Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Doctor landed on Varnaxis Theta with his coat flaring behind him and his hair freshly mussed into the perfect approximation of effortlessness. He checked his reflection in the polished side of the TARDIS before stepping out — ran a hand through his hair, adjusted his collar, and tugged at his lapels.

He smirked at himself. “Still got it.”

This planet was famous for its indulgent nightlife — and tonight, he was interested in something... different. Something less world-saving, more worldly. He’d heard about a particular club — private, exclusive, tailored to a very select crowd.

Word was, it catered to the more dominant types.

The Doctor squared his shoulders as he approached the entrance, letting his stride loosen into a confident swagger. If he was going to indulge, he might as well do it properly.

The doorman, a stern-faced woman with silver tattoos on her skin and a reader in her eye, scanned him from top to bottom.

“Name?” she asked, voice clipped.

“John Smith,” he said, flashing a grin and a psychic paper.

She stared at it for two seconds, then smirked. “Enjoy your night, Mr. Smith.”

The heavy door opened with a hiss of air pressure, and the music hit him like a wave — low, dark, pulsing.

The club was a vision in velvet and shadows. The air was warm and thick with scent — something like sandalwood and sugar. Dim lighting caressed every curve of the plush walls, and dancers glided across transparent platforms overhead, glowing faintly under violet light. The bass of the music thrummed through the soles of his boots.

He walked deeper, surveying the clientele with amused curiosity.

People knelt in collars at their doms’ feet. Thronelike chairs lined the far wall, filled with figures in silk, leather, and glittering chains. In one corner, a man lounged with a leash wrapped around his fingers; at the bar, two women in dark suits clinked glasses while watching a half-naked submissive perform on a stage.

The Doctor took it all in with a wide grin.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

He swaggered toward the bar, weaving between bodies, his long coat trailing like a cape. His eyes roamed over the club’s offerings — eyes narrowing thoughtfully when they landed on slim-hipped beauties in harnesses, shirtless dancers with dark eyes, subby little things with trembling legs and hopeful stares.

“Oh, I could absolutely ruin one of you,” he muttered to himself, practically gleaming with smugness. “You have no idea.”

He adjusted his tie, tossed his hair back, and leaned on the bar like he was a regular.

He was just about to start choosing who to grace with his presence when something stopped him cold.

Or rather — someone.

Across the room, half-lounging in a velvet alcove like he was born for it, was a man in all black. Lean frame. Champagne glass in hand. Legs crossed elegantly. And the smirk —

The smirk was unmistakable.

The Master.

The Doctor froze.

The Master caught his eye instantly. His smile widened — all teeth and wicked amusement. He raised his glass.

The Doctor’s stomach dropped.

“Oh no,” he muttered. “No no no—”

Too late. The Master was already unfolding himself from his seat.

And walking toward him.

The Doctor didn’t have time to run.

Not that he would’ve. That would’ve looked suspicious. Weak. And he was not going to give the Master that kind of satisfaction.

So instead, he turned slowly to face him, trying to school his expression into something breezy and indifferent, like he hadn’t just been caught mid-cruise through a high-end pleasure den, hunting for someone to dominate like he had any idea what he was doing.

The Master approached with the kind of fluid ease that made other people feel like clumsy puppets. His all-black ensemble shimmered faintly in the low light — crisp collar open just enough to hint, but never offer.

He was smirking. Of course he was.

“Well, well, well…” the Master purred, circling the Doctor like a cat around a particularly shiny toy. “I thought I smelled self-delusion and hair gel.”

The Doctor rolled his eyes. “Lovely. You’re here.”

“Oh, I’m not the interesting part here,” the Master said, stopping directly in front of him. “You? You are a marvel.”

The Doctor folded his arms. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business where I spend my nights.”

“Oh, but it is,” the Master said, voice dropping. “Because you’ve just made my entire week.”

He leaned in slightly, not touching, but invading all the same.

“Tell me,” he drawled, head cocked to the side. “What are you doing in a club like this, Doctor?”

“Exploring,” the Doctor said coolly. “New experiences. Different cultures.”

