Fic: The Caged Cinema
The Caged Cinema
Doctor Who
Rating: R
(sex, BDSM themes [sensory deprivation])
Characters: Shalka!Doctor/Shalka!Master
Wordcount: 3,700ish
Summary: The Doctor plays mechanic.
An artificial blackness settles in on the Master as the Doctor deactivates his eyes. The Master fidgets uncomfortably for a moment to regain his bearings, getting used to the lack of sight. He's naked and spreadeagled on the bed, and he's actually glad of it. It means he can feel the sheets with every inch of his skin, reassure himself that everything's still there even without the ability to visually observe it.
"Neatly done," he says, tilting his head up and around so he can talk to the Doctor instead of mumbling into the bed. "Might I ask why we're doing this?"
The Doctor is silent for a few seconds, but the Master didn't hear him leave. He holds tight to last image he had of the Doctor, just before the man ducked out of sight in order to open up the back access panel of the Master's body. He was stripped to his ridiculous bright purple boxer shorts and had the sleeves of his shirt rolled up. He had also been wearing an oddly concentrated smile, which probably does not bode well for this encounter.
"You've often," says the Doctor at last, and then the Master's ears shut off. The Doctor's words continue to filter in, devoid of intonation and nuance, presumably conveyed by some haphazard jury-rigging. The slightly stilted punctuation suggests a repurposed device, possibly from an earlier regeneration.
"You've often shown me (by example) that the body is secondary to the consciousness it houses," says the Doctor. "Let's just see how far we can push that."
"How exciting," says the Master, flatly. He hopes it sounds flat, anyway. He can't actually hear what he's saying. "Remove all of my sensory input and leave me just a bundle of thoughts turned in on themselves. What fun I'll have, talking to myself."
"None of that, now," says the Doctor. His hands are busy in the Master's wiring again, adjusting the various autonomic functions that are aligned along the Master's spine. The Master can only just feel the Doctor's fingers, not well enough to tell what he's doing, or even if he's doing anything at all. He could just be trying to make the Master squirm with anticipation. The Master runs his hands over the sheets and then holds himself still.
"You agreed to let me do this," says the Doctor, and then it turns out he was doing something after all. Each of the Master's limbs becomes immobile, one after the other. They're not numb or heavy, it's just that when he tries to move his arm the impulse gets dislodged somewhere in between his mind and his muscles.
"If only I'd known you meant to keep me pinned here, deaf and blind. I must admit I thought letting you 'play technician' was code for something akin to 'playing doctor.'" The Master smirks, a little, to let the Doctor know that that would be more appreciated. "Not that you don't do that enough already. In any case, I must be grateful you haven't seen fit to render me dumb as well."
"You'll need your words," says the Doctor. "If I go too far or do something you don't want, you must tell me to stop. I can't be expected to put up with this 'sometimes no means yes' rot. You're completely at my mercy," and oh, how the Master wishes he could hear how the Doctor says that, "and I don't want to do something we'll both regret. You tell me to stop, and we're finished. I'll put everything back exactly as it was."
"Understood," says the Master. He tries to shrug his shoulders, but there's no movement even there. Instead he just smirks again.
"Good," says the Doctor. "Now stop distracting me. This is very delicate work."
That's probably the cue for the Master to say something lewd and distracting but he doesn't particularly want the Doctor's hands to slip when they're buried in the Master's servos. Instead he stays silent, waiting for whatever comes next. He's still not sure if he likes this.
It's true that the Master tends to treat bodies as things he inhabits rather than as part and parcel of himself. But it's unsettling to have it made so obvious that this form does not belong to him. Indeed, if the android shell belongs to anyone, it belongs to the Doctor. He built and wired it, fitting the pieces together in order to provide an imitation of life. He knows the Master's body better than the Master himself.
If you didn't know them, if you were just told that single fact without context, this might sound romantic. It's something that lovers say. 'I know you better than you know yourself.'
The Master considers this, and then his sense of time is shut off and he reels. He feels his head and torso jerk before the physical response dissipates into his still unmoving arms and legs. The mental shock lasts considerably longer, his thoughts skittering and scrambling as he tries to manage himself. One thing that a Time Lord consciousness always contains, regardless of body, is a greater connectedness with time than other species. Since the loss of his last natural body the Master has experienced a curtailment of this ability, but he has never lost track of time. Not once. Until this moment, he could have named the minute, the nanosecond.
