Work Text:
Teaming up with some renegade Nestenes to take over a satellite control station in the middle of the Vulpeculan backwater might not have been his most impressive plan ever, but it had served its purpose.
The Master watched the Doctor struggle against the iron grip of two Autons on the platform beneath him and laughed. Soon he'd have the Doctor at his feet, at his mercy, restrained and unbelieving and perfect. He imagined the Doctor's expression as the Master knelt down before the Doctor's prostrate body; as he pulled his glove off and softly touched the Doctor's temple with the tips of his bare fingers. Oh, it was good. He closed his eyes and in his imagination he savoured the feeling of his fingers in the Doctor's thick hair, the way the Doctor's eyes would go wide with fright and pathetic hope.
His eyes snapped open at the decidedly unexpected sound of trainer-clad feet running swiftly toward him. How absolutely offensive it was that it was always so easy for the Doctor to ruin his plans. He was about to make a sardonic comment saying so when the Doctor got close enough for him to see the coldness in his eyes.
He turned and ran, hearts suddenly beating very hard. He didn't question his reaction. He trusted his instincts; it was how he had survived all these centuries of treachery and war and alliances gone wrong. He'd looked into the Doctor's eyes and he'd seen something dangerous, something frightening. Those qualities were always there -- it was what made him fascinatingly attractive to the Master -- but his eyes.... He'd never seen him look quite like that.
He heard the Doctor close behind him and he cursed the man's long legs. Why did he always insist on being so damned tall? He skidded round a corner and prepared himself for the Doctor's long fingers grabbing at the cuff of his shirt, readied himself for a spin and an elbow to the Doctor's stomach. Which was probably why he was so surprised when something hard and heavy hit him in the side of the head. Sharp pain blossomed along his skull and he found he was sprawled out on the floor. Blood was dripping slowly toward his left eye and he tried to wipe it away with clumsy fingers.
He looked up at the Doctor standing over him, and something was wrong, something was very wrong but he couldn't tell what it was everything was so blurry and time wasn't working properly and he could have sworn the Doctor's suit had been a different colour just minutes before, when he had been struggling against Autons and still in the Master's power. He tried to ask, "Wasn't your suit --" but it came out slurred, nonsensical. The Doctor crouched down next to him. His eyes never left the Master's and the Master felt that odd terror bubble up again and he tried to move away, crawl, because he wasn't above crawling, grovelling, not if it worked, but before he had dragged himself more than a couple of inches the Doctor wrapped a fist around his tie, right at the collar, and pulled his head up. He choked, tried not to look at the Doctor's blank face, and then the Doctor slammed his head back onto the cold metal floor and everything went dark.
********
There were voices. There were smooth sheets over naked skin. There was a dull throbbing in his head; but instead of concussion, it was the feeling of tender flesh that had been subject to the fast-healing effects of a protoplaser. There was a low temporal hum that he could feel at the edges of his mind, and he knew he was on the Doctor's TARDIS. There was something else, too. It felt strange -- not skin-crawlingly impossible, like Jack had always felt, but just... wrong.
The voices were quiet; so quiet it was hard to tell them apart, let alone make out their conversation. He caught a few words and phrases, though nothing that made sense to his half-waking state. Something about I knew he wouldn't be able to resist bait like that, and it was all very clever, and something about the Nestenes and grudges, something about persuading them to help, it wasn't hard, not after their last team-up. There was a pause, and a hushed voice saying, I want to believe it, but it's been so long, so long....
He groaned and the voices stopped.
The Master opened his eyes blearily and blinked, trying to clear his vision. He wasn't in the medlab, like he'd expected to be, but some kind of bedroom, lying in a large, comfortable bed. He was naked under the sheet that covered him, and when he reached up to touch his head where he'd been assaulted all he felt was whole, albeit tender, skin, and clean soft hair. He looked up and saw the Doctor... and the Doctor. It took him a few moments to realise he wasn't seeing double. The Master's mouth twisted in disgust.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" he asked the Doctor. He stared at the freak that stood beside the Doctor, that had the audacity to look like the Doctor, to raise an eyebrow just like the Doctor, to let its lips thin in unpleasant disapproval just like the Doctor, but it certainly wasn't the Doctor. There was something wrong with the complexion, with the smell, with the feel of it. No timelines swirled around it, his mind detected no telepathic presence. A clone would have been offensive enough but this, this was like a clone that had gone wrong somehow. "What the hell is that thing?" he hissed.
The thing frowned at him, then turned to the Doctor.
"See, I told you," it said.
"Told him what?" the Master demanded, irritably.
