Author: Jo Masters
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sex (most of which looks like masturbation)
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.
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.
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?”
The Keller Process--of Love
- Comorbid (Eight/Roberts!Master)