Objectively, the Master can see that it is the digitization of his consciousness that gives the Doctor the ability to alter him so fundamentally. Subjectively, the Master feels lost and alien and wrong. He wants to tell the Doctor to stop, stop this now, even though they've only just begun.
"You'll be fine," says the Doctor. The Master imagines the tone as cajoling, reassuring, begrudging. Any would fit the Doctor, depending on his mood. "I'm going to leave you, just for a moment; I want to go find some things. You will be fine, won't you?"
"Yes," says the Master, trying to keep his voice as bland as possible, trying to make the Doctor imagine emotions for him in turn. He is stronger than this, and he will determine how to win this game.
The wait is interminable, in the purest sense of the word. The Master doesn't need anything like food or sleep to function - if he liked, the Doctor could leave him here for days, and the Master wouldn't know. It certainly feels like days, alone here, locked up in an increasingly unresponsive metal cage.
The Master breathes in and out, counts seconds in an attempt to keep control. He concentrates on the feel of the sheets and the expansion of his chest when he draws air in, and counts and counts and counts. After fifteen minutes it becomes too much and he gives up on marking time and starts trying to decide what to do. Better to do something constructive, anyway.
If this really is a game - and everything is, with the Doctor - then it's admirably constructed. The Master obviously loses if he tells the Doctor to stop. It proves that he can't withstand simple tinkering, that his mind isn't strong enough to hold out on its own. That he's dependent on this body the Doctor built for him. On the other hand, if the Master never says no, things could go very wrong. Previous incarnations of the Doctor might have had a grand scheme for this game. His seventh, in particular, would have a carefully worked out step-by-step plan, with an appropriately spectacular climax. But this Doctor operates in a freefall, doing whatever pops into his head as sufficiently clever. It's only a matter of time before one of those wild ideas turns out to be a bad one.
"How are you?" The Doctor's words break in, bright and steady against the slow dull panic of the Master's thoughts. The Doctor might have just returned, or have been waiting and watching for the hint of weakness. The Master grits his teeth and says nothing.
"That bad, eh? Don't worry; I'll make it better." The Doctor settles down on the backs of the Master's thighs, presumably to get better access to the open panel. The weight's comforting, an indicator that the Doctor is actually there. The Master flinches, suddenly, expecting the sense of pressure to be taken away, but nothing happens. Another moment passes and he can still feel the Doctor there, and he slowly begins to relax.
"That's right," says the Doctor. "Will it make you feel more comfortable if I tell you what I'm doing?"
The Master hesitates, unsure whether saying yes will be taken as a concession or not. Finally he nods anyway. The shock is the worst part, the actual absences something to become used to.
"I'm going to be playing with your sense of touch next." The Doctor shifts, and does something within the Master. "There."
Suddenly the points where their thighs touch are sources of tremendous pleasure, far beyond the mental stability they had provided before. The Doctor must have rewired the Master's pleasure center and turned up his skin's sensitivity. The Doctor runs a hand down the Master's arm and the Master almost whimpers. He bites his lip to stop himself, and even that feels good, though not as much as the Doctor touching him. The Master wonders if the Doctor's hijacked his gargalesis tickle response, or if he's managed to key the heightened sensitivity to his biosignature.
The Doctor could leave the Master like this, leave him so that a simple touch would get him as hard and aching as he is now. The Master only has the Doctor's word that none of this experimentation is permanent, and he knows exactly how much that's worth.
"What happened to isolating me from my body? Isn't that what this was about?" asks the Master. In his mind the words are clear, but in reality they're probably more than a little slurred and confused. His speech centers tend to run somewhat sloppily when his nerves are being overstimulated.
"This can be about more than one thing," says the Doctor. Well, the Master always knew he had a problem with focusing on one issue at a time.
He loses track of his own thoughts when the Doctor loosely circles his neck, not squeezing, just letting his hand rest there. It sparks lights and pinwheels in the Master's mind. The Doctor was right, this is better.
The Doctor's doing something again, though, and the sensations slowly begin to bleed away until the Master can only feel the weight on his nape and thighs and nothing else. Not the pleasure, not even the sheets. He'd complain, but he doesn't trust his voice at the moment, especially when he can't tell how it sounds.
