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best_enemiesTitle: Science and Observation (and Things)
Author: HereThereBeFic
Pairings: Delgado!Master/Eleven, Ainley!Master/Eleven, Simm!Master/Eleven, Eleven/Eleven.
Summary: For the prompt - "Eleventh Doctor/Ganger!Doctor in the form of/roleplaying a Master. Bonus points for Eleven getting all teary over Simm's sacrifice last time he saw him."
Notes: De-anoning from the kink meme. (Er. That's allowed, right?) I also made some simple adjustments and added one line near the end, I think. Constructive criticism is welcome - this is far outside my usual fic comfort zone.
Rating: NC-17 for implied Things.
There was never even a question of if they were going to try it. Because really - there were two of them. Two. It would have been a crime against science not to at least broach the subject.
And broach it they did. All in the name of science, of course. (And fun. He had never been one to lie where fun was concerned - not even to himself. Or, well... himself.)
Two of them. Two of them exactly the same, save for an hour or so of memories and independent thought. But really, with 900-some-odd years (and wasn't it strange to be keeping that pretense up now?) of exactly the same, an hour didn't even count.
There were also the shoes, of course, but those were the first to go anyway.
"Now then, Doctor," said the Doctor, straightening up and rubbing his hands together. He immediately felt foolish, not least because he knew the other him would agree.
The Doctor 2.0 grinned. "Yes, Doctor?"
"Shall we begin?"
"Do you have to ask?"
They started slow, because - well, science, and observation, and... things.
He didn't make a habit of kissing people, but seeing as he'd had centuries in which to be hesitant and conflicted about it, he'd still done a fair bit. Kissing himself was not his strangest experience with the act.
But it was... strange. His tongue was inside his own mouth.
Well - that is - he knew what he meant.
He noticed that his ganger didn't seem to know what to do with his hands, and thought that he wouldn't mind having them in his hair - then he realized that his own hands weren't doing much, either. He made the correction only a split second before his double did the same.
His hair was rather lovely, wasn't it?
---
After the kissing, things progressed rather quickly. Science would survive.
"Now then.” The ganger's grin was excitingly feral. The Doctor swallowed, pretending for the sake of dramatic tension that he didn't know what was coming. “The interesting bit. Yes?”
“Yes,” the Doctor whispered, shifting closer to him.
“I could probably actually take his shape,” the ganger muttered, as he set about binding the Doctor's wrists. It was difficult, with nothing but a bow-tie to work with. “But it would take time and effort and energy. Time would be annoying and I don't have much of the other two to spare, what with... things.”
“Quite right,” the Doctor murmured, a bit distracted. He was watching his own fingers work dexterously to tie his hands together.
“Tight enough?”
He tested. “I think so.”
“Right then.”
The Doctor closed his eyes.
“I think I can manage the voice, though.” He nearly jumped. Beard, he thought. That one had a beard. He'd always liked the beard.
“You are at my mercy.” The voice was in his ear now, a rough whisper. He could feel hot breath on the side of his face. “How unfortunate for you that I have none.”
And then teeth, on his neck, and for a moment he was thrown because those were his, but a second later they were gone and the voice was back. “You like that. Tell me how much you like it, Doctor.”
He gulped. The skin on his neck was tingling and cool, and he honestly couldn't think of anything he wanted more at that exact moment than that mouth back on him. “I love it,” he managed raggedly.
“Good boy.”
He clamped his mouth shut to keep from crying out as teeth met flesh again, this time biting down hard on his shoulder. I'm going to have a hickey in the exact shape of my mouth, he thought, and choked back a laugh.
“I wonder, Doctor,” and this was a different voice, a different beard, he couldn't help but think, “just what it would take to make you scream.”
“Wouldn't you like to know.”
“I'm sure I will.”
Fingers traced up his spine, splayed with deliberate exactness in a way that would have hurt if just so much more pressure was applied. He shivered, drawing in a sharp breath.
“Of course, I've made you scream before, haven't I?”
