Cliche Challenge: Hurt/Comfort
Title: Just For You
Author: okky_who
Summary: The Doctor receives a special sort of gift from the Master.
Cliche: Hurt/Comfort
Pairing: Shalka!Doctor/Master (in honor of the previously-posted news!)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Shameless smut, of the hurt/comfort variety, and, of course, the very dubious morality that is so essential to this pairing. Is this BDSM? Perhaps :)
The Doctor always maintained that this particular regeneration of his had the weakest immune system of any he had previously experienced. The Master never offered his opinion, merely fetching the Doctor cough suppressants or antibiotics or handkerchiefs whenever they were needed, without question or judgement. The Doctor, though he would never admit it, craved the security of being taken care of in this manner and never questioned the Master's somewhat unusual acquiescence. The relationship he had with the Master was intense, incomprehensible and ethically questionable, though the Doctor had stopped worrying about those descriptors long ago. He sometimes wondered what kind of person that made him.
He first became suspicious when, wracked with fever and shivering uncontrollably under the water in a shower he had just begun to wonder whether or not he should have taken, given the onset of dizziness that had just overcome him, he suddenly remembered in surprisingly vivid detail the expression on the Master's face earlier when they had eaten together, just after he had taken the first sip from his glass. The Master had smiled strangely, with something like triumph - perhaps pride? The Doctor had found it strange at the time, but had no context with which to pair it; soon conversation took them both, and he forgot.
It had been but a few hours since, and the Doctor knew he hadn't even left the TARDIS in something upwards of a week. His TARDIS may not have been in the best working order, but unsterile, she was not. The Doctor tried to concentrate on his knowledge of bacterial and viral infections and suddenly began to wonder how often had he gotten sick before the Master had joined him in the TARDIS. His thoughts were becoming more and more disjointed and difficult to grasp, however; his skin felt on fire, the inside of his throat raw and swollen, his head beginning to ache. When the Master found him, huddled in the bathtub, the water still pelting his hunched form, he was murmuring variations of “on purpose” and “your fault” and “I know you did this.” The Master turned off the water, smiling with just a hint of tooth.
“I wondered when you would discover my...shall we say, extracurricular activities?” The Doctor glared at him with red-rimmed eyes.
“I actually trusted you, you know,” the Doctor replied hoarsely. “I save you from the very jaws of death, make you a brand-new body and give you the run of my TARDIS and what do I receive in return but the results of some yet-unheard-of form of Munchausen syndrome by proxy-” The rest of the Doctor's outburst was lost in a coughing fit. The Master watched him with a satisfied smile until the coughing had subsided, then began carefully helping the Doctor out of the tub and into a towel.
“You can't say that you haven't been enjoying it,” the Master commented as he dried the Doctor's hair. “I've known you for a very long time, dear Doctor.” The Doctor considered this as the Master helped him down the hall to their bedroom, and could come up with no response until he was tucked into bed with a cold compress on his forehead and the cold trails of the Master's fingertips still tingling on his skin.
“Stay with me?” he admitted, voice rough, and the Master nodded.
“I feel this virus is my personal masterpiece,” the Master remarked conversationally, laying the back of his hand against the Doctor's cheeks, the sides of his neck. “It's taken me a very long time to engineer this illness so exactly, so superbly...” his eyes were very bright, and the Doctor suddenly felt flushed. “I made it specifically for you.”
The Master's hand had moved to his chest, still rubbing light circles, and the Doctor was suddenly aware of how hot and oversensitive his skin was and how thoroughly the Master's touch was affecting him. The Master's fingertips, inadvertently or not, brushed over a nipple, and the Doctor felt it in a deep throb to his groin. “Master...” he sighed, swallowing heavily.
“You must rest for a little while,” the Master said, withdrawing his hand and the no-longer-cold compress and securely tucking the Doctor in. “I will be back shortly to check up on you.”
Once the Master had closed the door the Doctor deliriously let one hand slide down his belly to wrap around his stiff cock. He gave himself a few slow strokes and ceased, feeling dizzy and feverish. He rolled over, the sheets deliciously cool against his overheated skin.
The next thing he knew the Master was awakening him with a cold hand to his back, and he felt himself shift dizzyingly as the Master's weight sank into the bed.
“Doctor,” said the Master, his astonishingly cool hand making its way up the Doctor's spine to rest at the nape of his neck. “Doctor, I'm going to help you to sit up.”
