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quietwings-fics · 2 months

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New Discoveries, in Good Hands

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: N/A Fandom: Doctor Who Ship: Jack Harkness/Rose Tyler Additional Tags: Trans Rose Tyler, Facial Shaving, Minor Ninth Doctor/Jack Harkness/Rose Tyler, Touchy-Feely, Intimacy, Innuendo, Season/Series 01, Flirting, Denial, Trans Male Character, Fluff Wordcount: 3084 Summary:

Jack shows Rose what shaving is like. Rose enjoys more of it than she thought she would. (Or, Rose's first steps towards self-discovery.)

Rose is always surprised by how barren Jack’s room seems compared to her own. She tells herself it’s just a matter of time spent onboard the TARDIS, but she still pauses to frown at all the empty space. Even his bed is neatly made where her own remains in a constant state of disarray. The only reminders that he’s still living here at all are a spare t-shirt thrown over a chair and the sound of running water from the adjoining bathroom.

She makes her way over to him. She doesn’t knock, and didn’t when she entered in the first place, but she does call his name when she pokes her head in. “Jack?”

He turns back to acknowledge her, smiling beneath the beneath foamy wisps left of his shaving cream, though Rose is more distracted by his lack of a shirt and the dark hair spread down his chest that he hasn’t shaved. He leans against the sink, still dripping from where he’s been splashing himself clean, a straight razor held in place beneath his palm. “The Doctor sent you to fetch me?” he asks. Rose forces her eyes back up to his face, which Jack notices. It only makes his grin wilder as he angles himself to give her a better view. At that, Rose has to look away entirely, torn between laughing at his familiar confidence and flushing hot from head to toe.

“Something like that. You were running late. He notices.” Sometimes it feels like the Doctor has Rose’s morning routine better memorized than she does. He might fail to pick up on when she’s upset if it’s right in front of his face, but never if it makes her miss her usual breakfast. There’s a subtle pull at Jack’s mouth when she’s done speaking, a brief pinch around his eyes, gone by the time he’s turning to the sink to finish shaving.

“I had… a long night. Slept through my alarm. I’m almost done here.” The pause makes Rose want to push him for more, and she would if she knew where to start. It’s only a matter of time. No matter how good he is at hiding his secrets, he can’t stop himself from inviting them in to look for them. He wouldn’t do that if he didn’t want Rose and the Doctor to know eventually, but whenever that might be isn’t today, so Rose is left searching for something else to say.

“He also said to ask what your opinion on sea monsters is,” she falls back on. Despite avoiding the earlier subject, nothing about Jack comes off as defensive. He hums a simple note as he washes shaving cream off the razor and asks,

“With or without tentacles?” Rose blinks.

“Is that important?” she asks.

“Incredibly,” he answers. She watches the slow, practiced glide of the razor against the side of his chin, catching a few final hairs. He tilts his head slightly to get the angle right, showing off the curve of his neck to her. When Rose meets his eyes again through the bathroom mirror as he relaxes, he says, “Enjoying the show?”

“You like having an audience.” Jack leans down to cup his hands in the stream of water and splash his face. The razor rests at his side, the edge still foamy with cream and short, dark hairs. He pats himself dry with a towel, drops it against the sink, and then reaches out a hand towards her. Rose takes it without hesitation, stepping closer. Jack brings it up to the side of his face, resting her fingers against freshly shaven skin to feel the difference. Rose trails them down along his jaw and up again until she can cup his cheek in her palm. Jack’s eyes shut as he leans into her hand, relaxed and happy. In a week, maybe less, she knows she’ll be able to feel the rough beginnings of new stubble on his face. Something twinges in her chest as she thinks about watching that happen while she stays exactly the same. She frowns, not sure why that would even bother her.

She lets the expression fall away before Jack’s eyes open again. “Do I have to tell you you’re gorgeous? You seem to know already,” she teases. Jack nudges against her hand again playfully before she withdraws it.

“Never hurts,” he says. “Especially now that you’ve seen all the work I put in to stay that way. Unlike our Doctor.” Rose’s heart flutters with the ease with which Jack says ‘our’. “Do we even know if he ever shaves, or do you think he tells his chin hairs off sternly and they fall out in shame?”

“Sonics them away, I reckon,” Rose says, nodding as she lets her hand drop. The motion brings her gaze down to Jack’s chest again, and the speed at which she snaps her eyes back up to his makes her peeking even more obvious that last time. She can just feel Jack about to tease her about it, so she says the first thing that comes to mind to cut him off. “What does it feel like, anyway?”

“What?” he says, and she can hear the barely restrained flirtation just behind the words, held back to answer her question. “Shaving?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve never shaved anything before?” He sounds skeptical.

“Of course I’ve- That’s different!” Funnily enough, she can’t remember the last time she bothered to, either. No one around to remind her, she supposes. No wonder her legs have felt warmer under her skirts. She resolves to wear something long the next time she visits her mom. If she can’t see anything, she can’t say anything, and Rose can carry on exactly as she is. “I didn’t use shaving cream for my legs.”

“You should,” he says, casually. “You might need more to cover it, but it makes the whole process a lot faster. Less nicks, much more smooth, really prepares you for showing off in fishnets.” Before Rose has a minute to put together the pieces on him knowing all of that, Jack is reaching for his can of shaving cream. “Hold out your hand.”

When Rose does, he gives the can a light shake and spurts some cream onto her hand. The white foam spills messily across her palm from the nozzle.

“Don’t-” she starts.

“There’s more where that came from,” Jack says, suggestive, completely ignoring her. Rose rolls her eyes. She squishes her fingers through the foam. “Well? How does it feel?”

“Cold,” she answers. “Soft? A little like lotion.” The consistency is the same, at least. It feels nice against her skin. Jack’s watching her, thinking.

She’s still playing with the cream when she hears the water run again. Jack’s wetting the same towel he used to dry his face earlier. He turns back to her, fingers nudging her chin up. “Hold still,” he says. “I don’t want to get your shirt wet.” He dab at the lower half of her face with the warm washcloth. “Not that I’d complain, but I make a habit of only ruining other people’s clothes when they ask for it.” He motions her around with little taps against her jaw, and she follows, making it easier for him to dampen her skin with the hot water. “Which you still could. I’m not giving up hope yet.” He takes her hand in his own, palm up, and scrubs the shaving cream off of it for her before he puts the towel down.

“What are you doing?” Rose asks, though it’s obvious. She thinks she just wants him to say it for her, confirm this isn’t some kind of joke.

(But even if she didn’t know, she’d still let him. She’s in safe hands with Jack. Very few people have ever made her feel that way.)

“You said you wanted to know what it was like.” He picks up the shaving cream can again. She sees him weigh it in his hand like he’s trying to estimate how much is inside before he shakes it again. He pauses just long enough for her to step out of reach if she wanted to, and when she doesn’t, he puts his hand beneath her chin again. It’s more sure now. He guides her with his thumb solid against her jaw, turning her head slowly to make sure he covers her face with the cream. It tickles more than it did on her hand, and Rose bites her lip to keep from giggling.

“I don’t have anything to shave,” Rose protests, a little late. Her chin and cheeks feel chilled by the shaving cream, but not unpleasantly. There are streaks of it on Jack’s hand as he draws back again.

“I’m using my imagination,” Jack tells her. He washes his razor off for her, turning it this way and that beneath the sink before examining it to make sure nothing is sticking behind from its last use. It looks well-sharpened, but even when Jack rests it against her cheek for the first time, Rose can’t feel scared. There’s far too much focus in his eyes, even more so than when he was shaving his own face earlier. Very slowly, he scrapes a little of the shaving cream off her cheek. The razor slides against her skin, warm from the water it was under, contrasting against the cream and leaving the space behind it exposed again. “Breathe, Rose,” Jack tells her. She inhales, not realizing she’d stopped until he points it out.

The next glide of the razor moves in time with her exhale as she holds as still as she can for him. His other hand has found its place beneath his chin again, keeping her steady. When all she can do is memorize the feeling of him touching her, she notices the little differences between him and the Doctor, that the Doctor’s fingers are slightly longer, that Jack’s thumb has more of a callous along the inside of it. The razor moves easily through the shaving cream, and she can see Jack begin to relax the longer it goes without incident, as though he needs more reassurance than she does that he won’t mess up and nick her.

“Smoothest shave I’ve ever given anyone,” he jokes, but his voice is low and warm. Rose swallows.

Did he mean before that he was imagining her with… with what? Surely not a full beard, not unless he wanted to laugh at her… right? No. Maybe- Well, maybe he wasn’t imagining anything at all, from how concentrated he was.

Or maybe he was seeing her in his mind’s eye with a lazy week’s stubble, gently shaving it off for her. Did he imagine how it felt beneath his hands before when he was preparing her? Was he imagining it now as he rubbed his thumb along the bottom of her jaw? Would he like that, a little scratch of growing hair that she was letting him take care of? Rose’s could hear her own breaths from between her parted lips catching with the thought of all of it.

Would she like that?

“You alright, Rose?” Jack’s voice pulls her out of her own thoughts before she can scare herself. Scare herself? Is she scared? Her heart is beating faster, but she can’t tell if it’s fear or something else.

“Fine,” she answers, lying poorly. Jack pauses, and she feels his thumb rub against her jaw again. She focuses on that.

Safe in Jack’s hands, wherever he’s taking her.

“I’m okay,” she says, and this time, it’s true. Jack still waits for her to pout and say, “Get back to work, Jack.”

“Yes, sir,” Jack says, a professional snap to the words like a verbal salute that makes Rose bite her lip again. The razor comes back, continuing its journey across her face and smoothing away the shaving cream.

A few more drags in silence follow before a lopsided grin climbs onto Jack’s face.

“Found one.”

“One what?”

“One little brown hair,” Jack says. He flips the razor for her to see, and it really is the tiniest hair floating in the shaving cream on the blade. Rose stares at it.

She feels strangely proud that it exists. Even stranger, a little sad that Jack’s shaved it off.

It’ll grow back, she finds herself thinking.

“Blow on it,” he says. “Make a wish.”

“You’re thinking of eyelashes.”

“I don’t think the wish will care that much which hair it came from.” She indulges him. She blows a few white drops of shaving cream back onto Jack’s chest. Without thinking, she reaches forward to wipe them off with her thumb. She freezes when she touches him, but it’s far too late to back out now. She brushes her thumb across each speck, following them down along his chest to the last one low against his ribs. Her fingers run over his chest hair as she does. It’s a fight both to make herself not react to that or to go back and explore a little more. Her cheeks are burning, and there isn’t nearly enough shaving cream left to hide it.

“You really didn’t need an excuse if you wanted to feel me up,” Jack says, and he sounds delighted. She almost pulls her hand back, but she stops herself. After all, he started it.

“Then I’m not going to bother with one.” With that, she resolutely slides her hand back up his chest. She feels it rise and fall slightly as he breathes, shift as he moves his arm again to continue shaving her. She curls her fingers to feel his hair move against them, the thick dark patch at the center spreading thinner across his chest. It’s soft.

No wonder he doesn’t shave it. She’s jealous.

Jealous of what? It’s not like she can’t get her fill of him. Jack will happily let her.

She tries to shake off the feeling and can’t quite.

“Do you ever wish you were someone else?” He wipes some spare shaving cream off of her cheek. He’s almost done. Not that there will be much of a difference to show it, Rose thinks. She frowns.

“In what way?” he asks. “Am I swapping places with someone, or am I turning into someone else?” She wonders how much his answer would change depending on which she chose, but in the end, she can’t pick both.

“The second one. I think.” Her frown deepens. “Sorry. I’m not sure what I’m asking. I’m confusing myself now.”

Jack takes her hand from his chest and lifts it to his mouth, absently kissing her knuckles before he answers. She’s not even sure he registered that he did it, too focused on the razor in his other hand and her question.

“I like being me,” he says, honestly. “Wasn’t easy to get here, so I think I’ll keep it.” Rose withdraws her hand, touching the spot his lips brushed. “What about you?”

Rose feels the razor make its last pass over her face. Jack lifts it away. Not a single scratch on her. Not a spot of irritation where he wasn’t careful enough. Rose lifts her fingers to her cheek and finds the skin there as smooth as ever.

“Yeah,” she answers, and she realizes she’s lying. “Who else would I even be?”

Jack passes over her face once more with the warm rag to get the last of the shaving cream off of her. He has to get another to dry her with. Rose enjoys the pampering.

“How about a Rose Tyler who’s been thoroughly kissed?” She turns her head up to let him. Jack’s arms wrap around her back. “Among other things,” he murmurs when he’s done.

“I’d like that.” Jack makes himself easy to get lost in, and right now, Rose wants that. It’s easier than… She’s not sure, but whatever it is, she’d rather be kissing him than facing it. And if Jack’s hands slide down to her waist and lower still, she’s not complaining.

She’s forgotten why she’d come in his room in the first place completely until the Doctor—who knocks as much as Rose did, which is to say, not at all—comes complaining. “Rose, you left thirty minutes ago, what are you-” He cuts himself off, and Rose drops her head against Jack’s shoulder to stifle a laugh. She doesn’t even have to look at the Doctor to picture his expression, rolling his eyes, annoyed that they could possibly think making out against a bathroom sink is a better use of time than what he has planned. Jack’s skin is warm, and they both unmistakably smell like his brand of shaving cream. She rubs her face against him.

“Just finishing up, Doctor,” Jack shoots back. She presses another giggle into his shoulder imagining the way the Doctor’s face must be screwing up in feigned disgust. She manages to get herself under control enough to lift her head and face him.

“What do you think?” she asks.

“About what?” the Doctor says.

“Rose came in for a shave,” Jack answers. He strokes her chin playfully. “How’s she look, Doctor?”

The Doctor looks her over, once a cursory glance, twice a real study. Rose is curious what exactly he’s seeing. It’s not like she’d had anything to shave. It’s not like anything had really changed, had it?

But the Doctor gives her one of those lovely, genuine smiles, and says, “Most handsome boy in town, I’d say.” Rose’s heart skips a beat, but she tells herself that’s nothing special. The Doctor can always make her feel that way.

She wouldn’t mind him calling her handsome again.

(She wouldn’t mind him calling her a-)

“And me?” Jack wheedles for his own compliment.

The Doctor lets his smile drop, showily unimpressed as he responds, “You missed a spot.” Jack shakes his head, disbelieving until he reaches up to touch the place the Doctor’s indicating on his own neck and finds a small spread of missed hair right there.

“We’ll wait for you,” Rose tells him, though the Doctor huffs about it and makes a face. He won’t go without her, and she won’t go without Jack, and somehow, they’ll make it work.

Jack waves her off to follow the Doctor back to the console room.

(“Doctor, settle a bet? Do you shave normally, or do you…”

“Rose, I know you’re not asking me if I can sonic a beard off.”

“Course not. I knew that.”)

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

#fanfiction #teen and up audiences #1001-5000 #doctor who #jack harkness/rose tyler #jackrose #jack harkness #rose tyler #trans!rose #transmasc!rose

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quietwings-fics · 2 months

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up a creek without a paddle (and the water rushes so loudly)

Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: N/A Fandom: Doctor Who Ship: Amy/Eleven/Rory Additional Tags: Watersports, Omorashi, Desperation Play, Teasing, Established Relationship, Threesome - F/M/M, Dom Amy Pond (Doctor Who), Sub Rory Williams, Sub Doctor (Doctor Who), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Hand Jobs Wordcount: 3459 Summary:

Rory and the Doctor have a little competition.

Amy watches her boys, a grin on her face. She’s long done with feigning disinterest, a tactic that really only works during the beginning stages of this game to lure them into a false sense of security. Now, she flicks her gaze back and forth between Rory and the Doctor, waiting. The only thing she has to fake now is that she’s patient enough to let them lose control by themselves, and that is so very difficult.

If it was just Rory, like normal, she’d already be in his lap, distracting him until he was gasping out Amy, no, and I can’t- against her lips. She’d slide her hand down his front, teasingly stroking his abdomen as he whines, pushing down just enough until he finally-

Across the room, as if Rory can hear her thoughts, he crosses his legs. Amy bites her lip.

Rory has a lot of practice holding for her. It’s all his fault she knows this about herself anyway. On mornings where they’d wake up together, he’d let her stubbornly cling onto him so that he couldn’t leave to go to the bathroom. Drag him back down into the sheets when he tried, get him too excited to think about leaving to take care of his bladder, and when he’d fuck her like that, equal parts tense from the growing pressure and desperate to make them both come quickly so he could relieve it, he’d always been so sexy. She might have taken advantage of how eager he was to please, once, twice… a few dozen times. In her defense, she could barely put what she was enjoying into words until the fateful morning where Rory took too long and his body broke a few steps from the toilet.

He’d been humiliated. Amy… had been more turned on than she’d ever been before in her life.

And the floor had been an utter disaster.

