Doctor Who fic: Gag Order
Title: Gag Order
Characters: Master/Doctor
Spoilers: Doctor Who through S3
Summary: The Master, like the Doctor, talks far too much. Fortunately, there are ways, good ways, to shut him up.
Notes: ~1500 words. More comment porn for snowgrouse. Because apparently despite my long list of actual bunnies for these two, all I can manage is PWPs. NC-17 so please don't read it if that's a problem.
The Doctor spent an inordinate amount of time in the control room, and because the Doctor refused to let the Master out of his sight for even a minute, this meant that the Master, also, spent an inordinate amount of time in the control room.
"It's because you can't stand to be away from me, isn't it?" the Master said in this regeneration's sultriest voice.
"It's because I can't trust you alone in the TARDIS," the Doctor corrected.
Actually, it seemed the Doctor couldn't stand to be away from the TARDIS console anymore, as though he had learned in his exile to need it, the closest thing he had to home, and to the memory of everyone he had erased from existence.
It was almost sweet.
Naturally, the Master made sure to needle the Doctor about his co-dependency as much as possible. Which was how he had wound up with a rope around his wrists, a rope that had in turn been tossed over one of the rib columns. The Doctor had fixed him with a 'serious disapproval' expression when he had complained, loudly, and tugged on the other end of the rope so that the simple pulley system forced the Master to raise his arms above his head. This he tied to the chair railing.
The Master grinned wickedly. Well. This wasn't going to stop him being just as much of a pest as ever, was it? He could see the gaping flaw in the Doctor's plan a parsec away!
"I always knew you wanted to tie me up," he said with a coquettish pout, ever so pleased. "When they locked me up, UNIT, and later, the Time Lords, I saw how you looked at me. When your pet perversity put the cuffs on me, how you ached to touch me, and how it wasn't only because we were the last of our kind."
It pleased him to see his old friend's eyes widen ever so slightly at the memory, commingled with the...emotions that had been running high at the time. It was so easy, baiting the Doctor. Easy to win.
But then he saw a hand slip into a pocket, and, oh, this was not good. Not. Good. He groaned when the hand came up with a bright red ball in it. A bright red ball attached to leather straps. It was the Doctor's turn to grin sweetly--idiotically--as he dangled the gag from long fingers.
He jerked his head away, trying to stay out of reach, twisting around in the rope. "No, no, no! You can't--"
The obscenities that came to mind were muffled when the Doctor, grabbing onto the back of the Master's head, held him still long enough to pop the ball gag into his mouth. It tasted of rubber and lint. He made a face.
"There, isn't that much better?" the Doctor cooed. His expression was insufferably smug, with his hands back in his pockets, rocking forwards and backwards on his feet.
"Mmmmphhoo!"
"What's that?"
"Gggghh!!"
"I'm sorry, I can't understand a word you're saying. Maybe if you repeat it very slowly and carefully. Try to enunciate."
"Mmnnn."
He hated this. He couldn't speak, couldn't mock or ridicule or taunt. In fact, it was his victim who was taunting him. Silenced, the words pent up inside him, louder and louder and louder, a thunderous pounding at his temple--
--As well as cool fingers, the lightest and most penetrating of touches, soothing him, and the thunder died back, and suddenly he found himself talking again, a string of profanities spanning the entire linguistic history of Gallifrey, followed by an indignant "Don't ever do that! I could kick you in the bollocks, you know, I could bite your fingers off..."
Only, he couldn't. Because he bit down on rubber and realised that although he spoke in the Doctor's mind, he was still gagged, still bound. He raised a sardonic eyebrow.
"Be quiet," the Doctor said in his mind. His perceptions echoed down the link, an image of the Master stretched against the curving column, framed by the warm glow of the TARDIS walls. Wearing his tie loose around an unbuttoned collar, rumpled and breathing hard. Mouth held open by the round gag.
They were close enough to make the connection, which meant they were close enough for the Master to push his leg between the Doctor's, stretching his own body even longer, the rope helping him to balance, giving him leverage. The position forced him to arch his back almost uncomfortably, making it difficult to breathe, but it was worth it, feeling the Doctor's cock stiffen inside his trousers, rubbing his leg along the Doctor's inner thigh.
The Doctor kept his fingers on the Master's temples.
In a way, the Doctor was already deep inside of him, as only another Time Lord could be, a connection that was by its nature more intimate than physical sex could ever be, and by necessity more pleasurable than physical sex could ever have been, like sex, made pleasurable so the organism would accept it, seek it out. An adaptive trait that had ensured their species' success and bolstered its evolution into one of the most powerful collective entities of this universe. And what any Gallifreyan could do, would, given the right partner, for the simple reason that it felt good--so good--the Time Lord Academy strove to nurture, so that what was merely low-level empathic feedback became a tool, sometimes a weapon, and along the way, students, studying for their examinations, practised it on one another, long into the night.