The weight comes away from his neck and something swipes at his lips. The Master opens his mouth automatically, eager to use the senses that he has left. But the Doctor has gotten creative with his wiring again - with a jolt, the Master realizes he cannot taste at all. Even discerning the texture of whatever it is that the Doctor's put in his mouth is beyond his capabilities. He had assumed that it was the Doctor's fingers. That would be the most natural thing. But the Doctor did leave, and he could have brought something back. He'd said he was going to get supplies, hadn't he?
The Master probes the object carefully with his tongue, trying to at least determine the shape. He can't feel anything, but if he thinks carefully about the angles and the...
It's too difficult. It's like shaking a box and trying to discover what's inside. All the pieces are there, but he can't put them together into a coherent shape. The Master sucks on the object, testing, but he can't tell if the Doctor's breathing changes. The sound relay seems to be set up only for words, and the Doctor isn't saying anything.
Eventually the object is pulled away, and the Doctor's hand settles on the Master's neck again. Almost immediately afterward the hyper-sensitivity returns, and it was the Doctor's fingers in the Master's mouth, because he can feel wetness from them drying where his pulse should be. The Doctor's still silent, and his damp fingers stroke the Master's neck, sending wave after wave of pleasure through his body. No, through his self.
"I thought you were going to tell me what you were doing," says the Master. He has to say something, or it will get to be too much, and the Doctor isn't even doing anything complex at this point.
"I'm considering it," says the Doctor. "Just be patient, why can't you."
"I knew you'd run out of ideas," says the Master. Perhaps this is what it takes to win. Just wait the Doctor out. "You always did like to bite off rather more than you could chew."
"Don't be absurd," says the Doctor. His hand moves away from the Master's neck and into his back. His fingers are dry now, and they lightly tug something that makes a muscle in the Master's neck jerk and strain. "There's so much I can do, now; the only problem is deciding what. I could start playing with your systems more. Make you see fantasies and illusions; things that aren't here, and which you know can't exist. I've got the proper tools for it, and something simple wouldn't take an inordinate amount of time. I could shut off your external systems altogether and work directly with your mind. I could even..." The Doctor's words trail off, and the Master feels him sit back, as if he's considering something fascinating and terrible.
"It occurs to me," says the Master, trying to distract the Doctor, "that there's a reason why you've made it impossible for me to inspect my own circuitry. Vital computational functions stored within my head, the autonomic systems in my back - if you'd made use of my chest cavity I could have worked on myself."
"It was simpler this way," says the Doctor. "I was working within severe time constraints, as you well know."
"Nevertheless," says the Master. "You enjoy this, don't you? It gives you a control over me which I can never have over you. Not unless you're willing to trade places."
"Mhm," says the Doctor. "Do we have to have this discussion? I haven't even managed to get you off."
"Have you 'got off,' Doctor? Are you hard now, have you already come, is-" The Doctor is shifting again and he palms the Master's erection, his hand working into the small space between the bed and the Master's groin. The hypersensitivity is still on and the Master gasps, his questions lost in the contact.
The Doctor's other hand switches off his ability to breathe.
It's not like asphyxiation, erotic or otherwise, because he doesn't need air. But the Master has been using breaths to calm himself down, especially since he lost track of the sheets, and the loss sends him spiraling. The Doctor is still stroking him in light touches that make the Master feel as if he is going to come at any moment. He keeps trying to catch his breath, but he can't, he can't, and the stutter in his brain patterns as the signal to his diaphragm peters out into nothing makes him feel muddled and stupid beyond the surge of lust. The Doctor can do this to him any time he likes, if it feels like this. He wants it to never end.
"No, stop," he says, forcing the words out. They probably sound odd, without working lungs and thus no vibrations along his vocal folds to disguise the robotic sound of the voice-synthesizer, but he hopes they're recognizable. "Stop."
The Doctor does, immediately.
"Hold on," he says. "Only a minute to replace the connections."
The Master can breathe again. He draws a deep, shuddering gulp of air, then lets it hiss through his teeth. The hypersensitivity recedes. The Doctor seems to be working in reverse order. Time falls back into place, the moments ticking by and being filed somewhere deep in the Master's mind. He can probably move all of his body again, but he doesn't test it, just lies there and waits as his hearing and sight return.
Everything is louder and brighter and more than before. The Doctor is putting the Master back together with his sonic screwdriver, sealing the panel shut.
"There you are," says the Doctor. "Everything in order. Do you want me to leave?"
"No," says the Master. He sits up, carefully. His body hasn't weakened at all, but the connection to his mind feels odd after being tampered with. He flexes his fingers and tries to ignore his cock. "Did you accomplish what you meant to, Doctor?"