The Master blinked, mock-solemn. “Oh, of course. Interplanetary anthropology. With your hair perfectly tousled and your coat buttoned just-so.” His grin widened. “Admit it. You’re here to play.”

The Doctor sniffed. “I might be.”

“Oh, darling,” the Master said, drawing out the word like a purr. “You? Here? You’re adorable. Trying to play big boy?”

The Doctor’s jaw tensed. “I’m perfectly capable of holding my own.”

“Are you?” The Master circled again, slow and deliberate. “Because from where I’m standing, you look like a little lost duckling who wandered into a den of wolves. All puffed-up and pretty. Looking for some poor twink to terrorize, were you?”

The Doctor turned sharply, glaring at him. “I didn’t say that.”

“But you meant it,” the Master said sweetly. “You’ve got that whole... I’m-so-dominant, come-hither look going on. It’s precious.”

“I’m here for the experience,” the Doctor repeated stiffly.

The Master stopped in front of him again, eyes sparkling with glee. “Ahh. ‘The experience.’ Right. Of course.” He lifted his champagne glass in salute. “And what exactly were you hoping to experience, hmm?”

The Doctor faltered. Just slightly. His lips parted, but no witty comeback emerged.

His voice, when it finally came, was a little higher than he intended.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

The Master’s grin turned feral.

“Ohhh,” he gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. “Did your voice just crack? That was real, wasn’t it?” He leaned in, eyes gleaming. “You’re flustered.”

“I’m not,” the Doctor snapped — too quickly, too hot.

The Master laughed — a bright, delighted sound that turned the heads of at least three nearby patrons.

“You? A dom?” he said between snickers. “Oh, my stars. That is rich.”

“I never said I—”

“You didn’t have to!” The Master sipped his drink, still chuckling. “I can smell it on you. That ridiculous Time Lord bravado, all puffed up like you’re about to bark an order at someone. But underneath?” He leaned in again, whispering low and wicked: “You’re all squirm and nerves.”

The Doctor opened his mouth, then shut it again.

The Master’s smile turned softer — but no less mocking.

“You really don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”

The Doctor glared. “And you do?”

The Master grinned.

“Oh, Doctor,” he said silkily, brushing invisible lint from the Doctor’s shoulder. “I am the experience.”

The Doctor was trying to breathe like a man unbothered.

Trying — and failing.

Because the Master wasn’t just circling him now. He was hunting. And every step he took felt deliberate, every glance like a pressure point pressed just a bit too hard. The Doctor stood stiff, resisting the urge to squirm under the heat of those eyes.

The Master, of course, looked thoroughly entertained.

“You’re really committed to this act, aren’t you?” he murmured, drink now set aside so both his hands were free to gesticulate, to invade. “All buttoned up, all sharp lines and clever eyes — except, look closer and you’re practically trembling.”

“I’m not—” the Doctor started, but the Master was already beside him again, leaning in.

He spoke softly, his lips dangerously close to the Doctor’s ear.

“I think,” he whispered, “you walked into this club thinking you’d find some pliant little thing to bend to your will. Thought you’d get to throw someone over a bench and tell them how good they’re being for their Doctor.”

The Doctor’s breath caught.

The Master smirked.

“But what you really want,” he continued, “is to be seen. To be known. You want someone to look at you and say, ‘There you are, I see you, you needy little thing. Come here and let me hold you down and stroke your hair and tell you how soft you really are.’”
His voice dipped lower, velvet-slick. “That sounds about right?”

The Doctor stepped back a half-pace — just enough to keep his balance. His knees were suddenly… unreliable.

The Master’s eyes flicked down. “Ohh… what’s this?”

He tilted his head, delighted.

“Are you blushing, Doctor?” he cooed. “Is my big bad Time Lord blushing?”

“I’m leaving,” the Doctor said quickly, too hot, too loud. He turned, coat flaring behind him as he made for the exit.

But the Master was already moving, cutting him off with ease, stepping into his path like the inevitable.

“No, no,” he said gently. “You don’t get to run away now.”

“I didn’t come here for this.”

