Ten Little Chances to be Free (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tenlittlebullets) wrote2012-11-30 09:39 pm
tenlittlebullets) wrote2012-11-30 09:39 pm
Entry tags:
[fic] Faithful Companion
Title: Faithful Companion
Author:tenlittlebullets
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Tenth Doctor/Simm!Master
Summary: Half-porny, half-cracky fill for a prompt on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sizeofthatthing: "10 takes Simm!Master with him after TLotTL but the Master, of course, eventually manages to turn the tables. Discontented at being made to feel like a pet, he turns the Doctor into one, wholly. Bondage, plugs, cock rings, attachable tails, gags, sleeping in the console room, the works. No sex. Just a sexually frustrated hound as the Master uses his TARDIS to do whatever he likes." Pretty much as ordered, with the addition of Ten being... well, Ten.
Warnings: Abovementioned laundry list of kinks. Breathplay. Chastity devices. Spit-take-worthy mental images. Dub-con, but only in the sense that neither of them seems to notice or care that consent missed the turn at Albuquerque. Off-label uses of the sonic screwdriver.
-
"Good boy. Now beg."
The Doctor, panting fruitlessly for breath and trying to ignore the blackness encroaching on the edges of his vision, muttered something very rude that the ball gag muffled into meaningless grunting. The Master seemed to understand the intent, though, and yanked the choke chain even tighter. "I didn't tell you to talk. I told you to beg."
Reluctantly, with much mental cursing at the grated console-room floor as he shifted his weight, the Doctor picked himself up off all fours and onto his aching knees. At an impatient gesture from the Master, he lifted his hands in a decent impression of a dog begging, even going so far as to paw a bit at the front of the Master's trousers for good measure.
"Oh, good boy. No, paws off, no need to get too eager. What, not even a tail wag for your Master?"
The Doctor rolled his eyes, but he wasn't in the mood for another beating, so he obediently clenched and unclenched his arse, making the tassels at the end of the plug twitch in time with the working of his muscles. The Master loosened his hold on the chain and stepped back to watch, smirking as the Doctor gasped for air and moaned at the shifting pressure inside him, the fullness that built and built towards an endlessly thwarted climax.
"All right, all right," said the Master, "I guess you deserve a treat." And he reached down between the Doctor's legs to pat at him through the cock cage, laughing as a fresh bead of precome slid off the tip and splattered on the grating to drip on the innards of the TARDIS below.
The Doctor--all right, the Doctor whined. It was in character, wasn't it? And the brief touch had made him flush hot and cold and clench anew around the butt plug as he shuddered, and that had produced a firm nudge right up against his prostate and sent another wave of frustrated arousal tearing through him, and it just wasn't fair that his body could short out his brain like this and leave him with no control over the inhuman, keening noises emerging from his throat.
The Master was pushing buttons on the TARDIS console and didn't even deign to comment on his old enemy's desperation. "Now, where to next?" he mused, exactly as though he were talking to himself with no one else in the room. "And don't think I'll let you dump me at the bottom of Loch Ness again, you old bucket of bolts; we're going exactly where I want us to go, no matter how queasy it makes you. I'll pilot you straight into the jaws of the Great 51st Century Causality Vortex if I want--trust the humans to irreparably fuck up the causal nexus as soon as they invent time travel--ha, that's it!" He flipped a lever with a dramatic flourish, and the time rotor started up a sullen churn.
The Doctor wasn't sure he wanted to know, but he raised his head anyway. Trying to figure out what the Master was up to was a far better thing to concentrate on than the throbbing of his constrained, stubbornly eager genitalia. The Master caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and flashed him a gleeful grin. "How does a nice holiday on New Sacher-Masochopolis sound to you, Fido? I need somewhere to take you out for a walk before you start peeing on the furniture. Can't take you out in public without a full harness until you learn to behave yourself, but I bet we can find some proper obedience classes... and then maybe a spot of world domination, just for old times' sake. Dominate the dominators, that's got a nice ring to it."
The Doctor glared at him. The Master, unruffled, sauntered over and scratched him behind the ears before unbuckling the gag, his hand lingering to pet and tug fondly at the Doctor's hair. "So, what do you say? And don't bite me this time, you incorrigible brute, or I'll have you horsewhipped. Again."
The Doctor stayed silent. There was really nothing to say to that, and now his scalp was tingling too, feeding the futile blaze of his arousal.
The Master sighed and threw up his hands in a theatrical gesture of exasperation. "Nothing? Ah, well. Don't know what I was expecting from a dumb animal." He locked the end of the Doctor's chain to a handle on the TARDIS console, leaving the gag hanging loosely around his neck, and turned away. "Well, I'm off to slip into something more comfortable. I'm sure I saw some black leather in that eye-searing dump of a wardrobe room. Don't shed on the jumpseat while I'm gone--and don't think I won't notice the hair gel stains, either."
