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The Doctor, for all her many virtues, had never had much of a poker face. She couldn’t hide her wince, when she walked into one of the TARDIS kitchens and saw Missy holding a knife.
Missy must have caught it too, because she raised one eyebrow at the Doctor. “D’you not trust me, Doctor?” Missy drawled, “Have I not done enough to prove to you that I’m trying to be good?” Her accent came so thick in the last word you could have bounced rocks off of it.
“If you were really being good, you’d still be in the vault,” the Doctor countered, popping a grape in her mouth. She leaned her hip against the kitchen table. “What’re you makin’?”
“The vault is boring,” Missy countered. “I’m out here doing good with you, aren’t I?” She picked the knife up again, and began to slice up the strawberries in front of her. She’d already hulled them, and the Doctor tried not to think about the way the little tops reminded her of severed heads, all stacked up beside the cutting board.
“So what are you making?” The Doctor was repeating herself. She was tempted to grab a bit of strawberry, but didn’t entirely trust Missy not to go for her fingers.
“I thought I’d make a pavlova,” Missy said. “The egg meringue is already crisping away in the oven,” she added, and she indicated over one shoulder with the knife, which made the Doctor wince all over again.
“What’s got you in a baking mood?” The Doctor ate another grape.
“Who doesn’t love baking?” Missy tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, still holding the knife. “Fire, knives, sometimes things explode… all you really need for fun, isn’t it?”
“Please don’t make anything explode in the TARDIS kitchen,” the Doctor said, her tone more fervent than she’d intended it to be. “It makes her cross.”
“You spoil this thing,” Missy said, her tone scolding. “A TARDIS needs to have a little bit of fear, to get it to behave. Otherwise it’ll walk all over you. It’s like horses.”
The Doctor snorted, rolling her eyes, and then she must have been too obvious with her discomfort when Missy’s grip on the knife shifted.
“Really, Doctor,” Missy scolded. “You’re like one of those people with a giant, untrained dog that gets on the furniture and humps the neighbors.”
“I trust the TARDIS not to hump the neighbors,” the Doctor said, and she stroked along one counter. “She’s a good girl. She just… has her own ideas.” The lights flickered for a moment, and the rumble of the TARDIS seemed to get louder.
“Doormat,” Missy said, gesturing with the knife. Then she caught the Doctor’s expression, and she tsked. “You really don’t trust me,” she said, and her voice was all scold.
“I do,” said the Doctor. “It’s not exactly good knife… hygiene, waving it about that way.” Was hygiene the right word? That didn’t seem to be the right word, but she couldn’t remember the word she was trying to use.
Maybe she’d replaced it, the way she’d replaced BSL with semaphore.
“Hygiene?” Missy looked skeptical.
“Practice?” The Doctor tried.
Missy’s other eyebrow joined the first one.
“Please put the knife down,” the Doctor said, because sometimes directness worked best. Although sometimes Missy would be stubborn and decide not to do whatever she was asked to do, just to be contrary.
“I’m not sure if I should be proud that you still don’t trust me, or hurt, after how hard I’ve worked.” Missy put a dramatic hand on her forehead, as if she were about to swoon.
“I trust you more than I did,” the Doctor said, which was… broadly true. Sort of. She was playing bloody havoc with the tenses in that sentence (which Missy or Master was she talking about? Even she wasn’t sure), but the sentiment was there. She kept her mind carefully calm, as Missy’s own brushed against hers.
“I don’t believe you,” Missy said slowly.
The Doctor took a step closer to Missy. “I’ve let you on my ship,” she reminded Missy, “and we’ve been traveling together, haven’t we? And you didn’t even set fire to that orphanage, even though I know you wanted to!” They were close enough that the hem of Missy’s skirt was against the Doctor’s bare ankles.
“But do you trust me?” Missy’s eyes were boring into the Doctor’s own.
Impulsively, the Doctor grabbed Missy’s hand in her own, and she pressed it against her throat. She didn’t say yes Missy, I trust you, because even though the Doctor was a liar, she was trying not to make as much of a habit of it, this time around.
More importantly, MIssy would be able to see right through it.
Missy shifted her hand, so that she was gripping the Doctor’s throat, right under the chin. She flexed her finger, and then she squeezed, and the Doctor shut down her first impulse, which was to shove Missy away.
It was a gentle pressure, although Missy’s fingers were cool from the strawberries, and her eyes were glittering.
“Well?” Missy asked. “Do you still trust me?”
