otp

kellerprocess


The Keller Process--of Love


Master list of Doctor/Master fic
otp
kellerprocess
Three Era
Outtakes and Tonging (Three/Delgado!Master): The Master gets a strange Valentine's Day gift (written in honor of some odd spam that appeared on best_enemies' anon meme) PG-13


Eight Era

Co-Morbid: The Eighth Doctor and Roberts!Master get a sexier ending than the movie gave them. NC-17

Ten Era

Space Family
Cake (10/Simm!Master, Jack Harkness, Martha Jones, Mickey Smith): The Master can't sleep and creates a kitchen nightmare. PG-13

Shalkaverse

Misuse of UNIT property: Chapter 1: Inspection
3/Delgado!
kellerprocess
Title: Misuse of UNIT Property
Chapter 1: Inspection
Author: Jo Masters
Pairing: Three/Delgado!Master
Other Characters: the brigadier, Benton, Yates, Jo Grant, an OC officer and a super special cameo. See if you can spot them!
Trigger warnings: Mild BDSM.
Rating: R for dirty talk, off-camera descriptions of sex, and spanking
Summary: In which UNIT’s officers have difficulty ignoring the Doctor and the Master’s relationship.

---

“Hello, Doctor. Lovely afternoon, is it not?”

The Doctor sighed as the Master jammed the barrel of his pistol against his back. Of all the thousands of beings he had ever had the pleasure or the misfortune of meeting, the Master had the worst sense of timing of any of them. “Old chap, I don’t mean to be inhospitable, but I’m right in the middle of an experiment. Could you come back in, oh, an hour or so?

Frowning, the Master shook his head. This particular body’s hearing was not nearly as sharp as he would have preferred, but his ears had never before relayed complete nonsense . “What?”

“I’ve a very important experiment running, my dear. Some stealth thingamabob the brigadier wanted me to cook up for UNIT. “

‘”What.”

The Doctor indicated the little brown box on the table with a wave of his hand. “Oh, it’s a funny little device. Keeps everything one says in the room in which one is speaking, no matter how thin the walls or how clever the eavesdropper. One need only to push the lever like so.” He demonstrated.

The Master just stared. “What?”

The Doctor reached behind him and gently patted the gloved hand that held the gun to his shoulder. “Only, it isn’t quite finished yet; even I can’t meet the brigadier’s ridiculous timetables one hundred percent of the time. Now, I know you’ve sneaked in here and hypnotized or incapacitated more than a few guards to kill me—terribly rude of you, by the way; they’re no more involved in our quarrel than Miss Grant is—but you’ll simply have to be patient. The canteen is two floors down and just to your left after the staircase. I’m afraid their tea is only scarcely drinkable on a Wednesday, but Sue does make an excellent cherry pie. Your skill at disguises being unparalleled, you should have no trouble nipping down there for a little snack without causing anyone too much of a fuss. ”

“Cherry…pie…,” the Master intoned.

“What’s wrong? Isn’t it your favorite?”

The Master clicked his tongue in annoyance and removed the barrel from the Doctor’s back. “Really, my dear Doctor! I’m standing here with a weapon pointed at you after going to the trouble of sneaking onto this base on an inspection day—and it was a great deal of trouble, you know; some of these UNIT types are quite immune to the power of suggestion, and they’ve apparently got them stationed everywhere, thanks to the field marshal’s visit—and I’m told to simply toddle off to the canteen while you—muck about with something you could have made during our second year at school.”

The Doctor nodded and shrugged helplessly. “The Americans have a peculiar expression for just this sort of situation: ‘working for the Man.’ Anyway, my dear, I’m afraid our lunch date must become a promise for an early supper. “

The Master stomped his foot, then blushed with the realization that he had, in fact, just indulged in behavior that would be above most ten-year-old humans. “You’ve been putting me off for weeks to dance to the orders of these irritating little primates! Confound it, man, what are you, their lap dog?”

“Now, now. There’s hardly a need to be insulting.”

“I daresay you’ve insulted me quite deeply, Doctor. “

“Have I?” The Master’s reflexes were fast, but the Doctor’s were often faster. In one fluid movement, he spun up from his chair and slapped the gun from the Master’s hand. The Master snarled and dived for it as it skidded across the floor, but once again the Doctor proved faster; the other Time Lord let out a thoroughly undignified “oof!” as his dearest enemy pinned him to the floor with the weight of his larger body.

The Doctor tsked, as if scolding a particularly clumsy child. “How many times must I tell you? Whenever you lower your guard—or your weapon—around me, this is liable to happen.”

The Master moaned as his lover pressed a knee between his thighs.

“Is there even a machine?” he panted.

The Doctor shrugged. “Yes, of course. Completed not half an hour after breakfast. But it is something I could have constructed as a second-year student. You should have listened to your instincts, old chap.”

“You lied to me?!”

“All in good fun. Or did we not agree that all rules were off during our…rendezvous?” He pushed his knee forward again. The Master moaned as it connected with his hardness. “Then again, you don’t seem to particularly mind.”

The Master snarled and attempted to twist away from the man pinning him. With another chuckle, the Doctor eased up just enough to slap the Master across his rear.

“Doctor!”

“Mh, now. Be a good man and get up on that table, won’t you? You’re quite right, my dear. I’ve owed you a romantic afternoon for ages, and it’s high time I made good on my word.”

“Yes, but…here?” The Master asked as the Doctor eased off his back.

“Why not? Most of the base is busy with the admiral’s visit, and his handy device I’ve been “mucking about on,” as you put it will shield us from anyone who isn’t with him.” He offered the Master his hand. “You can scream as loudly as you like, Master; I assure you, no one will disturb us.”

The Master took it and let the Doctor help him to his feet. “No one will be able to hear us?” he asked, his tone submissive.

“My dear fellow, do you really think I’d expose you to prying ears of any Tom, Dick, Brigadier, or Jo who walked past?”

“Very good, Doctor.” The Master grinned and leaped for the discarded gun again. “But you should have taken your own advice: never lower your guard around me.”

The Doctor leaped out of the way and the Master’s bullet hit the wall, leaving a large but harmless hole in the plaster. “A .45 Magnum, old man?”

“Yes, have you something against that model and caliber?” The Master swung the butt of it at the Doctor’s jaw.

The other Time Lord pivoted and captured the Master’s wrist. “Oh, I suppose it gets the job done, but it really is rather common, don’t you think?”

“I admit it is somewhat pedestrian, but still, it is a perfectly effective device!” He threw a punch for the other man’s face. The Doctor took it on the jaw with a growl of pain, but his grip held.

“Then I hope you won’t have any trouble letting it get thrown about a bit more,” the Doctor said as he bent the Master’s wrist back and to the side. The Master gasped as his carpals popped.

“Though, I suppose you could fire with your left but, mh, let’s not find out, shall we? It would be such a pity to break your beautiful wrist instead of doing this.”

The Doctor pulled the Master’s arm behind him, wrapped his free arm around the other man’s waist, and pulled him close. The Master shuddered as the Doctor’s tongue trailed up his neck, and once again the gun clattered harmlessly to the floor.

“Confound you and confound aikido, judo, tai chi chuan, and the whole lot of human martial arts! And the entire catalog of seductive arts at that!” The Master moaned as the Doctor licked him again and closed his eyes. “All right, all right! You win. Today. What humiliating thing are you going to ask me to do, then?”

“Humiliating? My dear fellow, why do you think I’d want to do humiliate you?”

The Master just regarded at him with a raised eyebrow and a sour expression.

“Oh, don’t give me that look. This afternoon is all about some much-needed levity between us, not about dirty tricks and one-upmanship.”

The Master raised his eyebrow further. “If you’re trying to seduce me, my dear Doctor, you need to try a different line of reasoning. I recommend an actual promise rather than a vague assurance.”

“An assurance? Very well.” The Doctor slid both hands along the curvature of the Master’s ass and squeezed, drawing the shorter Time Lord up onto his tip-toes and eliciting a startled moan from him. “If you don’t climb up onto my work table right now and let me make love to you, old chap, I’m going to march you right in to the brigadier and demand that he lock you up and throw away the key.”

“All the better,” the Master said as he backed slowly towards the table. Then you’ll have no choice but to pay me the conjugal visits I’m owed—and your back payments are in arrears, Doctor.”

“Careful, careful. You know what double entendres do to me when they fall from those proper lips of yours.”

“Oh, do stop talking and remind me.” The Master grabbed the Doctor by his vest and pulled him down into a kiss. As the Doctor moaned and scrabbled to lift his lover onto the desk, his flailing hand knocked against the machine. It slid backwards into the wall, and the lever, which had never been screwed in too tightly, sprung into the opposite position.