Under his breath, the Doctor muttered, "Still can't resist dressing for the occasion, can you?", then yelped as the Master aimed a sharp kick to his ribs in parting.
"The correct response," said the Master with supreme disdain as he swept out of the room, "is 'woof.'"
Alone, the Doctor sagged beneath the console of his beloved ship, wincing as the cock cage bounced on the floor with a clang. He was really up the creek without a paddle this time, wasn't he? He had no idea how he was getting out of this one. Especially with the pulse of his aching, oversensitive flesh drowning out any mad plans he might manage to come up with--an ignoble position, and not one he was used to, but then again three days in a chastity device with the only other member (no, not member, bad word choice, don't think of members)... the only other representative of your species taking gleeful advantage of your frustration will do that to you. He was starting to regret ever taking the Master on board.
Actually, he was starting to regret a lot of things, starting with his failure to push the Master off the Valiant's observation deck in the first two weeks of the Year That Wasn't. Which sounded callous, yeah, it had sounded unthinkable to him at the time, but if you could rely on the Master for one thing, it was to cheat death and eventually come swanning back camper than ever before. And looking back, it had been a supremely bad idea to give the Master any hints that he wanted another Time Lord around more than he wanted to defeat him. And oooh, yeah, there was another thing to regret, all those hints he'd dropped once they'd settled in on the TARDIS that since they were the only two memb... the only two left, and since neither of them had been laid (properly Time Lord laid that is, not fooling around with humans) since well before the war, he really wouldn't be opposed if the Master was interested in some nice old-fashioned carnal satisfaction...
He'd been banking on this regeneration being like him, young and hot-blooded and a little bit flirty, and maybe he'd been holding onto a stupid hope that they could clear the air a bit. Dispel the tension, have at each other in some way that didn't involve doomsday weapons. Stupid. Stupid not to see the humiliation inherent in the offer, stupid not to anticipate the Master's wounded pride. Stupid not to see that for the Master, holding the Doctor in the palm of his hand and denying him what he wanted was a satisfaction far greater than sex.
Stupid and sentimental not to take the psychic lockdown controller out of his pocket before he dropped his trousers.
Which would be how he wound up chained naked to his own TARDIS console with a dog collar around his neck, an unreasonably large plug shoved up his arse, a cock cage clamped down on what would otherwise have been an impressive erection, and an extremely self-satisfied archenemy tarting himself up for a BDSM holiday downstairs. Would it always have to be like this from now on? One of them gaining the upper hand and keeping the other locked up like a disobedient pet? That was no fun--and not just because he was the one sitting here with his own pre-come smeared all over his thighs, getting teased and swatted on the nose with rolled-up newspapers. Keeping the Master as a prisoner had been far more miserable in its way. But finding an alternative would require getting out of this first.
The TARDIS shuddered and groaned to a halt, jerking--oh no, word choice again--jolting him out of his thoughts. She did sound queasy, and the Doctor half wondered if she'd find some way to exact revenge on the Master this time. He dragged himself to his feet to see where they'd landed, grimacing when the plug made its presence known again, and when he saw the console his face lit up.
His sonic screwdriver. She'd made him a new sonic screwdriver. There it was, poking out of its usual slot. Quickly, before the Master could get back, he sna--grabbed it and thumbed the switch to make sure it worked.
All right then. First things first. He aimed it at the padlock on the little torture device between his legs--and then he didn't even hear the lock clicking open because oh fuck, sonic screwdriver, right, sound waves, sound waves vibrating through metal, and then he didn't even hear the whole contraption clattering to the floor because he'd turned up the vibration on the sonic and everything else was drowned out in one great, glorious, unbridled surge of arousal. When he opened his eyes there were streaks of semen all over the jumpseat and he would never, no matter how many more centuries he might live, admit to whispering the Master's name in the throes of climax.
He blinked a few times and shook himself out of it--rather, he thought ruefully, like a dog shaking off water. Five seconds' more work with the sonic and he was unchained. "Bad idea, wasn't it, old girl, leaving me tied up in the console room when he'd gone and annoyed you again?" he whispered, and set about dismantling the isomorphic locks the Master had put on the controls.
The Master would be back any minute. He was stark naked, careening around the console room like a madman as he spliced cables and cut wires, covered in sweat and come and highly embarrassing sorts of bruises, with a ball gag hanging around his neck and a tasselled plug still sticking out of his arse--and his heart hadn't been this light since he first dragged the Master on board the TARDIS as a prisoner. Maybe not since he'd first set foot on the Valiant. He set a course for London, 1891. Why not? The game was afoot once more.