"What would that be?" says the Doctor. He sounds smug and awkward and annoyed all at once, and the Master is more pleased than ever to be able to hear the Doctor's voice.
"If you were trying to alienate me from this shell you built, you succeeded. If you were trying to demonstrate your power over me, you won out. If you were trying to arouse me, you did that as well." The Master really wishes he could forget about this whole incident, but right now the Doctor's won and he's lost and he has to turn the tables. "Which is it?"
"Why do you always have to turn everything into some devious maneuver?" The Doctor doesn't look at the Master. He's repacking a toolkit with tiny clamps and pliers. It's presumably what he went to get when he left the Master alone with half his senses turned off.
The Doctor's flushed, and there's grease from the Master's insides on his shirt. There are some rather incriminating stains visible through his thin cotton boxers. He's also probably feeling guilty for pushing things too far, but he'll forget that soon enough. The Doctor tends to lose track of things that embarrass him. All the more reason to get answers now.
"With you, there's nearly always a devious motive," says the Master.
"You're confusing me with yourself," snaps the Doctor. "Let me remind you - I'm the taller one. Without a beard."
"Fixation with physical appearance," says the Master. "Doesn't make much sense if you were trying to alienate me, does it?"
"Fine," says the Doctor. He puts his toolkit under the bed and brushes his hands on his legs, smearing them with grease as well. "What were my options again? Ah, yes, alienation, power, and arousal." He raises his eyebrows and his hands in a sarcastic gesture. "All of them. Happy?"
"No," says the Master. "I want you to do some things for me." He rises up on his knees on the edge of the bed and puts his arms around the Doctor's neck, pulling him close.
"Really." The Doctor looks confused, suspicious, and faintly hopeful. It's a good combination, and a familiar one.
"I want you," The Master leans in, and whispers throatily into the Doctor's ear. His erection is pressing against the Doctor, and he feels a slight answering shudder from the other man. "I want you to relocate my servos and non-vital functions into my chest cavity."
"Ah," says the Doctor, disappointed and trying to disguise it. "That. You realize that I'll have to remove you from the shell entirely."
"I do indeed," says the Master. "And I plan to set up some interim form beforehand so that I can observe your work."
There's a reason why the shell is set up as it is currently, and they both know it. If the Master can alter and fix himself, then there's nothing keeping him here. He could escape at the first opportunity without worrying about breaking down or having to find a trustworthy and sufficiently knowledgeable mechanic.
The only remotely logical reason the Doctor might agree is that the Master's not asking him to rewire the essential computing functions that are stored within his cranium. Not yet, anyway. Disregarding that, there are a number of illogical reasons for the Doctor to agree.
"Fine," says the Doctor. "We'll do it. I'll get the lab ready." He moves to pull away, but the Master holds him there.
"So guilty," he hisses, looking straight at the Doctor while the Doctor looks away to the side. "How much would you do, right now?"
"Don't push it," says the Doctor. His mouth twists wryly, and he finally looks the Master in the eye. "We both saw how that turns out."
The Master catches his breath, and considers the Doctor. There's a hard set to his mouth, tight annoyance directed at both of them. If the Master gets what he wants - especially if his forthcoming request is granted - that annoyance will go away, soothed by concessions and the reassurance that the Master's voluntary companionship will bring. If he stays, the Master reminds himself, though he knows he's unlikely to leave just because his tether's been cut.
"Yes, we did see, didn't we?" The Master says, at last. "Well, I'll only ask one more thing. Get down there and finish what you started, will you?" He pushes impatiently at the Doctor's shoulders.
The Doctor gets to his knees and takes the Master's cock into his mouth with the minimum of fuss. That is to say, it takes almost five minutes for the Master to convince him not to stand on his dignity. For all that the Master currently finds his mechanics fairly unsettling, he appreciates the fact that they effectively prevent vasocongestion while allowing him to maintain an erection without continued stimulation.
"Keep the toolkit here, though," says the Master. "Just in case."
The Doctor is probably rolling his eyes, but the Master can't see them to tell.
If both of them can meddle with the Master's body, then it belongs to both of them. If the Doctor wasn't doing something the Master is incapable of, maybe he'd be able to enjoy it without the feeling of losing control.
If, thinks the Master as his plastic and metal hand cards through the Doctor's gray-streaked biological hair, if they change the rules, then both of them can win. That's at least half of an acceptable outcome.