“Oh, but you did,” the Master said, eyes sharp and bright. “You just didn’t know it until you saw me.”

The Doctor swallowed hard, jaw clenched. His pulse was thundering.

The Master offered a hand.

Palm open. Fingers steady. Eyes locked onto his with devastating calm.

“Come with me,” he said.

The Doctor stared at it.

“I’ll take care of you.”

Silence pulsed between them like a heartbeat.

The Doctor’s gaze flicked to the Master’s face, expecting smugness. There was plenty of it. But underneath…

There was something else, too. Something inviting.

And worse — something safe.

The Doctor’s fingers twitched.

He hesitated.

Then, slowly, he placed his hand in the Master’s.

He hated how natural it felt.

The Master’s grin widened — victorious and affectionate all at once.

“That’s my good boy.”

---

The hotel suite was decadent.

High ceilings, velvet walls, and ambient lighting that shimmered against the golden trim. Everything about it screamed luxury — indulgent, intimate, expensive. The kind of place where secrets didn’t just hide; they sprawled out and made themselves comfortable.

The Master stepped in first, unhurried, with his hand still wrapped casually around the Doctor’s wrist. Not tightly. Just enough that letting go might’ve looked like a retreat.

And the Doctor… well. He was still trying to act unaffected.

He walked in like it was a diplomatic visit. Straight-backed, hands behind his back, jaw tense. But he wouldn’t meet the Master’s eyes. Wouldn’t speak. He stood there in the middle of the room, vibrating with restraint.

The Master took one look at him and sighed, utterly fond.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he said. “Come here.”

The Doctor stiffened.

“Master—”

But the Master had already moved to the edge of the bed and sat down with an exaggerated sigh, legs spread wide, arms open in a graceful little beckon.

“Come on, then. Don’t make me beg. It wouldn’t be dignified.”

The Doctor hesitated for a beat too long.

The Master just smiled.

And the Doctor came.

He didn’t walk — not really. It was more like drifting. Drawn forward as if caught in a gravitational pull. And when he reached the Master, he paused again — just long enough to pretend he wasn’t going to.

But the Master took his hips, guided him gently, and the Doctor sank down into his lap. Into his arms. Like he belonged there.

Which, of course, the Master knew he did.

“Ohhh,” the Master breathed, shifting him until he was just right — one leg over his own, the Doctor’s back resting against his chest. “You fit so nicely. You really do. Just the right size for my lap.”

The Doctor swallowed, fingers twitching against the Master’s thigh.

His hearts were pounding.

The Master’s voice curled around his ear. “You try so hard to be big, don’t you? But you just melt the second someone holds you properly.”

The Doctor let out a shaky breath.

The Master kissed his temple, soft and slow.

Then — almost lazily — he let one hand drift down, down, down… and rest on top of the Doctor’s crotch.

Just the weight of it. No movement. No pressure beyond a gentle palm resting against the front of those pretty pinstripe trousers.

The Doctor choked on a breath.

“Ohh,” the Master cooed, absolutely delighted. “Sensitive, are we?”

The Doctor’s hips shifted involuntarily, like he couldn’t decide whether to lean in or pull away.

“Now, now,” the Master murmured, rubbing his cheek against the Doctor’s hair. “I’m not doing anything. Just resting my hand. Don’t get shy on me.”

The Doctor was panting.

The Master smiled into the curve of his ear. “Look at you. All flushed and twitchy. You walked into that club thinking you were gonna wreck some poor thing — but here you are. Sitting in my lap, squirming because I haven’t even moved.”

The Doctor whimpered, soft and involuntary.

“Shhh,” the Master whispered. “That’s it. Just let it happen. Let me talk to you.”

He kept his hand exactly where it was — warm, firm, unmoving — and started speaking again. Softly. Slowly. Like a spell being woven directly into the Doctor’s skin.

“You’re so pretty when you’re like this,” he whispered. “All tense and red-faced, trying to keep control. You don’t have to, you know. Not with me.”

The Doctor turned his face away, burning.

