Chapter Text
Her tires screech against the floor of the hangar like a child screaming for the simple pleasure of being loud. There’s truly no need. Even the Master must admit that the Doctor did a better job modifying his bright yellow car than he’s ever done repairing his TARDIS. She’d never hit him, no matter who was behind her wheel, and she’s more than capable of absorbing the force of stopping so suddenly.
The Doctor pats her affectionately on the hood and coos before glancing through the windscreen at the Master with amusement. “Alison told me you’d be here. She didn’t mention Bessie, though. What do you think you’re doing with my car?”
“Now, Doctor. Surely what’s yours is mine?” The Master smirks. Grinning back, the Doctor comes around to the driver’s side. When he’s close enough, the Master reaches out and draws the backs of two fingers along his neck under the guise of tugging his collar straight. More and more often he’s permitted to fuss and to tease. In this case, the Doctor may be slightly distracted by certain modifications to the Master’s attire. There’s a question in his eyes, a sparkle of curiosity, but he doesn’t voice it. “Besides, we’re kindred spirits, Bessie and I. You made us both to your exacting specifications.”
The Doctor strokes the vehicle with something like a lover’s touch, a reciprocal tease, as if agreeing with the Master’s joke. “Wherever did you find the old girl?”
“Disguised as a zeppelin,” he says. “She took some coaxing to become a car again, and I promised her a joy ride.”
“In that case, you’re not doing it right. Budge over, would you? Let’s do some spins.”
The Master graciously makes room for him on the front seat, but ensures they’re pressed thigh to thigh when the Doctor sits. Such an invasion of personal space makes it satisfyingly obvious before he even speaks that the Doctor has fallen into his trap. “I’ve a better idea, my dear. There’s only one thing I’ve wanted to do with you in this car since the ‘70s, or whenever that was.”
“Is that right?” The Doctor’s eyes rake over him, scorching. “Only one?”
“So greedy so soon? Rest assured, Doctor, if you’d like another after the first, I’ll come up with something.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“Well.”
“‘Well’ what?”
“Drive,” the Master commands in a low voice, drawing his fingers through the Doctor’s hair, tucking a few stray strands behind his ear.
Taking advantage of that touch, the Doctor pauses with his hand on the ignition and asks telepathically, Really? His mental voice is somewhere between excited and uncertain.
Why not? the Master prompts, wondering how hard he’ll have to push.
I strongly suspect you’re about to be distracting–more distracting–and I’d rather not crash.
The Master tuts, sliding a hand over the Doctor’s thigh. Don’t you trust Bessie and I, Doctor?
One of you, perhaps. Yes. Alright. If Alison needs us-
She won’t. He’s sure of it, since he asked her to tell the Doctor he’d be in here in the first place. The Doctor realizes that too, after a moment. Foolish of him to forget even momentarily that the Master leaves nothing to chance.
The Doctor starts driving and the Master untucks his shirt.
Within five loops around the hangar, things have progressed from undressing to the judicious application of the Master’s mouth, and further still. He did mention this was to be a joy ride.
When the Master straddles him, he kisses the Doctor’s surprise from his lips. A firm grip to angle him correctly and ah, there they are. It’s a particularly sweet victory, catching him so off guard and taking him in with ease, simply because he isn’t wearing anything under his skirt and he prepared for this moment. The Doctor groans a nonsense series of syllables, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. His mind is full of static, then cricket stats, then Rancor. The Master brushes all of that nonsense aside. He won’t abide by the Doctor distracting himself from feeling this, even if it means he only lasts a few more seconds.
They loop around again, slower but still in perpetual forward motion. It takes so many small adjustments of the wheel for the Doctor to keep them on course, it’s like he’s manually orbiting a planet surrounded by an asteroid field. The Master throws his arms over the Doctor’s shoulders for balance but barely manages to lift himself off an inch before he sits right back down because the Doctor jerks and they abruptly accelerate until he manages to ease up again. He’s trembling. It’s delicious.
With conscious effort to refocus, the Master closes his eyes and begins to ride him in earnest, leisurely. Their minds twist together, untangle, and twist again in the other direction, matching pace with their bodies, all moving in concert. It feels like it could last forever and, equally, like they could come at any moment. One or both of them wishes he was wearing less clothes. Someone lifts the Master’s skirts out of the way to find his cock dripping, someone spreads the precome down his length in a slick stroke.
The Doctor is thinking this cannot be the best sex of my life, not in Bessie, in the zeppelin hangar, in the TARDIS, in the Vortex.
Don’t forget what else you’re in, the Master laughs into his head. Mentally groaning, the Doctor isn’t ready for him to add, Your husband.
