Log in

No account? Create an account
Best Enemies
A Cosmos Without Doctor/Master Scarcely Bears Thinking About
Ask and Ye Shall Receive... 
15th-Apr-2008 02:34 pm
Best Enemies
You can has Anonymous Porn Meme!

Simply comment anonymously with a fic scenario you'd like to see written (your request does have to relate to the Doctor and the Master in some at least tangential way), and respond anonymously to other's requests with anything from a drabbles to full length stories. If you make a ton of requests? You should definitely try and fill a couple.  As Mama in Chicago would explain, it's about reciprocity.

Give it a try! Play hard, have fun!

Edit: *If you really like a prompt and it's been filled, feel free to respond again! One prompt can spawn multiple ficclets!*

Return of Edit: If you don't necessarily need them to sex right nao, but just want to see them do some specific thing, like talk about their granddaughter Susan just as an example (pulled from an idea below), that's awesome as well! Non-porn on the Anon Porn Meme! So Transgressive!

EDIT OF RASSILON: Write RESPONSE in the subject line of a request-fill post to make navigating to responses/telling what's been answered vs. just ditto'd easier for everyone. I don't want to hate on ditos/expansions/qualifications, they're useful! But threads collapse all annoying-like with this layout. x_x

EDIT OF OMEGA: Recently we've had some kinda dubious anon meme posts. The prompts in question are fine; some prompts are responses to others, and you're allowed to have opinions. But exercise best judgement/play well with others. Don't diss other people's prompts when you make yours. You may be anon, but this ain't who_anon. Not everything's gonna be your cuppa. It would be nice if we could avoid 'your choices are invalid, this character is this way' in the future.
10th-May-2008 08:46 pm (UTC)
Doctor/Master, The Mind of Evil, missing scene with the Doctor tied up awaiting the Keller process.
11th-May-2008 05:57 am (UTC)
I second this so very hard!
10th-Jun-2008 06:27 pm (UTC) - RESPONSE II: I felt bad, so less Heisenberg, more pr0n. Part I!

The Master if flicking at the dials with exaggerated slow precision.

“Look—” The Doctor begins. The Master turns his head to look at him, expression carefully neutral.

The Doctor swallows.

“Look. What would it take for you not to turn it on?”

The Master straightens up, crossing his arms over his chest. “Quite a bit, I imagine. I rather had my hearts set on it.” Mock-invested, with a fair bit of give to his position. Good. The Doctor can work with that.

“What would you like, then?” Eyes narrow, expression very guarded, but the Master simply laughs at him, throwing his head back just a bit.

“Oh really Doctor. Do you imagine I’ll make demands, so that you can act entirely shocked, every inch the reluctant innocent? I hardly think you can’t come up with something I might find a suitable alternative to your suffering.” His eyes glitter, amusement and—

“Well,” the Doctor doesn’t try for a tone of enticement, but then with the Master encouragement is hardly necessary, “Come here, then.”

The Master is again leaning over his chair, tense and waiting. The Doctor moves his head up towards him as much as his bound position can comfortably allow. He closes his eyes. The Master pauses, right above his mouth, breathing each other’s breath, and he’s savoring or hesitating or something the Doctor can’t even guess, but then he’s taking, his mouth moving on the Doctor’s with gathering sureness and speed. The Doctor’s breath catches. The Master bites his lower lip quite gently.

“And the rest,” the Master says or asks, the Doctor can’t tell which, but he nods, and what the Master can easily remove with the cuffs on gets taken off and lands in some corner of the room with the muffled thumb of fabric. The Doctor can’t tell which corner because his eyes are still closed, though he hisses in a breath of air when the hand that’s been unbuttoning his shirt finds him beneath all the defenses of layers of fabric that usually protect him from the Master.

A finger surveys the flesh between his stomach and his neck, and the Doctor feels as if his skin and muscle split open under that delicate, knowing touch, baring him to the man above him. His eyes open, and they’re already locked with the Master’s, who very deliberately moves in for another kiss, hands far from inactive, gripping at the Doctor’s skin under the jacket possessively. Kneading his exposed thighs and making the Doctor achingly hard.

The Doctor tells himself not to wonder if he could get away with not kissing him back, because he doesn’t want to have to decide that he has some moral obligation not to let his tongue slip into the Master’s mouth, some excellent reason not to follow when the Master pulls back, just a bit, as if to test that he will.