“Oh, don’t hide, baby. Let me look at you.” The Master’s voice was honey-thick now, sickeningly sweet. “My gorgeous, helpless thing. Trying so hard to be a man, when all you really want is to be held and praised and ruined.”

The Doctor whimpered again.

The Master kissed his cheek.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispered. “So, so well. Sitting still like a good boy. Listening. Letting me show you what you really are.”

His thumb flexed, just barely — not even a rub, just a tiny pressure.

The Doctor shuddered.

The Master grinned into his neck. “Oh, yes. I’m going to enjoy this.”

The Doctor sat stiffly, awkward and too upright, like he thought posture alone might save him from what was happening.

It didn’t.

The Master was settled comfortably beneath him, one leg crossed just so, his free hand draped across the Doctor’s middle — casual, possessive. The other hand remained precisely where it had landed: warm and unmoving against the front of the Doctor’s trousers, offering just the faintest presence.

No movement. No pressure. Just there.

Which, somehow, was worse.

“Relax,” the Master murmured, voice all lazy affection. “You’re sitting like I’ve asked you to recite your sins. Which, for the record, you’re welcome to do — but not until I’ve had my turn.”

The Doctor didn't answer. He couldn’t. His face was flushed red to the tips of his ears, his thighs trembling faintly where they hung over the Master’s lap.

The Master adjusted him with both hands — one slipping under his knees to nudge them just slightly, the other still wickedly resting between his legs.

“There,” he cooed. “That’s better. Don’t you look sweet. Legs all dangling like a proper little thing. You do fit, don’t you? Right where you belong.”

The Doctor flinched at the words, breath stuttering.

“Ohh,” the Master said, tilting his head. “Did that hit a nerve?”

He brushed a finger down the Doctor’s cheek — featherlight, affectionate.

The Doctor twitched beneath the touch, like he’d been branded.

“So sensitive,” the Master whispered, smiling. “And here I thought you were going to be such a tough little dom. All bark and swagger. But look at you now. Sitting in my lap, pink in the face, twitching every time I call you baby.”

“I’m not—” the Doctor tried, voice rough.

The Master just shushed him gently, tapping his nose. “Shhh. Don’t ruin the moment. You’re doing so well.”

And then — the Doctor moved.

Barely. Involuntary. Just the smallest unconscious roll of his hips forward. Barely a rub. Just enough to press himself more firmly against that hand.

His eyes widened in horror the instant he realized it.

He froze.

The Master stilled too — not in alarm, but in delight.

“Oho,” he breathed, a grin splitting slowly across his face. “What’s this, love?”

The Doctor shook his head. “I didn’t—”

“Shhh,” the Master said again, but this time his voice dripped with dark amusement. “You don’t have to explain. Your body’s already confessing.”

The Doctor squeezed his eyes shut, mortified.

“Aw, sweetheart,” the Master whispered. “You’re blushing so hard. Did you not mean to do that? Did your hips just go all wriggly on their own? That’s adorable.”

He chuckled lowly, rocking his lap — just a tiny motion. Enough to make the Doctor gasp.

“There we go. That’s my soft thing. My sweet, squirmy boy.”

The Doctor whimpered again — and the Master moaned mockingly at the sound.

“You were so sure you were going to be the one in charge tonight. You really believed it, didn’t you? Walked in like you owned the place. Poor darling. You’re just a little mess waiting to happen.”

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of the Doctor’s ear.

“You don’t have to act,” he whispered. “Not with me. I already know what you are.”

The Doctor’s breath hitched. His hands were gripping the Master’s sleeves now, white-knuckled. Desperate.

“You’re my baby,” the Master purred. “That’s what you are.”

The Doctor trembled violently, and the Master cooed again, delighted.

“Shhh, I’ve got you. We’re just talking. Just a hand. Just words. And you’re already starting to shake. You don’t stand a chance, do you?”

The Doctor whimpered, shamed and helpless — his hips twitching again, barely-there, trying to find something he wasn’t brave enough to ask for.

The Master smiled against his temple.

“Good boy.”