He still gets so embarrassed whenever Amy initiates this, but it’s less harsh than it had been that morning. He doesn’t retreat into himself afterwards or think he’s ruined everything. There’s safety in knowing Amy wants this from him, and she’ll give that security to him gladly if it means she gets to see this.

Rory has practice. Rory knows his limits — both his own by observation and the actual safe limits for a human bladder. Rory understood exactly what he was agreeing to.

The Doctor, on the other hand…

This is his own fault for getting competitive about it. Not that Amy had tried to dissuade either of them. Still, the Doctor had always left them to their own devices when it came to this.

Until he just had to insist that he’d be able to hold out longer than Rory could. Not a bit of evidence to back up his claim, just his own stubbornness and pride to blame for his current predicament.

Amy wonders if he’s regretting the bet now or if he’s still convinced he can win. While Rory’s sat still, legs crossed tight but barely anything else to give away the strain he’s under, the Doctor is in constant motion. Not too odd, except that his focus is so completely broken, he can’t even fiddle with anything properly. He careens around the TARDIS console, only pressing the buttons that — as far as Amy has been able to tell — mostly seem to do nothing but make exceedingly satisfying clicking noises and sometimes light up other parts of the console. She’s pretty sure he has the ship in some kind of stand-by mode so that his jittery movements won’t send them flying off into some sort of time hole.

She really hopes he did that. It would really ruin the mood.

Whenever he lets himself stop for a moment, she can see the effort showing clearly on his face. His breaths come short and shallow in contrast to Rory’s deeper inhales. (That makes Rory seem much calmer in comparison. Amy isn’t fooled. Rory’s measuring out each breath by a count in his head because he needs to focus on something or he knows he’ll lose. If he misses a beat, he’s a goner.) He flaps his hands, grips the console, lets go to flap them again. Amy keeps an eye on that, too. She’d like to think she can read the Doctor well enough at this point, so well that she can tell the difference between his excited and his stressed flapping. This lies somewhere in between, like he’s teetering back and forth between intense discomfort and delighted anticipation. That’s right where she wants him.

He straightens up, blowing a short breath from between pursed lips. He taps his hands against the console rhythmically, shave and a haircut, and speaks, loudly, “Ready to give up yet, Rory?” He makes a face when he hears how breathless he sounds.

Rory needs a minute to respond. Amy sees him grip his knees, trying to hold onto his thinning self-control. “Nope,” he answers, and he pulls in one long breath before he continues, “I’m fine. Could probably keep doing this for another hour.”

He can’t, Amy knows, but she doesn’t say a word to contradict him, especially when how sure he manages to sound leaves the Doctor looking alarmed. He covers it up quickly, tapping the flats of his palms against the console faster.

“That’s surprising. Given your bladder is… It’s human. So it’s small. And weak.” The Doctor’s voice comes out in bursts, like each bundle of words requires a full rotation of the gears in his brain and they’re rusting up fast. Amy bites her lip not to laugh. Rory looks mildly offended, but he can’t summon up more of a reaction than that, not when so much of his focus is right now on making sure said human bladder doesn’t betray him. “And mine is- Time Lords have temporal bladders.” Amy raises an eyebrow. “So, I just- I just push the waste along further down my timeline. Deal with it later.”

“That’s how all bladders work, Doctor,” Amy calls. The Doctor jumps like he’d forgotten she was there watching, and then cringes, his whole body tightening to prevent any accidents. Amy’s enraptured, licking her lips as she takes in the way he struggles to hold on, a strained flush rising over his face. His fingers wrap around the edge of the TARDIS console so hard that they have to be going numb. He trembles, drags in a breath, and slowly relaxes again. Not half as relaxed as he was before, but he’s back in control of himself. For now.

God, Amy wants to touch herself. Maybe she will if they keep dragging this out. Sit herself on one side of the room and make them watch until one of them can’t focus anymore. Her clit twitches imagining them falling to pieces while she comes.

“I-“ The Doctor falters. There’s nothing so satisfying as leaving him speechless. “I have two of them. More than you,” he directs at Rory, “so clearly, if anyone is going to win-”

“No, you don’t,” Amy calls his bluff.

“I do.”

“Definitely don’t.”

“I-” The Doctor leans forward to make his point and regrets it instantly. His eyes widen, and he jolts back, squeezing his legs together. Even Rory is watching him now. From the look on his face, she thinks he might finally be understanding her side of this. “I do,” the Doctor insists, shakily.

Amy walks to the two of them. She runs her fingers through Rory’s hair when she’s near him. He looks up at her, and his slightly unsteady breathing evens out like he wants to show off just how well he’s doing. She smiles at him, dragging her nails gently across the back of his head. Rory’s eyes shut briefly, but the tension never leaves his body.

Then, she pays a visit to the Doctor. He eyes her as she approaches, half-hopeful to get the same rewards as Rory, half-wary she’s going to trick him into losing somehow.

“Fine,” she concedes, “two bladders.” He lets out a breath.

“That’s what I said.”

“Mhm.” Amy runs a hand up the Doctor’s chest. He has to know how desperate he looks right now. He practically gave her and Rory a stripshow earlier. Off went the jacket, and then the vest, and he’s been tugging on his bowtie so much that it looks like it’s about to come undone all on its own. She follows the path of his shirt buttons up to his chin and then cups it. His eyes light up like a puppy about to get a treat, but instead of the kiss she assumes he’s hoping for, she leans in to murmur, “but I think they’d both be pretty full by now, huh?”

The Doctor makes a whining noise in the back of his throat.

“You’ve been holding on for so long,” she continues. “I bet it aches. All that pressure, and you can’t think about anything else. It’s pushing every other thought out of your head except for how much you need to let go.” The Doctor’s hands shiver and settle on Amy’s waist, holding on a little too tight as though she’s here to steady him rather than dangle him right over the edge. “You’ve already impressed me, Doctor. You don’t have to keep going.” She slides her hands down to undo the lower buttons of his shirt and get access to the skin beneath.

“I have to win,” he tells her, more whisper than words. She strokes her fingertips gently down his belly. A Time Lord’s bladder was probably around the same area a human’s was. (And if not, she’d have an excuse to touch him longer trying to find where he was sensitive.)

“Rory,”—She can hear Rory sit at attention behind her.—“tell him how good it feels when you give in.” She doesn’t even have to turn to know the face Rory is making, the way his arousal is mixing up with his embarrassment and turning him pink. She strokes her fingers over the Doctor’s side, listening for anything that might give away she’s found the right spot to tease.

“It’s- It’s such a relief,” Rory starts. “After so long, it feels like you’re coming and you can’t stop.”

“And that’s before I make you actually come,” Amy says. “Or… maybe after, if you think you can hang on that long.”

“This is torture,” the Doctor’s voice is breaking. “You’re- You’re something evil that’s replaced Amy-”

“And wants to make you piss yourself in your own TARDIS?” The Doctor grunts and squeezes his eyes shut as her fingers brush low on his side. “Gotcha.”

“Amy-”

“Shhh, I’m not going to make you lose.” It is so tempting, though. Just a little nudge, a little too deep, too hard, too long, and it’ll be out of his hands. Instead, she strokes back and forth over the spot, only teasing. She forces it to the forefront of his mind and won’t let him distract himself with anything else. “Tell me how it feels.”

“Like I’m going to burst, Amy, please-” She doesn’t let up.

“What happened to that powerful Time Lord bladder of yours?” She grins. “Bladders? I’m only feeling one here, Doctor, and it’s at max.”

The Doctor forces in a breath. Without any conviction in his voice, he makes himself say, “I… am fine. I’m not- I actually feel like I could drink more.”

“Why would you say that?” escapes Rory in a sudden rush. Amy laughs.

“I’ll go get you a glass of water, then.” The Doctor looks at her in utter panic. “A nice, big glass.” She looks at Rory over her shoulder. He shakes his head quickly. “For both of you,” she says, ignoring that. Rory whimpers.

She doesn’t go immediately. She pauses, undoing the Doctor’s struggling bowtie. She gives either of them time to really protest, but Rory doesn’t say a word and the Doctor is stubbornly refusing to climb out of the hole he just dug himself. She slides the bowtie off and lays it around her neck like a trophy. The Doctor looks a sight with his collar fallen loose and half of the buttons low on his shirt undone for her exploration.

Amy would love to make her way to the TARDIS kitchen as slowly as slowly as possible, but she can’t be sure either of them will make it that long.

She fills up two glasses and carries them back to the console room.

The Doctor is currently bouncing. Rory is staring at him, only to glance at Amy as she arrives, first to share a knowing look and then for his face to fall into complete despair as he sees the glasses she’s brought. The Doctor hops from one leg to the other, jabbing buttons on the console a little too hard. The TARDIS gives an annoyed sounding whirr in response. (If you had asked Amy once if she thought a machine could whirr in an annoyed way, she’d have said absolutely not. But the TARDIS is very communicative.

Amy figures that if it had any issues being used for their game, it would have done something by now. Maybe the TARDIS is also into it. Can a TARDIS have kinks?

Amy resolves not to think about that, for the sake of her own sanity.)

“Drink up,” Amy says, sweetly. The Doctor looks like she’s just signed his death warrant. He slows enough not to spill the water she hands him (or, not much of it, at least.) “You too, Rory.” Rory stares forlornly at his glass and tries to cross his legs tighter. He can’t.

Rory opts for taking tiny sips, prolonging the inevitable.

The Doctor takes the whole thing in four forced gulps and then smiles to prove he is really, definitely, positively doing fine. It’s not a very convincing smile. She takes the glass from him, and his hands immediately start flapping again, faster than before. It isn’t long before the bouncing returns, too.

Amy’s gaze slides back and forth between the two of them, Rory’s cautious drinking and the Doctor’s frantic movements.

The real winner is always her.

She counts off six minutes in her head. Six long, perfect minutes of watching them squirm, knowing their fates are closing in and there is nothing they can do about it. The whip-thin tension pulls and pulls until it finally snaps as the Doctor goes utterly still and says, far too quietly, “Amy.”

“Yeah?”

“Amy, it’s- Now. I need to- Now.” There’s a quake of uncertainty in the Doctor’s voice that reminds her of the first few times she did this with Rory.

“Go ahead.”

The Doctor looks between her and Rory. He’s still holding on long since past when the end of his rope got yanked out of his hands.

“Go on, Doctor,” Amy reassures. She comes closer, wrapping one hand around his wrist and putting the other on the back of his neck.

“You should step back,” he manages. “It’s about to get very messy.” Amy pecks him on the lips.

“I’m getting what I asked for.” The Doctor is shaking, barely holding on. “I want to watch you fall apart, Doctor. And I think you want us to see.” She kisses him again. “So let it happen. Let go.” He bumps his forehead against hers and exhales, his whole body tensing up one last time in rebellion. “Let go,” she repeats, and he stops fighting.

The Doctor gasps against her. Amy drinks it in, every little twitch and whimper. He relaxes so suddenly against the console, she could almost think he’d fainted on her if not for his wide eyes and the way his legs spread as he gives up. His eyes shut briefly in sheer relief as he pisses himself. She reaches down between his legs and cups him through his trousers. The fabric is already soaked and warm. He grinds up into her palm, panting as the stain leaks down his trouser leg, turning it a dark, conspicuous brown. He’s completely lost in the pure physical release of his body, nothing behind his eyes but pleasure. She rests her other hand against his cheek, only for him to turn into it, kissing weakly and mumbling her name again and again.

It slows. His head falls forward, nudging against her neck and shoulder. Amy keeps massaging his cock through the wet fabric. “That was amazing,” she breathes, turned on beyond belief.

“I always am,” he says, but his voice is still lined with the sleepy softness he usually only gets after she’s made him come.

And she still plans to. He grinds against her hand lazily. She has to check on her other boy first.

“Rory? How are you feeling?” she asks, turning to face him as she keeps the Doctor docile with just the right amount of pressure. There’s a wet mess at their feet, but they can deal with that later. Rory is digging his fingers into his knees again, though now she can see that there’s a second culprit causing that reaction. He’s hard watching her touch the Doctor, seeing the sheer bliss on his face from getting what Rory’s still holding back from.

“I can…” He hesitates. “I can hang in there. Maybe a little while longer.” The Doctor moans distractingly in her ear.

“You sure?” Rory swallows.

“Hurry?” His voice goes high, betraying how badly he needs it. Amy nods.

Wiggling her hand down under the Doctor’s clothes is easy enough. She’s not all that bothered by the wetness or the smell. She might be afterwards, when they have to clean up, but in the moment, it’s drowned out by how powerful she feels from being able to take him to pieces like this. The Doctor is beyond all words but her name as she strokes him. He doesn’t harden completely under her hand, too out of it for his body to get there, but it doesn’t matter. He’s always loud when he comes. He has to announce to the whole universe that he’s had a good time. A moan erupts out of him, and he makes the already-ruined state of his pants even worse.

The Doctor slumps back against the TARDIS console. Amy kisses him.

“Stay,” she orders. “Watch me with Rory.” He nods. His eyes follow her as she goes to Rory. “Need some help?” she teases.

“Please,” Rory begs. “Amy, I need to go right now or- Fuck, Amy, it’s too much.” Rory is teary-eyed from the strain. She doesn’t waste any time getting his cock out. He’s leaking precome, too hard to get any relief from the pressure in his bladder.

“Good boy,” Amy whispers just for him. “Let me take care of it, yeah?” She wraps her hand around his dick, and Rory exhales slowly. “You won.”

“I saw.” Rory relaxes under her control. “It was hot,” he admits. Amy smiles.

“Hear that, Doctor?” The Doctor makes a lazy affirmative hum. “He thinks you’re pretty when you’re pissing yourself.” Rory’s dick pulses under her hand. He whines.

“Amy, could you-“ She already knows what he wants. She leans forward and spits onto his cock, using it to stroke him easier. Rory’s thighs tense. “I’m not going to be able to hold it after you let me come,” he warns.

“There’s already a puddle on the floor, Rory.” She rubs her thumb along the sensitive head, making Rory’s eyes roll back. The rest of his body goes limp as his hips rock and his thighs clench. “Unless you wanted it to go somewhere in particular.” Amy sounds far too excited to pretend she’s never thought about this before. “Want me to ask the Doctor to get on his knees in front of you before you-“

Rory doesn’t even wait for her to finish. He comes all over her hand and his own thighs. Amy drags it out for him, but as his cock softens, she hears him moan for a very different reason. She adjusts her grip to hold him as he pees, adding to the mess on the floor. His cock twitches in her hand as he drains his bladder. Rory flushes even darker than before as he squirms beneath her and the Doctor’s eyes, helpless to stop himself from pissing until he’s all done.

When he is, she slides her clean hand up to stroke his hair again. He needs that small reassurance. The Doctor stumbles closer, wrinkling his nose at the smell now pervading his console room but reaching for them anyway.

Amy’s going to remember the looks on their faces forever.

And she’s definitely going to get them to do this for her again.

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#fanfiction #nsfw #explicit #1001-5000 #doctor who #amy pond/eleventh doctor/rory williams #amy pond/the doctor/rory williams #the doctor #eleventh doctor #amy pond #rory williams #dom!amy #sub!rory #sub!doctor #sub!eleven

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quietwings-fics · 3 months

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go looking for ghosts

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: N/A Fandom: Doctor Who Ship: Thoschei (11/Simm!Master) Additional Tags: Time Travel, Angst, Post-Episode: s07e05 The Angels Take Manhattan, Pre-Episode: s03e13 Last of the Time Lords, Drunk Doctor (Doctor Who), Grief/Mourning, Minor Violence, Genderswap, The Master (Doctor Who) Being a Bastard, Female Doctor (Doctor Who), Female Master (Doctor Who) Wordcount: 2651 Summary:

The Doctor loses Amy and Rory. She makes a poor decision of who to turn to.

Harriet Saxon is not having a good day.

The Master, who is not Harriet Saxon but wears her smile well enough, is having a worse one.

“Doctor,” she says through gritted teeth. It doesn’t take much guesswork; no one else would break into her office just to be a nuisance. It’s not her Doctor, the skinny one who she left behind at the end of time, but a new one, whose existence manages to be both reassuring (of course she would survive) and infuriating (of course she would survive.) She looks younger, but the Master can almost taste the centuries of separation between them. She’s so disheveled — one suspender missing, buttons undone, hair that’s had her hands dragged through it dozens of times — that the Master would question how she got inside, if getting into places she wasn’t supposed to be wasn’t the Doctor’s main talent. “Get off of my desk.”

The Doctor swings her head up and nearly topples backwards from the motion. The Master realizes that she’s not leaning back on the desk to look smug, or not entirely, but rather, because the minute she moves her hands, her whole balance goes askew and she ends up tipping over again. She saves herself from humiliation at the last moment, catching herself on the Master’s desk again. She does not save the Master’s plastic bonsai tree, the only decoration she bothered to get for her desk, and it hits the ground with a thud. The Master glowers at her for that.

When she’s stable, she squints at the Master. The Master has already shut and locked the door behind her.

“I’m still taller than you,” the Doctor says.