Doctor Who
Rating: R
(sex, BDSM themes [sensory deprivation])
Characters: Shalka!Doctor/Shalka!Master
Wordcount: 3,700ish
Summary: The Doctor plays mechanic.
An artificial blackness settles in on the Master as the Doctor deactivates his eyes. The Master fidgets uncomfortably for a moment to regain his bearings, getting used to the lack of sight. He's naked and spreadeagled on the bed, and he's actually glad of it. It means he can feel the sheets with every inch of his skin, reassure himself that everything's still there even without the ability to visually observe it.
"Neatly done," he says, tilting his head up and around so he can talk to the Doctor instead of mumbling into the bed. "Might I ask why we're doing this?"
The Doctor is silent for a few seconds, but the Master didn't hear him leave. He holds tight to last image he had of the Doctor, just before the man ducked out of sight in order to open up the back access panel of the Master's body. He was stripped to his ridiculous bright purple boxer shorts and had the sleeves of his shirt rolled up. He had also been wearing an oddly concentrated smile, which probably does not bode well for this encounter.
"You've often," says the Doctor at last, and then the Master's ears shut off. The Doctor's words continue to filter in, devoid of intonation and nuance, presumably conveyed by some haphazard jury-rigging. The slightly stilted punctuation suggests a repurposed device, possibly from an earlier regeneration.
"You've often shown me (by example) that the body is secondary to the consciousness it houses," says the Doctor. "Let's just see how far we can push that."
"How exciting," says the Master, flatly. He hopes it sounds flat, anyway. He can't actually hear what he's saying. "Remove all of my sensory input and leave me just a bundle of thoughts turned in on themselves. What fun I'll have, talking to myself."
"None of that, now," says the Doctor. His hands are busy in the Master's wiring again, adjusting the various autonomic functions that are aligned along the Master's spine. The Master can only just feel the Doctor's fingers, not well enough to tell what he's doing, or even if he's doing anything at all. He could just be trying to make the Master squirm with anticipation. The Master runs his hands over the sheets and then holds himself still.
"You agreed to let me do this," says the Doctor, and then it turns out he was doing something after all. Each of the Master's limbs becomes immobile, one after the other. They're not numb or heavy, it's just that when he tries to move his arm the impulse gets dislodged somewhere in between his mind and his muscles.
"If only I'd known you meant to keep me pinned here, deaf and blind. I must admit I thought letting you 'play technician' was code for something akin to 'playing doctor.'" The Master smirks, a little, to let the Doctor know that that would be more appreciated. "Not that you don't do that enough already. In any case, I must be grateful you haven't seen fit to render me dumb as well."
"You'll need your words," says the Doctor. "If I go too far or do something you don't want, you must tell me to stop. I can't be expected to put up with this 'sometimes no means yes' rot. You're completely at my mercy," and oh, how the Master wishes he could hear how the Doctor says that, "and I don't want to do something we'll both regret. You tell me to stop, and we're finished. I'll put everything back exactly as it was."
"Understood," says the Master. He tries to shrug his shoulders, but there's no movement even there. Instead he just smirks again.
"Good," says the Doctor. "Now stop distracting me. This is very delicate work."
That's probably the cue for the Master to say something lewd and distracting but he doesn't particularly want the Doctor's hands to slip when they're buried in the Master's servos. Instead he stays silent, waiting for whatever comes next. He's still not sure if he likes this.
It's true that the Master tends to treat bodies as things he inhabits rather than as part and parcel of himself. But it's unsettling to have it made so obvious that this form does not belong to him. Indeed, if the android shell belongs to anyone, it belongs to the Doctor. He built and wired it, fitting the pieces together in order to provide an imitation of life. He knows the Master's body better than the Master himself.
If you didn't know them, if you were just told that single fact without context, this might sound romantic. It's something that lovers say. 'I know you better than you know yourself.'
The Master considers this, and then his sense of time is shut off and he reels. He feels his head and torso jerk before the physical response dissipates into his still unmoving arms and legs. The mental shock lasts considerably longer, his thoughts skittering and scrambling as he tries to manage himself. One thing that a Time Lord consciousness always contains, regardless of body, is a greater connectedness with time than other species. Since the loss of his last natural body the Master has experienced a curtailment of this ability, but he has never lost track of time. Not once. Until this moment, he could have named the minute, the nanosecond.