Another new voice. No beard this time. “Don't,” the Doctor said hoarsely.
But he didn't mean it, not really, and the other would know that.
“All I have to do is die, and you scream so beautifully. Just for me. I wonder...”
A hand on his face, cupping his cheek, almost gentle and so close to a caress he couldn't stifle a gasp.
“...did you scream when I died for you? When I saved your life?”
“Don't.” His voice was shaking now, but he still didn't mean it.
“Or did you even notice? You were a bit self-centered your last go-around, weren't you?” The hand slipped down his face to his shoulder – pausing for a moment over the bite, where he could already feel a bruise forming. “Of course, I was just the last in a long line of people to die for you, wasn't I? Why would you think twice about me?”
“It wasn't –”
“Like that? No, of course not. You were always too righteous for that. I'll bet you tortured yourself,” the voice hissed.
“Don't.”
The other hand came up and both slid down his arms, nails scratching, just hard enough to cause pain.
“Because you think that makes it better, don't you? You think as long as you're sad about something, it's all right. As if that'll bring any of them back. As if it will bring me back. Make it less your fault. Make everything better. Make me hate you any less.”
“Stop.” His jaw was trembling and his voice was cracking, and he meant it.
He opened his eyes and stared himself in the face.
“Right,” the other him whispered, looking away with a swallow, and his own voice – his real voice – was shaky and low. He began untying the bow-tie with fumbling fingers. “That was –”
“Yes.”
“I mean, I was just as –”
“Naturally.”
“I'm –”
“Don't be.”
“I thought you –”
“I did.”
Their eyes met. They stared at each other for a long moment, both breathing hard.
“You're crying.”
“So are you.”
The Doctor swiped a hand down the side of his face and examined it. So he was. “Only natural.”
“Do you want to –”
“Yes.”
They shifted until they were sitting in each other's arms.
Lips met a bruised shoulder. “Sorry about the bite.”
“I don't mind.”
He rested his head in the crook of his own neck, a hand on his own chest, and felt his own fingers stroke through his hair.
Author: HereThereBeFic
Pairings: Delgado!Master/Eleven, Ainley!Master/Eleven, Simm!Master/Eleven, Eleven/Eleven.
Summary: For the prompt - "Eleventh Doctor/Ganger!Doctor in the form of/roleplaying a Master. Bonus points for Eleven getting all teary over Simm's sacrifice last time he saw him."
Notes: De-anoning from the kink meme. (Er. That's allowed, right?) I also made some simple adjustments and added one line near the end, I think. Constructive criticism is welcome - this is far outside my usual fic comfort zone.
Rating: NC-17 for implied Things.
There was never even a question of if they were going to try it. Because really - there were two of them. Two. It would have been a crime against science not to at least broach the subject.
And broach it they did. All in the name of science, of course. (And fun. He had never been one to lie where fun was concerned - not even to himself. Or, well... himself.)
Two of them. Two of them exactly the same, save for an hour or so of memories and independent thought. But really, with 900-some-odd years (and wasn't it strange to be keeping that pretense up now?) of exactly the same, an hour didn't even count.
There were also the shoes, of course, but those were the first to go anyway.
"Now then, Doctor," said the Doctor, straightening up and rubbing his hands together. He immediately felt foolish, not least because he knew the other him would agree.
The Doctor 2.0 grinned. "Yes, Doctor?"
"Shall we begin?"
"Do you have to ask?"
They started slow, because - well, science, and observation, and... things.
He didn't make a habit of kissing people, but seeing as he'd had centuries in which to be hesitant and conflicted about it, he'd still done a fair bit. Kissing himself was not his strangest experience with the act.
But it was... strange. His tongue was inside his own mouth.
Well - that is - he knew what he meant.
He noticed that his ganger didn't seem to know what to do with his hands, and thought that he wouldn't mind having them in his hair - then he realized that his own hands weren't doing much, either. He made the correction only a split second before his double did the same.
His hair was rather lovely, wasn't it?