The Doctor's world spun as the Master carefully rolled him over and lifted him up with the ease his android body allowed; the Doctor sprawled weakly against the pillows, still flushed with fever, hair damp with sweat.
“I would like to examine you,” said the Master, a nineteenth century Earth doctor's bag now resting in his lap. “I need to check the progress of the virus.” The Doctor felt a small thrill at the sound of the scientific glee in the Master's voice, and gasped a little at the first touch of the cold metal stethoscope to his chest. The Master listened to one heart and then the other, the Doctor watching him intently through half-lidded eyes. “Now,” continued the Master, pulling the Doctor against him and holding him steady with one arm around his shoulders. The Doctor couldn't help but give in to the slow ache of arousal as the Master held him close, moving the stethoscope from place to place on his back, listening intently. “We must make sure the infection doesn't spread to your lungs,” the Master said. “Though it was not designed to, it concerns me. This virus is, as of yet, untested on any living subject. We shall have to be careful.”
The Doctor nodded, and the Master let him rest against the pillows once more before pushing a thermometer under his tongue. “I'll need to monitor your temperature,” the Master continued, one cool hand coming to rest on the Doctor's brow. The Doctor felt he was being consumed in a slow fire that had ignited just beneath his skin, every nerve raw and aching, every touch of the Master's hands almost too much to bear. “I have several different courses of treatment available, depending on how, precisely, your body reacts.”
The Master soon removed the thermometer, smiling triumphantly as he studied it. “Just as I intended. What a good patient you are, Doctor.”
The Doctor somehow found himself flattered, and now the Master was looking at him with hooded eyes and the Doctor felt arousal definitively grip him, threading up through his stomach, pulsing heavily at his groin. The Master took a tongue depressor from his bag, and the Doctor let his head fall back, submitting entirely to the Master's inspection.
“Viral research and design is such an enthralling field,” the Master said as he studied the inner lining of the Doctor's throat. “I can't see why I never picked it up before.” The Doctor privately thought that any situation where the Master was allowed to play god would greatly appeal to him, and the image of the Master sitting alone in a laboratory delightedly tweaking and toying with the purpose and motivation of microscopic existence gave him a strange, fierce, warm feeling.
The Master removed the tongue depressor, nodding to himself as if scribbling down mental notes. “Good, good,” he mused, placing his bag upon the floor and turning his entire attention to the Doctor.
His eyes were dark and intimate, and the Doctor reached out to him with fingers that felt too weak to grip properly. The Master lay a hand just below his sternum, the usual unspoken question hanging between them, and the Doctor let out a shaky, aroused breath. The Master smiled.
“Tell me about your symptoms,” the Master instructed, an intensity to his voice that sent shivers all over the Doctor's skin. His fingertips were moving steadily down the Doctor's stomach, circling his navel.
“I'm too hot, all...over,” the Doctor began, a hitch of breath where the Master had dragged a fingertip along the underside of his cock.
“Yes?” the Master prompted, his hand closing around the Doctor's erection, squeezing gently, once, twice.
“My...throat,” the Doctor indicated, breath shaky and labored. “It's...sore.”
The Master nodded encouragingly. “Very good, and?”
“Dizziness,” continued the Doctor, passing a trembling hand across his forehead. “Slight...headache.”
The Master hummed in agreement, administering pressure with his thumb in an exceedingly agreeable way. The Doctor arched helplessly from the bed, and wondered if he might die.
“What would you like, my dear Doctor?” The Master quirked a sly half-smile, and the Doctor couldn't focus, couldn't put to words the desires that flooded his mind. He reached for the Master, pulling feebly at his jacket, and the Master laughed indulgently and pulled the Doctor close to him. After some arranging the Master sat against the headboard, the Doctor straddling his lap, feeling heavy and weak and boneless. He shuddered at the almost-unbearable friction of the Master's clothing against his bare skin, loving the feeling of being held so securely. The Master rocked against him, letting out a satisfied breath, and the Doctor realized that the Master was very much aroused.
“Oh Doctor,” said the Master, thrusting slowly against him, voice pleased. “I do like you like this.”
“I know you do,” the Doctor replied hoarsely, unable to keep the accusation from his voice. The Master just laughed.
“You think of yourself as being in charge of matters in this TARDIS,” the Master said softly in his ear, cheek breathtakingly cold against the Doctor's. “But we both know who is truly in control, don't we?”