***
“You run a damned fine operation, Lethbridge-Stewart, if I do say so,” the field marshal said as he and the brigadier’s re-entered the brigadier’s office. “Every man about his job, no hemming and hawing over red tape or busy work, yet everything meticulously filed and in its proper place. Your facilities are better maintained than many of our newer ones, despite the unfortunate budget cuts. Good Lord, you’ve even dealt with this Master business with grace and pluck. Good show!”

“Thank you, sir.” Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart gave his superior office a polite bow. Behind him, Benton, Yates, and Jo Grant smiled.

“I only wish I could have met this Doctor fellow of yours,” the field marshal said. “My sister met his last regeneration and always had the nicest things to say about him—though she couldn’t quite understand his interest in flutes. Are you certain he’s quite unavailable?”

“I’m afraid so,” the Brigadier said apologetically. “He’s currently conducting some very important experiments into sonar technology.”

“Really? How fascinating! Might I ask for specifics?”

The brigadier could not resist a small smile at how well everything was working out today. “I’m afraid he gets rather cranky when we give away his secrets,” he said apologetically. “But it does have something to do with soundproofing a room from the inside out. Keeping the waves from carrying where they shouldn’t.” Of course, he would certainly not tell the field marshal exactly why he had asked the Doctor to construct such a device; doing so would not only be sheer folly, but potentially embarrassing for everyone in the room.

“Oh?” The field marshal asked. “Well, what a splendid idea! Why—”

But his question would never receive an answer, or even a hearing. A mechanical, staticky shriek pierced the room like a hot needle, forcing everyone to grab his or her ears. Before anyone could react to it further, the cacophony resolved into what sounded like the breath of a man who had been running for a good half hour.

“Mhhh, oh Doctor!”
The brigadier felt his entire body wilt as if he had suddenly been thrown into a vicious winter wind.

Oh no, he thought. </i>Please. Not now. Not now. Not today.</i>

But the panting continued. And then, another horror:

“Oh come now, old man. You like it rather rough, don’t you?”

“D-doctor, I assure you I-that I do not at all.”

“Oh no? Well, then, you certainly won’t enjoy this, will you?”

There came the sound of heavy objects bumping across a hard surface, and what appeared to be glass shattering.

“Stop that! Stop that at once! I’m terribly sensitive there!”

“Tickle tickle tickle!”

The field marshal frowned and turned his head curiously, as if had misheard something. “What the devil is that, Lethbridge?”

“Ahh,” the brigadier cleared his throat nervously. “Must be a—a fault in the wires, yes.”

“Who’s a dirty old chap, then?”

Moaning.

“Is that the Doctor?” The field marshal’s frown deepened. “What on earth is the man doing in there?”

More moaning. Followed by the sound of something hard connecting to soft, malleable flesh.

“Doctor!”

The field marshal turned several shades of pale in rapid succession. “Is he—”

“No, no!” the brigadier insisted. “Just a fault in the wires, I assure you!”

“Who’s a filthy fellow?”

Jo was the first and only one in the room to shake off their stupor. “Field marshal, would you care to tour our canteen?” Her voice was chipper as she took the officer’s hand, as though the Doctor’s afternoon sex show was not currently being played at full volume around them. “Sue makes a terribly good cherry pie!”

“Who’s a wicked old thing?”

“D-doctor, please!”

“Come now. Who’s a wicked, naughty, silly old sod?”

“Yes, yes.” The field marshal coughed as he took Jo’s arm. “I think I’m feeling rather faint. We’ll talk about this later, Lethbridge-Stewart,” he said as he reached the door. “Damned funny operation you’re running here, if I do say so! All of these—Time Lords and what not fornicating on base radio frequencies.”

“Doctor! Mmmmmm!”

“Now, now, Master. Mustn’t talk with our mouths full!”

“Well, I never!” The Field marshal exited, shaking his head. “The Prime Minister shall hear of this, mark my words!”

“What do we do to naughty Masters?”

“Mhhhhnnn!”

“Mh, that’s right. We turn them over our knees and give them a nice, thorough caning!”

“Oh, Doctor!!!”

The brigadier sank into his chair and buried his face in his hands.

The moaning continued, accompanied by what sounded distinctly like table legs scooting across Formica.

“Brigadier, sir?” Yates asked, blushing from the tips of his ears to his collar. “What should we, erm…”

“Slide the telephone over, won’t you, sergeant?”

“Permission to follow Benton out the door post-haste, sir?”

“If you must.”

“Thank you, sir.” Yates hurried after his friend as the Brigadier picked up the receiver and punched two keys with enough force to shake his desk.

***

The Doctor ignored the telephone as he brought the handle of his ruler down against the swell of the Master’s rear.

“We. Mustn’t. Deploy. Nuclear. Weapons,” he said, punctuating each word with a slap.

“Y-yes, Doctor.” The Master whimpered as he writhed across his lap. “I’ve been a very, very bad Master.”
“Oh very bad,” the Doctor agreed.

The telephone kept ringing.

“Erm…I don’t wish to spoil this, Doctor, but…shouldn’t you answer?”

“Oh, they’ll ring off eventually,” the Doctor reassured him. “And I don’t recall telling you to speak out of turn,” he added with another crack of the umbrella.

“Yes, Doctor.”

The telephone continued to ring.

The Master growled. “Dash it all, man! I can’t concentrate with all this racket! Can’t you unplug it?”

“No. Whoever is calling might try to come over. And we wouldn’t want them to see you like this, now would we?” He patted the Master’s rear. “Won’t be a moment, my dear,” he said as he picked up the receiver. “This is the Doctor speaking.”

“Doctor, what in the hell are you doing in your laboratory?”

“Ah, brigadier. My homework, if you’ll recall. Any particular reason?”

The brigadier did his best to simultaneously check the tone of his voice and refrain from swearing profusely. “Funny. I told you to make a device that kept the noise inside a room. Not one that broadcasts your dillydallying into my office when the field marshal is present.”

The Doctor froze. “I don’t understand,” he said carefully. “In fact, I daresay I’ve no idea what you’re talking about at all.”

“Oh, don’t give me that nonsense! We all heard you, Doctor! Canoodling with-with the Master of all people!”

The Master looked over his shoulder, his expression anxious.

“I can explain,” the Doctor tried.

“No, Doctor. Let me explain!” Lethbridge-Stewart snapped. “Our inspection was going flawlessly until you two bloody fools decided you couldn’t keep your trousers buttoned up. And if the base is shut down tomorrow and the lot of us are court martialed for—quite literally!—fraternizing with the enemy, oh, we’ll all know who to thank, won’t we?”

“Brigadier—” the Doctor tried again.

In his office, Lethbridge-Stewart swiped a hand over his sweaty face. “I’ve been as tolerant as I can be, Doctor. God knows I’ve looked the other way so much I’m in danger of going nearsighted. But from now on, see that you keep your hanky-panky off UNIT property. Or, if you can’t, at least mask the sound. That was the purpose of today’s assignment, you know.”

The dial tone sounded before the Doctor could reply.

“It seems we’ve hit a bit of a snag,” he said as he returned the receiver to its cradle and reached for the device.

“Snag?” The Master looked decidedly uncomfortable as he climbed off the Doctor’s lap. “Doctor…please tell me you aren’t about to confirm my worst suspicions.”

“I’m afraid so, old fellow,” the Doctor said as he turned the box around and pulled the lever back into place. “Somehow—most likely in the heat of passion—we seem to have bumped this into the wrong position.”

The Master merely stared at him for several seconds. “…and when that happens,” he said carefully. “The sound waves aren’t contained in this room, are they?”

“No, old chap.”

“Your human friends heard everything, didn’t they?”

“Yes, old chap.”

“Ah.” The Master said meekly. And then, “You’ve never constructed one of these before, have you?”

“No, old chap.”

“And so,” the Master said, “there really was no need for including this—useless and entirely superfluous reverse setting. Was there?”

The Doctor swallowed. “I, er, well, you see—”

Ten seconds later, the brigadier’s early afternoon tea was interrupted by shouting that was as entirely unerotic as it was unaided by any mechanical device.

“Of all the blithering—ridiculous—half-baked BOTCH-UPS you’ve ever attempted, Doctor!”

Lethbridge-Stewart sighed and massaged his temples. It was going to be a very, very painful migraine, indeed.