"It really is him," the Doctor said. He was staring at the Master, but was obviously, and annoyingly, talking to his freakish doppelganger.
"Who else could it have been with that face and those vitals?" the thing asked, with the air of a man who's had to repeat himself a few too many times.
"No one," the Doctor said. "No one. It's just...." He trailed off, and the thing's expression softened. It took the Doctor's hand in its own.
"I know," it said.
The Master recoiled in disgust. "Have you lost all semblance of sanity, not to mention dignity, since the last time I died? You might have become desperate enough to let a freak like that touch you but surely you don't have to subject me to the indignity of witnessing your revolting practises."
The Doctor frowned, but the thing's face went blank. It let go of the Doctor's hand and stepped closer to the bed. It stood over the Master and the Master knew that it had been this thing that had crouched over him on that empty space station, had watched him try to crawl along the cold metal floor. It was this thing's fingers he had felt at his throat. Now it raised those long fingers and touched his cheek, and the Master had to keep himself from flinching, its flesh was so feverish. It trailed its fingers down to his neck, his clavicle, gently pushed down the light sheet that covered him and rested its hot palm against his racing hearts, and the Master was suddenly terribly aware of his nakedness. The Doctor watched them, his expression indecipherable. The Master grabbed the thing's wrist and pulled it off him and then shuddered at the feeling of a single pulse under his fingers. He dropped the thing's wrist and drew back.
"What are you?" he whispered.
The Doctor walked around to the other side of the bed.
"It's a bit... complicated," he said, looking both embarrassed and defensive. "He's a biological metacrisis. That hand of mine --"
"Oh, Rassilon..." the Master groaned and covered his face. "Don't even finish that sentence. Let me guess, the other catalyst for the metacrisis was a human?" He looked back up and the expression on the Doctor's face was all the confirmation he needed. He sneered. "You really have lost all semblance of sanity and decency, haven't you? I suppose committing double genocide and murdering your entire family will do that to you --" He was cut off abruptly when the metacrisis grabbed his wrist in a hot, crushing grip.
"Don't talk about them, " it said, a command. "Don't you dare, you coward, you ran, you ran and left me, left him --"
"Get your hands off me, you abomination! You've got no right. You're not the Doctor, you're not even a Time Lord --"
The thing smiled at him with the Doctor's eyes.
"You're right. I'm not really a Time Lord. Or a Human. I'm not even really the Doctor. I'm more. I know everything he knows, I've felt everything he's felt, and so many things he doesn't and hasn't. And I know you." It leaned close, and the Master could feel the unnatural warmth of its breath on his skin. "We both know you."
On his opposite side the Doctor reached out and cupped his cheek with a cool, gentle hand. "You're our responsibility," the Doctor said, and the Master shuddered again.
"I'm not going to be imprisoned with you and this... this monstrosity. I'll kill you," he insisted, throwing the Doctor's hand off of his cheek, his voice becoming strident, desperate. "I'll kill your friends, you'll let your guard down and I'll make worlds burn, I'll make what I did to Earth look like a joke, like child's play --"
"Oh, Master," the thing sighed, and placed a soothing hand on his shoulder. "Haven't you realised? You're no match for even one Doctor. I'm sorry; you won't believe me, but I am. Because it must be a frightening position to be in, and I've -- we've -- never wanted to scare you. To hurt you. But you've got to accept it; you've simply got no hope against two Doctors. None at all."
Then it leaned down and kissed his throat.
It felt wrong. He recognised the lips, but not their wet heat. He recognised the slight scratch of stubble against his skin, but there was no presence behind it, no mind pressing up against his own. When the metacrisis moved up and brushed its lips against his mouth there was no taste of the vortex, no hint of artron energy, just all too human saliva, and the faintest remnant of Venusian spearmint. The Master drew a shuddering breath and his eyes flicked to the Doctor standing on the other side of the bed. His eyes were a little wide, his jaw a little slack, and when his eyes met the Master's the Master wasn't sure if the feeling growing in his chest was dread or excitement.
The thing straightened up and gazed at him for a long moment, then at the Doctor. The Doctor looked back at it with a kind of cautious wonder, and the metacrisis smiled. It brushed hot fingers over the Master's lips, slipped its thumb between them and rolled it in the moisture there.
"It's all right," it said, looking back down at the Master. "You don't have to feel responsible. You're overpowered. Out-numbered. You can relax now." It pressed another kiss to his forehead. "You can give up."