Author:
tenlittlebulletsFandom: Doctor Who
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Tenth Doctor/Simm!Master
Summary: Half-porny, half-cracky fill for a prompt on
sizeofthatthing: "10 takes Simm!Master with him after TLotTL but the Master, of course, eventually manages to turn the tables. Discontented at being made to feel like a pet, he turns the Doctor into one, wholly. Bondage, plugs, cock rings, attachable tails, gags, sleeping in the console room, the works. No sex. Just a sexually frustrated hound as the Master uses his TARDIS to do whatever he likes." Pretty much as ordered, with the addition of Ten being... well, Ten.Warnings: Abovementioned laundry list of kinks. Breathplay. Chastity devices. Spit-take-worthy mental images. Dub-con, but only in the sense that neither of them seems to notice or care that consent missed the turn at Albuquerque. Off-label uses of the sonic screwdriver.
-
"Good boy. Now beg."
The Doctor, panting fruitlessly for breath and trying to ignore the blackness encroaching on the edges of his vision, muttered something very rude that the ball gag muffled into meaningless grunting. The Master seemed to understand the intent, though, and yanked the choke chain even tighter. "I didn't tell you to talk. I told you to beg."
Reluctantly, with much mental cursing at the grated console-room floor as he shifted his weight, the Doctor picked himself up off all fours and onto his aching knees. At an impatient gesture from the Master, he lifted his hands in a decent impression of a dog begging, even going so far as to paw a bit at the front of the Master's trousers for good measure.
"Oh, good boy. No, paws off, no need to get too eager. What, not even a tail wag for your Master?"
The Doctor rolled his eyes, but he wasn't in the mood for another beating, so he obediently clenched and unclenched his arse, making the tassels at the end of the plug twitch in time with the working of his muscles. The Master loosened his hold on the chain and stepped back to watch, smirking as the Doctor gasped for air and moaned at the shifting pressure inside him, the fullness that built and built towards an endlessly thwarted climax.
"All right, all right," said the Master, "I guess you deserve a treat." And he reached down between the Doctor's legs to pat at him through the cock cage, laughing as a fresh bead of precome slid off the tip and splattered on the grating to drip on the innards of the TARDIS below.
The Doctor--all right, the Doctor whined. It was in character, wasn't it? And the brief touch had made him flush hot and cold and clench anew around the butt plug as he shuddered, and that had produced a firm nudge right up against his prostate and sent another wave of frustrated arousal tearing through him, and it just wasn't fair that his body could short out his brain like this and leave him with no control over the inhuman, keening noises emerging from his throat.
The Master was pushing buttons on the TARDIS console and didn't even deign to comment on his old enemy's desperation. "Now, where to next?" he mused, exactly as though he were talking to himself with no one else in the room. "And don't think I'll let you dump me at the bottom of Loch Ness again, you old bucket of bolts; we're going exactly where I want us to go, no matter how queasy it makes you. I'll pilot you straight into the jaws of the Great 51st Century Causality Vortex if I want--trust the humans to irreparably fuck up the causal nexus as soon as they invent time travel--ha, that's it!" He flipped a lever with a dramatic flourish, and the time rotor started up a sullen churn.
The Doctor wasn't sure he wanted to know, but he raised his head anyway. Trying to figure out what the Master was up to was a far better thing to concentrate on than the throbbing of his constrained, stubbornly eager genitalia. The Master caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and flashed him a gleeful grin. "How does a nice holiday on New Sacher-Masochopolis sound to you, Fido? I need somewhere to take you out for a walk before you start peeing on the furniture. Can't take you out in public without a full harness until you learn to behave yourself, but I bet we can find some proper obedience classes... and then maybe a spot of world domination, just for old times' sake. Dominate the dominators, that's got a nice ring to it."
The Doctor glared at him. The Master, unruffled, sauntered over and scratched him behind the ears before unbuckling the gag, his hand lingering to pet and tug fondly at the Doctor's hair. "So, what do you say? And don't bite me this time, you incorrigible brute, or I'll have you horsewhipped. Again."
The Doctor stayed silent. There was really nothing to say to that, and now his scalp was tingling too, feeding the futile blaze of his arousal.
The Master sighed and threw up his hands in a theatrical gesture of exasperation. "Nothing? Ah, well. Don't know what I was expecting from a dumb animal." He locked the end of the Doctor's chain to a handle on the TARDIS console, leaving the gag hanging loosely around his neck, and turned away. "Well, I'm off to slip into something more comfortable. I'm sure I saw some black leather in that eye-searing dump of a wardrobe room. Don't shed on the jumpseat while I'm gone--and don't think I won't notice the hair gel stains, either."