To the Quick (Three/Delgado!Master), NC-17
3/Delgado!
kellerprocess
Title: To the Quick
Author: Jo Masters
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sex (frottage and intecrural) and some naughty language.
Pairing: Three/Delgado!Master
Other characters: The Brigadier makes a cameo appearance.
Trigger warnings: Although I didn’t intend this to be a fic involving dubious consent, parts of it could be read as dub-con.
Summary: Just what were those swords doing in the Master’s prison, anyway?

----

Every member of UNIT regardless of rank, station, or time served, knew one thing about the mysterious Doctor who kept to his lab and kept to himself: he was, in the words of Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart, “a bit of an odd duck.” Nonetheless, when the odd duck in question requested the delivery of several swords to the Master’s island prison, UNIT—as a unit— turned all eyes to the Brigadier for an explanation.

Lethbridge-Stewart read the Doctor’s request (written in his rather sloppy penmanship) over in silence before rolling his eyes. “Oh, for goodness’ sake. I know the old man must have his fun, but this is getting absurd.” But he stamped the request approved, anyway.

The six swords—two pairs of rapiers and one pair of sabres—was shipped over that very day as Lethbridge-Stewart tried to console himself with the knowledge that if the Doctor ended up decapitating the prisoner during a more than usually enthusiastic bout of foreplay he, and not Lethbridge-Stewart himself, would have to fill out the paperwork.

***
“Really, old chap. Is that the best you can do?” The Doctor asked as he parried a blow in a manner his opponent would have described on any day as “nonchalant.”

“Hardly—sporting of you to taunt an opponent,” the Master fired back as he struck again.

Once again, the Doctor parried easily. “Oh, I think it quite sporting, seeing as you were not only top of our class, but a student of the Dardi School—reputedly, anyway.”

The Master gritted his teeth and tried his best not to wheeze as he struck again. No matter how rigorously he structured his calisthenics regimen, or how many times he went through the motions of rowing, the confines of his prison did not permit the rigorous forms of exercise to which he was accustomed. He had grown both slow and—oh, how it pained him to admit—soft during his months of confinement. His technique was not what it had been, and he was, indeed, losing, and losing dreadfully.

“What’s the matter?” The Doctor asked as he sidestepped another blow. “Cat got your tongue? Or are you simply out of breath? Oh, do try to keep up, Master! We’ve only been at this bout a few minutes. Surely you aren’t that out of shape.”

“Well,” the Master snarled as he struck again, “seeing as you’ve been bringing me raspberry cordials by the boatload, Doctor, you’re hardly an innocent bystander.”

“True,” the Doctor said as he parried again. “But you see, my dear fellow, I like a bit of paunch on you. More to hold onto when I’m in the throes of ecstasy.”

He sidestepped another blow, twirled, and slapped the Master across the backside with the flat of his blade.

Doctor!” The Master cried. His free hand immediately moved to his stinging rear. The foil fell to the floor as the Master clutched at the tattered fabric. The Doctor had thoroughly slashed it—all the way to his briefs!

“This was my favorite Gucci! Do you know how beastly difficult it is to find a dignified, high-quality suit now that everyone enjoys dressing like a ruffian?! ”

The Doctor shrugged and touched the point of his rapier to the Master’s breastbone. “Touche.”

“Doctor,” the Master tried not to whine as he held up his hands. “This isn’t fair. The rules specify no damage to an opponent, and certainly no hitting below the belt.

“I think you’re confused, my dear fellow. In the first case, I have not damaged you, only put you in need of a highly-skilled tailor. In the second, you are mistaking Marozzo for the Marquis of Queensbury. Though, if you would prefer pugilism, you need only say so. We both have ample training and ability—though yours, I fear, is somewhat questionable.”

The Master tried to prevent himself from blushing with anger. The heat along his neck and shoulders informed him that he had failed spectacularly.

“I demand a rematch,” he said.

The Doctor shook his and clicked his tongue. “My dear Master. Of course you do. Yet our rules—rules which you agreed to, I might add—specify that we will have no rematches unless one of us makes an unauthorized move. As I have demonstrated, sufficiently, that this has not happened, you have lost this bout. And Master?” He trailed the tip of his sword down the Master’s chest. “I do demand my forfeit.”


The Master touched the tip of his tongue to his upper lip and glared at the Doctor, who merely chuckled good-naturedly and put his rapier aside.

“Now, now. Don’t look so sullen. If I’m not mistaken, you quite enjoy losing,” he said as he twined his fingers through the Master’s. “Just as much as you enjoy winning, I think. And you will remember, I hope, that I take my own losses graciously and without complaint.”

The Master wanted very much to remind him that, on the contrary, he typically did not, as losing graciously necessitated acceptance, or at the very least polite unwillingness to thwart another’s carefully-laid out plans—whether those plans involved conquest of a global or carnal nature. However, the Doctor chose that particular moment to thwart the lecture itself by bowing his head and licking the Master’s neck in a most distracting manner.

“Unfair,” the Master informed him, unable to hide his shiver.

“Oh, yes. How careless of me. We really ought to do this in a much more comfortable location. Your bedroom? Unless you’d enjoy it on the table. Then again, in front of that television screen…we wouldn’t want anyone looking in and finding you in flagrante delicto, would we?”

“Doctor! Must you be so vulgar?”

“Given how delectably you startle when I do? Yes, old chap, I fear I must.”

The Master was about to tell him that enjoying sexual congress did not necessitate throwing decorum to the wind and speaking like a guttersnipe when the Doctor stopped him with a deep and thoroughly obscene kiss that sucked the words and the air from his mouth and the indignation from his mind.

“Well,” the Doctor whispered, and oh, oh, one clever hand was on his hip and the other in his graying hair. “Are you going to come—either to bed or otherwise?”

The Master knew he was positively scarlet now, from his scalp to his shoulders. Nonetheless, he managed to nod weakly.

“Then, shall we?” The Doctor offered one velvet-clad arm, the twinkle in his eye anything but innocent.

Trying his best to scowl at his lover, the Master took his arm and followed the Doctor into the bedroom.

The room was larger than his sitting room, its decoration Spartan yet opulent. The Master had requested and been granted (through the Doctor’s intercession, he highly suspected), heavy burgundy curtains, a mahogany bedroom set, and ivory linens. As the Doctor eased him onto the large bed, the Master pondered the wisdom behind the last of these. The quality was exquisite, but they really did show every mark.

A kiss against his neck followed by a long and lascivious lick broke off his musing.

“Enjoyed that, did you, old man?” The Doctor chuckled as he opened the Master’s jacket.

The Master thought it best to kiss his lover’s fingers in lieu of an answer.

“None of that now.” The Doctor flicked him across the swell of his nose. “To the victor belongs the spoils, as they say.”

“Dash it all, man! Don’t I at least get to touch you?”

“All in good time, my dear Master. Sit up now.” The Doctor kissed him almost tenderly and removed his jacket as the Master obeyed.

“Hang it up, won’t you? I won’t have my clothing further degraded today, either due to a fit of passion or carelessness.”

“I can certainly appreciate that,” the Doctor said as he carefully unbuttoned the Master’s shirt. “Sorry about your trousers. I’ll have them mended.”

“Oh, you’re not a bit sorry, and they are quite beyond repair, Doctor—or is your sartorial knowledge really that limited?”

“Hardly as specific as yours, undoubtedly, but hope does spring eternal, I’ve found.”

“Hmp. Well, see that it doesn’t happen again, please.”

The Doctor carefully finished undressing him and, true to his word, hung each item in the wardrobe. The Master crawled under the sheet and pulled it up to his chest and watched with growing appreciation as the Doctor divested himself of his own (ridiculous, in his opinion) shoes, ruffled shirt, burgundy smoking jacket, black trousers, and underthings—which he (carelessly) left piled at the foot of the bed.

“It’s no wonder you are so reckless with my attire,” the Master quipped as the Doctor climbed into bed. “Can you even be trusted to use a hanger?”

“When a delectable man is lying here entirely naked? Your incarceration has either made you the victim of overweening modesty or blasted your common sense at the root.”

“Yes, well—”

The Doctor kissed him with a ferocity that made his toes curl. “Come here, you beautiful thing.”

They began in the Master’s second favorite position: his thigh draped over the Doctor’s hip as his lover rubbed against him while ravaging his neck with kisses and bites hard enough to bruise. As it was with all Time Lords, this was the most sensitive area on the Master’s person, and Doctor’s passion—and the knowledge that he would have to wear his higher-collared jackets for at least a week to conceal the evidence—only excited the Master further.

“You seem very enthusiastic,” the Doctor teased as the Master clawed at his back.

