Good, isn’t it?’

And John can’t find it in his heart to disagree with that.