“Congratulations,” the Master responds, dryly. “Here to stop me?” The Doctor blinks at her.

“What? I already did that. Can’t do it twice. No crossing time streams.” She gives a morose little laugh. “Look at me, obeying the rules. Nothing I can do for them. Time says… no.” She pauses for a minute between words as though she was searching for something more grandiose to say, but her voice and flourish fall flat with the simple negative. And then she falls off the desk when she sweeps her arm out too far for emphasis and forgets that she needs it to keep herself balanced.

The Master lets her. She smirks. The Doctor picks herself up off the floor. It’s an ungraceful maneuver, full of limbs that won’t obey her and scrabbling at nearby furniture to haul herself to her feet.

“From where I’m standing, you haven’t stopped anything,” the Master tells her, but if she’s honest, she’s not surprised. Irritated that a year’s worth of plotting won’t end in victory, but not surprised. It’s still worth it, if only to do whatever damage she can and make herself a thorn in the Doctor’s side until she tastes blood. She circles the Doctor. “Are you drunk? How did you manage that?”

“Enthusiastically,” she snaps like the Master is poking a fresh bruise. It only makes her want to jab her finger into the spot harder. “From where I’m st-” Her legs shake, and she collapses back into one of the chairs in the Master’s office. Not the comfy one behind her desk, but the ones she got specifically to make anyone trying to interview or ask her for things squirm in discomfort. She likes to think of it as encouraging efficiency in the government — by making sure no one ever bothers her.

Except the Doctor, who could make herself comfortable on a bed of spikes and would still find time to annoy the Master.

“From where I’m sitting,” she repeats, “you’re…” And then she smiles. There is no kindness behind it. “You helped save Earth.”

The Master feels vaguely nauseous at the idea.

“Well, thank you for warning me. I’ll make sure not to.” The Doctor’s eyes are dangerous in a way the Master usually only gets to see from within a trap she’s about to break. She rolls her head the moment she feels tension forming in her shoulders, forcing it to release and not show the Doctor anything.

“No. Now, I’ve told you you will, and you’ll have to.”

“Do you think I care about causing a paradox?”

“Do you think I care if you try?” The Doctor almost sounds eager for it. For a moment, as she stares the Master down, she’s far too still, like a held breath.

“I won’t give you the satisfaction,” the Master decides. She watches the Doctor slump.

The Master refuses to be concerned about her, but it’s disturbing how disappointed she looks.

There’s meant to be a rhythm to this. The Master pushes until something breaks, and the Doctor drags them both back. She doesn’t know where she stands when the Doctor is already broken. All she knows is that she’s jealous of whoever managed it before her.

“What happened to you?” she asks. “Blow up a planet? Find another genocide to commit?” Digging her knife into the wound of Gallifrey should get her some kind of reaction, but all she receives is a tired glare. The Master searches, and when she comes up with the alternative, she spits it, disgusted that it could ever trump their shared loss, “Lose another one of your humans?”

That’s like cracking a whip against the hide of an animal. The Doctor rears up, driven forward by anger, but her refusal to sober betrays her when she ends up falling into the Master. She clings to the Master’s pantsuit, leaving obvious wrinkles behind wherever she grabs at. The Master leans back from her and from the boiling grief under her skin.

“Don’t,” the Doctor warns, as if she didn’t know what coming to the Master would mean. If she wanted someone to be nice to her, she has dozens of companions who look at her like a god and would happily have her in for tea.

She chose to be here, instead.

“Did they die for you?” The Master guesses, and the Doctor’s fingers lock tight but her expression doesn’t waver. Close. “They died for nothing,” she says, certain now, reading every little cue from the Doctor until she knows exactly how to hurt her, “and right in front of you. Why didn’t you stop it, Doctor? I thought you loved your companions.” The Doctor’s whole body stiffens up as she speaks, and when the Master reaches loved, the Doctor yanks on her before her weight bearing down on the Master shoves her right back against the desk. The back of the Master’s thighs ache from the impact. The Doctor is pressed chest to chest with her now, her breath fanning across the Master’s face, and they’re so close that the Master is forced to notice that the Doctor was right. She’s taller, and the Master still has to look up at her.

The Doctor has no right to look surprised at her words. She came here because cruelty was the point. The Master provides, generously.

“We have a winner,” she teases to feel the Doctor’s hands tremble with rage. “Was it painful?”

“They were together! They were happy!” More than one. That does nothing to abate the Master’s jealousy. How dare the Doctor grieve them like this, like they matter?

“Without you, and that’s worse.” The Doctor is practically belly-up. The Master gives her exactly what she wants, claws raked across exposed weakness. “After all, you’re the only one who should get to choose when you’re bored of them.”

“Shut up!” The Doctor shakes the Master again, though this time, she’s prepared and stops herself from hitting the desk. She could throw the Doctor off of her easily, but this is so much more fun. (So much better than watching her mope around and beg for the Master to destroy her, to destroy everything, for the sake of her pride and the Doctor’s grief.)

“Are you trying to intimidate me, Doctor?” she says, matching the Doctor’s volume gleefully. It’s not like anyone can hear them. The Master took care of soundproofing shortly after she realized that she would be supplied an infinite amount of interns, no matter how many went missing. “You can barely stand. You can barely dress yourself.” She gropes at the dangling cloth around the Doctor’s neck, loosely held in place by her collar.

The Doctor recoils from her so fast that the Master wonders if she’s finally thought better of this whole thing and sobered up. From the way she wavers in place and how hard it is for her to get her eyes to focus on the Master, she has not.

“Don’t touch that!” She reaches up around her own neck to yank the undone cloth completely off. The Master had thought it was a tie at first, (She’s gotten very familiar with wearing one herself. She looks dependable in them, and more importantly, sexy.) but it’s too thin and too short.

“Is that a-” she starts. The Doctor’s terrible fashion statements have always been an open invitation for mockery.

The Doctor slaps her.

What follows is an honest, uncomfortable silence. The Master’s cheek stings. She can taste blood on the inside of her mouth from the impact. She smiles and hopes it shows on her teeth. The Doctor doesn’t lower her hand completely, the other furiously tearing the undone bowtie free and stuffing it away into a pocket where the Master can’t see it.

“Feel better?” the Master finally says. The pain radiates outwards, into her jaw and up the side of her face. She bears it.

“Yes,” the Doctor answers before she can think better of it. If she was going to bother to at all. And then, “Give me one back.” The Master’s hand itches. She grips the edge of the desk.

“No,” the Master answers. They know what will hurt worse.

She lifts her fingers to her cheek and traces the outline of the Doctor’s hand bruising it. The Doctor flinches.

“You deserved it,” she says. She sounds like she believes it, which is fair enough, but like she still regrets doing it, which is so her, it’s sickening.

The Master leans back against her desk. She glances to the side, finds that her plastic bonsai tree has not picked itself up off the ground and put itself back where it should be, and decides that she’ll throw it in the dump later for being so useless.

“Did they have names?” she asks.

The Doctor hesitates for a long time, but she can’t resist forever. “Amy and Rory,” she says. The Master makes a face that she assumes is in the ballpark of sympathetic.

“Last names?” she attempts to tempt out of the Doctor. She gets a hard stare in response.

“Suddenly, I can’t remember.” The Master spreads her hands, a ‘what can you do’ gesture that she’s taken to adopting. It makes the papers say she looks humble, and she doesn’t even have do any real work to win their praises.

“I’ll just have the Toclafane kill all of the Amys and Rorys, then.” The Doctor takes a step towards her again. The Master turns her head so that the Doctor has to stare at her bruised cheek if she wants to approach her. It stops her in her tracks. “Does it matter, Doctor? Aren’t you going to stop me?” That glare tells her everything she could want to know. Not soon enough. Just a taste of that victory is addictive.

She extends a hand. She finds the Doctor’s remaining suspender, pulls it taut until she has no choice but to come close again, and then lets it snap back against the Doctor’s chest to see her wince. “Ask me to spare them,” she says. She traces the Doctor’s open collar to the base of her throat. “And do it right, Doctor.”

“You won’t.” The Doctor wants to hit her again. She wants to scream and rage and hurt. It’s all she came here for, to be goaded and to get some release taking it out on someone she thought she wouldn’t feel as guilty about lashing out at. But she is still the Doctor, and she won’t. Not when the only provocation is words and threats for time she’s already lived through.

“It’s all you can do,” the Master says, “besides killing me right here.” The Doctor’s expression closes off suddenly, and the Master wants her back the moment she’s denied, wants to see her desperate and in pain. “What’s one tiny paradox to save your friends?” she pushes. She taps a beat softly against the hollow of the Doctor’s throat, one-two, three-four.

She imagines taking her hand and squeezing that soft neck. She imagines giving the Doctor the perfect excuse she needs to fight back. She taps her way up to right under the Doctor’s chin and holds her fingers there at the bend, so that the Doctor can’t look down.

“More than I can bear,” the Doctor answers.

Even the light brush of her fingertips against the Doctor’s skin bleeds with emotion. The Master siphons off drops from the flood, savoring them. She’ll have to remember this for later and drug the Doctor until her mental shields are down and the Master can scrape bits of her out of her mind as souvenirs.

“You’ve always been so selfish,” the Master says, her voice low for an accusation only she could make and know to be true. The rest of the universe would laugh at the idea, but she knows. She knows.

The Doctor can’t defend herself from the truth. She takes the Master’s wrist. Her grip is too tight, betraying her as much as the way she holds on too long. The Master narrows her eyes, and for the first time, wonders why here, why not with the version of her who haunts this Doctor.

“Don’t hurt them,” the Doctor says, resignedly, her attempts to create a kinder past futile and she knows it and she doesn’t have the energy left to try harder. “Master,” she adds after a beat, the name barely breathed.

The Master reaches up to cup the back of her head and draw her down. The Doctor’s eyes go soft at the gentle touch, almost like she has hope. The Master’s lips brush her foolish Doctor’s ear.

”From where you’re standing,” she tells her, “I already have.” The urge rises to bite the Doctor when she’s so close, but before she can take advantage, the Doctor is already wresting herself away from the Master’s hold. She looks disgusted.

She opens her mouth, and the Master waits for her to get the last word, as she always tries to. The Doctor’s mouth twists like a dying animal writhing on the ground. She shuts her eyes, and she turns her head. Her hands uselessly go to her collar and find nothing to straighten, to make herself presentable as she walks out in defeat.

“Visit me again, Doctor?” The Master calls after her as she turns her back and tries to leave. The locked door stops her in her tracks, but never for long until her screwdriver rings out in the Master’s office and sets her free. (She thinks the Doctor has the frequency set too high on purpose, to hurt the Master’s ears, but so long as the Doctor’s forced to suffer through it too, she won’t say anything.)

She slams the door behind her like a petulant child. The Master snorts and rolls her eyes.

She touches her cheek and hisses as the sensitive skin throbs.

The Doctor will come back. When and with what face, she can’t guess now, but she will. She couldn’t stay away if she wanted to.

And now, she has an office to clean up. The Doctor always does leave behind a mess. The Master may enjoy that, but Harriet Saxon has appearances to keep up.

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#fanfiction #teen and up audiences #1001-5000 #doctor who #eleventh doctor/simm!master #thoschei #the doctor #the master #simm!master #eleventh doctor #fem!master #fem!doctor

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quietwings-fics · 3 months

Text

heart

Rating: General Audiences Archive Warning: N/A Fandom: Doctor Who Ship: Rose Tyler/OC (Even) Additional Tags: Major Original Character(s), Unrequited Crush, Pining, Drabble, Nonbinary Character Series: 11089/Even Fics <- 2 -> Wordcount: 100 Summary:

11089 is not supposed to be in this room.

There’s a ghost of a girl they’ve never met lingering in unfamiliar scents and bright clothing strewn about, as if the owner expected to come back any moment.

11089 breathes her in.

Rose Tyler was human. Was beautiful. Was kind. Was loved.

The Doctor has so few pictures of her, fewer still he leaves unattended long enough for 11089 to hold in their hands.

Rose had brown eyes. She liked chips. She dyed her hair blonde.

She saved the Doctor.

11089’s heart beats fast in Rose’s room.

Is loved. Is loved.

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#fanfiction #podfic #general audiences #drabble #doctor who #rose/oc #oc (even)#11089/even fics

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quietwings-fics · 3 months

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Bark and Bite

(Other Links: Dreamwidth - FFNet - Pillowfort - SquidgeWorld)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: N/A Fandom: Doctor Who Ship: Gen (Simm!Master & OC - Even) Additional Tags: Complicated Relationships, Major Original Character(s), Biting, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Teeth, The Master (Doctor Who) Being a Bastard, Post-Season/Series 04, Ambiguous Relationship, Alternate Universe, Nonbinary Character Series: 11089/Even Fics <- 3 Wordcount: 943 Summary:

What happens later.

Self-preservation is the name of the game.

Self-preservation is the raw gum on the left side of their mouth that they can’t keep their tongue away from. It still tastes like iron, but their blood isn’t staining the teeth they still have anymore. It aches in the way all broken things do when they want attention and will never be satisfied by what’s given. They wiggle their tongue in the hollow again.

“There. Finished.” What’s between his fingers, bordered by nails kept immaculate and skin rough and peeling from the cold air that’s leaking in, is a tooth.

It’s also a suicide pill. It’s a gift.

There are worse fates around them than death here. Self-preservation takes new forms. It’s a choice they’d rather have then avoid looking at until it was too late.

They don’t take his gifts before asking how they work. They’re smarter than that. Or, at least, they know him better.

“And how do I keep that in my mouth without cracking it open on accident when I’m eating?” He draws the tooth, passably natural but veined with gleaming technology, back into his palm and closes his fist around it.

“Maybe you put it in, and it injects a toxin into your bloodstream instantly,” he suggests. They trail their hand along the cold console. Poor defective thing. She struggles to carry them where they need to go, and she can’t keep her own heart warm, let alone them.

“How does it work, Master?” they ask again. He likes hearing his name follow a question. He likes his threats being ignored less so.

“You clench your jaw,” he says, annoyed, “and push it. It’ll hurt, it’ll pop, and then…”

“It’ll hurt more?” they guess.

“You’ll be dead soon. Does it matter what happens in between?” It does. He could have made it painless. “If you don’t want it…” His palm opens wide, and the delicate tooth rolls down like he will let it fall to the floor. They move faster than they think. They catch the tooth against his hand.

They don’t like touching him. It always feels like there’s something more moving under his skin, something that grasps at their curled fingers and reaches into their cells until they drag their hand back. His expression hasn’t changed, but they’re grimacing and they hate it. Their face melts back to something safe and blank. “I want it.” The tooth is warm where it sits in their fist, and they aren’t thinking about that.

“Put it in, then.” There’s an awful smugness radiating from him. They almost want to try, but they don’t want to die here. Not this frozen TARDIS, not with him, not on this moon so small it isn’t named beyond numbers — none of that matters. They don’t want to die here, inside of it all, where time echoes back and forth until even someone- something like him can barely stand it at the loudest places. They didn’t come all this way to die in another cage.

They will die somewhere that death matters. That’s all they want.

So, they don’t struggle with the tooth and put their own life in danger like a fool. They let him take it back, and if he takes the chance to kill them, then at least he is something that can change and live and escape. If he kills them, he takes them with him, whether he wants to or not. And if he is ever free-

He tries to touch their jaw, and they recoil.

“I have to hold your mouth open to get it in,” he lies. They bare their teeth, nothing special, nothing particularly sharp about them. He’s hesitating all the same.

“Take your chances,” they say.

If they are crossing this channel together, then they want to be able to sting him.

They open their mouth for him. They reveal their missing canine, waiting for its replacement.

They feel his fingers against their lips and teeth. They hurt where they press against their gum. He tilts their head with a little pressure to see the empty space better. They stay still. Their breath fans out across his hand.

It hurts. They inhale sharply. Metal, not bone, digs into their gum. It pierces through and burrows until it’s secure. Their gum bleeds again.

His fingers rest against their lower set of teeth. He’s surveying his handiwork.

They close their mouth around the tips of his fingers. He barely has time to react and yank them back. They still catch the skin at the edges, digging in until blood spills out and the rest of his fingers come out scraped pink and raw. They lick their lips. Their new tooth, battered by the sudden movement, doesn’t break, doesn’t kill them.

“You bit me!” he snaps. They brace themselves against the console, but all he does is hiss and retreat.

“I did!” His blood doesn’t taste like theirs, not exactly. They resist the urge to touch their new tooth. That feels too much like tempting fate. “How does it look?” He glares at them, bloody fingers held to his chest. Really, it was only a nip. They barely tore the skin off. They could do worse.

He would know. He would…

They don’t want his blood in their mouth, suddenly. There’s too much of it. They spit, but the taste lingers.

It’s futile. He made the tooth. Part of him, lodged in them, poisonous. Death preserved inside, like a bullet, or like a moment, the seconds wrapped around a shove from surprise to terrible impact to puddling blood below a still body. He made this.