He giggles like he does when he’s a bit drunk and the sensation of that makes them both groan aloud. The Master picks up his pace, resurfacing from the lush blending of their minds just enough to find it’s his own hand on his cock. He thumbs the slit, twists his fist over the head, fucking up into his grip and back down onto the Doctor, over and over again. The Doctor takes the next turn so quickly that they’re thrown against the driver’s side door until he straightens them out again.
“Should I be offended? Jealous?” the Master asks, belatedly, still preening over what he’s caught of the Doctor’s thoughts. It’s only a tease, he knows no one else has seen this Doctor in this state. If he simply can’t imagine they’ll outdo themselves after this, the Master will be taking that as a challenge.
“You should be merciful,” the Doctor says. He sounds positively dangerous when he’s this far gone.
“Mm, but you feel so good, my dear,” the Master praises with a theatrical little shiver, playing it up, going back to riding him with all the slow indulgence his recently greased joints will permit.
“We’re not all made of- ah, ah, like that, just- please.”
Yes. The flicker of himself, his true self, a fragile rage held deep inside the metal frame of his body, grows stronger every time he has this kind of control over the Doctor. It’s priceless, it’s perfect, that plea.
Mercy, in this case, would be to allow the Doctor to stop the car, to stop splitting his focus and make them both come. That would be the end of it though, until the Master can make another plan. They’ll leave the hangar in different directions, the Master will put his trousers back on and see about tea, the Doctor will doubtless find some trouble. He feels his body and mind curling tighter around the Doctor and forces himself to relax, to breathe.
“You can do both. I’ve seen you multitask more than this without even thinking about it. Work at it, won’t you?”
“Have you considered that you are uniquely high maintenance?” the Doctor asks. He must have caught some of the Master’s thinking too because he sounds softer now, though no less dangerous.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
He lifts his foot from the accelerator, not bothering with the breaks. Bessie rolls to a slow stop on her own, scant inches from hitting an umbrella stand, and meanwhile the iron grip the Doctor had on her steering wheel for so long is repurposed for the Master’s waist. He plants his feet and thrusts up hard, pulling the Master down onto him simultaneously. Triumph bursts in his mind. The Master hides his face in the Doctor’s neck, stifling noises that the Doctor will hear regardless. It’s never felt more like this body was made for this, for the Doctor to use as he likes, to pour himself into.
This wouldn’t have happened on Earth, the Doctor wouldn’t have pulled over on the side of the road to fuck him quick and dirty before they carried on their way, messing him up and flipping his skirt back down like it never happened. The fantasy sparks something in him anyway, shadows of memory swelling like storm clouds. He wanted the Doctor so badly, when he first owned this car. He would have done anything, would have given him anything.
“Shhh,” the Doctor says. The Master’s eyes fly open as he finds himself lifted, turned, and set down on his back across the front seat. There's not quite enough room for this to be comfortable, his neck bends against the side at an odd angle, but nothing could matter less. The Doctor’s looking down at him, hair mussed, half-lidded eyes reflecting some of that storm. “You needn’t give me anything, Master. Just take what I give you. Just take it.”
With that sweetly issued command, the Doctor holds him tightly, fucking him deep and selfish, exactly the way he should. He murmurs absent praise, watching the Master stroke himself off, and finishes with an unselfconscious shout that echoes throughout the hangar. His mind drags the Master’s along with it, they’re too intertwined for him to hold off. Physical orgasm is secondary yet spectacular and messy. The floaty feeling it leaves him with lingers long enough that he forgets to fuss about the mess, choking on a whine when the Doctor pulls out. He throws an arm over his face and, a second later, bites down on it to keep from crying out because the Doctor gently pulls his hand off of his cock and licks it clean.
Their minds are slower to separate. It isn’t until the Doctor releases his hand and rubs his own up the Master’s spread thighs appreciatively, that the Master feels that he is alone with his thoughts.
“There now,” the Doctor says, somewhat hoarse, visibly admiring the picture he makes, “are you well?”
“Oh, yes. Top marks, Doctor. Rousing, mmm, performance,” the Master praises, stretching.
The Doctor steadies himself against the back of the seat to lean over and kiss him, licking briefly into his mouth. “You’re welcome. Should I expect this sort of thing more often? Only, it occurs to me, if I had any warning whatsoever… ah. I would have denied you the pleasure of ambushing me. Nevermind.”
“Just so,” the Master agrees, pulling him into another kiss. Against his lips, he says, “Continue to come when you’re called, my dear, and we’ll get along fine.”
The Doctor laughs. “Is that all? What an enormous relief. Now tell me, honestly…”
The Master tenses.