Objectively, the Master can see that it is the digitization of his consciousness that gives the Doctor the ability to alter him so fundamentally. Subjectively, the Master feels lost and alien and wrong. He wants to tell the Doctor to stop, stop this now, even though they've only just begun.
"You'll be fine," says the Doctor. The Master imagines the tone as cajoling, reassuring, begrudging. Any would fit the Doctor, depending on his mood. "I'm going to leave you, just for a moment; I want to go find some things. You will be fine, won't you?"
"Yes," says the Master, trying to keep his voice as bland as possible, trying to make the Doctor imagine emotions for him in turn. He is stronger than this, and he will determine how to win this game.
The wait is interminable, in the purest sense of the word. The Master doesn't need anything like food or sleep to function - if he liked, the Doctor could leave him here for days, and the Master wouldn't know. It certainly feels like days, alone here, locked up in an increasingly unresponsive metal cage.
The Master breathes in and out, counts seconds in an attempt to keep control. He concentrates on the feel of the sheets and the expansion of his chest when he draws air in, and counts and counts and counts. After fifteen minutes it becomes too much and he gives up on marking time and starts trying to decide what to do. Better to do something constructive, anyway.
If this really is a game - and everything is, with the Doctor - then it's admirably constructed. The Master obviously loses if he tells the Doctor to stop. It proves that he can't withstand simple tinkering, that his mind isn't strong enough to hold out on its own. That he's dependent on this body the Doctor built for him. On the other hand, if the Master never says no, things could go very wrong. Previous incarnations of the Doctor might have had a grand scheme for this game. His seventh, in particular, would have a carefully worked out step-by-step plan, with an appropriately spectacular climax. But this Doctor operates in a freefall, doing whatever pops into his head as sufficiently clever. It's only a matter of time before one of those wild ideas turns out to be a bad one.
"How are you?" The Doctor's words break in, bright and steady against the slow dull panic of the Master's thoughts. The Doctor might have just returned, or have been waiting and watching for the hint of weakness. The Master grits his teeth and says nothing.
"That bad, eh? Don't worry; I'll make it better." The Doctor settles down on the backs of the Master's thighs, presumably to get better access to the open panel. The weight's comforting, an indicator that the Doctor is actually there. The Master flinches, suddenly, expecting the sense of pressure to be taken away, but nothing happens. Another moment passes and he can still feel the Doctor there, and he slowly begins to relax.
"That's right," says the Doctor. "Will it make you feel more comfortable if I tell you what I'm doing?"
The Master hesitates, unsure whether saying yes will be taken as a concession or not. Finally he nods anyway. The shock is the worst part, the actual absences something to become used to.
"I'm going to be playing with your sense of touch next." The Doctor shifts, and does something within the Master. "There."
Suddenly the points where their thighs touch are sources of tremendous pleasure, far beyond the mental stability they had provided before. The Doctor must have rewired the Master's pleasure center and turned up his skin's sensitivity. The Doctor runs a hand down the Master's arm and the Master almost whimpers. He bites his lip to stop himself, and even that feels good, though not as much as the Doctor touching him. The Master wonders if the Doctor's hijacked his gargalesis tickle response, or if he's managed to key the heightened sensitivity to his biosignature.
The Doctor could leave the Master like this, leave him so that a simple touch would get him as hard and aching as he is now. The Master only has the Doctor's word that none of this experimentation is permanent, and he knows exactly how much that's worth.
"What happened to isolating me from my body? Isn't that what this was about?" asks the Master. In his mind the words are clear, but in reality they're probably more than a little slurred and confused. His speech centers tend to run somewhat sloppily when his nerves are being overstimulated.
"This can be about more than one thing," says the Doctor. Well, the Master always knew he had a problem with focusing on one issue at a time.
He loses track of his own thoughts when the Doctor loosely circles his neck, not squeezing, just letting his hand rest there. It sparks lights and pinwheels in the Master's mind. The Doctor was right, this is better.
The Doctor's doing something again, though, and the sensations slowly begin to bleed away until the Master can only feel the weight on his nape and thighs and nothing else. Not the pleasure, not even the sheets. He'd complain, but he doesn't trust his voice at the moment, especially when he can't tell how it sounds.
The weight comes away from his neck and something swipes at his lips. The Master opens his mouth automatically, eager to use the senses that he has left. But the Doctor has gotten creative with his wiring again - with a jolt, the Master realizes he cannot taste at all. Even discerning the texture of whatever it is that the Doctor's put in his mouth is beyond his capabilities. He had assumed that it was the Doctor's fingers. That would be the most natural thing. But the Doctor did leave, and he could have brought something back. He'd said he was going to get supplies, hadn't he?