“On-on the contrary,” his lover panted. “I’m not enjoying a moment of it.”

“I see. Then perhaps I ought to work harder.”

The Master yelped as the Doctor rolled him onto his right side. “Top leg up, Master, foot to the bed,” he whispered before nipping his lover’s ear.

As he complied, the Master did not bite back a moan of pure, unashamed pleasure.

“You’re becoming quite a wanton, I see,” the Doctor said as he spooned up behind him, and before the Master could think of something scathing to say, his prick was pressed between his thighs.

“Curse you,” the Master moaned. This was his favorite position.

“I see. Shall I stop, then?”

His lover snarled and pressed his rear against the Doctor’s stomach. “Do and, so help me, I will shoot you or run you through.”

“Well, that’s hardly a threat. I might like the second of those. Your swordsmanship is very impressive, after all.” He pushed his hips forward and ran a long finger down the Master’s shaft. “And your sabre a truly impressive feat of craftsmanship.”

“Don’t be crude.”

“Oh, but you like it.” The Doctor thrust again, and the Master cried out as their cocks rubbed together. “You pretend to be proper and decorous with your formal language, your cigars, and your properly pressed suits, but we both know you secretly enjoy be scandalized, and what you really want, my dear Master, more than you want to win in any contest against me, is a good, hard rogering.”

“DOCTOR!”

“Sorry, you’re right. That was inappropriate, please excuse me.” The Doctor thrust harder. “I meant to say that what you really want is a good, hard¬fucking.”

The Master shrieked in outrage and bucked against the Doctor’s chest.

“Oh, yes. You quite liked that.” The Doctor licked up his neck and bit roughly right where flesh met jaw line, eliciting another scream from the Master. “Oh, that is a lovely sound,” he said. “But not so lovely as that prim, full mouth of yours saying objectionable things. What are you, Master?”

“M-morally outraged.”

The Doctor bit him again. “Oh, no. You won’t get out of it that easily. The truth is, for all your propriety, you’re a dirty little sodomite, aren’t you?” When the Master remained silent, the Doctor clicked his tongue and slapped him soundly across one firm hip. “Come on! It’s just me. No one else need know your secret.”

The Master swallowed. “I’m a dirty little sodomite.”

The Doctor slapped him again. “Sorry, old chap. Couldn’t quite make that out. This regeneration’s hearing has never been the best.”

“I’m a dirty little sodomite.”

“No, I’m afraid that won’t do, either.”

“I’m a dirty little sodomite!”

The Doctor slapped him a third time, threw his arm over the Master’s waist and returned to thrusting. “And what-what do you like your Doctor to do to you?”

“You know perfectly well!”

“Oh, but I want you to say it.”

Another bite against his neck. The Master shivered. “I enjoy carnal embrace—”

Another bite. “No.”

“Sexual congress.” The Master screamed as the Doctor thrust harder.
“No, still not right. Do stop being-mh, stubborn, old chap. It frustrates me, and from the looks of you, you’re sexually frustrated enough for the pair of us. Still not going to say what you really think? Hm. Very well, I’ll tell you. You, my dear Master, enjoy being fucked. Until you’re too sore to move. Until you’re too spent to deny that you want it. Until I wipe that cold, smug smirk from your otherwise attractive face. Until—”

He pressed a kiss against the Master’s ear. “Until,” he repeated, “we both know that you are completely and utterly mine. Well?”

“N-no.”

The Doctor thrust harder and rained kisses against his shoulders.

“No,” the Master repeated, and then, softly. “Yes.”

“Not good enough,” the Doctor all but sang out before slapping him again.

The Master felt his entire body stiffen. “All right,” he whispered. “All right, Doctor. You win. I like it. I like being--fucked. Please. Please don’t stop.”

The Doctor smiled against his lover’s neck. “Well, I suppose that will do.”

And he fucked the Master until the other Time Lord came, writhing, screaming, swearing and quite beyond both control and propriety. The Doctor’s own orgasm wasn’t far behind.

As his lover slumped against him, the Master closed his eyes and breathed deeply, willing his hearts to slow and his mind to clear. The latter was difficult to do, as the stickiness between his thighs made him feel both pleased and deliciously debauched.

“Now,” he said, when he finally managed to calm down. “Are you satisfied with your forfeit, Doctor?”

“Yes. You performed admirably.”

“Good. Then I take it I am free to make a demand of you?”

“If you wish.”

The Master took a breath. “Hold me,” he wanted to say. “Let me fall asleep that way. I’ve been defeated by you, ravished by you, and I’ve debased myself for you. This was not the first time, and Rassilon knows it will not be the last. But there is one thing I want you to say to me, Doctor. Just one thing. And I needn’t cajole and coerce you into saying it, because it isn’t like goading me into saying rude words. Because it isn’t a game. Not to me.”

Instead he said, “See that you don’t disturb the guards on your way out in the morning, won’t you? I’ve quite enough trouble with the guards nosing about in my privacy as it is.”

“Well, if that’s all,” the Doctor said slowly, and was it the Master’s imagination, or did he sound less enthusiastic than he had all night.

“Yes.” But the Master turned and nestled into his arms anyway. The Doctor didn’t say another word, and soon his breath came slow and even in sleep.

The Master’s eyes stayed open for a very, very long time.

Comorbid (Eight/Roberts!Master)
eight/roberts
kellerprocess
Title: Co-morbid
Author: Jo Masters
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sex (most of which looks like masturbation)
Pairing: Eight/Roberts!Master
Trigger warnings: None (unless you find the idea of possession upsetting)
Summary: The Master is now a rather permanent fixture on Eight’s TARDIS, but not in the way the Doctor thought he would be. Or: How the movie should have ended.

"What a sentimental old thing this TARDIS is!"--Eighth Doctor

---

As his TARDIS spun beyond Time and Space, the Doctor rolled beneath the satin duvet, trying to remove the hand from around his neck. As the hand in question was attached to his own body, this feat was proving to be rather difficult.

“No,” he rasped. “Don’t. Behave. You promised.”

The hand pressed down harder and the Doctor gasped, on the verge of having his respiratory bypass activated. If it came to that, he knew he could hold out for quite some time, but probably any longer than ten minutes and the determination behind that hand would crush his throat entirely.”

“Master,” he tried again. Then, another tactic: Master. Please. I’m not throwing you out until we’ve found a way to help you. I said I wouldn’t. But you just can’t take my regenerations. You can drive a human out of his body, but a Time Lord isn’t the same. Keep choking me and you’ll just make me regenerate, and if you’re in here when that happens…well, you could be kicked out of me, or fused with me, or something else. I just don’t know.

The hand stopped its downward movement, and the pressure became a little lighter. The Doctor could tell the consciousness that had seized it was considering. Then slowly, the fingers unclenched, the palm lifted, and the limb returned to its owner’s side.

“Thank you,” the Doctor said after several deep breaths.

No. The hiss tickled along his neck and vibrated between his ears, as if it had charged his skull with lightening. The Doctor simultaneously heard it inside his mind and felt the words on his tongue, mere millimeters away from becoming sounds.

No, the Master repeated. 'Thank you.’ What’s this ‘thank you?’ I’ve done you no favors now, my dear, naïve Doctor. But you’ve done something oh-so-foolish.

“Maybe.” The Doctor flexed the fingers of both hands. “Never said I wasn’t a bit of a fool, did I?”

Especially when it comes to you, he did not add. The Master groaned in the Doctor’s throat, but otherwise gave no response. Most likely, the Doctor figured, he had heard him.

After nearly 800 years of traveling in his TARDIS, the Doctor thought he knew the old girl as well as he knew himself. But when he was honest, both of them continued to surprise him. Just as the Eye of Harmony had released Chang Lee and Grace’s energy a third stream of golden light had floated up from its closing lids. The Doctor shielded his eyes and watched the energy speed toward him. Bruce? he thought, but immediately dismissed the idea. The poor paramedic was gone, cast out by the only other possible candidate.

The Energy had drifted towards him, pulsing, needing, and ultimately oh so helpless, and the Doctor had taken the only merciful—and, indeed, possible—course of action: he had parted his lips and accepted the Master into his body.

That had been three weeks ago, according to Earth time. Since then, the Master had alternated between sulking, murder attempts, and more sulking. Although the Doctor prided himself on being a patient man, it was beginning to wear on him.

“Shhh.” The Doctor dragged two fingers up his neck and swirled them at the place where his jaw line began. The touch along the most sensitive part of this most sensitive place sent a shiver up his back; the small, stifled moan that reverberated through his skull indicated that the touch was not lost on his guest, either.