---
After the kissing, things progressed rather quickly. Science would survive.
"Now then.” The ganger's grin was excitingly feral. The Doctor swallowed, pretending for the sake of dramatic tension that he didn't know what was coming. “The interesting bit. Yes?”
“Yes,” the Doctor whispered, shifting closer to him.
“I could probably actually take his shape,” the ganger muttered, as he set about binding the Doctor's wrists. It was difficult, with nothing but a bow-tie to work with. “But it would take time and effort and energy. Time would be annoying and I don't have much of the other two to spare, what with... things.”
“Quite right,” the Doctor murmured, a bit distracted. He was watching his own fingers work dexterously to tie his hands together.
“Tight enough?”
He tested. “I think so.”
“Right then.”
The Doctor closed his eyes.
“I think I can manage the voice, though.” He nearly jumped. Beard, he thought. That one had a beard. He'd always liked the beard.
“You are at my mercy.” The voice was in his ear now, a rough whisper. He could feel hot breath on the side of his face. “How unfortunate for you that I have none.”
And then teeth, on his neck, and for a moment he was thrown because those were his, but a second later they were gone and the voice was back. “You like that. Tell me how much you like it, Doctor.”
He gulped. The skin on his neck was tingling and cool, and he honestly couldn't think of anything he wanted more at that exact moment than that mouth back on him. “I love it,” he managed raggedly.
“Good boy.”
He clamped his mouth shut to keep from crying out as teeth met flesh again, this time biting down hard on his shoulder. I'm going to have a hickey in the exact shape of my mouth, he thought, and choked back a laugh.
“I wonder, Doctor,” and this was a different voice, a different beard, he couldn't help but think, “just what it would take to make you scream.”
“Wouldn't you like to know.”
“I'm sure I will.”
Fingers traced up his spine, splayed with deliberate exactness in a way that would have hurt if just so much more pressure was applied. He shivered, drawing in a sharp breath.
“Of course, I've made you scream before, haven't I?”
Another new voice. No beard this time. “Don't,” the Doctor said hoarsely.
But he didn't mean it, not really, and the other would know that.
“All I have to do is die, and you scream so beautifully. Just for me. I wonder...”
A hand on his face, cupping his cheek, almost gentle and so close to a caress he couldn't stifle a gasp.
“...did you scream when I died for you? When I saved your life?”
“Don't.” His voice was shaking now, but he still didn't mean it.
“Or did you even notice? You were a bit self-centered your last go-around, weren't you?” The hand slipped down his face to his shoulder – pausing for a moment over the bite, where he could already feel a bruise forming. “Of course, I was just the last in a long line of people to die for you, wasn't I? Why would you think twice about me?”
“It wasn't –”
“Like that? No, of course not. You were always too righteous for that. I'll bet you tortured yourself,” the voice hissed.
“Don't.”
The other hand came up and both slid down his arms, nails scratching, just hard enough to cause pain.
“Because you think that makes it better, don't you? You think as long as you're sad about something, it's all right. As if that'll bring any of them back. As if it will bring me back. Make it less your fault. Make everything better. Make me hate you any less.”
“Stop.” His jaw was trembling and his voice was cracking, and he meant it.
He opened his eyes and stared himself in the face.
“Right,” the other him whispered, looking away with a swallow, and his own voice – his real voice – was shaky and low. He began untying the bow-tie with fumbling fingers. “That was –”
“Yes.”
“I mean, I was just as –”
“Naturally.”
“I'm –”
“Don't be.”
“I thought you –”
“I did.”
Their eyes met. They stared at each other for a long moment, both breathing hard.
“You're crying.”
“So are you.”
The Doctor swiped a hand down the side of his face and examined it. So he was. “Only natural.”
“Do you want to –”
“Yes.”
They shifted until they were sitting in each other's arms.
Lips met a bruised shoulder. “Sorry about the bite.”
“I don't mind.”
He rested his head in the crook of his own neck, a hand on his own chest, and felt his own fingers stroke through his hair.
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