Still the hand between them, encircling him and beginning to move, startles the Doctor somewhat. The Master’s lips brush the Doctor’s neck, as if in reassurance, but then he seems to think the better of it because he’s sucking lightly, and then harder when the Doctor makes a noise of appreciation, and then, when the Doctor’s hips buck up under his hand, hard enough that it’ll certainly leave a mark that the Doctor will have to cover back up with his high ruffled collars for days.
10th-Jun-2008 06:30 pm (UTC) - RESPONSE II: I felt bad, so less Heisenberg, more pr0n. Part II!

He pulls back, and the Doctor’s eyes are closed again, but he can hear the noises of the Master undressing. When the Master comes back and resumes his old position it slips naturally into a straddle. There’s skin against his, warm and comfortable, and the Doctor bites his lip because he’s wanted this, and were circumstances different, he might even have said so.

There’s a hand under his chin, and the Master’s making sure the Doctor watches his eyes as he pours something over the Doctor’s lap, and there’s such intense focus, there, such want that the Doctor can feel himself responding even a little more, feel himself getting hot under the strength of that look.

“You’re going to—” he starts in to break the silence, and also because he’s the one handcuffed, and he didn’t really expect that not to mean something about who’d be doing what as well.

The Master laughs at him. “You’re handcuffed to a chair, Doctor.” He pats the Doctor’s cheek with the hand that’s not working in the oil. “Simple logistics.”

It doesn’t feel like simple logistics when the Master slides down around him, bending his knees to do it, bringing their chests and faces close. The Master shifts. Tries something, and the Doctor chokes a little in response. The Master smiles and does it again, rises and falls precisely, and the Doctor, face flushed, eyes wide, half laughs up at him, expression a little wondering.

“You’re awfully good at this,” he murmurs.

“Am I, Doctor?” The man smirking above him’s tone give the impression of total self-contentment, like a cat sunning itself put in words, but the way his body clenches makes it clear that he couldn’t be more pleased. And in a few moments, “How good, exactly?”

The Doctor would find it a little embarrassing to just go on about it, and blushes slightly and clears his throat, but then the Master’s moving faster and better and it’s harder and harder for the Doctor to catch his breath. Slumping forward into his ear, slinking the words in between licks at his neck, the Master bites out a clipped “How good?”

The Doctor babbles easily now, no self-consciousness left, about perfect heat and how very achingly good his movements feel and how fucking tight he is, getting obscene and tender, and he’s near and gasping and shuts up just to absorb the sensation and breathe.

“Keep talking,” the Master hisses, and the Doctor begins again, says things he can’t remember and things he can which he later realizes he probably really shouldn’t have—not that he didn’t mean them, but they’ll make facing the Master that much more awkward. Without prompting he promises the Master things he can’t let himself deliver, compliant and unconditional as he comes. The Master keeps going when the Doctor’s finished, and it hurts just a little, and it’s good. The Master whimpers the Doctor’s name into his damp curls. They come down so slowly, the Master running his hands across the Doctor’s skin in dazed satisfaction.

“Excellent trade,” he jokes, and the Doctor laughs.
10th-Jun-2008 07:23 am (UTC) - RESPONSE: Observer Effect, Part I (Apologies for lack of pr0n)
The Doctor’s only surprised for an instant to find the Master waiting for him in the Process Room, leaning against the wall in an indolent pose. Stupid, the Doctor thinks to himself, because the Master usually knows what he’ll do before the Doctor’s figured it out himself.

The Master’s had the luxury of looking at him from the outside, of making a study of him. He only sees the conclusions the Doctor comes to, the actions he decides to take. The Doctor oversees the messy business of reconciling his own scattered impulses and reaching those conclusions. Like an atom he can’t determine his momentum without altering his position—always too busy moving to form a clear idea of the path he takes. To himself he seems so indefinite.

It galls him to think that the Master must find him rather obvious.

The Master has to choose between being the one holding the gun on the Doctor and being the one to handcuff him into the chair. The Doctor takes comfort knowing that at least must annoy the Master to hand off either pleasure to a subordinate who really won’t appreciate it. It’s a small comfort, as the Master chooses the gun and circles him, pointing it right between his eyes, letting the Doctor understand what he could do if he wanted to.