“Shhh,” he repeated. “It’s miserable for you. I know.”

How could you possibly?

The Doctor dragged his fingers over his bruised neck and down his bare chest. “I can imagine,” he said as he pinched a nipple. “The Master I know never likes to be contained, whether in a Dalek prison or a Time Lord prison or the prison of someone else’s body. No, the Master I know likes his freedom.”

This time the Master moaned as the Doctor tweaked his nipple. Stop it.

“If you like.” The Doctor rested his hands against the sheets and nestled his rear further into the mattress, sighing comfortably as he did. “Only, you’re not my prisoner, my old friend. Until we’re able to make you a body, or find one that you don’t have to kill anyone to inhabit, you’re my guest. Now, I don’t know what you did in your TARDIS, but I always treat my guests with care. I try to make their stay pleasant.”

The Master made a noncommittal noise in his host’s throat.

The Doctor sighed. In all of his regenerations, he had never met a Master who managed to balance quite this perfectly between stubborn and masochistic. “What is it you’d like me to do, right now—that doesn’t involve suicide, I mean. Or homicide, actually. Yes. Anything ending with that particular suffix is right out, but anything else I—Master, please. Not this again.”

The Doctor’s right hand had returned to his neck. This time, however, instead of squeezing the Master’s touch was gentle—two fingers along his jaw line, and then down the side of his neck, circling the pulse point of his right heart. The Doctor braced himself—the parts of his body he could control, anyway—for an impact that never came.

“That’s it,” the Doctor said when the crushing down did not happen. “That’s right. Show me what you need, Master. I want to be a very, very good host.”

The index and middle finger of the Doctor’s right hand drummed against his shoulder in that now-familiar, four-count rhythm that reminded the Doctor vaguely of a Time Lord’s heartbeat. When the Master did this (at least in his present state; the Doctor could not recall if he had ever seen the tic before now), it was almost always an indication that he was considering his next move. The Doctor did not wish to rush him an continued to lie there passively—at least until his fingers closed around one bony hip and squeezed.

“Master,” he whimpered.

Mhhn. That’s right. The Master whispered. Of all your regenerations, Doctor, this one has got to be the weakest—the most trusting, the most naïve, the most romantic and…vulnerable.

The Doctor moaned as the Master slapped him across the hip.

I think I’m going to just love breaking you.

“That’s good.” The Doctor told him as he tangled his the hand he still controlled in his red-gold curls. “I’m looking forward to it. Tell me. Can you feel this?”

Oh, that is nice, The Master purred in response, and the Doctor matched the noise as his guest slid two familiar fingers into his mouth. Now, go ahead and suck these, mhh? There’s a good boy.

The Doctor swirled his tongue around his own digits, marveling both at the taste and the sensation; it was a deeply uncanny experience, in the truest sense of the word.

Good and wet, the Master told him. The sneer in his voice reminded the Doctor inexplicably of cacao, claret, the color burgundy –rich, dark things. You’re going to need them that way, he added as his host continued to lick. This is all the preparation you’re going to get. Say thank you, Doctor. This is me playing nice.

“Thank you,” the Doctor mumbled around his fingers.

The Master chuckled again and pulled the Doctor’s fingers from his mouth. All right, gorgeous. On your side now. Let’s get this party started.

Even after several weeks of sharing a body, the Doctor and the Master still had trouble navigating—due in no small part to the Master’s refusal to just let his host take over and do most things, the Doctor could not help but think. Sex was no different—though up until now the Master had shown surprisingly modest interest in the practice. Thus, it took them a few tries and a great deal of fumbling to roll the Doctor onto his side, raise his right hip, and spread his cheeks. If the Master had calmed down instead of cursing, the entire process would not have taken so long, the Doctor thought. He was about to tell the Master this when the swift and painful intrusion drove the thought from his mind.

“Master,” he moaned, writhing as much as he could.

Pretty.

The Doctor’s breath hitched as the finger dove in further—up to the second knuckle, the Doctor reckoned.

Oh. Oh, I am going to be sore.

The Master acknowledged this by laughing, pulling out, and thrusting in again. Poor baby. Still, he moved with a little more gentleness until the Doctor felt himself stretch. The second penetration was far less painful—pleasurable, in the way that digging at a sore gum could be pleasant. He frowned.

Immediately, the movement ceased and the Master withdrew. What is it?

Not used to it, the Doctor said. No, that’s not right. More like I’m not used to enjoying it this way.

Oooh. Kin-ky.
Chuckling, the Master resumed his work. All right, dearest. If you’re really having fun, be useful. Get me off, too.

Rather like self-abuse, wouldn’t you say? But the Doctor grinned as he wrapped his slender fingers around his cock. Oh my. Seems like I won’t need to do all that much work. Look at how hard you’ve made me already. Still he worked his prick until the Master’s moan reverberated down his spine.

Dirty little thing, aren’t you?

I reckon so. With you working me over so spectacularly, who wouldn’t be?

Hmm, the Master said.

And neither of them spoke for several more minutes. The Doctor’s breath came faster and faster, his heartbeats crashing in his ears and kicking him from neck to toes as his fingers (oh, the Master’s fingers!) drove into him. The more his lover worked against him, in him, through him, the more he felt the other Time Lord—pressed along their side, gripping their shoulders, gagging them with a leather-encased hand, nipping at the spot against their pulse point that made them scream and buck and finally spill into their sweaty left palm.

As the Doctor collapsed onto his stomach, he realized that he could not, at that moment, tell where he ended and the Master began—and that thought troubled him not even a little.

Rassilon’s beard, he thought. What a sentimental old thing this TARDIS is.

Oh?


The hand that was not entirely his own anymore caressed his throat, applying just the smallest amount of pressure. The Doctor sighed and leaned into the touch.

Mhh, he agreed. I mean, the dear girl could have absorbed you, locked you down—maybe even spat you out; I don’t pretend to be an expert on how the Eye of Harmony actually works. But instead—

“Instead?” The Master’s voice slid over his lips like honey.

The Doctor smiled and entwined their fingers.

Instead, I think she gave us what we wanted.

The Master laughed deep in their throat. “Yeah. How about that?”

That moment when you figure out how to write a fuckhot Roberts!Master fic
Eight in a sheet
kellerprocess
I'm having it.

And now I must get a Roberts!Master/Eight icon.

Cake (10/Simm!Master)
black and white 10/Simm!
kellerprocess
Title: Cake
Author: Jo Masters
Rating: PG-13 for language and some adult situations
Pairing: 10/Simm!Master
Other characters:Martha and Mickey Smith, Jack Harkness
Verse: "Space Family"
Summary: When the Master can’t sleep, paradoxes get unwound—much to the annoyance of his TARDIS-mates.
TRIGGER WARNINGS: This fic, like most of my Simm!Master fic, treats the Master as a person with a physical disability, and one with a cluster of symptoms of several mental illnesses. This means that he also deals with the frustrations, pains, and yes, the joys and moments of dark and/or weird humor that attend those symptoms. If detailed discussions and portrayals of things like anxiety attacks, depression, auditory hallucinations, and intense physical pain are triggering for you, you’ll probably want to skip anything tagged Simm!Master on this LJ.
Notes: This fic may not make much sense by itself, so please read this little explanation before you dive in. My partner and I are writing a huge 10/Simm!Master fic right now that explains why Mickey, Martha, Jack, and our favorite Time Lords are currently traveling through Time and Space like the dysfunctional but not entirely unhappy family they are, but we’re so not ready to start posting it yet. For now, suffice it to say that something happened, the drums are gone, and they’re all here together. The fact that these three humans happen to be three of our favorite New Who companions has nothing to do with it, either. ;) We jokingly call this story line "space family," hence the silly label.

-----

“Attention. Attennnntion!”

When no one raced into the TARDIS’ kitchen as they should have, The Master frowned and drummed his fingers against the counter. Realizing that he was engaging in the same useless, nervous tic he had been attempting to throw off for several months, he splayed his fingers across the hard marble surface and pressed down until the flattened pads turned paper-white.

No. he told himself. No. No. NO.

When the drums had finally left him for good, the Doctor, in that strange mixture of sanctimony and concern this regeneration seemed to use as both sword and shield, had tried to teach him something that humans called “yogic breathing.” Most of them involved breathing deeply and…counting. To some multiple of five, because humans apparently turned into sobbing balls of confusion and incapability if they had to group natural numbers in any other fashion. Against his better judgment, the Master had humored him only to have the four-count that haunted his conscious mind spectacularly derailed along with his afternoon and what passed for a rare moderately good mood.