The Master thought, touch me!, and he willed the Doctor's free hand between their bodies, thought the fingers into working the button and the zipper free, just as easily as if he were commanding his own hands. He lifted onto the ball of his back foot to help, to thrust into the Doctor's palm, catching his breath at the sensation of skin against skin, the friction of their bodies.
The Doctor let out a long groan, and his thoughts were filled with half-finished sentences all overlapping one another, "I need to--oh god your body, your mind, stretched before me, I've been so alone, you're beautiful--"
"Sentimental rubbish," the Master thought scornfully. "Only you would--ohhh." He shivered as the Doctor rubbed his thumb in a circular motion, at the same time sending memories, memories of times they had done this before, back, back to the beginning and the lonely citadel and the silver trees. He strained at his rope, trying to lean in to the touch.
He had always loved to control the Doctor's hands, so he made the Doctor unzip his own trousers, and it was like the rub of their cocks against one another completed the circuit, and the Master looked at the Doctor with hooded eyes, and fed him an image of what he saw, the Doctor, mouth slightly open, pupils dilated, completely clothed but holding two naked cocks together, jerking them both off, and they're both talking a mile a minute in their audio-linguistic complexes, saying nothing and everything, Master, Master, Master, oh Doctor, the Doctor in the Master's head, one inside the other, one around the other, sending sensation flaming along mental pathways, synapses like artillery thundering, thundering, in rhythm, the Doctor the Master's hand, and he heard, far away, through two sets of ears, his own voice singing pleasure through a rubber gag, and his jaw ached, and his vision went black around the edges, and his hand was wet and warm and he'd bent his head and was kissing the Master where his voice vibrated in his throat and he shuddered and shuddered and shuddered and all those hearts pumped blood through cold arteries, and, through it all, there was the warm yellow glow of artron energy, like sunlight on a spring afternoon.
He sagged against his bonds, and the Doctor took out the gag and stroked his knuckles over the Master's cheek. He let down the rope very slowly, and lowered him to the deck plating, where they sat, side by side, feeling the vibrations of the TARDIS all around them, the remaining traces of their psychic link like wisps of golden fog in their minds.
The Master worked his jaw rather gingerly, still feeling the rubber ball in his mouth. "Well," he said, his throat raw but his tone jovial. "I told you you couldn't stand to be away from me."
Characters: Master/Doctor
Spoilers: Doctor Who through S3
Summary: The Master, like the Doctor, talks far too much. Fortunately, there are ways, good ways, to shut him up.
Notes: ~1500 words. More comment porn for snowgrouse. Because apparently despite my long list of actual bunnies for these two, all I can manage is PWPs. NC-17 so please don't read it if that's a problem.
The Doctor spent an inordinate amount of time in the control room, and because the Doctor refused to let the Master out of his sight for even a minute, this meant that the Master, also, spent an inordinate amount of time in the control room.
"It's because you can't stand to be away from me, isn't it?" the Master said in this regeneration's sultriest voice.
"It's because I can't trust you alone in the TARDIS," the Doctor corrected.
Actually, it seemed the Doctor couldn't stand to be away from the TARDIS console anymore, as though he had learned in his exile to need it, the closest thing he had to home, and to the memory of everyone he had erased from existence.
It was almost sweet.
Naturally, the Master made sure to needle the Doctor about his co-dependency as much as possible. Which was how he had wound up with a rope around his wrists, a rope that had in turn been tossed over one of the rib columns. The Doctor had fixed him with a 'serious disapproval' expression when he had complained, loudly, and tugged on the other end of the rope so that the simple pulley system forced the Master to raise his arms above his head. This he tied to the chair railing.
The Master grinned wickedly. Well. This wasn't going to stop him being just as much of a pest as ever, was it? He could see the gaping flaw in the Doctor's plan a parsec away!
"I always knew you wanted to tie me up," he said with a coquettish pout, ever so pleased. "When they locked me up, UNIT, and later, the Time Lords, I saw how you looked at me. When your pet perversity put the cuffs on me, how you ached to touch me, and how it wasn't only because we were the last of our kind."
It pleased him to see his old friend's eyes widen ever so slightly at the memory, commingled with the...emotions that had been running high at the time. It was so easy, baiting the Doctor. Easy to win.
But then he saw a hand slip into a pocket, and, oh, this was not good. Not. Good. He groaned when the hand came up with a bright red ball in it. A bright red ball attached to leather straps. It was the Doctor's turn to grin sweetly--idiotically--as he dangled the gag from long fingers.
He jerked his head away, trying to stay out of reach, twisting around in the rope. "No, no, no! You can't--"
The obscenities that came to mind were muffled when the Doctor, grabbing onto the back of the Master's head, held him still long enough to pop the ball gag into his mouth. It tasted of rubber and lint. He made a face.