The Master shifted slightly on the bed, resettling the Doctor in his lap like he was adjusting a favorite throw pillow — all affection, no shame. His arms curled loosely around the Doctor’s waist, and his chin rested against the Doctor’s shoulder.

The Doctor was rigid.

Or at least, he tried to be. His body betrayed him every time the Master’s voice dropped just low enough to graze his ear.

“Sweet thing,” the Master murmured, barely above a breath. “You really thought you were gonna top tonight?”

The Doctor flinched.

“Thought you were gonna go strutting in and find yourself a nice, pliant sub to order around?” He nuzzled closer, grinning. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”

The Doctor made a strangled noise in his throat.

The Master’s hand — the one still resting over his crotch — didn’t move. But the Doctor’s hips did. Just barely. Just a twitch, a helpless roll, like he couldn’t not.

The Doctor shook his head, panicked.

“Shhh,” the Master soothed instantly, voice turning syrupy and condescending in equal measure. “No no, it’s alright. You’re doing so well.”

He kissed the side of the Doctor’s head, fingers gently stroking his ribs through his coat.

“You even got dressed up for the part,” the Master cooed. “Swishy little coat. Dramatic hair. All charm and swagger and those pretty long legs. Bet you looked in the mirror before you left and thought, yes, this is what a dom looks like. Didn’t you?”

The Doctor groaned softly, face burning.

“I mean, I can’t blame you,” the Master went on. “You looked very fetching. Very commanding. Until you waddled straight over to me like a duckling who just imprinted.”

“I didn’t—” the Doctor tried to protest, voice hoarse.

The Master immediately shushed him again, lips brushing his cheek. “Shhh. S’alright. No talking now. Just listening. You like when I talk, don’t you?”

The Doctor gave a shaky gasp.

“I bet your hearts were pounding the second you saw me,” the Master whispered. “Didn’t even try to walk away. Just stared. All your big plans leaking out of your ears the second I looked at you.”

Another unconscious twitch of the Doctor’s hips — a little stronger this time.

The Master’s hand responded.

Just the faintest pressure, fingers curling slightly.

The Doctor whimpered.

“Oh, baby,” the Master breathed. “Are you rubbing on me? Without meaning to? You poor thing. Your clever little brain must be melting.”

“I—” the Doctor started, but his voice broke entirely.

“I know,” the Master whispered, impossibly gentle now. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be big for me. You don’t have to pretend. You’re just a soft, needy little boy who wants someone to see him. To talk to him nice and slow, and keep their hand right there while he squirms and gasps and blushes.”

The Doctor let out a broken noise — somewhere between a sob and a moan.

The Master’s voice dropped lower, almost a lullaby now.

“You’re not a dom. You’re not even close. You’re a good boy. My good boy. And I’m gonna sit here and talk to you until you forget why you ever wanted anything else.”

His hand pressed a bit firmer again — still not moving, just letting the weight of it sink through.

The Doctor shook in his arms, one hand fisting the Master’s sleeve.

And still, the Master didn’t stop talking.

The Doctor was sweating.

Not visibly — not enough to soak his shirt or ruin his coat — but enough that his collar felt too tight and the air too thick. His chest heaved with every breath. His eyes fluttered open and closed, like he couldn’t quite stay present and couldn’t quite slip away either.

And the Master… well.

The Master was glowing.

His arms were wrapped loosely around the Doctor’s middle, his cheek pressed to the side of his head like they were cuddling before bed. His voice stayed low, syrupy-slow, that same crooning cadence designed to disarm.

“Let’s play a game, sweetheart,” he murmured, stroking a thumb over the Doctor’s waistband. “Just you and me. I’ll ask questions. You try your best to answer like a big boy.”

The Doctor whimpered.

“Mm-mm. Don’t get all shy. You were going to be so commanding tonight, remember? All stern voice and big hands. You were gonna… what? Spank some poor thing into obedience?”

The Doctor made a soft, strangled noise.

The Master gasped, grinning.

“Ohhh, were you?” he teased. “You were going to bend someone over and give them a spanking, Doctor? Really?”

His hand pressed a little more firmly against the Doctor’s crotch — still not rubbing, but the implication hung in the air like lightning before a storm.