The Master hadn’t spoken to him since. That had been two days ago—well, Earth days, anyway; the bloody little Cro Magnons his lover insisted upon traveling with would have been so put out if their circadian rhythms were interrupted, and of course the Doctor and his half-senile old TARDIS had to indulge them. He had locked himself in the laboratory the Doctor had “given” him and torn apart every device he had been toying with for the past two months. While the others were sleeping he had reassembled the pieces into the thing of beauty that now hummed on the counter between two covered silver plates.

“Attennnntion!” He called again. “Oh my God, oh no! Did I just set the kitchen on fire?!”

Silence. Complete, utter, boring silence.

The Master frowned. Oh, this would not do at all.

Jack Harkness had some strange obsession with keeping the TARDIS’ pots and pans hanging above the range. The Master had brushed his insistence off as something that was probably, knowing the captain, annoying and/or sexual and thought nothing more of it until now; now, they suited his purposes.

The Master selected two of the most expensive-looking frying pans and removed them from their hooks with a flourish that jostled the entire rack.

“Right, then!” he shouted. “Allon-fucking-sy, you lot!” He flipped the pans and slammed their backs together.

The fourth crash brought the Doctor into the kitchen, sleepy-eyed and groggily tugging his bathrobe over his ridiculous rubber ducky-print pajamas.

“Stoppit!”

“Sorry, Doctor! Can’t hear you for the pans! Come ON, guys! Wakey-wakeyyyy!”

The sixth and seventh clash brought Martha and Mickey from their bedroom, looking annoyed and vaguely confused, respectively.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

“Ah! Hullo, Martha Smith! And Mickey Smith! All in good time, my dear little humans. Just as soon as clever Jack drags his cute little arse out of bed—ahh, speak of the handsome devil!”

“There had better really be a fire out here, or an explosion or something,” Jack muttered as he walked into the room wearing nothing but an undershirt and a pair of boxer shorts. At the sight of the Master grinning like a toddler who’d just scribbled on the walls, he groaned and swept his hand over his eyes.

“Doctor, I know Time Lords get by just fine on an hour a night, but the rest of us actually need to sleep every now and then. Couldn’t we just get him a playpen to put him in at night, or something?”

“But I already have the best toys ever, Jack Harkness! You lot!”

“Master,” the Doctor said calmly. “Put down the pans.”

“Of course, my dear.” The Master placed them both on the range and wriggled his fingers. “Now that you’re all here, I’ve no more need for them. Well,” he asked when his fellow travelers all just stared at him. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I’ve called you out of bed, then?”

“Because the Doctor likes pounding your—”

Jack,” the Doctor cautioned.

“Well it’s true, isn’t it?”

“Hahahaha,” the Master drawled. “You’re lucky I find you both amusing and sexy—God knows why, though. Usually animals aren’t my thing. No. No, I’ve called you out here to show you what is probably the pinnacle of Time Lord scientific achievement.”

“What, d’you mean this little thing?” Martha pointed at the machine humming away between the covered dishes.

“Really, Martha Smith, you should know what that “thing” is, considering you and your little friends broke the last one I made. This “thing” is a miniature paradox machine.”

“What? This?” Mickey ran a finger down one smooth side. “Kind of cute, isn’t it?”

“DON’T! Touch the paradox machine!”

“Easy, mate. Easy.”

“Anyway, it isn’t cute,” the Master grumbled.

“Yeah it is.”

“Mickey Smith, I could just kill all four of you and take over this TARDIS if you keep interrupting me. You do know that, hmm?”

“No you won’t,” Mickey mumbled.

The Master ignored him. “Now, you’re all probably asking yourselves,” he drummed his fingers against the counter again, “Why would that clever, clever, oh-so-sexy-and-brilliant Master make another paradox machine—particularly one so compact, so flawless, so—’”

“Adorable.”

All three humans snickered, and even the Doctor smiled.

“They’ve got you there, love,” he said. “It really is kind of twee. I mean, you didn’t really need to make it look like a little rocket, did you?”

“Well, let me see…” the Master shook his head back and forth, pursing his lips in mock concentration. “Given that I had to make a shell to protect it and this was the only stable design for a device of its size, yes I did. Now do kindly shut up, all of you.” The Master cracked his neck in annoyance. “Anyway. You’re probably also wondering, ‘Whatever could this brilliant little—’”

“—toy rocket—”

“Captain Jack, would you like me to use your head as a football while it’s still attached to your neck? Because that sounds like some bloody good exercise to me, and I do need to burn off some energy.” His fingertips crackled with white light.

“All right, all right.” The Doctor held his hands up. “No more teasing him, everyone. Okay, Master, you win. Why’d you make it, and what paradox is it stopping?”

The Master drummed his fingers harder against the countertop as a grin spread across his face. “Oh, I think you’ll like it, Doctor. Look!” He whisked the covers from the dishes, revealing two small chocolate cakes with pink frosting and a single red maraschino cherry on top.

The four blinked.

“I don’t get it,” Martha said. “You made a paradox machine and you baked two cakes?”

“Bzzzzt! WRO-ONG! Really, Martha Smith! And you’re supposed to be the smartest human on this museum piece.”

“Hey!” all three men squawked at once.

“Don’t call my poor TARDIS names!” The Doctor added.

The Master waved a hand in annoyance. “It isn’t two cakes—though, yes, I really do quite enjoy baking. Gives me something to do with my hands that doesn’t leave scorch marks on the walls and get me lectured at.”

“Of course it’s two cakes,” Jack said snidely.

The Master rolled his eyes. “I know it’s a right strain, but I’d like you to think very, very carefully now, Jack Harkness. The Time Lord has made a paradox machine. The Time Lord has two beautiful, tiny cakes sitting on two plates by the paradox machine. That means…”

He spun his fingers in small circles and looked at Jack expectantly.

Twoooo cakes, Jack. One. Two.” The Master held up a finger for each and waved them in front of the captain’s face. “Anything? Any idea at all? Come on. I know you’ve got to think about having sex every five seconds in order to keep your heart rate up, but you can’t be that thick.”

“You haven’t…” Martha lowered her head into her palm and groaned. “Oh, bloody hell. You’ve cloned the cake, haven’t you?”

“Ding ding ding! One hundred points to Gryffindor! You always were my favorite protozoa, my dear. But it isn’t a clone, actually. Oh no, no, no, no, no. It’s something much, much better.”

“Oh,” the Doctor groaned. “You did not.”

“You humans really have such delightful little paradoxes. Catch-22. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Zeno. But,” he waggled a finger, “tonight I’ve created an even better one. I can now…” he drummed his fingers against the counter, “wait for it…wait for it…I can now have my cake…and eat it, too!”

He flashed them all a wide grin and held his arms out, fingers wriggling like worms. “TA-DA!”

The three humans blinked.

“I don’t get it,” Mickey said at last.

The Master’s hands fisted in his blond hair and pulled as he closed his eyes and made a loud, strangled noise. “It’s the same cake, you fool! Existing at the same point in time and space without blowing up the TARDIS!”

“So how is it different from two cakes?”

“IT’S THE SAME. CAKE!”

“Master.” The Doctor tapped him on the shoulder.

The Master pivoted. “What.”

The Doctor motioned for him to lean in. “I don’t want to be rude, or to insult your very impressive intellect. But…did you really need to wake everyone up to show them this?”

“Hmm…yeah, yeah I did, kinda. See, it was either that, or put gum in all the controls again, and I figured you wouldn’t like that very much.”

“Well, can’t really say I argue with your logic there. Timing, though…”

The Master stepped closer. “Doctor…don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what, now?”

This...concern thing. I’m fine. Just having a bit of a go at the pets. Rather like teasing a cat with a laser pointer, isn’t it?”

The Doctor shrugged. “Can’t say as I like cats all that much. But I do know they can often outwit their people.”

“Yum!”

“Might want to have a look ‘round at what they’re doing to your toys.”

The Master spun back to find all three of the Doctor’s companions pinching bites from both plates.

“No,” he said.

Jack popped a large bite into his mouth and chewed noisily. “Delicious, Master! Never knew you were such a great pastry chef.”

“Stop that,” the Master hissed.

“Yeah, how’d you get the icing to taste like real cherries?”Martha asked before licking a dollop from her finger.

“No. No. Oh nonnonono. NO!”

“Mhh,” Mickey said as he bit into a fairly large chunk. “Just like my gram used to make.”

The Master surveyed them with unusual calm for exactly five seconds before he reached out and casually tipped the tiny paradox machine from the counter to the floor. “Oops,” he trilled. “The paradox machine is broken. You know what that means!”