Even asked for it.

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#fanfiction #podfic #teen and up audiences #501-1000 #doctor who #genfic #the master & oc #simm!master & oc #the master #simm!master #oc #oc (even)#11089/even fics

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quietwings-fics · 3 months

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bigger on the outside

(Other Links: Dreamwidth - FFNet - Pillowfort - SquidgeWorld)

Rating: General Audiences Archive Warning: N/A Fandom: Doctor Who Ship: Gen (Tenth Doctor & OC - Even) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Set Between Doctor Who (2005) Season 3 and Season 4, Major Original Character(s), Doctor/Companion Friendship, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Nonbinary Character, Identity Issues Wordcount: 1118 Series: 11089/Even Fics - 1 -> Summary:

All the power of time and space at your fingertips, and the most important lesson is learning that you can't change anything.

“Is it meant to happen?” 11089 asks. It’s a glorious, sunny day, and they are shivering because they aren’t used to wind yet.

The Doctor doesn’t consider lying to them. In the end, the truth is harsher but healthier.

“No,” he says. 11089 is watching the way their shadow moves below their foot when they shift. “If it was, I couldn’t have picked you up. It’s not fixed, if they arrive on time or thousands of years early.” Or not at all, he doesn’t need to say. They already know that. Instead, quietly, he adds, “I really thought you could convince them to take up that rescue mission.”

11089 laces their fingers together until their knuckles go white and then lets go.

“Could we go back and get them?” they ask in a very small voice, one that already knows the answer but has also seen the Doctor do impossible things.

“Do you think they’d come?” They look up at the sun. They don’t look down again, and he realizes belatedly that they don’t know they should. He shades their eyes with his hand, and they blink up at his palm as their pupils dilate into comfortable darkness again.

“But they won’t ever-” 11089 gestures at the whole of the world they aren’t supposed to be standing on, at the strangers and the sky and the streets.

“They know,” the Doctor says.

“I knew!” they argue back. It’s an unused muscle and still sore from shouting their lungs out at people who thought it cost too much to listen.

11089 drags their legs up onto the bench and bunches themself up.

“Do they get celebrated, at least?” With detached regret, the Doctor notes that they’ve stopped talking about the people of the starship Persistence as ‘we’, and that there is nothing he can do to change that now that it’s happened. “They make it all that way. People have to celebrate.”

“Some do,” he answers.

“Some,” they echo.

“Look-“ He stops halfway through look at me, but 11089 never really does. They’re always looking somewhere else, behind him or at another part of his body, so he changes course to say, “Look over here.” They swing their head in his direction and blink towards him. Their cheeks are turning pink very quickly under the sun. “They make it,” he reassures, “they do that because of you. And me. I helped. Well, I did most of it. Well-“ 11089 wrinkles up their nose and makes a chuffing sound that’s nothing like the full-throated laughter that had rung through the TARDIS when they’d first been let inside. He smiles. “But they will make it now. They’ll be just as excited as you are to get sunburnt and roll around in the dirt, and soon enough, they’ll settle in. They may not have been the first to get here, but that just means the malls are already built.”

11089’s brief smile falters, and their gaze traces along a wrinkle in his coat and back up it again. “They must make it to very high numbers by that point.”

“No more ship computer, no more need for numbers. They’ll be able to pick out names.” 11089 still breathes shallowly on instinct, surprised when they do take a deeper breath and sneaking guilty glances at him like they’re checking if that’s really allowed. There are conversations they aren’t ready to have yet, and he does have to try to be gentle. Still, he nudges their side, “You could, too.”

11089’s head snaps down to the point of contact. They don’t flinch, just watch.

“I could what?” they ask, not picking up on the hint at all. He withdraws his elbow from poking into their side, and they look properly upset about it. So much so that he scoots closer and lays his arm over the back of the bench behind them. 11089 leans back, tipping their face up to the sunlight again as they rest on his arm. At least they close their eyes this time.

“Pick a name,” he says. “Something you’d like to be called.”

“I’m 11089,” they rattle off the numbers easily.

“You want me to say that every time? It’s a bit of a mouthful.” He’s teasing, mostly, — because taking their lack of understanding too seriously is going to make a good day go bad quickly — but they frown.

“I’m 11089,” they repeat, sounding confused.

So, this is another conversation they might need more time to be ready for.

If the Doctor has one thing in spades…

“You’re 11089,” he agrees, for now. “You’re sure you want to stay with me?” They jolt, and for a second, they meet his eyes before their gaze jumps away like they’ve been burned.

“Do you want me to go back?” Fear. Tremulous and trying their hardest not to believe what their mind has jumped to, but palpable all the same in their voice.

“No! No. I thought it’d be polite to offer.” 11089 visibly relaxes, leaning back against his arm again. When they shift, he can feel the fuzz of their shorn hair against his hand. He wonders if they’ll let it grow or if he’ll be standing over a sink with them in a few weeks, shaving it all off again.

“That’s… That’s good.” 11089’s voice drops lower, like they’re scared someone might hear when he’s the only one around. “I don’t think I could survive that. You let me see the sun.” Their voice warbles higher with barely suppressed excitement. “It’s all so- It’s so much bigger on the outside. I can’t go back.”

“There’s more out there than you can imagine,” he says. 11089 swallows and looks at him with wide, hopeful eyes.

“Promise?” they whisper, as if he’s playing a trick and they’re going to turn a corner and find the walls he’s been hiding from them, the ones keeping their world small and cut off from the rest of the universe. Maybe one day they’ll stop expecting to run into one.

“Why promise anything when I can take you there?” 11089 is smiling, and if it still hurts, knowing how they failed to change history, the future, the present, then he has places they can run to. He doesn’t even have to go for the most impressive, though he will anyway. If they can be spellbound watching pigeons like earlier, then he could show them a single ocean and change their life forever.

He stands up. He can hear 11089’s shoes scuff against the ground, and when he turns back to them, they’re poised on the edge of their seat. “Where?” they ask.

“Everywhere.” He offers them his hand. They don’t hesitate to spring to his side.

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#fanfiction #podfic #general audiences #1001-5000 #doctor who #genfic #tenth doctor & oc #the doctor & oc #tenth doctor #the doctor #oc #oc (even)#11089/even fics

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quietwings-fics · 3 months

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bring me (back) to life

Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: N/A Fandom: Doctor Who Ship: Thoschei (TenSimm) Additional Tags: Genderswap, Femslash, Female Doctor (Doctor Who), Female Master (Doctor Who), Light Angst, Post-Episode: s04e17-e18 The End of Time, Light Dom/sub, Choking, Vaginal Fingering, Clothed Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot Wordcount: 2429 Summary:

The Master is alive, and the Doctor will not ever let her die again.

The Doctor doesn’t know this body yet.

Or, she knows it too well, in all the wrong ways. She knows it cold and lifeless. She washed this body of the blood that was torn out of it before she wrapped it up, before she burned it. She held it in her arms, and she stumbled as she carried it to the pyre, and when she laid it down, she had to pull back the shroud one last time to check if there really wasn’t a spark of regeneration in its eyes. She hasn’t told the Master that part yet. She doesn’t think she will. In some ways, it was easier to speak to her as a corpse.

She’s watching the Doctor now. Her eyes are so alive; they see everything. They burn fever-bright, still as wild as she was when the Doctor found her again. As if the bruises and bitemarks littered across the Doctor’s body she gained wrangling the Master back into her TARDIS aren’t proof enough that a moment’s truce hasn’t tamed her. The Master tips her head, and when she does, her mouth opens slightly, showing her teeth in what might be a grin or might be a warning that she’s about to strike again.

The Doctor has her pressed to a wall in the TARDIS. The ever-present engine hums through her skin and bones and calms her racing hearts.

She raises a hand. The Master’s mouth twists, and she recoils angrily from the Doctor’s touch. She persists. Her hand lands on the side of the Master’s face, palm to her cheek, fingers brushing her temple.

“Stop fighting me,” she says. She’s so tired.

The Master’s head tips, her eyes soften for the briefest of moments, and she responds, “How else am I supposed to keep you here?” As if she’s not meant to be the prisoner, for as weak an attempt the Doctor has made at locking her up. The Doctor tries to kiss her, and she ends up bitten for it. She doesn’t move back despite the threat, staying dangerously close.

This is where truth blooms, and nowhere else. It was the Doctor who got scared and pulled away before. Selfishly, she isn’t giving the Master room to. She exhales and leans forward, eyes shut, until she feels the solid bump of the Master’s forehead against her own and hears her sharp intake of breath.

The Master’s consciousness is its own ecosystem, ordered in concept but wild in practice, thoughts hunting and hunted, waiting always for fire to sweep through so she can rebuild herself on top of the ashes. A niche reveals itself, a place where the Doctor... fits. It's as though it all grew around the expectation of her.

The drums- The Doctor still flinches, but she holds her ground this time. They intrude. She belongs. Together, they shape the Master, and when she's this intertwined with the Master's thoughts, she can tell how much she hates that. Almost as much as she loves it.

“I’m not going anywhere.” She lifts her other hand to the Master’s cheek. She barely lays it against her skin before both of her hands are covered by the Master’s own, gripping them tight until the bones in her wrists ache. There’s a pounding, constant rhythm, but if it’s her own hearts or those horrible drums, she can’t tell the difference anymore. The Master squeezes her wrists one last time, another pair of bruises to join the rest, and then she drags the Doctor’s hands off of her. She leans back in what little space she has, her head thumping the wall behind her. She pushes the Doctor out.

The Doctor memorizes her. Her choppy blonde hair sweeps across her forehead, and her chapped lips are parted, drawing in breath after breath. The Doctor wants to hold her face in her hands again and feel the way her jaw moves beneath her skin, to brush her fingers over her eyelids as she blinks, to touch every part of her that’s so alive and animated.

Then, the Master’s eyes snap open, and the moment’s peace gives way.

They end up on the floor, first the Doctor beneath her and then the Master being forced flat on her back when the Doctor gets the upper hand again, wrestling with her like they did when they were young, playing dirty with teeth and jabs in soft, sensitive places. “Stop it,” the Doctor orders, placing her arm against the Master’s throat. She hears her wheeze, but the Master won’t stop squirming, no matter how hard the Doctor presses down. The Master’s hand lands in her hair and yanks the Doctor’s head back painfully, and she bears her weight down until the Master can’t catch a single breath. “Stop it!” she repeats with a childish hiss.

The Master knows her bluff. She can’t keep her like this, won’t run out her respiratory bypass and suffocate her on the cold floor. The Doctor can’t bear the thought of the Master’s life escaping in her arms again.

She can’t let her go.

The Doctor runs her other hand down the Master’s front. She hadn’t escaped a certain desk job softness during her stint as the Prime Minister, but now, she’s like a starved animal, her body broken down in a desperate bid to survive. The Doctor slips her hand beneath her hoodie. She hates seeing the Master like this, but she is alive, she’s warmth and movement under the Doctor’s hands, and when the Doctor eases off to allow it, she breathes in deeply. The Doctor’s hand rises with her belly and falls again.

“I’m going to help you.” It’s no longer an offer the Master can accept. It’s a statement of fact.

“You’re going to waste your time,” the Master says, “and I’m going to escape, and nothing will change.” The Doctor’s hand rises again on the wave of another breath. She notes every little detail, from the sharpness of the Master’s ribs to the shape of her belly button to the trail of short dark hairs leading down below her waist.

“You won’t die, not again,” the Doctor says, and she’s making it law, as fundamental to the universe as paradoxes and fixed points in time. The Master sneers as though she’d throw herself back into the dark on spite alone, and the Doctor waits until her lungs are full to cut her air off again. “You want to own the stars, the universe, I don’t care. But you belong to me.” She runs her nails lightly down the Master’s stomach. The Master’s eyes are defiant, but the Doctor ignores her.

She can care about the fate of the rest of time and space if she sets the Master free on it later. What matters more is the body beneath her own. The pulses weaving through it are a constant reminder of how alive she is. The Doctor’s hand slides down, beneath her waistband and the elastic of her boxers until the Master’s squirming finally stills. The Doctor cups her, and she gets a hand around her arm for her trouble, trying to pull her away. The Doctor lets her go to take that hand and lean forward, pinning it down by the Master’s head. Her mouth is open again, gaping around useless attempts at breath, and inviting the Doctor to kiss her.

The Master chokes when the Doctor touches her again. She spreads her open with her fingers, dipping to find where she’s soft and wet and rising again to rub her swollen clit.

She lets the Master breathe as she works her fingers against it slowly. It frees her up to find the Master’s other hand, the one not obediently pinned where she put it but instead clutching at the Doctor’s waist. She plucks it off, tangling their fingers together, and circles her clit again and again as she pins it opposite the other. The Master’s cheeks are pink from choking and darkening with a deeper flush as the Doctor takes her clit between her fingers and strokes it. Part of her misses when the Master had a cock — there had been so much to work with, to tease — but watching her tense and twitch from each little swipe of her fingers is quickly becoming just as desirable.

“Master,” she murmurs. “I’ve got you,” as soft as she can make her voice. “I’ve got you,” she repeats, possessiveness creeping in, and when the Master tosses her head, the Doctor bites down on her exposed throat. Tit for tat, the Master’s left far more marks on her, but she just needs one, bruising dark as blood against her skin. She smiles as the Master swallows down a helpless noise she won’t allow herself to make. Her hands stay where the Doctor put them.

She’s wet enough for two fingers, and if she isn’t, then she’s earned it hurting a little. The Doctor pushes them in until her hand is pressed against the Master’s cunt. She grinds her palm into the Master’s clit without mercy, feeling her clench around her fingers.

“See how much easier this is? If you just let me…” She slides her fingers out until the Master groans in the back of her throat. It’s as good as begging, for her. Maybe one day, the Doctor can teach her to ask for what she wants.

With her fingers pressed deep, she can roll the Master’s clit under the heel of her palm and make her pant. When she places her other hand at the Master’s neck again, it’s like a question, one answered when the Master touches her wrist and holds it down against her throat. A moment’s disobedience gives way to real submission, finally, as she goes limp under the Doctor.

The Doctor wants so much more. She leans down to press her face into the Master’s chest, nosing through the fabric to feel the curve of her breasts. There’s no bra underneath, and that’s taunting her when she can’t stop now and strip the Master down. Later, she promises herself. They’ll have later. They’ll have all the time they could ever want.

The Master’s chest jerks. She’s on the borrowed time of her bypass now. The Doctor’s hand around her throat holds firm. Her life is in the Doctor’s hands, and the Master knows: she will not pull the trigger.

Her hips are rocking up against the Doctor’s fingers, helping her to drive them in and out. The Doctor watches how the Master’s eyes squeeze shut and her hands curl into fists as she crooks her fingers inside her. She’s ruining the Master’s boxers a little more with each thrust.

She eases up on the Master’s throat. The Doctor mouths along her jaw. She moves her hand faster as she sucks at the hinge of it, and the Master groans in her ear, her legs bending as she pushes up into the Doctor’s touch.

“Say my name,” the Doctor whispers to her. The Master snorts with laughter, a sound that cuts off with a whimper as the Doctor presses her palm down onto the Master’s clit again, alternating between rubbing it and sinking her fingers in deep again.

“Doctor,” she concedes. And then, petulantly, she adds, “Are you ever going to make me come?”

The Doctor nips her again for that. She deserves it. It makes her clench down on the Doctor’s fingers, triumphant breaths panted in her ear.

“If I let you come, will you stop being so difficult?” The Doctor already knows the answer before the Master turns to kiss her. She knows the trick by now, too, but she lets it happen anyway, takes the jolt of pain from being bitten and savors it.

“No,” the Master says, “but I will return the favor.” The Doctor sucks on her sore lip. The Master looks ravenous, and her hands, though still restrained by her own will, are flexing as though she’s imagining turning the tables and holding the Doctor down as she-

The Doctor swallows. She has to focus.

“Say it again,” she says.

“Doctor,” the Master purrs under her. She bears down on the Doctor’s fingers again as they press against the hot muscle inside her just right.

“Again,” the Doctor pleads.

She doesn’t know how she survived thinking she would never hear that again.

The Master’s mouth opens around a sound that isn’t quite right, that lodges in her throat from the intimacy of it and disappears again. She lifts her hands and loops them around the back of the Doctor’s neck, dragging her down until they are pressed forehead to forehead. She shares pleasure. The Doctor can feel her own fingers stretching her open and touching her where her nerves spark. Her clit throbs beneath her layers.

“Doctor,” the Master says, one last time, her voice catching as her whole body turns into one long line of tension. She’s holding on to the Doctor so tight that it hurts to resist and not collapse into her. The Doctor eases her fingers back and forth slowly as the Master comes around them. She draws out her orgasm until she finally shivers and relaxes, her body easing down onto the floor of the TARDIS.

The Doctor draws her hand out. It’s soaked and sticky down to her wrist. She licks the taste of the Master off of it before she leans down and buries her face in her chest again, cradled between the Master’s beating hearts.