The thing pulled down the sheet and the Master closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see their faces when they discovered he was already half-hard. A hand, hot, so hot, clasped round his intimate flesh and his cheeks burned when it made him harden more. The hand was removed and he opened his eyes involuntarily, saw the metacrisis unbutton its jacket and slip it off to reveal the tight undershirt beneath. It toed off its shoes and socks and then climbed onto the bed, straddled the Master's chest.
"Doesn't he look good?" it asked the Doctor. "Flushed red like that, mouth open, that sheen of sweat on his skin?" It leaned forward and gave his face a long lick, and the Master couldn't stifle the little helpless sound that escaped the back of his throat.
The Doctor's voice was hoarse when he responded. "Yeah, he looks good."
"Good," it said, and started to unbutton its trousers. The Master felt a wave of panic rise up within him and he began to struggle ineffectually against the weight on his chest. The metacrisis grabbed his head in one of its hands and looked down at him, expressionless, and the Master froze. He was reminded again of how it had looked crouching over him on the space station, eyes cold as it had clutched at his throat.
"Shhh," it said, rubbing at his temple with a thumb. "I already told you, it's okay now. It's okay." The Master felt himself calming despite himself, eyelids fluttering. He turned his head towards the Doctor. The other Time Lord leaned down, one knee on the bed, and reached out to smooth his hands through the Master's hair.
"He's right," the Doctor said. "We've got you." And he bent down to kiss him, deep, and the Master moaned because he hadn't tasted the Doctor in so long, so long. Then the Doctor pulled back and the metacrisis was gently turning his head back towards it. Its fly was open and he could see its hard cock outlined clearly beneath the smooth fabric of its pants. They were burgundy, with little yellow ducks printed along the waistband, and the Master noted in some faraway portion of his mind that they matched its undershirt. It slipped a thumb into his mouth again.
"Open up," it said, voice low, and the Master found himself obliging. It smiled at his obedience and freed itself from the last fabric barrier, shuffled forward and then pressed the thick head of its cock into his mouth. It hissed.
"Ahh, cold," it breathed, and the Master made an inarticulate sound because the flesh in his mouth was hot, so hot he almost thought it was hot enough to scald his tongue. Pinstripe-clad thighs splayed out on either side of the Master's head, and he could see the slim muscles flexing underneath the fabric as the metacrisis started to slide its erection over his tongue. His head was cradled in its hands, neck supported so he wouldn't strain any muscles, and it made him feel woozy, surrounded by so much heat. It groaned and the Master looked up at it, the short wiry hair around its groin trailing up beneath its undershirt, its head tilted back, lips falling open. He curled his tongue and the thing groaned again and slid itself deeper into his mouth. It tasted like human sweat and musk but this close he could feel something inhuman about it, how the timelines bent around it and he shuddered and moaned around the cock in his mouth. That must have felt good for the thing because it gave him a sudden hard thrust, then another. He heard a sharp breath to his side and knew it was the Doctor, watching his doppelganger fuck his mouth, and everything was jumbled because he didn't know if he was ashamed to let the Doctor see how hard this was making him, or if knowing that the Doctor was there just made him harder.
"That's it, that's it," the metacrisis was murmuring. It looked down at the Master with dark eyes and watched its cock slide slowly in and out of his lips. "What do you think, Doctor?"
The Doctor leaned over him and examined his face, brushed his eyebrow with a blessedly cool thumb, and said, "Perfect, just... perfect." He looked sort of dazed and thankful and hungry and protective all at the same time, and the Master was so hard his cock was touching his stomach, wetness leaking slowly into the hair sprinkled across his abdomen. The Doctor reached out a hand, touched the thing's face, and it turned its head slightly and gave the Doctor's palm a soft kiss. They exchanged a meaningful look and the Doctor's eyes widened a little, and the Master felt a surge of resentment at them, for how they could just understand each other so easily when he was right there trapped beneath them and he understood nothing, not even himself. He must have tensed, because the metacrisis looked back at him and the Master hated it, hated how it looked at him with the Doctor's eyes and the Doctor's knowledge but refused to be like the Doctor and let the Master think he had ever been in control of anything.
His emotions must have been written across his face, because the metacrisis smiled softly at him, caressed his cheek with its thumb. It slowly pushed its hips forward, forward, kept pushing until the Master could hear the wet sounds of his own throat working around the cock being inexorably pushed down that narrow, fleshy passage, until it blocked out speech and breath and all he could do was swallow around it, over and over again. The metacrisis held him there, his open mouth pressed hard against its hot skin. Its thumb was still gently caressing his face, and it trailed its other hand down until it rested against his throat, felt his adam's apple bob and spasm as his throat involuntarily convulsed around the burning intrusion. He heard the metacrisis murmuring soft encouragements.