Instantly, the slab of cake vanished from Jack’s hand, and Mickey’s mouth closed on nothing but air.

“The paradox is a paradox again—which means you all only ate half the cake you thought you did!” To emphasize this fact, he pointed at the humans in turn and laughed. “And that’s what you get for eating the demonstration! Where are you going?”

The Trio of humans had looked at each other, shrugged, and moved towards the door during the Master’s speech. “Dunno, Master,” Jack called over his shoulder. “We’re the human pets, and you’re the Master. You figure it out.”

“That was so stupid,” Martha told her husband as they vanished down the hallway.

The Master stared after them, looking thoroughly deflated.

The Doctor stepped forward and slipped his hand onto the other Time Lord’s shoulder. “If it’s any consolation,” he said, “it was pretty stupid.”

The Master shrugged out of his grip and turned his back to him.

“Master—”

“I suppose you think this is easy.”

“Easy?” The Doctor frowned. “I don’t follow.”

“Yes, well, we can’t have that now, can we? You might ruin a perfect track record and all.” But he didn’t pull away when the Doctor touched him again.

“Tell me.”

The Master closed his eyes as the Doctor’s thumbs pushed against the knots in his shoulders. “One guess.”

“Oh, I can guess. I’d just, you know, rather not. I think I do that too much, actually, when it comes to you.”

The Master felt his eyes widen. “Did you just admit you don’t know something about me,” he said carefully. And that you actually want to know the answer, he did not add.

The Doctor was quiet for a few moments as he continued rubbing. “I think there’s a lot I don’t know about you,” he said at last. “I’m sorry about the breathing exercises.”

The Master waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, do stop whining, misery guts. I’ve been through worse, and so have you.” He leaned into the Doctor’s fingers and sighed as one particularly large knot gave way. “Thanks, though,” he added. “I like it when you say you’re wrong.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Huge turn-on. Positively mountainous. Do it too much, and you might get some head.”

“Fancy I’ll have to be wrong more often, then.”

The Master laughed, a low, dry sound that indicated both relaxation and amusement. “Yeah. I fancy you will.” And when the Doctor’s hands slid down his sides and clasped around his waist, he didn’t do anything to push them off.

“What’s it like?” he asked instead.

“Hmm?” The Doctor asked.

“All that…silence.” The Master felt his face pinch into an expression of simultaneous confusion and longing. “How do you manage? How do you…dunno…sit alone with it?”

The Doctor didn’t answer right away. “Can’t say as I’ve ever thought about it too hard, I’m afraid. I guess you fill it up with thoughts, memories, bits of music. Or, in your case, quadratic equations, blueprints infernal devices, Tinky Winky’s best dance moves. The usual suspects.”

“Hn. Everything I was already doing before, then. So helpful.”

“Look, I may not be able to explain it, but…” the Doctor sighed.

The Master sucked on his lower lip and waited.

“I can’t fix this,” he said at last. “I always say I can—no secrets there. And 75 percent of the time I can—well. Eighty. Eighty-five. Give or take. But the rest…nope. No idea. Guess this is one of those 25…20. Fifteen.”

The Master inclined his head and didn’t respond. Normally, he would enjoy this. But now he just felt tired, null.

And the silence was still there.

“I’m wasting my time doing irrelevant things. Gum. In the controls. Toys.” He kicked half-heartedly at the remains of the paradox machine. “I once ruled the Earth, you know.”

“I know.”

“Could have ruled the cosmos too, given time. Now look at me.”

The Doctor stepped in front of him and met his gaze. “I’m looking.”

The Master snorted. “Like what you see, then?”

“Always.”

The Master didn’t pull away when the Doctor cupped his cheek and trailed his thumb over his lips.

“I don’t know how to fix it, Master. But I know how to stay. Just stay. And I know—I hope I know—when to try and when to just—”

“Stoppit.”

The Doctor chuckled, soft and more than a little sad. “Yeah.” He continued tracing.

“Yeah,” the Master repeated. “So stoppit now, and give us a kiss, hmm?”

“Yeah.” The Doctor pressed their lips together and kept them there for quite somet ime.

“Heh. That the best you can do?” the Master asked when they separated.

“Guess I can try again.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhhn.” The Doctor repeated the kiss, this time licking along the Master’s chapped lower lip until his lover let him in. This time, the kiss brought them together into an embrace that quickly turned hotter, closer, as their hands moved to each other’s waists, then lower.

The Doctor broke their kiss and touched their foreheads together. “What,” he whispered, “do you need right now?”

“I think that would be obvious.”

The Doctor bit back a moan as his lover rubbed against his fingers. “Stop that. You know what I mean.”

“And so do you. This is what I need right now, Doctor. And I need it to last until this artificial night ends and your humans are up and about doing…whatever it is humans do in the morning. Brush their teeth, I guess.”

This time, the Doctor didn’t try to contain his whimper of pleasure as the Master slid a knee between his thighs. “Bedroom, then?”

“Unless you fancy a go on the counter—buuuut I reckon our little gang has had enough fun in the kitchen for now.”

“I bet they’d agree. So, sex then?”

The two Time Lords exited the kitchen, arms around each other’s waists.

“And one other thing.”

“Whazzat, then?”

“My mini-paradox machine?” The Master leaned in close and whispered, with a bright little gleam in his eyes, “brill-iant.”

The Doctor sighed and pulled him into another kiss. “Now what,” he said when they separated. “Am I going to do with you, hmm?”

The Master laughed. “Between the two of us? I’m sure we’ll cook something up.”

(no subject)
fucking tech
kellerprocess
Ugh. This new fic is giving me emotional whiplash. It's funny then it's not, then it's both.

How appropriate for 10/Simm!Master, amirit?

Outtakes and Tonging
3/Delgado!
kellerprocess
Title: Outtakes and Tonging
Author: Jo Masters
D/M pairing: 3/Delgado!Master (Jo Grant gets a brief mention, too)
Rating: PG-13 for some adult references
Trigger warnings: None that I can think of, though very mild BDSM is mentioned.
Summary: Delgado!Master breaks into Three's TARDIS in search of a Valentine's Day present and encounters more than he bargained for. Written for the best_enemies D/M anon meme and inspired by the weirdest spam post of all Time and Space that appeared there.

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For most people, TARDISes were difficult contraptions to break into.

The Master, on the other hand, was not most people. Besides, he thought, as the lock gave easily beneath the screwdriver he had created specifically for this task, if the Doctor didn’t want him to muck about in his TARDIS, he really should invest in better security.

The first thing that struck him about the machine was her excellent condition. Her walls were healthy and bone-white, free of dust or calcium deposits—and of any meretricious decoration. Curious. Given this regeneration’s taste for all things lace, velvet, and wine colored, he had expected the poor creature to look like a hybrid of a Victorian salon and a particularly dodgy Christmas tree.

The Master shook his head. He hadn’t the time to think about interior design. The Doctor would soon be back from wherever he and Miss Grant had run off to today, and if he wanted to evade discovery, he knew he had best finish his task as quickly as possible, for it was a task he simply could not fail to accomplish.

Where the deuce was the old man hiding his present?

Oh, yes. It was only a week to Valentine’s Day, and the Master knew he could just wait—he was, after all, the most patient and calculating of Time Lords. Only this wasn’t entirely about waiting, nor was it about some silly modern bastardization of both Chaucer and a pagan holiday used by humans to sell ridiculous cards and excuse immoderate sexual congress. No, this was about something far more important.

This was about obtaining chocolate.

In particular, it was about obtaining raspberry cordial chocolate. If the Master knew the Doctor as well as he thought he did (and oh, did he ever know him better than the Doctor gave him credit!), he was 99 percent certain a box of them were waiting…somewhere in this immaculately clean TARDIS.

The Master turned away from the walls and blinked. Apparently, that somewhere was the TARDIS consul. The box was simply sitting there, looking big, white, square, sterile…

…and decidedly not like a box of expensive raspberry cordials pressed into little heart shapes.
Frowning hard enough to feel the strain in his brow, the Master lifted the package and turned it in his hands. Perhaps, he told himself, the Doctor had ordered it in from outside of England and hadn’t removed it from the package yet. The thought of Belgian or German chocolates melting on his tongue was enough to ease his expression back into a grin. However, the more he turned the box, the faster his worry returned. Of the box’s six sides, one displayed a shipping address that was decidedly not the residence of Neuhaus or Guylian.

The opposite side to this contained a description.