Mailer had better wait outside, hadn’t he? Mailer closes the door behind him, and the Master catches that from the corner of his eye and ever so slightly starts. It suddenly occurs to him. What he could do it he wanted. And the Doctor can just see his mind working even as a discreet smile pulls across his face.

The Doctor wonders how differently the conversation might have gone had Mailer absently left the door open.

The Master leans over the Doctor, hands on either side of the chair. He explains he intends to subject the Doctor to his pet parasite, dragging a slow, pressing hand across the Doctor’s jacket and fishing out his amplifier, which he presses into the Doctor’s neck with a firm, gentle insistence.

Again he’s over the Doctor, “I really would like to stop and watch your nightmares—” voice almost wistful.

“Then why don’t you?” The Doctor snaps.

The Master arches an eyebrow. Hs eyes flick over to the closed door. He leans in.

“Why Doctor,” he breaths it out, half a chuckle, a pall of anticipation that makes the Doctor’s stomach clench as much as his fear of whatever the machine might show him does, “It’s been some time since I heard such an enticing invitation.”

The Doctor curses his mouth as the Master takes a few steps away, watching him intently. The Master leans back against the wall, legs crossed and arms folded over his chest as before, looking for all the world like he’d quite like to lick his lips if dignity didn’t forbid.

The machine starts to pulse, and the Doctor knows he can’t feel the flames, not really. Nor are the metallic screams real. When he’d had to consign the alternate Earth to the flames the year before he’d smelled something even as his TARDIS dematerialized, a horrible odor snaking through the doors of his TARDIS just as they shut, and he couldn’t stop himself from wondering, just for a flickering moment, what the smell could be, and couldn’t un-know (because he realized, even in the instant of wondering) that it was Liz’s hair, burning. Telling himself it wasn’t his Liz then was as useless as telling himself he couldn’t smell it because it wasn’t real now—what was the difference if it was real when atoms of a dead friend were in his nose and his mouth and his lungs and monsters were screaming and he could feel his face twist into horrible shapes and he wanted nothing, nothing in the world more than he wanted it to stop.
10th-Jun-2008 07:24 am (UTC) - RESPONSE: Observer Effect, Part II

And then the air was blessedly cool and he could only smell the sterile processing room and the Master’s light cologne, can only hear the quiet throb of the air conditioners and the Master saying “Shh, it’s alright. I have you,” his fingers stroking down the side to the Doctor’s face, and the Doctor can’t even remember, can’t care that the Master’s done this to him, he’s just straining against the hand cuffs to push his face into the Master’s sleeve, mouth moving in inarticulate shapes against the suit fabric.

“I,” he tries. Swallows. “I—”

“Shh,” the Master’s fingers light in his hair, “There now. Didn’t I stop it when it got too much?” And the Doctor stupidly nods, only grateful that it’s gone, that it’s ended.

The Doctor presses into his hand, willing him not to step back, not to take away safety and comfort and pressure and the smell of his soap and light, clean cologne, as if the other sensations, the ones he doesn’t want to think about, will well back up in his memory to take their place the moment the Master stops touching him.

“What do you see?” The Master asks, unpeeling the amplifier off the Doctor’s skin and tracing the raised bump of skin where it had rested with an idle finger. His voice is just a shade too tight for the question to be casual.

The Doctor rests his cheek on the Master’s forearm and weakly closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to disobey.

“An entire world, consumed in flames. A world like this one, simply lost. I tried,” his voice drops close to a whisper, “I tried.”

“Oh,” the Master manages to sound so disappointed in that one syllable that the Doctor wonders what it is the Master wanted him to say. The Master slides his hands away, and the Doctor wants to ask him to stay with him, wants to say ‘please’ and ‘Master’ if he has to, but he’s recovering his presence of mind now and he bites his lip until the need passes.

The Master turns his back to the Doctor and gets a palm on the door, but pauses at the sound of the Doctor’s voice.

“What did you see?” And the Doctor is looking down at the knees of his pants and not at the Master, not even turning as far as his bound position will allow, because his face is still slack and he’s beginning to comprehend the shame of his position again.

The Master laughs, and it’s thin, with so little of the glee of his normal chuckle that it’s hard to see the kinship in the sounds.

“Nothing you’ll ever be able to,” he offers, and closes the door behind him, leaving the Doctor to wait for him to send Mailer in to uncuff him.
This page was loaded Aug 23rd 2019, 3:40 pm GMT.