“Or…” the Master whispered, lips grazing his ear, “did you just want me to spank you?”

The Doctor’s hips jerked forward without warning, humping against that perfectly still hand — once, twice, uncontrolled.

“Oh,” the Master breathed, delighted. “Oh, love. Did you just squirm at the idea of me spanking you?”

The Doctor let out a full-bodied groan, mortified, his face buried in the Master’s shoulder. His fingers clawed at the dark fabric of the Master’s shirt like he could hide inside it.

“Stop,” he muttered into the cloth. “Please—”

The Master tutted gently. “Now, now. No need to be embarrassed. You’re being so good. So brave.”

He kissed the top of the Doctor’s head, soft and slow.

“Tell me,” he said sweetly. “What were you hoping for tonight?”

The Doctor shook his head against his chest.

The Master cooed, mock-pouting. “Be honest, or I’ll pout.”

The Doctor squirmed. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do,” the Master crooned. “You do, my clever little duck. You just don’t have the words right now.”

He shifted slightly, adjusting their position so the Doctor was more fully in his lap, legs dangling and back tucked against his chest. He was cradled now, fully supported.

“You just feel all floaty, don’t you?” the Master whispered. “Heavy and warm and silly in the head.”

The Doctor nodded before he realized he was doing it.

The Master smiled and nuzzled against his temple. “You’re just a soft little baby who needs someone to hold him and tell him he’s precious.”

His hand flexed again, gently squeezing now.

“I can do that,” he whispered, lips brushing the Doctor’s ear. “I want to do that. I want to be the one who takes care of you, talks you through all the messy thoughts in that brilliant head until you’re just wriggling in my lap, lost and lovely.”

The Doctor gasped, sharp and high.

His hips were moving again, shameful and desperate, riding into the warm cradle of the Master’s palm like it was the only thing tethering him to the universe.

“Good boy,” the Master crooned, so pleased. “That’s it. Just like that. Just listen to my voice and let go.”

The Doctor was shaking.

Not from fear. Not from cold. But from something far more dangerous — need. Overwhelming, humiliating, molten need, building in every inch of him like static, like thunderclouds about to burst.

And the Master…

The Master was calm. Cruelly, impossibly calm.

One hand stayed soft, endlessly, maddeningly tender. It wandered through the Doctor’s hair, stroked slow circles down his back, and traced the edge of his jaw. Each touch was non-sexual, intimate, like soothing a child after a nightmare.

The other hand never moved from its place. Still cupping the Doctor’s crotch, it offered nothing but pressure — firm, steady, there.

And the Doctor couldn’t stop moving against it.

He hated it. He hated that his hips had a mind of their own now, that he couldn’t stop rutting forward like some mindless thing — grinding into the Master’s hand with helpless desperation.

“Shh…” the Master whispered, voice like smoke and velvet. “You’re alright. You’re all mine now, baby boy.”

The Doctor whimpered — sharp and high — and hid his face in the Master’s neck, shaking from the inside out.

“Ohh,” the Master purred, cupping his cheek with that gentle, reverent touch. “You get so hot when I call you that, don’t you? Baby. My baby boy.”

The Doctor let out a ragged moan, muffled against his throat.

“You’re wriggling like a little puppy,” the Master whispered, kissing his temple. “So eager. So messy. And you still haven’t even been touched.”

The Doctor sobbed out a sound that didn’t have language. His thighs were twitching now, his hips rocking in wild, humiliated jerks — driven by instinct and shame and everything he’d tried to bury when he’d walked into that club all puffed up with pride.

And the Master…

He just talked.

“You like it when I talk to you like this, don’t you?” he murmured. “When I tell you how tiny and squishy you are?”

The Doctor moaned — loud, broken, involuntary — and curled closer into the Master’s chest, trying to disappear into his skin.

The Master grinned, impossibly fond.

“I bet if I peeled back all those layers — that big coat, that sharp suit, all your silly little defenses — I’d find a warm, trembling baby underneath. All soft thighs and wet eyes and need.”