“I do,” the Doctor said, and her voice only had a bit of a wheeze. She was very carefully not thinking about the last time she’d had the Master’s hands around her throat, dangling her over the edge of the Eiffel Tower.
“Why?” Missy’s eyes were brighter, and she squeezed a little tighter. The Doctor’s respiratory bypass was trying to kick in, and the Doctor forced it back. Her head was starting to throb, just a bit, and the pressure was building behind her ears.
“Because,” the Doctor said, and it was much wheezier now, “I do.”
Missy let go of the Doctor’s throat, and the Doctor took a deep, gasping breath. Why was she disappointed? The disappointment was quickly squashed, as Missy squeezed her throat again, a little tighter this time.
“That’s not an answer,” Missy said, and she pressed closer. They were chest to chest now, and the Doctor was acutely aware of her breasts pressing into Missy’s arm, into Missy’s own breasts. Her nipples were getting hard, and her hearts were very loud in her ears.
“It’s the one I’m giving,” the Doctor croaked. It was getting a little bit dark on the edges of her vision. She wouldn’t be able to use the respiratory bypass now - she didn’t have any air to pull on. She had to trust Missy.
There was probably a lesson in this, although damned if she knew what it was. It was hard to think of anything but the screaming of her legs and the staccato beat of her clit, filling her whole body up with desperation, tension building.
I didn’t used to like this, did I? It was hard to remember. It was hard to think of anything.
Missy let go of the Doctor’s throat again, and the Doctor took a deep, wheezing breath. She was clutching at Missys’ shoulders, the fabric of Missy’s blouse wrinkling in her fists, and Missy would probably be angry about that,
“You’re spending too much time around the humans,” Missy said, and the Doctor couldn’t tell if she was disapproving or not. “Are you getting all worked up over this?”
Missy squeezed her throat a little harder - there would be bruises, probably. She bruised like a peach, this time around. There’d be the faint, purple shadows of Missy’s fingers across the soft places on her throat, the same color as Missy’s skirt, and that shouldn’t have made her cunt throb that much harder.
“You should take care of yourself,” Missy said. “I’d do it myself, but I’ve still got strawberry juice all over my fingers.” She gave the Doctor’s throat another, tighter squeeze, and then she let go just long enough for another gasping breath, before squeezing a little bit harder.
The Doctor’s knees were getting weak, and she leaned heavily against the table. Her chest ached, and her mouth was falling open. And she was… she was listening to Missy, why was she listening to Missy?
Missy’s fingers slid into the Doctor’s mouth, and they pressed down on the Doctor’s tongue. The sweetness of the strawberry juice was like a flash of light, and it contrasted sharply with the salt of Missy’s skin. The Doctor’s eyes fluttered shut, and Missy’s fingers squeezed, then let go.
The Doctor was still wearing her coat, and it felt especially perverse to wriggle her hand down the front of her trousers, as her waistband pushed the sleeve of her coat up her arm. Her fingers were clumsy as they pawed at the front of her boxers. The throb in her head seemed to make the pulsing of her clit that much stronger, and she would have groaned if she had any breath left in her, at that first point of contact.
Missy let go of her throat again, and the Doctor took another deep breath. Her chest was sore, and she wanted to lean forward, but Missy was holding her up by the throat, Missy was keeping her in place. Her whole world seemed to boil down to the fingers digging into her throat, the rub of her own clumsy fingers over her clit, the pressure behind her eyes, the rawness of her throat.
The Doctor was on the very edge of her orgasm, and when had that happened? She’d have noticed if she was this close, she’d always been good at keeping track of her own body, hadn’t she? But Missy was squeezing just a little harder, and it occurred to the Doctor that maybe Missy was, in fact, going to murder her like this.
It did, admittedly, have that air of perversity that Missy would find hilarious, and the Doctor tried to fight back the panic rising as she rubbed faster, and then none of it mattered at all, because the orgasm had her in its teeth.
Missy let go of the Doctor’s throat, took her fingers out of the Doctor’s mouth, and the Doctor fell forward, her forehead pressing into Missy’s shoulder as she wheezed and shuddered her way through the orgasm. Missy’s arms came around her waist, and she let herself be held by her dearest enemy, her nose pressed into Missy’s own throat.
Their hearts were beating in time with each other, and the Doctor sagged against Missy, one hand still down her trousers, the other clutching at Missy’s waist. She took in the familiar scent of her old friend, and she let the room gradually stop spinning.
It was utter foolishness, to let her enemy hold her like this, letting a genocidal megalomaniac squeeze the life out of her.
Or maybe it was trust, after all.