The Master makes a low, satisfied hum. She scratches her nails over the Doctor’s scalp, sending lovely tingles down her spine.

“I’m going to eat you out,” she says, like a scheme, and the Doctor presses her smile into the fabric of the Master’s hoodie where it will be hidden and safe. “You’re going to scream for me.”

“Will I, Master?” she asks. The Master shifts beneath her, her leg drawing up to press her thigh against the Doctor’s crotch. She grinds down against it willingly, sighing with the small relief of finally having a little pressure against her cunt.

But the Master doesn’t move any more than that, and even the Doctor is only rubbing against her lazily.

“Mm. Soon.” The Doctor drinks in the sleepy aftermath of the Master’s orgasm greedily. It won’t last long, and she has no doubt the Master is making promises she has every intention of keeping. Still, right now, she’s the one spread out under the Doctor, and she can’t do a thing but let the Doctor hold on to her.

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#fanfiction #nsfw #explicit #1001-5000 #doctor who #thoschei #tensimm #the doctor #tenth doctor #the master #simm!master #fem!doctor #fem!ten #fem!master #fem!simm

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quietwings-fics · 3 months

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Shared Territory

Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: N/A Fandom: Doctor Who Ship: The Doctor/The Master/The Doctor's TARDIS Additional Tags: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Mind Control, Telepathic Sex, Hypnotism, Sub Doctor (Doctor Who), Dom Master (Doctor Who), Dom The Doctor's TARDIS, Sentient TARDIS, Sex in a TARDIS, Sex WITH a TARDIS, Bottom Doctor (Doctor Who), Top Master (Doctor Who) Wordcount: 729 Summary:

Or, the two who know the Doctor the best take him apart.

It shouldn’t feel good, getting fucked against the TARDIS’s console. Too many buttons, too many levers, anything that could go wrong if he slaps one by accident when the Master is too deep inside him to let him think. There’s the corner of a panel digging into his lower back, jammed deeper with each thrust until it aches like a future bruise.

The Doctor’s in no state to argue about that. He was, a few minutes ago, and then there had been… a hand between his legs and teeth against his throat… and his clothes had started disappearing… and all the while, the Master had been murmuring to him about how much he wanted to obey, how good it would feel, how easy it was to let his mind empty. He’d tried to keep up, but by the time he’d mustered enough of his own willpower to push back, he’d been filled up by the Master’s cock and shoved back onto the console.

If he’s expecting an ally in the TARDIS, he doesn’t get one. He reaches for her in a desperate bid, hoping to hear her rumbling with discontent over her delicate machinery being used as a spot to fuck, especially by the Master, but instead, she’s pleased.

She lays her own claim. She pushes the Master out of the corners of his mind when he can’t. The Doctor pays the price for that in harder thrusts and a frustrated growl against his neck.

The TARDIS’s connection to him is soothing. She lets him sink into her, and so she snares him easily. She draws him into the calm, rhythmic patterns of her engine’s heartbeat. He shuts his eyes. His body jerks and sounds are forced out of him by the Master, but his mind is somewhere dark and safe.

And then, he blinks. He shivers. He fills.

His sense of time shatters as the TARDIS feeds him a little of what she is. Only a little, only a taste, and enough to disorient him beyond words as he tries, fails, tries again, fails even worse, to process her. Maybe another time, he could handle it, but not with the Master still urging him to let his thoughts spill out, not with the insistent pressure inside him. They fill him up from both ends, mind and body.

He scrabbles for anything solid to hold onto, but there’s only the TARDIS beneath him, the Master leaning into him. Surrounded. Owned. Her engines are so loud in his ear, but they don’t drown out the Master’s words, the way he pulls even more of the Doctor’s resistance out of him until there’s nothing to stop either of them.

The first time the TARDIS has ever worked with the Master willingly, and all it took was the opportunity to take the Doctor apart, piece by piece.

He shudders. The room is spinning. Space goes next, after time. After the seconds of pleasure become hours become days become seconds again, he starts to lose where he is. He’s in the TARDIS, held within her, safe. And part of him is her, maybe, or she’s burrowed so deep inside that she’s become him, and if so, he hopes getting fucked feels as good for her as it does for him.

The Master laughs. He might have said some of that out loud. He orients himself by the sound, hooking his legs up around the Master’s waist.

There’s too much pressure. He’s going to burst. Nothing else fits. Just the cock inside him and two very different minds delineating their territory over his own.

He takes a breath. He’s not sure who he is anymore. He’s not sure it matters.

All that matters is that he feels so-

He comes with a shout. It wrings its way out of him, draining all he has left until he’s flopping limply back against the console. The TARDIS hums with satisfaction and eases out from his mind slowly. He tries to put the pieces of himself back together, only for the Master to knock them down again with his next thrust.

When the Master comes, the Doctor feels the echoes of it reverberating through his mind. The Master pulls out, leaving him empty and wet, dripping down onto the TARDIS’s floor.

He apologizes vaguely to her for the mess

Possibly out loud again. The Master is smirking.

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#fanfiction #nsfw #explicit #500-1000 #doctor who #thoschei #the doctor/the master/the doctor's tardis #the doctor/the doctor's tardis #the doctor #the master #the doctor's tardis #(she IS a character! she WILL be getting a character tag!)#hypnotism #dom!master #dom!doctor's tardis #sub!doctor #bottom!doctor #top!master

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quietwings-fics · 4 months

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The Stars Glow for You

Rating: General Audiences Archive Warning: N/A Fandom: Doctor Who Ship: Martha Jones/Rose Tyler Additional Tags: First Kiss, Episode: s04e13 Journey's End, Cute, Martha Jones Deserves Better, Missing Scene, Fluff and Humor Wordcount: 1653 Summary:

Martha finally gets to meet Rose Tyler. It's almost like Rose is more excited to meet her.

Here she is: Rose Tyler. The legend. The myth. The… woman.

She sits down beside Martha on the edge of the central platform, their legs dangling and swinging slightly as the TARDIS tugs Earth home. Her hair is a mess she’s trying to comb back into sense with her fingers, and when she smiles, her teeth poke out, and she threw herself across the void to find the Doctor again. She succeeded.

Martha knows exactly why he loves her.

“Martha,” Rose says, “Martha Jones?” Like she’s making sure she has it right. Martha nods. Rose’s smile brightens. “You were fantastic.”

Not that Martha needs to be told.

But it’s still something, to hear it from her.

“And you,” she replies. It feels lackluster, but Rose ducks her head.

“Well,” she says, “did my best, anyway.” She peers back up at Martha. “You’ve traveled with him. You’ve got a… look. Like you’ve seen the worst things the universe has to offer standing right beside the most wonderful ones. He does that. To us, I mean.” Martha wants to ask. She wants, desperately, to know what those things were for Rose. It was one thing to pull herself free of the Doctor’s orbit. Rose is something else entirely; Rose is what his universe revolves around.

And before she can, Rose tips her head, worries at her bottom lip, and asks in a hushed tone, “What was it like when you-” Martha leans forward, her questions replaced with a dozen different stories all fighting to be told first, all scary and beautiful and exhilarating.

“Are you gossiping about me?” the Doctor- one of the Doctors calls. Martha doesn’t turn around quick enough to see which, and they’re both looking at her and Rose. Rose shifts beside her, drawing her leg up to fold on the platform. Her knee brushes Martha’s thigh and then rests there, warm and more tangible than any lost dream.

“Stop eavesdropping!” she calls back with ease, and the Doctors huff and harrumph in near perfect unison. One of them casts another glance towards her before focusing on the TARDIS again. Rose shakes her head. Part of Martha expects her to get up and go back to them, but Rose looks back at her. “Do you want to get some privacy?” Martha’s mouth feels drier than it should. Is that a side effect of not being used to traveling the TARDIS? She can’t really remember.

“Yeah,” she says. Rose reaches for her hand, and Martha, like a piece falling into place, lets herself be pulled up to her feet.

“Where are we going?” she asks. She should have the moment they stood up, but she’d been caught on Rose’s hand wrapped around hers. No one had noticed them wandering off. (Except maybe Jack, though he didn’t call attention to them, only raised his eyebrows and grinned.) Rose hesitated in the TARDIS’s hallway. The engine thrummed peacefully, and the light around them seemed to grow and dim like breathing.

“I-” Rose laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. “I was going to take you to my room, but it wouldn’t be here anymore, would it? I haven’t been-” The TARDIS, in its way, ripples and bends until there’s a door that wasn’t there. It even opens slightly with the next wave of light as though beckoning them in. “That can’t be...” Rose says. Martha knows that it is.

“Might as well look,” she says. She squeezes Rose’s hand, and Rose glances down to where their fingers are still tangled together, as though she was so comfortable that she’d forgotten. She doesn’t let go.

Rose’s room is a mess.

“Oh my god,” she says. Her cheeks flame bright pink as Martha stares at her bra on the floor and then very quickly looks anywhere else. “I’m sorry. I’ve been in another dimension. I haven’t really had the chance to clean- Hey!” Rose cuts herself off to pick up a skirt off her bed. She turns it over a few times like she’s inspecting it for damage. It’s perfectly fine. Martha swipes her hand over the (cleared) part of a dresser and doesn’t even come up with dust. It’s like a time capsule. “Sorry,” Rose says, “I got this a few hundred years in the future, and they haven’t been created yet for me to replace it.”

“It’s cute,” Martha says. Rose holds it at her waist to show off. It’s a friendly yellow.

“That’s not even the best part,” she says. She slides her hand against one of the pleats and then into it. “These are all pockets. Folded up space or something.”

“Really?” Rose grins.

“Yeah. Come see.” Martha’s too curious to stop herself, and it only occurs to her when her hand is already inside that she’s sticking it down Rose’s skirt. Rose’s hand bumps hers inside, and Martha’s face gets hot.

“That’s. Um.” She pulls her hand back while Rose puts the skirt down. “That’s amazing.”

“Until you need to find which one you put something in,” Rose says. “I lost the sonic screwdriver in here once. Life or death situation, and I’ve got Jack and the Doctor both rummaging around in there.” A laugh escapes Martha. “No, that’s not the worst part. Jack says, ‘I’ve found it!’, so sure of himself. He pulls out-” Rose has to bite her lip to finish. “He pulls out a tampon.” Martha loses it, and Rose struggles to keep speaking around her own laughter. “Points it- Points it right at the bomb- There was a bomb, Martha, and he pointed a tampon at it!” Martha puts her hand out to lean on something and keep her balance. It lands on Rose’s arm. “The Doctor found the screwdriver in time, but that could have been the last thing I ever saw!” Rose’s head falls forward and bumps Martha’s. They both catch their breath between giggles.

“I can’t imagine why the Doctor never told me that story,” Martha says. She wipes at her eyes. God, those tears feel good after the chaos of today.

“Did he tell you a lot about me?” Rose asks, as if it’s even a question that needs to be asked. Martha schools her expression carefully.

“Yes,” she says. Rose frowns at her. She looks around at her perfectly preserved room and licks her lips.

“He ever talk about anything but me?” She sounds genuinely apologetic, as if it’s her fault.

“Once or twice,” Martha says. Rose sighs shortly.

“I’ll smack him for you, if you like. Both of him,” Rose offers. Martha huffs out another laugh. “I’m serious,” Rose says, but she can’t keep a serious expression to back that up. “I will. I could get my mum to do it, too. She’s been waiting.”

“I don’t need you to,” Martha says. She pauses. “I kind of want to see that, though.”

“It’s good for him. He likes it.” Rose flushes suddenly. “He- I meant, it keeps him humble.” Martha opens her mouth, considers whether she really wants an answer to what she’s dying to ask, and shuts it again.

“He did lose you,” Martha says. “I try to keep that in mind, so I feel a little more charitable.”

“Yeah, but he had you,” Rose says. “What’s he doing not shutting up about me when you’re here? You’re incredible. You just tried to hold the Earth hostage to get rid of the Daleks.”

“It didn’t work,” Martha points out, but her face is getting hot again.

“You still went for it, though,” Rose says. “You’re bold, and you’re smart, and you’re gorgeous-” Rose’s mouth snaps shut around whatever she was going to say next. She looks like she’s trying to keep a frog trapped in her mouth until she finally manages to speak again. “This is Jack’s fault. I stand around him too long, and I start saying… anything, apparently.”

“I don’t mind,” Martha says. Rose’s mouth quirks.

“Course you don’t. You’re the one getting compliments.”

“So those are the only ones I get?” It’s a bad idea to let Rose draw her in, but orbiting the Doctor had always been such a lonely thing to do. Rose is like the sun. Martha feels warm beneath her gaze. All of Rose’s attention is on her, and it feels amazing.

“I think I could come up with a few more.” That, Martha’s sure, is a line she’s stolen from Jack, if only because the way she says it sounds like him.

It’s an even worse idea to let Rose kiss her, but when Rose reaches for her hand again and looks down at her mouth, Martha can’t do anything else. Rose’s other hand rises to her cheek when she kisses Martha. Martha’s sure Rose can feel the way she’s flushed beneath her palm. Martha’s hands hover at Rose’s waist, and Rose leans forward into the kiss until Martha holds onto her to keep them both steady. Rose’s shirt rides up, and Martha’s fingers find themselves against bare skin.

Rose giggles against Martha's mouth. She’s ticklish, Martha thinks, Rose Tyler is ticklish. There’s something the Doctor never thought to mention.

Kissing the Doctor, once, had been like a run-in with a tornado, something she was lucky to survive and had chased the thrill of until she realized it might just kill her.

Kissing Rose is like… like the first night Martha was on the TARDIS and the gentle hum of it lulled her to sleep. Kissing Rose is like when she woke up the next morning with an extra pillow under her arm for her to hold and a heavier blanket over her feet like she’d always liked to sleep when she was at home. Kissing Rose is like she’s being invited to stay.

Rose pulls back first. She looks a little nervous. “Alright?” she asks.

Martha wiggles her fingers at Rose’s side again to hear her small laugh again.

“Amazing,” she says.

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#fanfiction #general audiences #1001-5000 #doctor who #martha jones/rose tyler #martha jones #rose tyler

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quietwings-fics · 4 months

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Dastardly Alien Cheesecake

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: N/A Ship: Gen (Ten & Donna) Additional Tags: Trust, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Poison, Hurt/Comfort, Vomiting, The Doctor & Donna Noble Friendship Wordcount: 3761 Summary:

Donna eats something she’s not supposed to.

Notes:

I'm going to state it outright here so that everyone knows what they're walking into: yes, this is a fic about the doctor sticking his fingers down donna's throat to make her throw up. you have now been warned of the contents and can proceed if you so wish.

The honeymoon period of traveling across time and space is followed by the most intense bout of homesickness that Donna has ever felt, which perhaps isn't saying much when she'd never been that far from home in her life before the Doctor.

To stand on an alien planet and realize just how far away she is from her granddad is a massive step up from missing him when he's only a drive away. Her room in the TARDIS is all hers, and it even fills itself with comforts that Donna forgot to bring, — like a blanket on the heavier side and a little squeezy stress ball that always seems to roll out from under her bed when she's upset — but at the same time, it never forgets what it is, an alien ship flown by an alien man. Something about the corners where the walls meet the floor are never right, never quite what a person, a human, would have built.

She doesn’t tell the Doctor about any of this. She doesn't have to. He must see it in her eyes because he starts pointing out little details on their journeys to her. He can somehow find a little piece of home to show her no matter where they are. They wait at a train station that will take them a few hundred miles below the surface of a planet and laugh at the confusing and colorful layout of the map provided, correcting each other back and forth about which station, exactly, they're even waiting at. Another time, he fiddles with a radio (or, what she assumes is a radio) with the sonic screwdriver until it starts to call out mournfully for Major Tom, singing a signal that got sent out into space thousands of years ago all to be picked up by the two of them. Even among aliens, there are commonalities, there are always reality TV shows that play on screens no one is watching (even if the contestants are a little more green... or blue... or translucent than she's used to) and automatic doors that never work right.

Constants in the universe that she'd be lost without, really. The Doctor knows where to look for them.

(Not for the first time, she wonders if that's because of how many humans he's had to curb the homesickness of, or because while she can look up at the stars and know home is still there for her to return to, even if she has no intention of staying, he can't.

Even Timelords must have had reality TV.)

The one constant that can center her like nothing else is food. Everyone in the universe cooks.

“All your memories," the Doctor had started explaining once, and Donna had learned to measure how long he would ramble about something by his tone alone. This voice was the 'at least twenty minutes before he'll take a breath' one. "Are stored away in your hippocampus, rubbing right against where your brain lights up when something hits your tastebuds, so-" Donna had taken those few moments to weigh her willingness to listen to him babble through their entire meal and decided instead to pick up the sandwich he wasn't eating and shove it in his mouth to shut him up. It had worked pretty well.

That’s why, when the Doctor wanders off into the crowd of the party they’re technically crashing and leaves Donna alone, she doesn’t think twice about approaching the buffet table. She’s not having much luck striking up a conversation, so she might as well find something to pass the time. She doesn’t recognize any of the food — hardly surprising when she’s only the third human in the room, as far as she’s seen.