“Ah,” the Master said as he began reading. Perhaps this would explain what region of the world his goodies haled from.
“You're goal is the capture as many villains as possible before they destroy the entire town of New York.”

The Master frowned again. “There’s no cause for improper punctuation,” he told the box, which, of course, remained both unresponsive and misspelled. But what was this about capturing villains? The Master shook the box gently. Surely, if this had been an ingenious trap, it would not have come with a warning label, even one that would not be noticed until a net was dropping upon oneself or the bomb inside had started smoking. No, the Doctor was not so playful or childish as that.

The Master read on. “Will it cover me to be flown home if required?Do I have to be reimbursed and pay up front for medical expenses?Am I still covered if I am over 65?Is my family covered under the same card?”

Incorrectly punctuated and incoherent! “I don’t understand,” he said. “Are you some kind of ponzi scheme? A handbook on committing insurance fraud? Because that really would be foolish of him, you know. Whilst I appreciate his approval of my interest in criminality, I really haven’t the time or care for such a petty enterprise as this.”

Once again, the box refused to divulge its secrets.

“Not only is she a treasure hunter,” the Master continued, “this Australian badass is equally comfortable in a gunfight or a fistfight, whatever the occasion demands. [URL=http://lopolikuminr.com ]deflagration[/URL] It will squeeze out any excess water, leaving you with a perfectly shaped log.”

“Well, really!” He exclaimed, nearly dropping the package in alarm. If this was one of those modern, pornographic “toys” used by so-called “modern” men and “liberated” women, the Doctor could kindly keep that sort of thing to himself! Oh, it wasn’t that he was a prude—really, he quite enjoyed being turned over the Doctor’s knees after doing something particularly objectionable—but there was a deep chasm between a bit of naughtiness and obscenity that no man should ever cross.

Only a few sentences remained of the misspelled, poorly-articulated, and rambling excuse for a paragraph. The Master swallowed in trepidation and read them, not entirely certain he was doing a sensible or safe thing.

“For those who consider the best console to have the greatest amount of new video games released each month, the Wii would be the obvious choice as it's well known that game developers for this popular console continue to crank out games at a rapid pace.”

“A W-eye.” The Master rolled the word over his tongue a second time. “What the Devil is a Why?” he asked the package. Rassilon’s Ghost, was this the name of whatever lewd sexual device the Doctor had purchased for their Valentine’s “entertainment?” The Master felt his cheeks heat, both with anger and embarrassment. “Why that impertinent, foul-minded, perverse, filthy—”
“Sorry, old chap, were you talking to me?”

Package in hand, the Master whirled to find the Doctor standing in the TARDIS’ doorway, wearing a ridiculous plum-colored velvet suit and a long cape to match. “Oh dear. You’re looking a bit flushed. Is something the matter?”

The Master tried to say several things at once, all of them beginning with “You libertine.” In the end, he simply settled for shouting “You libertine!” as loudly as his injured dignity would allow.

The Doctor merely blinked. “Sorry, I don’t quite follow.”

“You don’t—” the Master spluttered. He brandished the package like a shield and shook it until it rattled.

“Ah-ah, careful. You’ll damage it.”

“Good!” the Master roared before stamping across the consul room, bringing the offending box along. “Doctor, what is the meaning of this?”

“‘This, my dear?’”

“Don’t you ‘my dear’ me.” The Master shook the package again. “I know what’s inside of this.”

“Do you?” The Doctor serenely folded his arms across his ruffle-covered chest. The twinkle in his green eyes only enraged the Master further—even though he had to admit they were very, very lovely green eyes.

“Yes!” He shoved the package against the Doctor’s forearms until they opened to take it from him. “And let me tell you, Doctor, I dislike it.”

“You dislike it?”

“Oh, yes, Doctor. I dislike it intensely. If you think for a moment that I’m some—some gigolo who will try any perverted thing to please you, I tell you, you ought to think again.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Doctor, I may be a man of what others call dubious morals, but I am not a—a carnal plaything.”

“Master, what on Earth are you talking about?” The Doctor shifted the package onto one hip and touched the back of his hand to the shorter man’s forehead. “Are you feeling quite all right?”

The Master batted him away. “I am talking about whatever infernal device you have put inside that package. And let me tell you,” he continued as the Doctor looked down at the writing, “I will have none of whatever obscene device you have purchased or created to—excite me. Gentlemen simply don’t—do you think this is amusing?”

The Doctor, who had begun snickering the moment the Master mentioned inserting something inside his person, was guffawing now.

“Doctor, this is hardly appropriate!

The Doctor looked down at it, and back up at the Master. “My dear, don’t be absurd! This isn’t a sexual device. I assure you,” he said as the Master visibly cringed at the words, “I would never purchase or design such a thing, knowing the oceanic depths of your disapproval.”

It was now the Master’s turn to cross his arms. “Then you will have no objection to telling me exactly what is inside this package.”

“Oh, it’s not for you.”

“Then I am to understand this is not my gift?” The Master tried not to let disappointment creep into his voice. Of course. The Doctor hadn’t gotten him anything. Really, knowing that, he almost preferred the degrading alternative.

“No. Not at all.” The Doctor stepped around him and returned the package to the consul. “This, my dear fellow, was a decoy.”

“A decoy?” The Master followed him.

“Well, something had to distract you until my return.”

“Doctor, I despise being toyed with even more than—”

“And this,” the Doctor said, “is your gift.” He switched his cape open, revealing a large, heart-shaped box of chocolates strapped to his side.

The Master felt his eyes widen. “Neuhaus?” he asked in what he hoped was a very disinterested manner.

“Now, would I buy you anything but the finest?”

“I’m afraid that isn’t good enough, Doctor.”

“Oh?” The Doctor shrugged. “Very well, then.” He removed the chocolate box and untied the red velvet ribbon.

The Master watched with calculated indifference as the other Time Lord lifted one heart-shaped—oh, heart-shaped!—confection from the tray within and popped it into his mouth. He could never fathom why the Doctor had never taken up the art of hypnotism—the way he chewed and licked his lips afterwards could have made the citizens of several star systems fall to their knees. But as he had a point to make, the Master did not waver. Not even when the Doctor removed a second chocolate and held it out to him.

“If you think I am going to forgive you that easily—” The Master’s insult was cut off against the point of a hard, dark chocolate heart, and then lost forever in a sea of raspberries and sugar.

“Oh,” he moaned before he could stop himself. “Oh.” And really, he thought, what else could he do? The wretched little things were more addictive than Cuban cigars, than brandy, than anything but the Doctor’s fingers now tracing the curve of his lower lip.

Confound it all. Staying furious at the man was simply impossible, even when he was being insufferable. The Master blamed his eyes, his hair, his ridiculous suits, and the way he always seemed to know just how to caress the shell of his left ear.

“I’m still cross with you,” he said after he had swallowed.

“Oh, I do not doubt that,” the Doctor said as he pulled another chocolate heart from the box. “It was a rather dirty trick. But really, my dear fellow, what did you expect after sneaking in here, hm? And attempting to steal a box of sweeties at that! You aren’t going soft on me, are you?”

The Master snorted before clipping another chocolate from the Doctor’s fingers. “Don’t be absurd, Doctor,” he said after he had finished indulging a second time. “It’s just that these humans of yours make the blasted things taste so good.”

“Indeed.” The Doctor placed a third chocolate in his mouth and leaned forward.

“Mh. Quite,” the Master agreed before nipping it away.

“Of course,” the Doctor said several minutes later when the flurry of kisses had ceased. “There is the matter of your bad behavior. You entered my poor TARDIS unauthorized and mucked about with something you had no right to touch.”

The Master did not try to shake the hand from his back. “It’s your own fault, Doctor. You know I simply can’t be trusted.”

The Doctor made a disapproving noise as he reached for his lover and best enemy’s hand. “Perhaps, then, as you’re already devouring of your Valentine’s gift like the rapacious jackanape you are, I ought to give you the rest of it.”

“Which is?” The Master asked as he reached for another cordial.

The Doctor twined their fingers together. “Oh, I’m afraid you’re not going to ruin this surprise, my dear. I’ll give it to you in good time—after, of course, I’ve shown you what a very bad Master you have been and gotten you back in line.”

The Master blushed as the Doctor’s fingers brushed across his rear.

“Now, my dear,” the Doctor whispered. “Surely this doesn’t scandalize you?”

“No,” the Master agreed when he was able to think in full sentences again. “Still,” he said as the two moved towards the TARDIS’ cavernous bedchamber. “When you are done…er, disciplining me, I would like to know one thing.”

“What’s that, then?”

“What the deuce is a Why?”

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