"Yes, that's good, that's very good, Master."
As his respiratory bypass started to kick in he felt his eyelids droop. He couldn't move; he couldn't breathe. He couldn't fight, couldn't command. All he could do was swallow helplessly around the cock in his throat. His senses narrowed, focused on the feeling of being held, being trapped; the short hairs prickling against his lips, the hands cradling his head.
Distantly, he felt a weight shift the bed, and then another pair of hands smooth along his thighs, opening them up. Moist, slightly cool lips pressed against his hip and it felt perfect. He relaxed into the sensations, all tension ebbing away as the Doctor's tongue licked softly at his testicles, the Doctor's fingers slowly massaging his opening. His eyelids felt heavier and heavier, his vision going darker, even swallowing was getting too difficult to focus on....
His eyes flicked open as the cock in his throat withdrew and he gasped, dizzy from the sudden influx of oxygen. He blinked up at the metacrisis, trying to catch his breath. Its cock was resting against his cheek, and he felt a stray bit of saliva and precome drip from the tip and onto his face.
"There we go," it said, soothingly. "Don't want you passing out on us, do we?" The Master was trying to think of a cutting response when a slick finger pushed into his arse, making him arch and cry out. He lay panting as the Doctor added another finger and breached him again. He squirmed, wanting to see the Doctor, wanting to see his face as he concentrated on the Master, but his doppelganger was still straddling him, blocking the Doctor from his sight. The metacrisis smiled at him again. "Shhhh," it said, and held his mouth open so it could slip its cock back down into him. The Doctor stroked him from the inside as the metacrisis gently squeezed the Master's throat around its prick.
His vision had just started going again when he felt the Doctor's fingers withdraw, and before he could whimper airlessly at the loss the metacrisis has pulled its cock out of his throat again, this time levering itself so it was no longer straddling his chest. The Master lay there on the bed, breathing raggedly and feeling curiously empty. The metacrisis was stroking itself and watching the Doctor, who was kneeling on the bed in his shirtsleeves, a prominent bulge in his brown pinstriped trousers.
"I'm going to fuck him," he said, talking to his double, but staring straight at the Master. He started unbuttoning his trousers. The metacrisis groaned and stroked itself faster. The Doctor grabbed the Master's legs and pulled him down the bed. "Did you hear that, Master?" the Doctor asked, pulling his cock out of his trousers. When the Master didn't respond the Doctor gave the Master's prick a sharp slap, and the Master bucked and cried out. He did it again, and again, and each time the Master gave a little scream and his cock jerked and hardened a little more. He trembled as the Doctor grabbed his red, swollen shaft, ran a thumb through the precome dripping from the tip, and gave him a quick, punishing squeeze. "Did you hear me?" the Doctor asked again, his own breathing nearly as fast now as the Master's, and this time the Master nodded quickly, blinking his watering eyes.
The Doctor dropped the Master's cock and leaned back. He watched the Doctor pick up a jar of lube and slick his own erection, then move to kneel between the Master's legs.
He felt a blunt pressure at his entrance, and his mouth opened silently as the Doctor pushed slowly inside. He heard the Doctor and the metacrisis both groan at the same time, as his tight flesh was stretched around the Doctor's cock. Once the Doctor was fully inside he stilled, and rested his forehead against the Master's. He felt the Doctor's warm, shallow breaths against his cheek. He felt full, and spread open, and vulnerable, and he could feel himself trembling slightly, whether from fear or anticipation he couldn't decide.
After a few moments the Doctor slid himself almost all the way out, then pushed slowly back inside. The Master took a stuttering breath and the Doctor repeated his movement, then again.
"This is where you belong, Master," he breathed. He kept thrusting slowly, steadily. "Right here. This is what you really want."
"To be fucked up the arse by a sanctimonious little git?" the Master panted, failing to keep the quaver out of his voice.
"No," the Doctor said, and gave him a sharp thrust that had his eyes watering again. "To be defeated." He gave him another sharp thrust and the Master couldn't help the tremulous little cry that escaped his lips. The Doctor pulled out, leaving the Master gasping at the quickness of it, and flipped him over onto his stomach. He pulled his arse up and thrust back inside before the Master even had a chance to process the change of position. "It's what you've always wanted," he said, fucking him roughly. "Except now, I'm not afraid to give it to you."