He kissed the Doctor’s cheek, slow and warm.

“You are soft. You’re the softest thing I’ve ever held. Squirmy little thing. And I could keep you like this forever.”

The Doctor’s hips jolted again — frantic now, animal.

He gasped, choked, trembling.

“Mm-mm,” the Master breathed, tightening his hold just a touch. “Not yet, sweet thing.”

The Doctor made a sound between a sob and a growl, high and helpless.

His whole body ached — lit up from the inside, desperate for something he couldn’t name, couldn’t ask for.

But the Master just cooed at him, gentle and cruel all at once.

“Shh. You’re not going anywhere yet.”

His hand stayed perfectly still.

“You’re gonna let me keep talking,” he whispered, “and you’re gonna be so good while you wait.”

The Doctor whimpered again, grinding down without meaning to — only to find the same warm pressure, unmoving, constant, denying.

And the Master smiled.

“Oh, my lovely little baby,” he crooned. “You’re going to beg for it before I’m done.”

The Doctor was unraveling.

He was gasping in the Master’s arms, body flushed and twitching, hips rocking in frantic, pathetic little thrusts against a hand that still — still — hadn’t moved. That steady pressure, warm and firm, had become an anchor and a torment.

And all the while, the Master kept talking.

“Might just keep you like this,” he murmured against the Doctor’s ear. “All small and needy in my arms. My precious thing. My little whimpering pet.”

The Doctor’s fingers clawed at the Master’s coat, teeth gritted, but the only sounds coming out of him now were helpless whines — high and wet and hopeless.

The Master chuckled, soft and dark.

“Bet you’d let me undress you real gentle, hmm?” he whispered. “Tuck you in my bed and kiss you silly until you cry. Lay you down in my sheets all flushed and wet, let you squirm while I whisper how good you’re being. How pretty. How mine.”

The Doctor shook his head — not in protest, just in overload.

“Mmm. You’d let me touch you nice and slow,” the Master crooned. “Wouldn’t even try to be clever about it. You’d lie there with your thighs open and your lips parted, making those soft little sounds, begging without even realizing it.”

The Doctor was panting so hard now that he was almost sobbing.

His hips were rutting against the Master’s palm with wild urgency, desperate for friction, desperate for release. His entire body trembled in place — he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t control it.

“And maybe,” the Master continued, “I’ll just keep talking to you all night. Just like this. No touching. No stroking. Just words. Until your clever little head can’t hold up anymore.”

That did it.

The Doctor broke.

He started whispering, “Master, please… Master, please… Master, please…” over and over, quiet at first, then louder, a breathless mantra whispered into the Master’s shoulder like a prayer.

“Please… please… please…”

“Oh, baby,” the Master whispered, lips brushing his temple. “That’s it. Let it happen. You’re doing so well.”

The Doctor let out a strangled, broken sound — somewhere between a gasp and a sob — and then it hit him.

His back arched.

His whole body seized.

He came, full and hard, right there in his trousers, in the Master’s lap, with nothing but a palm and a voice and a thousand cruelly gentle words.

It was too much.

He collapsed forward into the Master’s chest with a whimper, utterly spent — gasping, dazed, mortified beyond belief.

The Master was beaming.

“Ohhh, look at you,” he purred, delighted. “Made such a mess, and I didn’t even have to lift a finger.”

The Doctor made a tiny, pained noise and tried to curl in on himself.

The Master didn’t let him.

He just held him tighter, kissed his temple, and whispered:

“You’re mine now.”

The Doctor collapsed against him.

Breathing hard. Shaking. His face was a shade of red that didn’t seem physically possible — ears, cheeks, neck, all burning. His chest was rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon, and his whole body was twitching in the Master’s arms, oversensitive and overwhelmed.

He was horrified.

“I—I didn’t—mean—” the Doctor started, stammering against the Master’s shoulder.

But the Master just kissed the top of his head and shushed him gently.

“Shhh,” he whispered, voice syrupy-sweet. “You were perfect. My perfect little mess.”

The Doctor whimpered and tried to hide again, face burrowing into the Master’s chest, as if that might undo what just happened.