“How long ago did you acquire this skirt?”
There’s nothing for it. The Master glances once more around the room, knowing the tools he needs are locked behind whatever impenetrable nonsense of a filing system this Doctor employs, and sighs. He discards his jacket, removes his cuff link, tucks it into his pocket, and rolls his sleeve up to the elbow. He sits on the floor beside the main TARDIS console, removes the access panel, and reaches directly inside.
It hurts, his skin scraped down to metal knuckles on the first pass. The whorls of his fingertips blacken and twist as he forces this body to act less alive and more like the complex but unfeeling instrument that it should be. He feels asymmetrical. He’s had practice keeping the worst kind of pain at bay, but he worries his haptics won’t be fully repairable. Will the Doctor build his husband new hands to tenderly stroke him with? Surely he will. The Master curls his fingers around live wires and rips the connections apart.
As soon as he excavates the relevant section of machinery, destroying his other hand in the process, it is horribly simple to force the Doctor’s ship to unlock long-dormant lethal defense systems. They’re the sort of feature half the old Type 40s didn’t have installed at all but the Master hadn’t spared a thought to worry that this particular TARDIS would lack them; she and the Doctor are too similar for this to not be lurking in her core. She’s powerful. At her helm, the Master could take an army out in seconds. He could conquer, destroy…
He sits up far enough to peer at the view screen, flips a switch, and fires a warning shot to back up an implicit threat the Doctor wouldn’t actually want enforced. Good thing he’s got a husband for that kind of dirty job, the Master thinks, flicking his wrist distastefully and feeling part of the artificial flesh of his hand slough off to splat on the TARDIS' floor. She growls in his head and he’s too focused on the escalating violence outside her walls to bother growling back.
He provides covering fire to aid their escape. Not a single person loses their life during this maneuver, if only because they don’t get close enough to the Doctor to justify such a thing. A few test his patience, but he’s careful, so careful, delicate with the trigger and exacting in calculating laser fire trajectories. Three figures, tiny on his window into the outside, rush towards the TARDIS in an easily defensible single-file line.
At last, the Doctor slams through the doors. His face is pinched with anger and frustration, but it goes blank when he catches sight of the Master, down on one knee, hands still smoking. The Master is grinning.
The other two, Alison and a local stranger, are asking a series of frantic questions, but he isn’t listening. He won. The Doctor’s safe. He made it home.
The Doctor marches up to him without a word, grabs hold of his wrist and leads him out of the room. The Master allows himself to be dragged through the first door they come to. Either the TARDIS anticipates a need for repair, potentially an invasive one, or she objects to what she knows is coming, because she provides them with the medical bay slash garage that’s been their meeting space for regular updates to the Master’s interfaces. It looks a bit like a torture chamber, with the odd combination of tools and surgical equipment. Repairs clearly are not what the Doctor has in mind, however. He makes a gruff, annoyed sound, and knocks the both of them to the floor. There’s a perfectly functional bed not two meters from them, but apparently if it’s not their bed then it won’t do.
Bewildered by this turn of events, the Master tries to keep his ruined hands from damaging the Doctor’s clothes and finds he’s left with no defense to keep the Doctor from rapidly ridding him of his pants. Reaching for Contact, he finds a swirl of needyou-needthis-cantbelievehowbadly-rightnow-rescuedus-mine-husband-wantyou-ohplease circling around in barely translatable feeling. It rushes over and through him, raising the hair on his arms.
Preparation is outrageously rushed. The Doctor bends him double demandingly and kisses him while his clever hands arrange the Master’s body to his liking. He’s been carrying lubricant around in one of his endless pockets and he spills it everywhere while the Master curses at him, until finally the press of slick fingers changes his tune. The need in the Doctor’s mind swells and twists, his impatience hits the back of the Master’s teeth like spun sugar. He aches. They both do.
The Doctor’s annoyance undercuts his need for a heartsbeat when he has to spare a moment to undo his flies, but once he’s managed to align them properly he suddenly eases, relaxes, reigns himself in. It’s a worse betrayal than several moments of inaction on the Doctor’s part that have led to the Master’s deaths, it feels as though he might die again now. One of them surely will; if he is denied a Doctor half-mad for him a moment longer, the Master will break programming to strangle him.
“Do you want-”
“How dare you-”
They both break off, groaning, as the Doctor pushes into his body and the Master pulls him into deeper Contact simultaneously. It’s like swallowing a firework. The Master tips his head back against the floor, overwhelmed by the enormity of the Doctor’s desire, barely restrained, sparking through him. The Doctor’s lips find his neck. He’s laughing, but the Master knows that it’s out of sheer relief, there’s no mocking quality to the way his thoughts crash into the Master’s mind and flood him with heat.