"There, isn't that much better?" the Doctor cooed. His expression was insufferably smug, with his hands back in his pockets, rocking forwards and backwards on his feet.
"Mmmmphhoo!"
"What's that?"
"Gggghh!!"
"I'm sorry, I can't understand a word you're saying. Maybe if you repeat it very slowly and carefully. Try to enunciate."
"Mmnnn."
He hated this. He couldn't speak, couldn't mock or ridicule or taunt. In fact, it was his victim who was taunting him. Silenced, the words pent up inside him, louder and louder and louder, a thunderous pounding at his temple--
--As well as cool fingers, the lightest and most penetrating of touches, soothing him, and the thunder died back, and suddenly he found himself talking again, a string of profanities spanning the entire linguistic history of Gallifrey, followed by an indignant "Don't ever do that! I could kick you in the bollocks, you know, I could bite your fingers off..."
Only, he couldn't. Because he bit down on rubber and realised that although he spoke in the Doctor's mind, he was still gagged, still bound. He raised a sardonic eyebrow.
"Be quiet," the Doctor said in his mind. His perceptions echoed down the link, an image of the Master stretched against the curving column, framed by the warm glow of the TARDIS walls. Wearing his tie loose around an unbuttoned collar, rumpled and breathing hard. Mouth held open by the round gag.
They were close enough to make the connection, which meant they were close enough for the Master to push his leg between the Doctor's, stretching his own body even longer, the rope helping him to balance, giving him leverage. The position forced him to arch his back almost uncomfortably, making it difficult to breathe, but it was worth it, feeling the Doctor's cock stiffen inside his trousers, rubbing his leg along the Doctor's inner thigh.
The Doctor kept his fingers on the Master's temples.
In a way, the Doctor was already deep inside of him, as only another Time Lord could be, a connection that was by its nature more intimate than physical sex could ever be, and by necessity more pleasurable than physical sex could ever have been, like sex, made pleasurable so the organism would accept it, seek it out. An adaptive trait that had ensured their species' success and bolstered its evolution into one of the most powerful collective entities of this universe. And what any Gallifreyan could do, would, given the right partner, for the simple reason that it felt good--so good--the Time Lord Academy strove to nurture, so that what was merely low-level empathic feedback became a tool, sometimes a weapon, and along the way, students, studying for their examinations, practised it on one another, long into the night.
The Master thought, touch me!, and he willed the Doctor's free hand between their bodies, thought the fingers into working the button and the zipper free, just as easily as if he were commanding his own hands. He lifted onto the ball of his back foot to help, to thrust into the Doctor's palm, catching his breath at the sensation of skin against skin, the friction of their bodies.
The Doctor let out a long groan, and his thoughts were filled with half-finished sentences all overlapping one another, "I need to--oh god your body, your mind, stretched before me, I've been so alone, you're beautiful--"
"Sentimental rubbish," the Master thought scornfully. "Only you would--ohhh." He shivered as the Doctor rubbed his thumb in a circular motion, at the same time sending memories, memories of times they had done this before, back, back to the beginning and the lonely citadel and the silver trees. He strained at his rope, trying to lean in to the touch.
He had always loved to control the Doctor's hands, so he made the Doctor unzip his own trousers, and it was like the rub of their cocks against one another completed the circuit, and the Master looked at the Doctor with hooded eyes, and fed him an image of what he saw, the Doctor, mouth slightly open, pupils dilated, completely clothed but holding two naked cocks together, jerking them both off, and they're both talking a mile a minute in their audio-linguistic complexes, saying nothing and everything, Master, Master, Master, oh Doctor, the Doctor in the Master's head, one inside the other, one around the other, sending sensation flaming along mental pathways, synapses like artillery thundering, thundering, in rhythm, the Doctor the Master's hand, and he heard, far away, through two sets of ears, his own voice singing pleasure through a rubber gag, and his jaw ached, and his vision went black around the edges, and his hand was wet and warm and he'd bent his head and was kissing the Master where his voice vibrated in his throat and he shuddered and shuddered and shuddered and all those hearts pumped blood through cold arteries, and, through it all, there was the warm yellow glow of artron energy, like sunlight on a spring afternoon.
He sagged against his bonds, and the Doctor took out the gag and stroked his knuckles over the Master's cheek. He let down the rope very slowly, and lowered him to the deck plating, where they sat, side by side, feeling the vibrations of the TARDIS all around them, the remaining traces of their psychic link like wisps of golden fog in their minds.
The Master worked his jaw rather gingerly, still feeling the rubber ball in his mouth. "Well," he said, his throat raw but his tone jovial. "I told you you couldn't stand to be away from me."