The Doctor let out an irritated huff, but the Master was circling his entrance with a single, cold fingertip, and the Doctor shivered with arousal. Then the Master was shifting slightly, and the Doctor heard the drawer of his bedside table open, and soon the fingertip was back, now slick and pressing inside him.
“Tell me you want me to have you while you're like this. Tell me you want me to take you while you're weak and incapacitated.” The Master pushed in another finger, and another, pressing them expertly against the spot inside him that made the Doctor arch against him with a sharp intake of breath. “Tell me.”
“I...” The Doctor's head was swimming, his skin still burning with fever; he leaned his forehead feebly against the Master's shoulder, unable to catch his breath as the Master held his fingers exasperatingly still. “Yes, I do,” he answered finally, quietly, sounding a little bitter. The Master laughed again.
“Good, Doctor,” the Master almost growled, and the Doctor held tightly to him, gripping handfuls of his jacket as the Master positioned him with an arm around his hips, somehow managing to undo his own trousers and pushing in slowly, maddeningly...the Doctor made a noise of frustration, achingly hard, out-of-breath.
It was all the Doctor could do to just hang on as the Master began to fuck him, slowly at first, then harder and harder. The Doctor felt he was hovering on the edge of orgasm, his limbs shaky and useless, and despite himself he felt safe in the Master's hold, in his care.
“I did this to you,” the Master said in his ear, voice thick with desire. “Made you weak, made you vulnerable...” A deep shiver ran through the Doctor and the world was spinning, out of control, and he came, hard, letting out a hoarse cry, hands twisted in the Master's hair.
The Master thrust inside him for a few more moments, gripping him harder and harder, before coming as well. The two sat in silence for a short while, heartbeats slowing, the Master's hands stroking soothingly over the Doctor's shivering form.
After a while the Master lay him down, cleaned him off with a handkerchief from the dresser, and the Doctor wasn't sure he would ever be able to move again. The Master straightened his own clothing, zipped up his trousers, and covered the Doctor once again with a blanket.
“Now let's see about starting you on the proper course of treatment,” said the Master, looking entirely too pleased with himself, but the Doctor was too tired to be angry.
“Whatever you like,” the Doctor answered wearily, one hand over his eyes.
Author: okky_who
Summary: The Doctor receives a special sort of gift from the Master.
Cliche: Hurt/Comfort
Pairing: Shalka!Doctor/Master (in honor of the previously-posted news!)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Shameless smut, of the hurt/comfort variety, and, of course, the very dubious morality that is so essential to this pairing. Is this BDSM? Perhaps :)
The Doctor always maintained that this particular regeneration of his had the weakest immune system of any he had previously experienced. The Master never offered his opinion, merely fetching the Doctor cough suppressants or antibiotics or handkerchiefs whenever they were needed, without question or judgement. The Doctor, though he would never admit it, craved the security of being taken care of in this manner and never questioned the Master's somewhat unusual acquiescence. The relationship he had with the Master was intense, incomprehensible and ethically questionable, though the Doctor had stopped worrying about those descriptors long ago. He sometimes wondered what kind of person that made him.
He first became suspicious when, wracked with fever and shivering uncontrollably under the water in a shower he had just begun to wonder whether or not he should have taken, given the onset of dizziness that had just overcome him, he suddenly remembered in surprisingly vivid detail the expression on the Master's face earlier when they had eaten together, just after he had taken the first sip from his glass. The Master had smiled strangely, with something like triumph - perhaps pride? The Doctor had found it strange at the time, but had no context with which to pair it; soon conversation took them both, and he forgot.
It had been but a few hours since, and the Doctor knew he hadn't even left the TARDIS in something upwards of a week. His TARDIS may not have been in the best working order, but unsterile, she was not. The Doctor tried to concentrate on his knowledge of bacterial and viral infections and suddenly began to wonder how often had he gotten sick before the Master had joined him in the TARDIS. His thoughts were becoming more and more disjointed and difficult to grasp, however; his skin felt on fire, the inside of his throat raw and swollen, his head beginning to ache. When the Master found him, huddled in the bathtub, the water still pelting his hunched form, he was murmuring variations of “on purpose” and “your fault” and “I know you did this.” The Master turned off the water, smiling with just a hint of tooth.
“I wondered when you would discover my...shall we say, extracurricular activities?” The Doctor glared at him with red-rimmed eyes.