He pushes and the Master opens up to him, unable to keep from gasping. Oh, Doctor. You need me so badly.
Yes, the Doctor agrees, dragging the Master onto him, until he is as deep as he can be. Locked together in the space between two seconds, their eyes meet. The Doctor’s body may have hit the limits of its reach, but his mind is stretching pathways so far inside the Master’s that he must intend to touch his very soul.
He pushes and the Master opens up to him, pulling him in, wanting them to be inseparable. The Doctor brushes up against his possessiveness and it admits it is protectiveness too, he softens every violent urge and repurposes the ugly passion he finds, he embraces it all. The Master happily drowns in that sensation, vaguely aware that time has begun to march forward once more and he is begging the Doctor to move, please, move!
It’s twice as overwhelming to feel him withdrawing. So softly that it’s almost inaudible, the Doctor mouths, “Husband,” over the Master’s pulsespoint and snaps right back into him.
If he didn’t know better, he’d suspect the Doctor of planning this, because that tiny exhalation and the overwhelming feeling of being filled with him again is all it takes for the Master to, quite unexpectedly, peak. There’s no hiding it, not when they’re so intertwined. He spills across his own skin without a touch, clenching, grasping the Doctor too tight. He may be insufferably smug about that later, and the Master might even allow it, but for now he’s too busy frantically chasing his own end.
Thank you thank you thank you, the Doctor’s mind is repeating like a stuck record along with his every deliberate thrust. His gratitude is heady, even knowing he’s grateful for the wrong things.
The Master still can’t touch him properly. It’s worse and better than in the zeppelin hangar, laying back and letting the Doctor use him. Worse, because without any physical outlet of his own he can’t even manage to properly wind up the Doctor in their heads. Better, because it doesn’t matter. The Doctor’s going to come just as quickly. He wants to, needs to. He’s needed it since the first shot, and then he saw how the Master had done it.
The Doctor kisses him, testing his flexibility, hips jerking. He’s uncoordinated, out of control, glorious. They’re still kissing, for a given definition of the act, when the Doctor groans against his mouth like he’s been shot. He’s much heavier all of a sudden, physically and mentally pinning the Master down. Instinctively, he’s still trying to shove himself deeper. The Master realizes he's hard again, not entirely by conscious choice. The way the Doctor is still pulsing weakly inside of him feels the way husband sounds.
“Don’t dream of moving, Doctor,” the Master whispers to him. The Doctor immediately attempts to withdraw and the Master plays dirty, halting his moment from inside his mind. He doesn’t wrest control away entirely, just blocks the Doctor for long enough to insist, “I said don’t. Miss Cheney can see to our guest for now. You, I’m afraid, still need to see to me.”
Awareness verging on shame was filling the space left empty by the Doctor burning through his adrenaline. At the last moment, the Master’s challenge manages to nudge him beyond that, into the infinitely more useful block-headed tenacity he can nearly always be called upon to embody. He knows the Doctor takes care of his things. He didn’t know when they agreed to a mutual obligation of such care that his intentions, now obvious from his partial self-destruction in the name of lethal protection, would reveal the Doctor’s own. He should have. If the Doctor truly intends to keep him very very satisfied, then he hasn't finished the job.
The Doctor takes him in hand and rocks his hips forward, hissing with overstimulation. He must know the Master draws equal pleasure from both. At last, he says something worth listening to. “You called me greedy, last time, but now we see which one of us can’t get enough. My poor, needy husband.” He thrusts up pointedly with each of the last three words, and the Master groans, trying to give in to it, almost but not quite able to come the way the Doctor means to make him.
The soft hum the Doctor makes then is so close to the mildly frustrated noise he makes when his piloting lands them years off target, unmistakably a dealing-with-stubborn-machinery noise. Humiliatingly, that nearly tips him over the edge, but this time the Master resists. In his head, the Doctor feels all of that. His reaction is painfully fond.
“We’ve made a wreck of you. What do you need, hm? Not to hear any of your titles, though you will always be the Master if you so choose. No, I think I should remind you how completely you are known to me,” the Doctor says.
He can only mean one thing, and bringing it up now is a terrible trick, playing on the Master’s ego in the most delicious way. The way he grins is so kind, so loving, but he’s in the Master’s mind too, delighting at the thought of breaking a cardinal rule for something like this.
The Master shudders, not at all sure he’ll really go through with it until the Doctor thrusts into him again and says, “Close your eyes, old friend. Let me sing you your name.”