She walks along the table, taking her time and half-wishing the Doctor would come back to keep her company. Maybe he’d gone off and gotten himself kidnapped. She grinned. Now, that would give her something to do and something to gloat about when the doing’s done.

At the end of the table, just as she begins to despair (and contemplate one of the less appealing looking snacks,) there’s a plate of cheesecake. She blinks at it. It doesn’t squirm, or bleed, or make any weird noises when she gingerly scoops a little onto her plate. It’s just cheesecake. Looks like it, smells like it… She picks up a fork and pokes it one more time before breaking off a piece and putting it in her mouth. Tastes like it. It’s deliciously sweet.

She eats the whole piece far too quickly. She only tenses once, a scolding voice creeping up in the back of her head that sounds too much like her mother, but then, she’s a billion miles and thousands of years away. Donna can have as much cheesecake as she damn well pleases.

With a lighter step, Donna takes another piece to wander with. It’s just as good as the first, but she takes the time to savor this one.

”Donna,” the Doctor seems to appear out of nowhere, the only warning of his approach a familiar touch on her back sliding to grip her shoulder for a moment, “oh, you’re going to love this. They’re-“ He stops. She watches the grin on his face suffocate slowly. “What do you have there?” he asks. She’s been in enough life-or-death situations with him that his excited tone dropping so quickly makes her itch with the need to run.

”Cheesecake,” she answers. The Doctor grimaces.

”Right,” he says. “No. You don’t.” Donna looks down at her plate. “Definitely not cheesecake. Very not edible for humans. How long have you been eating that?” Donna feels her appetite drop out of her and pick up a bindle to hitchhike to someone who needs it more.

”I don’t know?” She looks around, which is useless because no one in the future bothers to keep clocks on the wall. They probably just have their alarms microchipped into their brains. The Doctor takes her plate away. He sets it down, and his attention returns to her immediately. His mouth is pinched as he takes her hand in his and starts checking her fingers for… something.

“How much did you have? Stick out your tongue,” he says.

”What?” But his gaze is deadly serious. Donna sticks out her tongue and fumbles her words around it. “One piece. One and a half.” The Doctor stares very closely at her tongue. He lets out a sigh of relief, which she takes as permission to stop looking like a fool and put her tongue back where it belongs.

”You’re alright. You’ll be alright.” She’s not sure which of them he’s reassuring, but if it’s her, he’s not doing a very good job of it. He puts a hand on her shoulder and starts guiding her through the party. “Come on. We’ll take care of this.”

”Take care of what?”

”Just a minor… major… ‘possibly fatal if we don’t handle it’ case of food poisoning. Why are you putting things in your mouth that don’t belong there?”

“You’re always letting me eat alien food!”

“After I’ve made sure it’s safe!”

“Maybe you should have warned me that death by cake was an option-” She cuts herself off as she frowns at the hallway he’s leading her down now that they’ve escaped the party. “The TARDIS is the other way.”

”I know.” She turns her gaze suspiciously onto him. He dropped the argument far too quickly for him not to be playing it up for her sake.

“So… we’re going to whatever nurse they have here to pick up the antidote?” The Doctor makes a face that’s answer enough.

”Not quite.” He herds her along to a door near the end of the hallway. The automatic door clicks twice at them like it’s annoyed at having to do its job, and then it only opens up halfway, leaving them to have to scoot in sideways one after the other. Donna goes first.

Another constant in the universe: everyone has toilets. Even species who don’t need toilets create toilets, though those were less than useful to Donna and she really didn’t feel like marveling at universal similarities when she needed to go. Bathrooms also only came in two types, through which you could tell how much the janitors (another thing that everyone had) were being paid: clean enough to eat off the floor or so disgusting that Donna would seriously consider just waiting until they got back to the TARDIS.

This one was, thankfully, the former. Donna breathed a sigh of relief before remembering why the Doctor had brought her here in the first place. He spoke before she could ask. “There’s no antidote for this. Luckily, it’s also extremely slow to break down.”

Donna can put two and two together.

”You want me to throw up the cake.” It isn’t a question. The Doctor treats it like one.

”Sooner rather than later, yeah.” He rocks back on his heels. Donna peers around. No stalls here, but there are identifiable toilets, which is more than some places can boast of. “I’ll turn around if you want some privacy.”

”I can’t.”

”Sure you can, just-” He unsubtly mimes sticking his finger down his throat. Donna glowers at him.

“And I’m telling you,” she repeats, “that doesn’t work.”

”How do you know that?” Donna doesn’t answer him. The Doctor grits his teeth together and looks to the side. “Okay. I’ll…” He trails off. “I’ll help?”

”Help?” Donna repeats back to him, incredulous. The Doctor turns back to the automatic door, which has taken its sweet time closing and clicks angrily at him when he moves in range again. He whips up the sonic screwdriver in a flash and quiets the door. The sensor above goes dead, locking it.

“Donna, we have to get it out of you,” he says. “Trust me when I say this is the quickest, least unpleasant way we can do this.” She does trust him. That doesn’t mean she has to like it.

”So what?” She glances down to the screwdriver he’s fiddling with, almost nervously. “Are you going to sonic my insides?”

”What? No!” The screwdriver disappears into one of his pockets. “Look, I can just- I can help.”

”How?” she demands.

“I can make it happen,” he replies. “If you can’t do it yourself.”

Donna fixes him with a look. It clicks.

“You are not sticking your fingers down my throat!” She takes a step back and even sweeps a hand in front of her to protect the distance between them.

”Donna-” he starts, stubbornly, but on equal footing like that, she won’t give any more ground than he will.

”Stick your fingers somewhere more useful!”

”Donna.” He tries again, but there’s no argument in it this time. His voice is quiet and serious. His eyes plead with her to let him help. (He’s doing that on purpose, she knows he is, because no one could unintentionally look so despairing. And it’s still working on her.)

”…It’s really going to kill me if we don’t, isn’t it?” she asks. She doesn’t want to look at it. Can’t. Danger is something they’re supposed to be able to run away from.

”Yes,” he confirms. There’s a reassuring lightness to his voice as he continues, stepping forward and waiting to see if she pulls back again. She doesn’t. “Death by cake. Agonizing. Embarrassing. How do I explain that to your mom and granddad?” Donna snorts. It isn’t anywhere close to a laugh. The Doctor is close enough to touch her now, and he does, hands wrapped around her own and squeezing as she takes a deep breath.

”We’ve done weirder, I guess,” she says.

”I definitely have,” he says. “You’ve got a much nicer mouth than most of the ones I’ve gone poking around in.” He squeezes her hands a second time. She looks down at them, at his fingers firmly wrapped around her, his thumb rubbing the back of her right hand.

“You’d better wash them first,” she says. This close, she can see the Doctor’s relief in the minute drop of his shoulders and the way the lines around his eyes relax into something happier. Her hands still feel warm when he lets them go. She tucks them close to her chest almost instinctively, like she can keep a little of his presence with her.

She has to pick out a toilet. The locked door means privacy, but the lack of stalls still sets some part of her on edge. Lavatory instincts. The desire not to be seen when she’s about to be at her lowest. No one invites a friend in to watch them throw up after having too much to drink at a party. The last time she must have had anyone around for that, she’d barely been in double digits. She wasn’t sure exactly who it had been, but she remembered having her hair held back to keep it clean while she was miserably sick.

She got down on the floor next to the toilet. A moment later, the sink the Doctor was using had switched off, and she could hear him pad over.

“Ready?” he asks as he gets down beside her. She takes a breath.

”No?” She turns to him. “What should I…?”

”Try not to bite me.” Donna’s mouth twitches up for a brief moment.

”No promises.”

The Doctor puts his other hand over hers again, but his fingers rest on her chin first. His touch is very light, very still, waiting to see how she reacts. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips. They feel chapped. He waits a moment before moving, lifting his fingers to place two of them against her bottom lip this time.

“Should I stick my tongue out again?” she asks. It’s strange to speak with him touching her lip. The pressure of his fingers doesn’t impede her at all, but it is… there. His fingers bump her upper lip at certain sounds. They stay where they were when she’s finished until he answers.

“That would make it easier.” Donna goes to lick her lips again without thinking, but when she bumps a finger, she sucks her tongue right back into her mouth, slightly mortified. And then she snorts another almost-laugh because she has no idea what else she can do with the feeling. The Doctor smiles. He draws his fingers back to let her open her mouth.

She tries to keep her cool. The Doctor’s finger barely brushes her tongue, and… she bites him. And her tongue. Not hard enough to hurt, but they both hiss in surprise. The Doctor retreats, and she can see the pale indent of her own teeth on the top of his index finger.

”Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Again?” She nods. This time, the Doctor lifts his other hand and places two fingers at the edge of her mouth, firm against her lower canine and lip and holding them open. She breathes, trying to relax. She doesn’t do a very good job of it. This time, when she feels his finger touch her tongue, she doesn’t bite down. Couldn’t now if she tried, but she’s proud of herself for keeping that reflex under control.

Having his finger in her mouth is… odd. He delves in with purpose. She can feel the pad of his finger slide back along her tongue as his knuckles rub against her teeth. She can hear herself breathing around it.

He still goes slow, and so it doesn’t feel like an intrusion as much as it does an exploration she’s submitted to. Minute movements of her tongue feel amplified when they rub against his finger. A moment later and his nail bumps up against her soft palate. His eyes narrow and his finger slides deeper until Donna feels the urge to swallow around it.

”Hm.” He frowns. She did warn him. “You don’t have a very strong gag reflex.”

She tries to respond and resorts to making an insulted noise in the back of her throat when she can’t.

“I can still trigger it. Give me a minute.” She makes a questioning noise as his finger withdraws. He keeps her mouth open with his other hand. His thumb rests along her jaw, grounding her. Gently, he inserts his middle finger next to his index the second time he goes probing in her mouth. She grunts in discomfort.

She wonders if she should close her eyes. She would, except that whenever she tenses or makes a sound, his gaze jumps up to meet hers. It’s comforting to know that they’re stuck in this strangeness together.

Breathing around two fingers feels more difficult. They squish against her tongue as they push back to her throat. Sensation becomes less sure the further back they are, until she can mostly feel a pressure that makes her want to pull away. She clenches the bottom of her dress up in her fists to keep still. The Doctor’s knuckles bump her teeth as he probes around in her throat.

It starts as a tingling sensation. Donna frowns. The Doctor pushes somewhere uncomfortable, and she makes an involuntary noise, her eyes welling up. He looks up to her again, and his sure expression is the only thing that keeps her calm.

He withdraws a little. “Breathe,” he says, and Donna does, once, before he orders, “and stop.”

The constant sound of her own breathing freezes at his word. He pushes his fingers back in.

Donna feels an awful choking sensation, her throat convulsing around some obstruction, and then a wave of nausea has her grabbing at the Doctor’s hand. He yanks his fingers out quickly as she bows forward over the toilet and throws up. Her throat burns.

Donna sucks in a breath when it’s over. It hurts. Her mouth feels sour and disgusting. She blinks to see what mess she’s made, but aside from a splatter that she cringes from on the toilet’s side, she got the rest of it where it was supposed to go.

She inhales again. Her eyes are watery.

The Doctor is holding her hair. She only realizes that as she comes back to herself, but he’s got it all in his hand, the other on her shoulder holding her still. He lets go, smoothing her hair down back into place. Donna shuts her eyes to feel it better.

”Tell me it’s over,” she mutters. The Doctor doesn’t say anything. She forces her eyes open, unformed tears blurring her vision. “Doctor. Please.”

”Just one more time. I promise.” Donna makes a face, squeezing her eyes shut. She spits into the toilet, but that does very little to get rid of the sour taste flooding her mouth.

“That better not be the hand that was in my mouth,” she mumbles. The Doctor stops touching her hair, and she regrets calling attention to it. She forces herself to sit up straight again and opens her mouth. She feels disgusting.

The Doctor touches her cheek this time before he secures her mouth open with his fingers. He doesn’t even look grossed out about touching her after she’s thrown up.

He uses two fingers from the start this time. Donna’s jaw aches slightly. The Doctor’s fingers taste marginally better than the inside of her own mouth right now, and that’s some kind of relief. She’s never had cause to think about it before, but he tastes like… Well, he just tastes like some bloke. How fingers are supposed to taste, like skin and the salt of sweat. Not unpleasant, not enjoyable, and not alien at all.

“Hold your breath,” he says. This time, she can brace herself as each sensation comes. The growing pressure of his fingers touching things he shouldn’t. The catch in her throat. The spasms. He pulls his fingers away. This time, when she lurches forward, she can feel the way the Doctor catches her shoulders on the way, helping her get everything into the toilet. He’s got ahold of her hair a second later, keeping it out of her way as her stomach’s contents are dragged out of her.

Tears streak down her cheeks this time. She sniffs, and even the inside of her nose feels like it’s burning this time. She swallows, a mistake that makes her gag again, and then spits up bile from the back of her throat.

“That’s it,” the Doctor is saying. He’s rubbing her back. It’s the only good thing she can feel right now. “It’s over. You’re safe.” She feels his lips press to her temple as she gasps in air, and then his own relieved exhale. “You’re safe.”

Donna groans miserably.

The Doctor only moves a little to flush the toilet for her. She slumps into him, and he wraps an arm around her, resting his head atop hers.

“Never eating alien food again,” she mutters. “From now on, you’re bringing me back to Earth, and we’re ordering take-out.”

“What about that little place on Muscolane?” he asks.

”…One exception for Muscolane.” Leaning against him like this, she can feel his chuckle as well as hear it.

He helps her to her feet. She wipes at her eyes and her nose as he brings her over to the sink. She doesn’t even bother to question it when he picks up a towel to wash her face off with. Donna stands perfectly still for him as he brushes it over her mouth and chin. She balks a little more at him picking a small paper cup from a dispenser and filling it before holding it for her to drink from. There’s something so tremendously earnest about him doing it that she allows it anyway. She sips slowly, fills her mouth and swirls it around, and then spits it into the sink as the Doctor refills the cup again.

She takes it from him this time and drinks it at her own pace. He starts washing his hands, and her gaze darts down to his sleeve and a very conspicuous stain on it. She should feel embarrassed about that, but she’s too worn out for it. Besides, he knew what he was getting into.

Someone rudely bangs on the door the Doctor locked. Or broke. Those words usually mean the same thing with him. The Doctor sneaks a glance at her, and when the pounding comes again, followed by demands to be let in, they both have to choke down giggles.

“Back to the TARDIS?” he asks.

To answer, she takes his hand.

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#fanfiction #1001-5000 #teen and up audiences #doctor who #genfic #the doctor & donna #ten & donna #the doctor #tenth doctor #donna noble #h/c #vomiting

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quietwings-fics · 4 months

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Memento

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Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: N/A Fandom: Doctor Who Ship: Thoschei (Ten/Simm!Master) Additional Tags: Biting, Collars, Drabble, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot Wordcount: 100 Summary:

They have to do something with that collar.

It’s such a gaudy color. Any other shade of red would look too much like blood against the Master’s skin, but the collar is charmingly ugly. It doesn’t set the Doctor’s teeth on edge to touch, to hook a finger in a ring and tug.

The Master bares his fangs. Wild animal. Predator. Carnivore.

Someone has to keep him fed.

Another yank, dragging him in where the Doctor can sink his own teeth in to bruise blue and purple. The Master takes it with a growl.

The Doctor takes more and makes him gasp until he comes on his stomach.

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quietwings-fics · 4 months

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too tired to be a moth

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Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: N/A Fandom: Supernatural Ship: Samifer Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Goncharov (1973) Fusion, Arson, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Cigarettes, Smoking, Wedding Rings Wordcount: 1545 Summary:

Lucifer is a beautiful, dangerous thing, and Sam has always been weak for them. A take on the famous poker scene from Goncharov, but swapping out Sam for Katya and Lucifer for Sofia!

Here is what Sam knows about Lucifer:

That he came to them for a job months ago, looking tired and sad, and if nothing else, whatever unspoken burden he seemed to carry had made it easier for Sam to convince Dean to let him work. That the sadness never went away, and the exhaustion never lifted, but in bare moments where Lucifer and Sam were alone, he would catch the man watching him. He would smile when Sam noticed, not something small and embarrassed accompanied by the discrete turn of his head as Sam’s grown accustomed to with the myriad of people they employ, but self-assured.

That Lucifer is, he says, an orphan. That his parents died in a housefire, much like Sam’s mother. Sam says, “I’m sorry,” because those are the words people offer him when they learn about his past, and Lucifer tilts his head and answers with, “There’s nothing to apologize for. You didn’t cause it, did you?” Sam swallows, shakes his head. Lucifer does not scare him, almost nothing does, not after he and Dean have been trapped in this world their whole lives. That does not make him comfortable in the man’s presence.

