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The Doctor shooed Peri away from him when he had the chance, and pressed a hand against the TARDIS walls to see if she’d indicate to him where his bedroom was, this time round. He’d only found it by accident.
“Come on,” he said, to the walls, when all he felt was a cool rebuff against his mind. “I’m sorry, is that what you want me to say?”
It wasn’t enough, and they both knew it. He had been cruel to her, and worse, dismissive. She had tolerated it at first but he could feel her disapproval, and attempted to mollify her.
Trying to grasp at the mind of a TARDIS was always difficult, and especially so when said TARDIS was quite cross and he was possibly the most aroused he’d ever been in his life. Despite his best attempts, his mental control over his body was slipping, and there was a definite tent to his trousers. If Peri saw—
A door hummed to life under his fingertips, and it only took a moment longer to pry it open. The room was a cool, sterile white, and contained no furniture at all. It was barely four square metres. There was another narrow doorway at the other side, and a quick check behind that revealed a small bathroom—enough to wash up.
It wasn’t his bedroom, but it would do. He pulled the latch shut behind him, wiping his hand across his brow—both still prickling with sweat from the heat of that place. He could still smell the Master’s burning flesh on him.
He could change clothes. He could wash these. The scent could be gone, banished to the back of his memory.
But.
He knew he would remember the Master burning every time he smelt meat.
He knew he would remember the Master—I’ll give you anything in creation—begging for his life—Please!—and before he could really let himself think about what he was doing he shrugged his braces off and struggled briefly with the fastenings of his trousers.
He was so hard it hurt.
Too hard to finish undressing, especially when pre was already smeared on the ends of his shirt. He really would need to wash this. He hoped he could appease the TARDIS enough that it might appear clean and fresh hanging up somewhere.
He closed his eyes, drawing in a breath laden heavily with the scent of the Master’s burning flesh. His hands were shaking, he realised belatedly. He reached for his cock.
The first touch hurt, like a sudden shock. This body was so sensitive—like he’d thought better of regenerating only when it was too late to turn back. His cock was hot, hotter than a Time Lord’s body should ever run, and the thought of it recalled the heat of the flames and the Master’s dying screams and he found himself stroking furiously before he could consciously consent to it. The look on the Master’s face, head thrown back in agony as if in orgasm—the way his voice curled around the words of a threat—to hound you to the ends of the universe—the way his voice died off into that scream.
He pumped harder, his free hand bracing himself against the wall, feeling strands of his hair come unstuck from his face as he did. He half thought he’d rip his cock clean off, but that thought was quickly banished by another stroke and a sharp breath of air that still tasted like cooked meat. In life, the Master had smelt only like death; in death—well. The Master had reached out to him—that half choked oh—as though the Doctor would help. He could have, of course. He had seen the panel, with its control switches, including the ones he’d already tampered with. But he wouldn’t. With total control over the Master’s continued existence, he had denied it. The thought of it was so heady that it—plus the finger prying back his foreskin—made him lose his grip on the wall and, overbalanced, he toppled to the floor, barely catching himself on his hands and knees.
He was acting like a feral beast, he thought with some amusement. Oh, if only the Master could see him now. He would surely get a laugh out of this—that deep, long laugh he had laughed only moments before death.
It was a shame he was dead.
More cautiously this time, the Doctor cupped his hand around his cock, fucking himself back and forth on it. He was oversensitive enough that he could scarcely think but for the sensation—too much and yet not enough—and all he could hang onto were the Master’s guttural howls, breathy, and then gone. His hand was hot enough—above thirty degrees—that he could imagine the heat of the flames he would feel if he had taken the Master from behind as he burnt.
You are depraved, he thought to himself.
Doctor! the Master in his mind cried, saying his name how he imagined the Master would like to hear him cry out Master!
Help me, the Master in his mind pleaded, and, with a gasp, the Doctor came over himself and the floor. His hand slackened. He looked at the mess he’d created, and shakily drew himself to his feet.
I’ll plague you to the end of time for this, the Master in his head screamed, not aware that the Doctor was spent—of course he wasn’t, he was dead—and the Doctor gave a chuckle of his own.
“My dear Master,” he murmured, heading for the bathroom. “I don’t doubt that you will.”
The sweet burning smell would be gone from his clothes with a wash—maybe two if the TARDIS was still sulking—but all eternity would be punctuated by the smell of burning meat, the memory of the Master’s screams, and the traitorous twitch of his cock.