“I actually trusted you, you know,” the Doctor replied hoarsely. “I save you from the very jaws of death, make you a brand-new body and give you the run of my TARDIS and what do I receive in return but the results of some yet-unheard-of form of Munchausen syndrome by proxy-” The rest of the Doctor's outburst was lost in a coughing fit. The Master watched him with a satisfied smile until the coughing had subsided, then began carefully helping the Doctor out of the tub and into a towel.
“You can't say that you haven't been enjoying it,” the Master commented as he dried the Doctor's hair. “I've known you for a very long time, dear Doctor.” The Doctor considered this as the Master helped him down the hall to their bedroom, and could come up with no response until he was tucked into bed with a cold compress on his forehead and the cold trails of the Master's fingertips still tingling on his skin.
“Stay with me?” he admitted, voice rough, and the Master nodded.
“I feel this virus is my personal masterpiece,” the Master remarked conversationally, laying the back of his hand against the Doctor's cheeks, the sides of his neck. “It's taken me a very long time to engineer this illness so exactly, so superbly...” his eyes were very bright, and the Doctor suddenly felt flushed. “I made it specifically for you.”
The Master's hand had moved to his chest, still rubbing light circles, and the Doctor was suddenly aware of how hot and oversensitive his skin was and how thoroughly the Master's touch was affecting him. The Master's fingertips, inadvertently or not, brushed over a nipple, and the Doctor felt it in a deep throb to his groin. “Master...” he sighed, swallowing heavily.
“You must rest for a little while,” the Master said, withdrawing his hand and the no-longer-cold compress and securely tucking the Doctor in. “I will be back shortly to check up on you.”
Once the Master had closed the door the Doctor deliriously let one hand slide down his belly to wrap around his stiff cock. He gave himself a few slow strokes and ceased, feeling dizzy and feverish. He rolled over, the sheets deliciously cool against his overheated skin.
The next thing he knew the Master was awakening him with a cold hand to his back, and he felt himself shift dizzyingly as the Master's weight sank into the bed.
“Doctor,” said the Master, his astonishingly cool hand making its way up the Doctor's spine to rest at the nape of his neck. “Doctor, I'm going to help you to sit up.”
The Doctor's world spun as the Master carefully rolled him over and lifted him up with the ease his android body allowed; the Doctor sprawled weakly against the pillows, still flushed with fever, hair damp with sweat.
“I would like to examine you,” said the Master, a nineteenth century Earth doctor's bag now resting in his lap. “I need to check the progress of the virus.” The Doctor felt a small thrill at the sound of the scientific glee in the Master's voice, and gasped a little at the first touch of the cold metal stethoscope to his chest. The Master listened to one heart and then the other, the Doctor watching him intently through half-lidded eyes. “Now,” continued the Master, pulling the Doctor against him and holding him steady with one arm around his shoulders. The Doctor couldn't help but give in to the slow ache of arousal as the Master held him close, moving the stethoscope from place to place on his back, listening intently. “We must make sure the infection doesn't spread to your lungs,” the Master said. “Though it was not designed to, it concerns me. This virus is, as of yet, untested on any living subject. We shall have to be careful.”
The Doctor nodded, and the Master let him rest against the pillows once more before pushing a thermometer under his tongue. “I'll need to monitor your temperature,” the Master continued, one cool hand coming to rest on the Doctor's brow. The Doctor felt he was being consumed in a slow fire that had ignited just beneath his skin, every nerve raw and aching, every touch of the Master's hands almost too much to bear. “I have several different courses of treatment available, depending on how, precisely, your body reacts.”
The Master soon removed the thermometer, smiling triumphantly as he studied it. “Just as I intended. What a good patient you are, Doctor.”
The Doctor somehow found himself flattered, and now the Master was looking at him with hooded eyes and the Doctor felt arousal definitively grip him, threading up through his stomach, pulsing heavily at his groin. The Master took a tongue depressor from his bag, and the Doctor let his head fall back, submitting entirely to the Master's inspection.
“Viral research and design is such an enthralling field,” the Master said as he studied the inner lining of the Doctor's throat. “I can't see why I never picked it up before.” The Doctor privately thought that any situation where the Master was allowed to play god would greatly appeal to him, and the image of the Master sitting alone in a laboratory delightedly tweaking and toying with the purpose and motivation of microscopic existence gave him a strange, fierce, warm feeling.