The Master probes the object carefully with his tongue, trying to at least determine the shape. He can't feel anything, but if he thinks carefully about the angles and the...
It's too difficult. It's like shaking a box and trying to discover what's inside. All the pieces are there, but he can't put them together into a coherent shape. The Master sucks on the object, testing, but he can't tell if the Doctor's breathing changes. The sound relay seems to be set up only for words, and the Doctor isn't saying anything.
Eventually the object is pulled away, and the Doctor's hand settles on the Master's neck again. Almost immediately afterward the hyper-sensitivity returns, and it was the Doctor's fingers in the Master's mouth, because he can feel wetness from them drying where his pulse should be. The Doctor's still silent, and his damp fingers stroke the Master's neck, sending wave after wave of pleasure through his body. No, through his self.
"I thought you were going to tell me what you were doing," says the Master. He has to say something, or it will get to be too much, and the Doctor isn't even doing anything complex at this point.
"I'm considering it," says the Doctor. "Just be patient, why can't you."
"I knew you'd run out of ideas," says the Master. Perhaps this is what it takes to win. Just wait the Doctor out. "You always did like to bite off rather more than you could chew."
"Don't be absurd," says the Doctor. His hand moves away from the Master's neck and into his back. His fingers are dry now, and they lightly tug something that makes a muscle in the Master's neck jerk and strain. "There's so much I can do, now; the only problem is deciding what. I could start playing with your systems more. Make you see fantasies and illusions; things that aren't here, and which you know can't exist. I've got the proper tools for it, and something simple wouldn't take an inordinate amount of time. I could shut off your external systems altogether and work directly with your mind. I could even..." The Doctor's words trail off, and the Master feels him sit back, as if he's considering something fascinating and terrible.
"It occurs to me," says the Master, trying to distract the Doctor, "that there's a reason why you've made it impossible for me to inspect my own circuitry. Vital computational functions stored within my head, the autonomic systems in my back - if you'd made use of my chest cavity I could have worked on myself."
"It was simpler this way," says the Doctor. "I was working within severe time constraints, as you well know."
"Nevertheless," says the Master. "You enjoy this, don't you? It gives you a control over me which I can never have over you. Not unless you're willing to trade places."
"Mhm," says the Doctor. "Do we have to have this discussion? I haven't even managed to get you off."
"Have you 'got off,' Doctor? Are you hard now, have you already come, is-" The Doctor is shifting again and he palms the Master's erection, his hand working into the small space between the bed and the Master's groin. The hypersensitivity is still on and the Master gasps, his questions lost in the contact.
The Doctor's other hand switches off his ability to breathe.
It's not like asphyxiation, erotic or otherwise, because he doesn't need air. But the Master has been using breaths to calm himself down, especially since he lost track of the sheets, and the loss sends him spiraling. The Doctor is still stroking him in light touches that make the Master feel as if he is going to come at any moment. He keeps trying to catch his breath, but he can't, he can't, and the stutter in his brain patterns as the signal to his diaphragm peters out into nothing makes him feel muddled and stupid beyond the surge of lust. The Doctor can do this to him any time he likes, if it feels like this. He wants it to never end.
"No, stop," he says, forcing the words out. They probably sound odd, without working lungs and thus no vibrations along his vocal folds to disguise the robotic sound of the voice-synthesizer, but he hopes they're recognizable. "Stop."
The Doctor does, immediately.
"Hold on," he says. "Only a minute to replace the connections."
The Master can breathe again. He draws a deep, shuddering gulp of air, then lets it hiss through his teeth. The hypersensitivity recedes. The Doctor seems to be working in reverse order. Time falls back into place, the moments ticking by and being filed somewhere deep in the Master's mind. He can probably move all of his body again, but he doesn't test it, just lies there and waits as his hearing and sight return.
Everything is louder and brighter and more than before. The Doctor is putting the Master back together with his sonic screwdriver, sealing the panel shut.
"There you are," says the Doctor. "Everything in order. Do you want me to leave?"
"No," says the Master. He sits up, carefully. His body hasn't weakened at all, but the connection to his mind feels odd after being tampered with. He flexes his fingers and tries to ignore his cock. "Did you accomplish what you meant to, Doctor?"