That what starts as glances becomes brief touches when they pass each other. Sam never tells him to stop. He should. Dean would throw him out in an instant if he knew. Sam stands under the watchful gaze of the grandfather clock with Lucifer’s hand on his shoulder, every tick setting him on edge like they could be the click of footsteps down the hall. And then Lucifer will be gone again.

That Lucifer hears too much and says too little. Neither he or Dean thought a peaceful retirement was in their future, but everything is catching up to them, minute by minute, bullet by bullet. It has been since the day Dean’s train ran late, nearly two months ago, leading to his chance meeting with Castiel and pulling away from Sam more and more. Sam feels like a jilted wife, but still, he stays.

That Lucifer is not afraid of fire. He watches it like he watches Sam.

That Lucifer is not someone they should have taken lightly in inviting into their home.

Sam ducks out of the poker game at the fourth round. He needs air. Castiel and Dean trade glances across the table, and Sam sees anxiety where others might see confidence in his brother’s overbearing smirk. Tonight will end bloody, and the other men at the table play on unaware that they were dead when they sat down. Sam should be there to back Dean up, but is he needed, when Castiel can hold a gun just as well as him? He goes out on the balcony.

“Need a light?” comes a voice. The cigarette is already hanging from Sam’s fingers, his other hand searching his coat pocket. He’s not surprised to see Lucifer.

He’s always turning up where he doesn’t belong.

“Yes,” Sam says. He turns to receive it. Lucifer’s dressed like he’s working, but he isn’t on the clock today and this isn’t Sam and Dean’s home. Lucifer pulls out his own cigarette. He eyes Sam as he holds it between his lips. He flicks a lighter open, lets the flame dance a moment or two uninterrupted, before he lights up. Sam waits for him to hold it out, but Lucifer closes it again and the lighter is hidden away in his pocket. He takes a drag like a taunt, long and slow, and exhales smoke into the cool night air. Sam sets his jaw, and Lucifer chuckles.

“Don’t look so upset.” He gestures Sam closer, and Sam comes, hesitantly. His mouth feels dry as Lucifer leans in, the end of his lit cigarette pressed to Sam’s for longer than it needs to be. His hand comes up to rest on the back of Sam’s neck, holding him steady. The end lights, and Sam pulls back. He coughs through his first drag despite years growing accustomed to the smoke. Lucifer is utterly relaxed beside him. He does not retreat back to an acceptable distance, body nearly pressed all along Sam’s side as they both turn back out towards the garden below the balcony. From behind him, Sam can hear a brief ruckus, another round over. He closes his eyes, but nothing more comes.

“You went seeking other employment.” Sam asks, “we didn’t provide enough for you?”

“Enough money to survive. Enough of a view to enjoy my days,” Lucifer answers. Sam’s never allowed himself to watch Lucifer’s hands before, but he does now. His fingers are long and graceful, and sometimes he angles his breaths downwards to let the smoke curl around them, wispy snakes that leave Sam entranced. Lucifer’s wedding ring glints in the dim light, and Sam wonders who it is someone like him goes home to. “It wasn’t enough to satisfy me, Sam.” There is something apologetic in Lucifer’s tone, now.

“What would be?” Sam responds harsher than he means. It shouldn’t feel like as much of a betrayal as it is. He hardly knows Lucifer, and what little he does could well be a lie made up to get close, to get information on him and Dean.

“You,” Lucifer says. He’s not offput by Sam’s aggression. He expected it. Sam flounders for a retort, something sharp enough that it will actually cut through Lucifer’s cool exterior to the heart of him, but Lucifer continues, “What your brother’s doing... It doesn’t have a happy ending, Sam. He’s in too deep.”

“And I’m not?”

“No, you are,” Lucifer agrees easily, “but so am I.” Sam wishes he could only smell smoke, but there’s another scent clinging to Lucifer, earthy and enticing. “I want you to come with me.”

“No.” Lucifer does not enjoy denial as much as he did indignance, and his mouth twists a little.

“You’re going to die with him, Sam,” He says. He flicks his cigarette, lets ash fall into the dark below. “I don’t want you to go like that. Come with me.” Sam is tempted. Lucifer is a beautiful, dangerous thing, and Sam has always been weak for them. “Take a gun,” Lucifer says, soft like seduction, “shoot Dean, and meet me in the garden. We can burn your whole house down and run away together. We might get away for years. It’s a longer life than you’ll have with him. A better one.” Happier, Lucifer pointedly doesn’t say, and at least he understands that if Sam’s brother is ever to die, part of Sam will die with him.

“I can’t,” Sam says, which is a very different answer from no.

“You deserve to.” Lucifer pulls his cigarette from his mouth to take one clean breath, and Sam wonders what he tastes like, all ash or if he’s hiding something there, too, secret tastes and secret scents and parts of Lucifer Sam has never had the chance to learn.

“You’ll stab me in the back the first chance you get. You’ve never been who you say you are.” Lucifer looks insulted. Sam carries on. “Do you have a wife? Is that even real?” Lucifer glances down like his own wedding ring surprises him. He considers it.

“I never said I had a wife,” he says, “and I don’t think I’ll ever claim that. This is for someone else.” He twists it off his finger. Where it rested is paler than the rest of his hand. “But it’s very real, Sam. Would you like to touch it? Make sure?” Sam holds out his hand. He expects Lucifer to drop it into his grasp. Instead, he places it gently in the center of Sam’s palm and folds Sam’s fingers over it. For a few brief moments, his hands are clasped around Sam’s own. The ring is still warm from laying against his skin. “Real enough?” Lucifer asks.

Sam opens his mouth to answer. What comes out is a hiss. The tips of his fingers sting, the cigarette left burning forgotten and now demanding he pay it attention. He drops it without thinking, a tiny ember tumbling down into the darkness below, into the dry grass at the base of the house. Lucifer leans over the balcony railing to watch it fall. Sam turns back to him, and that’s when the gunshots ring out.

The poker game is over.

In the aftermath, Sam has to carry Dean out with Castiel watching them. Lucifer has vanished again, and there’s a horrible ache in Sam’s chest that shouldn’t be there at the thought that this may be the very last time they see each other. Still, he made his choice. He went back to Dean. He helps his brother into their car, ready to drive recklessly into the night. If Sam had looked back, perhaps he’d have seen the starts of the fire that would soon engulf the whole property, all born from a single lost cigarette.

It’s hours later when he reaches into his coat pocket and withdraws a ring he hadn’t realized he’d saved in the middle of the chaos.

He turns it over, once, twice. It shouldn’t still be warm, but it is. He brings it to his lips and leaves a kiss against the metal.

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

#fanfiction #podfic #teen and up audiences #1001-5000 #supernatural #goncharov #goncharov/supernatural #samifer #lucifer spn #sam winchester #au #crossover

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quietwings-fics · 4 months

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in a world of unicorns

(Other Links: Dreamwidth - FFNet - Pillowfort - SquidgeWorld)

Rating: General Audiences Archive Warning: N/A Fandom: The Last Unicorn Ship: Gen (Molly Grue & Original Child Character) Additional Tags: Unicorns, Post-Canon, Adopted Children, Children of Characters, Drabble Wordcount: 100 Summary:

Molly’s daughter doesn’t have to wait as long as she did to meet a unicorn.

Molly’s daughter grows up in a world full of unicorns. She is, herself, a creature from a story, or so Molly guesses from how she cringes from iron and the mischief she causes. Molly wouldn’t have left her to die out in the cold if she’d had green hair or pointed teeth.

Molly’s one wish for her is granted before she turns eight.

Molly knows; she hears a child’s giggles and the purrs of the unicorn she is bold enough to touch.

She’s gone before Molly sees her, but she wonders. What other unicorn would come to little Amalthea Grue?

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

#fanfiction #podfic #drabble #general audiences #the last unicorn #genfic #molly grue & oc #molly grue #oc #post-canon

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quietwings-fics · 4 months

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Pure Vision

(Other Links: Dreamwidth - FFNet - Pillowfort - SquidgeWorld)

Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: CNTW Fandom: Supernatural Ship: Michifer Additional Tags: Angelcest (Supernatural), Pre-Canon, Sex Pollen, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Bottom Lucifer (Supernatural), Top Michael (Supernatural), Possessive Behavior, Intercrural Sex, Anal Sex, Dubious Consent Wordcount: 5237 Summary:

Lucifer stumbles across a rather dangerous plant in Purgatory.

Note:

This is a secret santa gift for my friend, Nri <3

Purgatory was not made for angels. Lucifer hated it, even more so for the fact that it was only in that well-maintained prison — the leviathan population pruned by their hands to their Father’s instructions until those beasts could only slink back into the darkest crevices of their cell — that he could feel any kind of peace these days. The Mark only fell into a sated quiet when he fed it the blood it wanted. He’d killed more leviathans than any his brothers by scores, and it only barely enough to let him breathe freely for a few minutes before that angry pounding began to ring through his grace again. He was disappointing all of them with his lack of control; he could see it in the ways they looked at him.

Let them bear the Mark for a day and see if they could do better, he thought, bitterly, before the blasphemy of it caught up with him and he quickly rejected the idea. This was his burden to bear. His gift to all of them, to keep them safe. God would never give him an impossible task.

He could feel it starting again, like tapping at first, as though to get his attention, and then louder as he tried to ignore it. It scratched at his insides, leaving inflammed wounds that only Lucifer could see, could feel. (He knew better than to go to Raphael anymore. They had looked so afraid last time. For him or of him? It was hard to tell anymore.) Lucifer staggered briefly as the pain rose before his own anger at the loss of control flared to meet it. He should know better. It was what it wanted: always more anger, more violence, more death.

It felt good to be angry. Like he could make something else suffer instead. Something that deserved it more than he did.

Lucifer was already losing himself to it when he saw movement. His wings twitched. A rasp and a hiss on the edge of his hearing. The unmistakable scrape of teeth unfurling from an endless maw. Lucifer didn’t see the leviathan. He turned, and the world was red and beating like a heart, and all he could do was make it burst.

There were flashes of it that slipped through to him. His own blade tearing open a stomach. One of his wings, torn and bitten and bleeding, but the pain so quiet compared to how good it felt to finally break something. The trees grew closer and closer together, the false sky disappearing above them, as Lucifer followed his prey into the dark.

Some part of him should have been afraid, but it felt so distant now. He was flying away from it.

His wing gave out before his desire for violence did. It folded and sent him crashing into the ground. The dirt tasted like salt. The things that grew there did it out of spite. Lucifer lashed out at nothing as the pain finally ripped through him in a way he couldn’t ignore. His wing moved wrong, dragging along the ground when he tried to lift it and inviting burning grime into his wounds. Lucifer recoiled. His other wings snapped protectively around him as he pulled the last one in with his own hands as it became pure dead weight. It was too loud inside him, the unsatisfied Mark screaming at him to keep going and his own pain roaring back to keep him grounded.

Lucifer forced himself to look beyond the shield his wings had formed around him. The deep end of Purgatory looked back at him, every inch of it hungry before the predators could even find him. For a moment, Lucifer didn’t feel like the archangel he was, but a fledgling who’d gotten lost. The feeling was so powerful that Michael’s name lodged in his throat. He swallowed it back down.

Lucifer got up. He could either cradle his own wing and leave himself without a weapon in his hand or keep his blade and deal with the consequences of dragging his wing along the ground behind him later. The choice, in Purgatory, was obvious. He winced as he let his wing crumple, dirtying the pure white feathers with mud and worse as he tried to trace his own path back.

He didn’t like the way the air in Purgatory wrapped around him. It seemed like it could breathe in deeply and suck him down further, if only forests could breathe. With the way he swore he felt the ground sometimes roll under his feet, he wasn’t convinced it couldn’t. Too many times, there was the sharp prick of eyes on his back, only for him to turn and find nothing watching him. Nothing that he could scare off or kill, anyway. Only more trees, only the thing above him that wasn’t even pretending to be a sky anymore, and the relentless air pressing down on him.

That was why Lucifer stopped.

There shouldn’t be anything pretty to look at in a place like this. It didn’t belong down here. But there it was, the most lovely flower he’d ever seen.

(He might have remembered the anglerfish, if his head were clearer.)

He was spellbound by its impossible beauty. It curved up from the ground on a slender stem, open towards him as though expectant. Its petals, slim and long enough to fully hide the pistil within, were the perfect shade of… It was every color Lucifer loved most. He stepped closer to it. It was helpless down here among creatures who couldn’t appreciate it. It belonged in the garden where Lucifer could look at it every day. If he cut it quickly and kept it close, it would live until he could replant it.

He reached for the stem. He paused. The petals looked so soft. They moved slightly, though there was no breeze in Purgatory. His hand slowly changed course. The Mark’s beating was dull in the back of his mind now. If one flower could protect him from that, he needed it. More than anything. He went to brush the petals affectionately.

They split open. The flower’s head reared up like a snake, revealing no pistil inside but thorns. They sprang from the flower into Lucifer before he could move. He reeled back, one wing crushing the flower (which had already begun to decay before the thorns had even hit him.) He scrabbled at the thorns. Two of them lodged themselves as deep as they could. Their hooked tips gouged into his grace. He ripped one out and screamed. He was slower reaching the other, and by the time he had, he could feel something had changed. The first thorn he had pulled out was fat. This one came out shrunken and brittle.

He wasn’t even allowed a moment to think through what that meant before the Mark, freed from the flower’s muffling, screeched. Lucifer flinched as though he could get away from it.

Lucifer tried to focus to expel from his grace whatever the thorn had put inside him. All that did was draw the Mark’s attention to the poison as it spread through Lucifer. It latched on before Lucifer could stop it, twisting itself into the poison. Whatever Purgatory would have filled him with bent to the Mark’s desires, to be satisfied, to be filled. The first wave of need hit Lucifer harder than he could bear. It was undirected, eager to take anything that he could get his hands on, but he couldn’t track down something to kill like this.

Uselessly, he tried again to purge the poison, but it was burrowed deep inside him now, given entry by the tears in his grace that the Mark had already made. Another wave came, destroying his ability to think as he curled in on himself and gasped for air he didn’t need. Purgatory choked him. Lucifer clawed at the bitter earth for any relief, but there was none to be found, nothing familiar beneath his hand. Below the surface layer, the ground went cold and unbreakable, no matter how he dug at it.

He had to find his way out. He raised his head. The trees seemed thicker, blocking his view. He wasn’t sure which way he’d come from.

This time, when he felt the fear in his chest well up into a name, he didn’t restrain it.

“Michael!” he croaked. Another burning rush tore through him, left his mind scattered except for one thing he could never forget: Michael would come for him. Michael would save him. “Michael!” he called again. He dragged himself forward, every inch of him shaking. The Mark was reaching heights of pain it had never gone to before, blistering against his grace as he forced himself to scream for his brother again. “Michael!”

There was no response. Even blinded by pain and barely able to move, Lucifer didn’t doubt that Michael had heard him. He was coming. He had to be.

The trees, he thought, were getting closer. Their trunks lanced across his vision like prison bars.

And then, there was an angry shudder as they gave way, as Purgatory itself was forced to stop before it could grind him down and swallow him without a trace. Lucifer could feel Michael, his brother’s grace seeking him out through Purgatory’s labyrinth. Lucifer grasped back for him weakly, his grace coursing with poison. Michael noticed it and recoiled. Lucifer whined.

More carefully, Michael touched him. His wings sank down over Lucifer’s. Even the broken wing was gently scooped under his own and cradled as Michael took in his state. Lucifer gave a sigh and collapsed into him.

“Little brother,” Michael said, his touch gentle as he inspected Lucifer. He barely brushed the wounds the thorns left in Lucifer’s grace. Lucifer expected that to hurt, but Michael was a balm amid the agony. Lucifer pressed closer to him, his wings shifting beneath Michael’s.

Michael was exactly what he needed.

With a snap, everything in Lucifer focused on Michael. Michael didn’t sense the change at first. He was too busy trying to heal Lucifer himself to think that Lucifer’s growing clinginess was anything amiss. Lucifer’s grip tightened as the thoughts in his mind all slipped away save for one. Michael was here, and Lucifer was his.

“How did this happen?” Michael was asking him. Lucifer could hear his words, but his voice melted into music. The most lovely melody in all of creation was when Michael spoke to him, and only to him. It was just like it had been when Lucifer was first given to him. Their Father out doing his great works, and them, alone, together, for what had seemed like forever at the time.

No matter what had changed since then, Lucifer still belonged to Michael. He knew with perfect certainty that he was Michael’s entire world. How could he not be?

“Lucifer, please answer me,” Michael coaxed. He ran his fingers through an uninjured wing as though he thought Lucifer’s silence was from shock and he needed to be brought out of it. Lucifer rose to press their bodies together, losing himself under the mass of Michael’s wings and in the safety of his embrace. “Tell me what hurt you, little brother.” Under the words, Lucifer heard a promise, that Michael would protect him from it and destroy what had done this to him.

Lucifer was starting to think that it wasn’t such a bad thing. The poison was helping him see clearer. He knew what mattered right now better than Michael did.