The Master removed the tongue depressor, nodding to himself as if scribbling down mental notes. “Good, good,” he mused, placing his bag upon the floor and turning his entire attention to the Doctor.
His eyes were dark and intimate, and the Doctor reached out to him with fingers that felt too weak to grip properly. The Master lay a hand just below his sternum, the usual unspoken question hanging between them, and the Doctor let out a shaky, aroused breath. The Master smiled.
“Tell me about your symptoms,” the Master instructed, an intensity to his voice that sent shivers all over the Doctor's skin. His fingertips were moving steadily down the Doctor's stomach, circling his navel.
“I'm too hot, all...over,” the Doctor began, a hitch of breath where the Master had dragged a fingertip along the underside of his cock.
“Yes?” the Master prompted, his hand closing around the Doctor's erection, squeezing gently, once, twice.
“My...throat,” the Doctor indicated, breath shaky and labored. “It's...sore.”
The Master nodded encouragingly. “Very good, and?”
“Dizziness,” continued the Doctor, passing a trembling hand across his forehead. “Slight...headache.”
The Master hummed in agreement, administering pressure with his thumb in an exceedingly agreeable way. The Doctor arched helplessly from the bed, and wondered if he might die.
“What would you like, my dear Doctor?” The Master quirked a sly half-smile, and the Doctor couldn't focus, couldn't put to words the desires that flooded his mind. He reached for the Master, pulling feebly at his jacket, and the Master laughed indulgently and pulled the Doctor close to him. After some arranging the Master sat against the headboard, the Doctor straddling his lap, feeling heavy and weak and boneless. He shuddered at the almost-unbearable friction of the Master's clothing against his bare skin, loving the feeling of being held so securely. The Master rocked against him, letting out a satisfied breath, and the Doctor realized that the Master was very much aroused.
“Oh Doctor,” said the Master, thrusting slowly against him, voice pleased. “I do like you like this.”
“I know you do,” the Doctor replied hoarsely, unable to keep the accusation from his voice. The Master just laughed.
“You think of yourself as being in charge of matters in this TARDIS,” the Master said softly in his ear, cheek breathtakingly cold against the Doctor's. “But we both know who is truly in control, don't we?”
The Doctor let out an irritated huff, but the Master was circling his entrance with a single, cold fingertip, and the Doctor shivered with arousal. Then the Master was shifting slightly, and the Doctor heard the drawer of his bedside table open, and soon the fingertip was back, now slick and pressing inside him.
“Tell me you want me to have you while you're like this. Tell me you want me to take you while you're weak and incapacitated.” The Master pushed in another finger, and another, pressing them expertly against the spot inside him that made the Doctor arch against him with a sharp intake of breath. “Tell me.”
“I...” The Doctor's head was swimming, his skin still burning with fever; he leaned his forehead feebly against the Master's shoulder, unable to catch his breath as the Master held his fingers exasperatingly still. “Yes, I do,” he answered finally, quietly, sounding a little bitter. The Master laughed again.
“Good, Doctor,” the Master almost growled, and the Doctor held tightly to him, gripping handfuls of his jacket as the Master positioned him with an arm around his hips, somehow managing to undo his own trousers and pushing in slowly, maddeningly...the Doctor made a noise of frustration, achingly hard, out-of-breath.
It was all the Doctor could do to just hang on as the Master began to fuck him, slowly at first, then harder and harder. The Doctor felt he was hovering on the edge of orgasm, his limbs shaky and useless, and despite himself he felt safe in the Master's hold, in his care.
“I did this to you,” the Master said in his ear, voice thick with desire. “Made you weak, made you vulnerable...” A deep shiver ran through the Doctor and the world was spinning, out of control, and he came, hard, letting out a hoarse cry, hands twisted in the Master's hair.
The Master thrust inside him for a few more moments, gripping him harder and harder, before coming as well. The two sat in silence for a short while, heartbeats slowing, the Master's hands stroking soothingly over the Doctor's shivering form.
After a while the Master lay him down, cleaned him off with a handkerchief from the dresser, and the Doctor wasn't sure he would ever be able to move again. The Master straightened his own clothing, zipped up his trousers, and covered the Doctor once again with a blanket.
“Now let's see about starting you on the proper course of treatment,” said the Master, looking entirely too pleased with himself, but the Doctor was too tired to be angry.
“Whatever you like,” the Doctor answered wearily, one hand over his eyes.