"What would that be?" says the Doctor. He sounds smug and awkward and annoyed all at once, and the Master is more pleased than ever to be able to hear the Doctor's voice.
"If you were trying to alienate me from this shell you built, you succeeded. If you were trying to demonstrate your power over me, you won out. If you were trying to arouse me, you did that as well." The Master really wishes he could forget about this whole incident, but right now the Doctor's won and he's lost and he has to turn the tables. "Which is it?"
"Why do you always have to turn everything into some devious maneuver?" The Doctor doesn't look at the Master. He's repacking a toolkit with tiny clamps and pliers. It's presumably what he went to get when he left the Master alone with half his senses turned off.
The Doctor's flushed, and there's grease from the Master's insides on his shirt. There are some rather incriminating stains visible through his thin cotton boxers. He's also probably feeling guilty for pushing things too far, but he'll forget that soon enough. The Doctor tends to lose track of things that embarrass him. All the more reason to get answers now.
"With you, there's nearly always a devious motive," says the Master.
"You're confusing me with yourself," snaps the Doctor. "Let me remind you - I'm the taller one. Without a beard."
"Fixation with physical appearance," says the Master. "Doesn't make much sense if you were trying to alienate me, does it?"
"Fine," says the Doctor. He puts his toolkit under the bed and brushes his hands on his legs, smearing them with grease as well. "What were my options again? Ah, yes, alienation, power, and arousal." He raises his eyebrows and his hands in a sarcastic gesture. "All of them. Happy?"
"No," says the Master. "I want you to do some things for me." He rises up on his knees on the edge of the bed and puts his arms around the Doctor's neck, pulling him close.
"Really." The Doctor looks confused, suspicious, and faintly hopeful. It's a good combination, and a familiar one.
"I want you," The Master leans in, and whispers throatily into the Doctor's ear. His erection is pressing against the Doctor, and he feels a slight answering shudder from the other man. "I want you to relocate my servos and non-vital functions into my chest cavity."
"Ah," says the Doctor, disappointed and trying to disguise it. "That. You realize that I'll have to remove you from the shell entirely."
"I do indeed," says the Master. "And I plan to set up some interim form beforehand so that I can observe your work."
There's a reason why the shell is set up as it is currently, and they both know it. If the Master can alter and fix himself, then there's nothing keeping him here. He could escape at the first opportunity without worrying about breaking down or having to find a trustworthy and sufficiently knowledgeable mechanic.
The only remotely logical reason the Doctor might agree is that the Master's not asking him to rewire the essential computing functions that are stored within his cranium. Not yet, anyway. Disregarding that, there are a number of illogical reasons for the Doctor to agree.
"Fine," says the Doctor. "We'll do it. I'll get the lab ready." He moves to pull away, but the Master holds him there.
"So guilty," he hisses, looking straight at the Doctor while the Doctor looks away to the side. "How much would you do, right now?"
"Don't push it," says the Doctor. His mouth twists wryly, and he finally looks the Master in the eye. "We both saw how that turns out."
The Master catches his breath, and considers the Doctor. There's a hard set to his mouth, tight annoyance directed at both of them. If the Master gets what he wants - especially if his forthcoming request is granted - that annoyance will go away, soothed by concessions and the reassurance that the Master's voluntary companionship will bring. If he stays, the Master reminds himself, though he knows he's unlikely to leave just because his tether's been cut.
"Yes, we did see, didn't we?" The Master says, at last. "Well, I'll only ask one more thing. Get down there and finish what you started, will you?" He pushes impatiently at the Doctor's shoulders.
The Doctor gets to his knees and takes the Master's cock into his mouth with the minimum of fuss. That is to say, it takes almost five minutes for the Master to convince him not to stand on his dignity. For all that the Master currently finds his mechanics fairly unsettling, he appreciates the fact that they effectively prevent vasocongestion while allowing him to maintain an erection without continued stimulation.
"Keep the toolkit here, though," says the Master. "Just in case."
The Doctor is probably rolling his eyes, but the Master can't see them to tell.
If both of them can meddle with the Master's body, then it belongs to both of them. If the Doctor wasn't doing something the Master is incapable of, maybe he'd be able to enjoy it without the feeling of losing control.
If, thinks the Master as his plastic and metal hand cards through the Doctor's gray-streaked biological hair, if they change the rules, then both of them can win. That's at least half of an acceptable outcome.