Lucifer stole the first kiss in existence. Michael was too surprised to stop him.

When Michael came to his senses, Lucifer found himself roughly torn away from his brother. He whined at the loss. He’d felt that same peace through Michael that the Mark usually granted him only through killing. He needed more.

“Lucifer-” Michael’s voice, discordant now, harsh in Lucifer’s ears where it should have been sweet. Lucifer struggled against Michael’s hold to get close again and take what only Michael could give him. “Lucifer, stop!” An order. Disobedience tasted better, especially when it was a shout from Michael caught just as it escaped his lips, swallowed by Lucifer so that no one else could hear it.

It was clear that Michael didn’t know what to do. He was stronger. Lucifer would never argue otherwise, not when Michael’s strength was what he wanted. He could shove Lucifer off and pin him down.

The thought sent a pleasant shiver down Lucifer’s spine. His wings spread with delight.

But Michael didn’t. He wouldn’t risk hurting Lucifer, and that was practically a blessing for Lucifer to have whatever he wanted.

“You aren’t in control of yourself, brother,” Michael said when Lucifer finally allowed him to speak. He was indulging in greed, too. Michael reached up and cupped Lucifer’s face. Lucifer rolled his head into Michael’s hands, rubbing against them. It was the best thing he had ever felt. The Mark was a guiding pulse in his consciousness, quickening every time he pleased it or pleased himself. The lines blurred. “I’m sorry,” Michael told him. Lucifer blinked down at him, and then he leaned in to press kisses over Michael’s face. His brother stiffened under him. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered again.

“Don’t be,” Lucifer reassured him. “You’re everything I need, Michael. Don’t apologize.” He watched Michael’s expression when he said that for one reason: to see how harshly Michael flinched. If it weren’t true, he wouldn’t react as strongly. He wouldn’t shake his head so quickly to deny it.

After all, if God gave Lucifer to Michael, then surely God meant for Michael to love Lucifer more.

“Let me take you home,” Michael offered. Lucifer flicked a wing contemptuously. “We’ll draw whatever this is out of you, and I-“ Lucifer shut him up again. He bit Michael’s lip for daring to consider it.

“Don’t you want to know what it’s like?” Lucifer asked. “It’s all so clear now, Michael.” His focus was so sharp, so exact. Not a thought could stay in his head that wasn’t about his brother, about taking more from him, taking everything he knew Michael wanted to give him. Lucifer traced down Michael’s neck and chest. Michael’s grace drew back from Lucifer’s, but Lucifer feigned hurt until he saw Michael hesitate. His grace wrapped itself around Michael’s, inescapable.

Michael took a deep breath. He tried again to restrain Lucifer. He gripped Lucifer’s shoulders and firmly pushed him back. “No.”

And that- hurts.

At first, only the sting of rejection, bad enough on its own, but it grew until Lucifer was writhing against Michael’s hands and whimpering in pain again. It burned. He grabbed at Michael, scared that Michael would stay stoic and keep him away while Lucifer suffered.

Michael broke for him. He let Lucifer slip forward until their mouths met again. Lucifer took up all the space in Michael’s lap.

The pain subsided. He didn’t miss the way Michael ever so slightly tilted his head into the kiss. A faint movement of his lips betrayed him. His grace didn’t resist their entanglement quite as strongly.

“It feels good,” Lucifer said. He had never tempted anyone before, and his first attempt was clumsy between kisses and his own addled mind. “You make the Mark quiet”—Michael’s eyes widened when he hears that, his wings twitching with unmistakable interest at the possibility—“and you’re all I care about. I want you to touch me back, Michael.” Michael’s hands shifted as though to pull Lucifer in rather than force him away.

“I won’t,” Michael said. “You’ll be horrified when you’re free of this. I won’t live in a world where you’re afraid of me.”

“Never,” Lucifer promised. “I’ve always been yours.” He was getting tired of Michael’s denial. It was all a show, and for who? Lucifer bumped his forehead against Michael’s. Michael returned it, perhaps grateful for an innocent touch. His eyes shut.

“You’ll thank me later.” Lucifer smiled. The second thorn, the one pulled too quickly to release its poison into Lucifer’s grace, sat waiting right within his reach on the ground beside Michael. Michael suspected nothing of Lucifer’s slight movements. He plucked up the thorn. He ran his other hand up Michael’s chest to the perfect spot to pierce into his grace. He circled it lovingly with his nails.

“I will,” Lucifer agreed. Without hesitating, he plunged the thorn into Michael’s chest. Michael’s eyes snapped open. He yelled, beating his wings to get away from Lucifer quicker. Lucifer followed him, shushing Michael as he watched the thorn shrink. Michael tried to slap his hands away, but Lucifer pulled the thorn out himself, relishing the grunt Michael gave at the pain. He was sure it felt better for it to come from his hands than it had been for Lucifer to pull his thorn out himself. (Maybe he should have left it in for Michael to take out.)

Michael breathed harshly, clutching at the small wound. The puncture would heal quickly, but Lucifer watched the poison sinking into Michael. His brother’s wings, drawn back tightly in his retreat, began to rise, the size of them dwarfing even Lucifer’s impressive spread. The wildfire coursing through his grace spread into Michael, as it should be. They would burn together so beautifully.

“Do you see now?” Lucifer sounded like he was pleading with Michael. Michael stared at him.

“I don’t-“ Michael protested, but his voice shook so much from the effort of restraining himself that he couldn’t even finish his sentence. Lucifer opened his wings in obvious invitation. “We shouldn’t.” Michael made one last attempt to stop this. Lucifer wouldn’t have that.

“We need it,” he said, and when that still failed to push Michael into action, he let out a pitiful noise, hurt and only half-acted. “I need you,” Lucifer said. He made himself irresistible.

Michael pinned him down.

It was better than Lucifer had fantasized: the weight of him holding Lucifer down, the way they pressed together, his wings covering them both so that no one would be able to see Lucifer like this but Michael himself.

“You are so frustrating,” Michael told him. Lucifer noticed how that wasn’t stopping Michael from giving Lucifer exactly what he wanted. “Do you know how dangerous this could be? I was trying to protect you.” Michael’s scolding was hard to take seriously when he was doing it with his mouth against Lucifer’s neck. He bit down to underline his irritation, but Lucifer moaned. Any pain Michael caused him could only become pleasure, a sharp contrast to way the poison burned or the Mark tore.

“You would never let anything happen to me,” Lucifer said. Michael ducked his head, his nose rubbing up the inside of Lucifer’s jaw until he rose to kiss him again. This was so much better when Michael kissed back. Lucifer didn’t have to take the initiative anymore, simply lie back and let Michael take care of him.

“And you make that so difficult,” Michael murmured. He placed a hand on one of Lucifer’s wings, a bratty, restless one that would not stop fluttering up against Michael’s own. With a little pressure, Michael forced it down against the ground. He flattened it and dragged it open to expose Lucifer’s underwing. With the expert touch of someone who had been memorizing Lucifer for years, Michael teased along his feathers. Lucifer’s wing tingled beneath Michael’s touch. “I’m going to have to groom these thoroughly when we’re done.”

Lucifer’s feathers puffed at the idea, eager to be touched and cared for until he was a desperate mess. Michael could pin any of Lucifer’s wings he chose with hand or wing, and Lucifer was helpless to let him do it. Michael caressed each one in turn once it submitted while Lucifer squirmed beneath him. His mind was so perfectly blank aside from the pleasure of Michael touching him. He hadn’t been so happy in… And before he could even remember, he lost the train of thought to Michael reaching his wounded wing. Michael sighed, and he bent down to kiss the injury.

When Michael’s grace entered him to heal him, Lucifer’s whole body shook. His vision went white as Michael’s grace flowed through his own. He reached for Michael to ground himself as the normally routine sharing of grace became almost unbearably good. The relief of having his wound healed only added to it, and when Lucifer came back to himself, he was holding onto Michael so tight, it was as though he wanted to drag all of Michael down into himself and become one perfect being.

Lucifer had spread his legs, inviting Michael closer than ever. Not enough, he thought. All this had placated the poison, but to satisfy it, they needed more.

Lucifer would always need more of him.

Purgatory may have laid the trap, but even it wouldn’t dare encroach on them. Good, Lucifer thought, intoxicated by the power of it, the world around them should be terrified. They could burn it all down and build something new, something beautiful, all for themselves. Lucifer would do that for Michael. With every kiss, every word of devotion Michael whispered to him, he only grew more certain that Michael would do the same for him.

Lucifer needed to be filled, and if he couldn’t take Michael’s grace inside him until they couldn’t tell each other apart, then he’d find another way.

His form accommodated him. He rubbed himself against Michael, new places for pleasure blossoming for Lucifer to get them both addicted to. Michael made a curious noise as Lucifer bumped his cock into Michael’s belly and rose to feel the warmth of the inside of his thighs against the head. Michael fell after him, adopting the same changes in Lucifer’s form so that he could use Lucifer to feel good. Michael had the upper hand, forcing Lucifer still where he wanted him and smearing precome over his skin with lazy thrusts while Lucifer’s cock would twitch, barely attended to.

“Michael.” Lucifer was petulant, and Michael, always indulging of his whims. He reached down between them to touch Lucifer. Lucifer sucked in a breath as Michael’s hand wrapped around his shaft, and for a moment, only held him. This time, when Lucifer whined, it didn’t even have the shape of Michael’s name, only base need escaping his throat. Michael smiled.

“Tell me how to please you, Lucifer.” Torture, when Lucifer was having so much trouble thinking. He thought he might lose his mind now if he felt too much.

”Slow,” he said, and Michael kissed him as a reward. “Slide your hand up, and-“ Lucifer was the one guiding his actions, but he couldn’t feel further from in control. Michael stroked up until he reached the head, and Lucifer felt his palm cover it, rubbing back and forth before Michael began the journey back down to the base. “Stop,” Lucifer gasped. Something had gone tight in him, ready to snap, but he wasn’t.

“Sensitive?” Michael asked, as though he couldn’t see how Lucifer had tensed under him. He went limp again as he caught his breath.

“How can you stand it?” Lucifer asked. Michael hadn’t stopped thrusting against him. A stray movement slid Michael’s cock up beside his balls and against his dick as Michael kissed his way down Lucifer’s chest.

”I want as much of you as I can have,” Michael answered. “Besides, how can I make you feel good if I can’t even control myself?” He slid his hand up Lucifer’s cock again before Lucifer had prepared himself and crumbled Lucifer’s response into dust. “How can I drag you to the edge and back until you’re ready to fall if I’m too busy paying attention to myself?” Lucifer tensed again, too close, but Michael had mercy and stilled.

As Lucifer caught his breath, Michael moved him around as though it were nothing, as though he wasn’t one of the only beings in the universe capable of it. Michael lifted his legs at the knees and pushed them up. He took Lucifer’s hand and placed it at the bend of one, doing the same with the other, and told him, “Stay there.” Lucifer held on. The new position left his cock resting against his belly and everything exposed for Michael’s eyes. Michael ran his hands down Lucifer’s thighs, cupping his backside and spreading it to see Lucifer’s hole. He pressed his thumb against the rim without entering him.

When he withdrew, Lucifer felt the awful pain coming for him again, but then Michael was back before it could touch him, protecting Lucifer from it.

“Soon,” Michael promised. Lucifer didn’t see why it couldn’t be now.

Michael leaned over him. Lucifer hated that his legs were between them now, keeping Michael away when he should have every inch of Michael’s skin touching his own. Michael didn’t help, nudging Lucifer’s thighs closer together. He shifted again, and his cock fell over Lucifer’s, hot and heavy. “Perfect,” Michael murmured, caressing Lucifer. “So perfect. All for me. Aren’t you, brother? Were you given to me?”

”Yes.” Lucifer’s answer broke on a gasp as Michael thrust forward. Michael did it again just to hear him. He gripped Lucifer’s thighs, holding Lucifer still until he could push his dick between them. Like a tease of penetration, he rode Lucifer’s thighs. Lucifer could only take it as Michael moaned at how good it felt. The pressure and the thrusts against Lucifer’s own cock kept him on edge but never satisfied.

With Lucifer keeping his own legs steady, Michael had a hand free to reach back down to his hole. He pressed a finger against Lucifer’s hole. Lucifer had to relax and let him in.

“Is that what you need?” Michael asked.

”I need more,” Lucifer answered, the bite in it caused by Michael’s teasing. Michael pressed another finger inside him. He fucked in between Lucifer’s thighs again, taking his own pleasure while Lucifer clenched around his fingers.

Michael seemed to know exactly how long he could play with Lucifer before his brother was finally tired of him. All Lucifer had time to do was let out an exasperated huff before Michael was leaning back and repositioning Lucifer, finally letting his legs down to wrap around Michael’s waist and cling on tight. Michael pushed into him slowly, blanketing Lucifer with his body as he went until their mouths could reach each other easily again and Michael was buried as deep as he could go.

Lucifer knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he would need Michael to do this for him as many times as he wanted for the rest of time after this, or else he would never feel as content as he did now. He inhaled Michael’s praises of how it felt to be inside him when Michael couldn’t bring himself to pull his lips back an inch to speak. Not that he needed to, now. Lucifer could feel it all in their intertwined grace, love enough to break him and more still. Lucifer would take it all.

Michael’s wings flexed as he moved, beating down against the cold earth, carving furrows in it with the power of them. Lucifer’s own wings spread and welcomed Michael’s touch, shivery delight spilling from each feather played with. Michael was rocking into him, not wanting to pull out but seeking that same warm, tight embrace that Lucifer’s thighs had given him a taste of.

“If I could have you deeper-” Lucifer didn’t have to finish that statement. Michael understood. He pressed their cheeks together, his chest to Lucifer’s as their grace pulsed and mixed and left behind parts of themselves in each other. It was reckless. It was beautiful.

Angels would notice that Lucifer carried some of Michael with him.

God would notice, Lucifer realized, and he smiled with wild abandon where Michael couldn’t see, his face turned into Michael’s neck. Michael moaned as Lucifer tightened around him.

“Do you love me?” Lucifer whispered, and Michael heard him, clear as a bell. He responded without hesitation.

”Yes,” Michael said, “always, Lucifer. Always.” The reassurances soothed Lucifer. Michael’s steady motions were driving him high into something glorious, something they would share together for the first time and always know was theirs.

“More than anything?” Lucifer asked. Michael bowed his head and kissed Lucifer. He didn’t let Lucifer speak again until his voice was broken by gasping breaths. Michael had his hand around Lucifer’s cock again, and Lucifer could see stars as though he was watching them come into existence all over again. “More than anything?” he repeated, needing Michael’s answer. “Michael, do you-” His voice shattered into an impossible note as Lucifer’s world turned to pure starlight.

He laid there in Michael’s embrace, the sensations that had overtaken him coursing through his body but gentler now, soothing him down into such a relaxed state that he didn’t want to move for hours. Days, even. Years, with only him and Michael, here and together. If only.

The Mark was quiet. Lucifer shut his eyes and listened carefully. He could almost believe his burdens were lifted completely. It would be back, but not here, not with Michael keeping it away.

He reached up and traced Michael’s face with artistic care, memorizing all of him. There was no need; a world didn’t exist where he could lose Michael, not one Lucifer could conceive of.

Michael looked down at him, a hint of worry on his face that melted as he took in Lucifer. Lucifer wished the rest went away as easily, the ugly emotions that he could feel creeping into Michael’s grace as the poison flushed out of their systems and allowed their minds to be clouded again by thoughts other than each other. Lucifer wanted to claw out the guilt Michael felt until there was more room for himself.

Michael had never answered him. Lucifer had hoped for a whisper as they reached the peak of their pleasure, soft and simple words confirming what he already knew to be true. Of course, Lucifer. Above all else, Lucifer. Only you, Lucifer.

Instead, Lucifer had to try to ignore the first seed of doubt about Michael as it took root. He wanted to find another plant and burn out the feeling as Michael took him again.

He let his hand drop from Michael’s face. Michael, slowly, as though he thought Lucifer might retreat from him, bent down to kiss Lucifer’s forehead. He hesitated before moving down to press their lips together again, but he did. When they parted, Michael didn’t move.

“You are going to destroy me,” Michael breathed. He said it so softly. He might even be afraid someone could hear him, hidden in the darkness of Purgatory and beneath his own wings.

Lucifer wanted to tell him that he wouldn’t.

The word danced on the tip of his tongue, but Lucifer was not a liar. He considered telling Michael the truth — that if anyone would, it would be Lucifer because no one else would be allowed, no one else would survive trying to take what was Lucifer’s — but he didn’t. Michael either knew already, or it was better that he didn’t. Lucifer hugged his brother. He did not let go for as long as Michael would let him, which would never be as long as Lucifer needed.

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#fanfiction #nsfw #explicit #5001-10000 #spn #michifer #lucifer spn #michael spn #pre-canon #sex pollen #top!michael #bottom!lucifer #dubcon

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