Under his breath, the Doctor muttered, "Still can't resist dressing for the occasion, can you?", then yelped as the Master aimed a sharp kick to his ribs in parting.
"The correct response," said the Master with supreme disdain as he swept out of the room, "is 'woof.'"
Alone, the Doctor sagged beneath the console of his beloved ship, wincing as the cock cage bounced on the floor with a clang. He was really up the creek without a paddle this time, wasn't he? He had no idea how he was getting out of this one. Especially with the pulse of his aching, oversensitive flesh drowning out any mad plans he might manage to come up with--an ignoble position, and not one he was used to, but then again three days in a chastity device with the only other member (no, not member, bad word choice, don't think of members)... the only other representative of your species taking gleeful advantage of your frustration will do that to you. He was starting to regret ever taking the Master on board.
Actually, he was starting to regret a lot of things, starting with his failure to push the Master off the Valiant's observation deck in the first two weeks of the Year That Wasn't. Which sounded callous, yeah, it had sounded unthinkable to him at the time, but if you could rely on the Master for one thing, it was to cheat death and eventually come swanning back camper than ever before. And looking back, it had been a supremely bad idea to give the Master any hints that he wanted another Time Lord around more than he wanted to defeat him. And oooh, yeah, there was another thing to regret, all those hints he'd dropped once they'd settled in on the TARDIS that since they were the only two memb... the only two left, and since neither of them had been laid (properly Time Lord laid that is, not fooling around with humans) since well before the war, he really wouldn't be opposed if the Master was interested in some nice old-fashioned carnal satisfaction...
He'd been banking on this regeneration being like him, young and hot-blooded and a little bit flirty, and maybe he'd been holding onto a stupid hope that they could clear the air a bit. Dispel the tension, have at each other in some way that didn't involve doomsday weapons. Stupid. Stupid not to see the humiliation inherent in the offer, stupid not to anticipate the Master's wounded pride. Stupid not to see that for the Master, holding the Doctor in the palm of his hand and denying him what he wanted was a satisfaction far greater than sex.
Stupid and sentimental not to take the psychic lockdown controller out of his pocket before he dropped his trousers.
Which would be how he wound up chained naked to his own TARDIS console with a dog collar around his neck, an unreasonably large plug shoved up his arse, a cock cage clamped down on what would otherwise have been an impressive erection, and an extremely self-satisfied archenemy tarting himself up for a BDSM holiday downstairs. Would it always have to be like this from now on? One of them gaining the upper hand and keeping the other locked up like a disobedient pet? That was no fun--and not just because he was the one sitting here with his own pre-come smeared all over his thighs, getting teased and swatted on the nose with rolled-up newspapers. Keeping the Master as a prisoner had been far more miserable in its way. But finding an alternative would require getting out of this first.
The TARDIS shuddered and groaned to a halt, jerking--oh no, word choice again--jolting him out of his thoughts. She did sound queasy, and the Doctor half wondered if she'd find some way to exact revenge on the Master this time. He dragged himself to his feet to see where they'd landed, grimacing when the plug made its presence known again, and when he saw the console his face lit up.
His sonic screwdriver. She'd made him a new sonic screwdriver. There it was, poking out of its usual slot. Quickly, before the Master could get back, he sna--grabbed it and thumbed the switch to make sure it worked.
All right then. First things first. He aimed it at the padlock on the little torture device between his legs--and then he didn't even hear the lock clicking open because oh fuck, sonic screwdriver, right, sound waves, sound waves vibrating through metal, and then he didn't even hear the whole contraption clattering to the floor because he'd turned up the vibration on the sonic and everything else was drowned out in one great, glorious, unbridled surge of arousal. When he opened his eyes there were streaks of semen all over the jumpseat and he would never, no matter how many more centuries he might live, admit to whispering the Master's name in the throes of climax.
He blinked a few times and shook himself out of it--rather, he thought ruefully, like a dog shaking off water. Five seconds' more work with the sonic and he was unchained. "Bad idea, wasn't it, old girl, leaving me tied up in the console room when he'd gone and annoyed you again?" he whispered, and set about dismantling the isomorphic locks the Master had put on the controls.
The Master would be back any minute. He was stark naked, careening around the console room like a madman as he spliced cables and cut wires, covered in sweat and come and highly embarrassing sorts of bruises, with a ball gag hanging around his neck and a tasselled plug still sticking out of his arse--and his heart hadn't been this light since he first dragged the Master on board the TARDIS as a prisoner. Maybe not since he'd first set foot on the Valiant. He set a course for London, 1891. Why not? The game was afoot once more.