"Thanks to me, that is." The Master felt hands slide under his shoulders and pull him up so he was braced on his hands and knees. The metacrisis was kneeling in front of him, eyes glittering with satisfaction. "Think of it as a gift," it said, and opened the Master's mouth and guided its cock back inside. "Oh, that's right, Master," it breathed as he swallowed once again around that disturbingly hot, hard flesh. It held the Master's head in its hands, smoothing its fingers over the Master's short, sweat-damp hair. "This is all a gift for you," it said, holding the Master's head still so that each thrust up his arse drove its cock momentarily down his throat, making him splutter and gag. "And you're a gift for him."
The Master shuddered and groaned at that thought, and if anyone had been touching his cock at that moment he was certain he would have come right then, in helpless spurts, as he whimpered and clenched around the cocks inside of him. The metacrisis laughed, as if it somehow knew, and he felt his already flushed face redden further with shame and frustrating arousal.
He noticed a tremble in the thing's hands where it held his head, and its thrusts starting coming faster and faster until it finally shoved itself down his choking throat with a short cry. He tasted the first pulses of come at the back of his throat and then abruptly the metacrisis pulled back and let the rest spatter across his face in hot, wet spurts, leaving him messy and gasping. The Doctor groaned at that but his rhythm only faltered momentarily.
"Come on, Doctor," the metacrisis urged, still breathing hard from its orgasm. "It's all right. You can do it. He's not going anywhere." The Doctor made a strangled little noise at that, and clutched the Master's hips, thrusting harder. He grabbed the back of the Master's head and pushed it down onto the bed. The Master felt the sheets cling to his damp, come-covered face as the Doctor held him in place and fucked him desperately, faster and faster.
"Please," came a hoarse, muffled plea, and the Master was surprised to find it was from himself. "Please," he repeated, and that must have been what the Doctor needed to hear, because he suddenly stopped and thrust hard into the Master, his fingers curling painfully into the Master's hip and neck as he shuddered and emptied himself into the pliant body beneath him.
He collapsed onto the Master's back. The Master felt the Doctor's cock, still inside him, slowly softening. He let out a little hitching breath, not because the Doctor was suffocating him, though he was, but because his own rock-hard cock was trapped beneath them and he needed to come more badly than he could ever remember. Finally the Doctor slid out of him and turned him onto his back, revealing his painfully hard erection. He looked up at the Doctor and the metacrisis, and trembled with anxiety and anticipation. The Doctor tucked himself back into his trousers, and the doppelganger had pulled its ridiculous duckie pants and trousers back up, and he was suddenly aware once again of his naked vulnerability.
"Please," he said again, voice cracking, and they were right, this was defeat, and it was bitter and humiliating and untellably exciting and he'd never wanted something more.
"Don't worry, Master," the metacrisis said. It leaned down and stroked his sticky cheek. "We'll take good care of you, you'll see." It kissed him on the mouth, softly; then again, deeper. He let it open his mouth with a hot tongue, then cried out when he felt another, blessedly cool mouth on his cock. "I promise," the metacrisis murmured into his lips. He felt it lie down beside him and gather him into its arms, and he clung to it as the Doctor gently sucked him off. It didn't take long before he was writhing helplessly under the Doctor as the metacrisis continued to explore his mouth, swallowing all his little whimpers and cries. His hips stuttered and lifted off the bed, and just as his cock started to pulse with orgasm the Doctor pulled back and let him come all over his own stomach. The metacrisis gave him a last lingering kiss and then pulled away as well. They both stood and looked down at him lying bonelessly in the middle of the bed. He tried to catch his breath and his bearings. He felt the come dripping down his stomach and chest, out of his loosened arse, and there were still sticky remnants smeared across his face. He felt simultaneously satisfied and slightly sick to his stomach.
"You see?" the metacrisis asked the Doctor, and the Master could hear an unexpected hesitancy to its voice. "I do love you," it said, and this thing that had seemed so confident and powerful now seemed almost brittle; it was like looking down at a precise scientific instrument you've been holding to find that it's cracked, the edge so sharp you hadn't even noticed it cutting into your hand until you see the blood welling up and dripping down your skin.
The Doctor tore his eyes away from the Master and looked at the metacrisis, his expression almost stricken. He cupped its face in his hand, and then pulled it close. The Master grimaced in revolted fascination, unable to look away from their embrace, but unable now, without the haze of desire, to watch without feeling his flesh crawl.
"I'm sorry," the Doctor said, kissing its forehead. The Master heard its breath hitch. "I know you do. Thank you," he breathed into the metacrisis's hair. They held each other, and the Doctor looked back to the Master, his expression unreadable. The Master felt something twist in his chest, the tastes of fear and contempt and anticipation all mixing up in the back of his throat as he swallowed and ran a dry tongue across his lips.
"Thank you," the Doctor said again, and the Master wondered if the Doctor was speaking for them both.
end