But the Master didn’t stop.

He cradled him tighter, rubbing his back in slow, soothing circles. One hand slid up to card through his sweat-dampened hair, the other settled low on his back, grounding him, holding him in place.

“You came like a good boy, didn’t you?” the Master murmured, nuzzling into his curls. “Just from hearing my voice. That’s special, sweetheart. That’s rare. You’re such a treasure.”

The Doctor let out a soft, broken whine — all protest, no strength.

“Shhh,” the Master soothed. “You’re alright. You’re mine. You did so, so well.”

And then — as if that wasn’t enough — he started rocking him.

Gently.

Slowly.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The Doctor made a strangled noise and curled in tighter, burying his face deep in the Master’s chest. He didn’t speak. Not for minutes. He just lay there in silence, trembling faintly, as the Master cooed in his ear and rocked them both with maddening patience.

“Such a good baby,” the Master whispered. “All soft and sleepy now, aren’t you?”

The Doctor didn’t answer.

Didn’t move.

He wanted to disappear.

The Master only smiled, completely unbothered. He nuzzled his cheek, kissed his temple again, and whispered:

“Next time, I’ll get you properly undressed first.”

The Doctor groaned in protest — but didn’t lift his head.

And the Master just chuckled, brushing his fingers through his hair like he was so proud of him.

Because he was.

And he was already planning exactly what he’d do the next time his pretty, prideful Doctor came strutting into his arms pretending to be anything other than this.

---

Epilogue: Morning After

(Where the Doctor tries to claw back some dignity… and the Master, of course, doesn't let him. Not out of cruelty, but out of affection. Because once you've seen the universe’s cleverest man melt into your lap, you don’t let him pretend you didn’t.)

The Doctor woke up feeling... soft.

Soft and warm and absolutely wrong, because Time Lords didn’t do soft. Especially not him. He’d lived a thousand lifetimes blazing through galaxies. He’d torn apart empires. He did not wake up tangled in the arms of his arch-nemesis, sticky and mortified, wearing nothing but shame and a T-shirt that wasn’t his.

(Black. Tight. Smelled like the Master. Unforgivable.)

The Master stirred behind him, voice already lazy with fond smugness. “Good morning, baby boy.”

The Doctor groaned. “Don’t.”

“Mmm?” The Master yawned, nosing into the back of the Doctor’s neck. “Don’t what, sweetheart?”

“Don’t call me—” The Doctor turned over, face already flushing. “That. Just—don’t.”

The Master blinked down at him, mock-innocent and deeply amused. “Oh, you mean baby? Sweetheart? My squishy little thing who made a mess in his trousers just from listening to my voice?”

The Doctor let out a mortified sound and immediately rolled away, dragging the covers with him like a shield. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” the Master sing-songed, following him across the bed like a smug heat-seeking missile. “You adore me. You whimpered my name while rutting against my hand like a needy pup.”

“That never happened.”

“Oh, it absolutely did,” the Master said, wrapping both arms around him again from behind and pulling him into his chest. “I’m thinking of getting it engraved on something.”

The Doctor buried his burning face in the pillow. “You’re the worst.”

“And you’re precious,” the Master whispered, kissing the top of his head. “You know, you’re even cuter in the morning. Sleepy eyes, mussed-up hair. I should keep you in bed all day.”

“I’m leaving,” the Doctor muttered, muffled against the pillow.

“Not without breakfast, you aren’t.”

“I’m not hungry.”

The Master reached around, hand resting right on the Doctor’s stomach, possessive and fond. “Liar. Your tummy just made a sound like a dying sheep.”

“Did not.”

“I’ll make pancakes.”

The Doctor froze.

The Master smiled.

“Thought so.”

He pressed one last kiss to the Doctor’s temple before slipping out of bed, humming softly as he wandered toward the kitchenette — shirtless, victorious, and absolutely glowing with self-satisfaction.

And the Doctor?

He stayed under the covers, flushed and quiet, heart racing in the ruins of his dignity.

Still soft.

Still shaken.

Still his.