free hug center | you will obey me
Cis-chick, bisexual and panromantic, atheist, liberal, 20, Ravenclaw.
Hobbies: Doctor Who, Sherlock, a spot of Star Trek (TOS and TNG), House, and Supernatural. Games, usually Skyrim and Minecraft and Portal. I work in a vidya game store, which I sometimes talk and/or rant about. I also enjoy eviscerating irritating anons with my blistering wit and fantasizing about being a writer for Doctor Who.
doctor/master proper!fic | pr0nz | backgrounds | potatochoppery | arr, matey | i maeded it
Posts tagged: pr0nz
“REMINDERS”
Eleventy/Delgado!Master, NC17. Click-through to read at the Prydonian.
A shamelessly fluffy bedtime story for Lorren, which takes place in our RP verse, where the TARDIS reached a certain level of maturity and grew a flesh body. Unfortunately, she’s dependent on Time Lord ~essence to survive. The Doctor took objection to this (and was rather rude about it), so she turned to the Master. And now they have depraved, violent bondage-bloodplay sex and sometimes tea. This story is about other stuff, though.
The Doctor can smell ginger.
Once upon a time, there was a beautiful space princess named Fivey. Fivey was a tall, lanky, extremely handsome blond. He was utterly fanciable in every possible respect, particularly if you happened to be his epic evil space wizard counterpart, Mawstah, who was very evil, but also very, very pretty.
A kind and generous person, who wishes to remain anonymous, left this in my ask, as a response to my prompt of “collars.” Enjoy. It’s fucking fabulous. Hnnnnng.
He’d been such a good boy lately. So obedient and willing, so ready to please the Master. It was time for a special reward, and that meant a quick trip, to a certain store they both knew. But only the Master knew about this particular section; it wasn’t meant for those who’d be wearing what was in it.
For Lorren, shared because I am kind and beneficent even in a post-drunken haze. PG13 for flirting and a brief adult concept thing. Hurt/comfort, because I love hurt/comfort. No actual sex, shockingly.
One night, the scheduled rain was coming down particularly hard, so Theta didn’t hear the tapping at his window at first. When he did, he got up and turned on the light, creeping closer, trying to see who was out there in the dark. After a moment, he recognized the black-haired boy crouching on his windowsill, and opened the window immediately. Koschei normally took his time coming in, but tonight, he flung himself at Theta like a stone from a catapult.
1584 words of porn, written for girlzilla’s birthday because I love her and ship her with happiness. Lucky for you all, she gave permission to share. Go and tell her happy birthday, will you?
Benedict’s eyebrows, David thought, were going to hit the ceiling at any moment now.
He slipped his hand down the front of David’s trousers once more, running his fingers along the silk he found there, feeling the shape of David’s budding erection under it and making him thrust involuntarily. “Well, now,” he said; his fingers meandered to one side and discovered the hem. David flushed bright red as those fingers worked up the crease of his thigh, tracing the smooth hem. “This is new. Have you been wearing these all day?”
“Yes, Sir,” David whispered. “I was going to take them off before you came home.”
It’s her fault. Blame her. Although, I may have outdone myself.
The panties are expensive this time, the sort a rich man would buy his trophy wife. Translucent pink satin, each hem trimmed with white lace, barely enough to cover what it’s supposed to hide. It’s almost a thong, really. Good. John doesn’t want it hidden, not here, not when he wants to see his prize. Sometimes he thinks David loses on purpose, as he’s already getting hard by the time John pulls the panties all the way up, settling them over David’s hips.
Triskaidecagon prompted Eleven/River ages and ages ago, and I’m just getting around to it now because I’m a terrible, lazy person. Fairly short, with handcuffs. (Hush, now. Spoilers.)
The Doctor doesn’t normally go for handcuffs, but River insisted, and he has to admit that it’s fairly enjoyable from time to time. Unfortunately, it’s pretty cold in this room, and it’s hard to pull the covers over himself when he’s cuffed to the headboard.
A (very) belated birthday present for icoulduseinsouciantmaybe, who prompted it ages and ages ago. Warnings for sexy times and total BDSM.
The Master has always rather liked shackles. They’re so delightfully medieval, and the Doctor makes such delightful noises when he’s locked up in them, particularly in his fifth regeneration.
He’s making those noises now, sweet, quiet whimpers, struggling to find a way of taking the pressure off. He’s cuffed at both ends between the floor and the ceiling, hanging by his wrists, and the metal is already leaving marks on the delicate skin.
silencingthedrums replied to your post: Myarmcanfly was just like, BBTENNANT/AINLEY MATCH MADE IN FANBOY HEAVEN To which I replied: BUT THE PYTHON WOULD BREAK HIM.
AND PROBABLY PRETTY STRETCHY, HAVING BEEN WORKED OUT BY BBSIMM THAT VERY DAY. AND BY THAT I MEAN EVERY DAY.
Pfft. You kidding? Ainley would go first. BBSimm would let him, would stand in the corner and watch, and David would go fucking nuts because he’s fantasized for so long about this, Ainley’s slick fingers at his arsehole, working it gently but firmly open, and he’s so tight that it takes nearly half an hour and an obscene amount of lube.
OH MY GOD I ACTUALLY WROTE SOMETHING THAT ISN’T COMPLETELY NC17. Still R for violence and mindfuckery, though. Ten/Simm!Master.
The Doctor shuddered and twitched in pain, his breath coming through his clenched teeth in short gasps, as Master dribbled the melted wax over his collarbone with the lit, bright red taper in his right hand; in his left, he held a plastic fork, with which he had speared a mountain of string beans. “Open wide for the choo-choo train, Doctor,” the Master said, smirking.
Written for the Doctor Who Kinkmeme, which you should all follow and participate in (obviously). This wasn’t supposed to be a full-length oneshot, but that just sort of happened.
Warnings for BDSM, slash, and sexy times. So, basically, nothing you wouldn’t be expecting when the Doctor and the Master are alone in a room together for any length of time. NC17.
The handprint blooms bright red on the Doctor’s face, fingers and thumb outlined with startling clarity just under his cheekbone. The Master cups the Doctor’s chin in his hand and murmurs, “Going to be a good boy?” The Doctor says nothing, does nothing; words have failed him, but he can’t move his head. “I asked you a question,” the Master says. “Answer it. Are you going to be a good boy?”
The Doctor struggles to find his voice, and finally finds it hiding in a deep pit behind the lump in his throat. “Y-yes,” he says.
Smack. Another handprint, almost exactly over the first, and the Doctor’s eyes water a little with the sting of it. “Yes what?” the Master says.
“Yes, Master. I’ll—” (He swallows, sees the Master’s eyes follow the bob of his Adam’s apple.) “—I’ll be a good boy.”
“Just like old times,” the Master says, his voice soft, almost… cooing. “Be a good boy, now.” His face draws closer and closer, and then he’s all lips and teeth and tongue against the Doctor’s mouth. By the time he pulls away, the Doctor’s eyes are dark, pupils blown, his lips flushed and swollen. The Master considers them carefully, tracing their shape with his thumb, then says, “A little more, I think. Do you want more, Doctor?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Beg.”
The Doctor takes a shuddering breath. He’s done this so many times, but somehow he never loses the hesitance, the trembling anticipation, the fear of doing it wrong, of it not being enough. “Please, Master,” he says. “Please. More.”
“More what?”
“More, Master, more. More kisses. Please give me more. I want your mouth, Master, please. I need it. I need you. Please, Master, please, more, need your mouth, need kisses, need to taste you,” he says, and now it’s easier, coming out in a rush. “Want to feel your lips, taste them, your tongue, like you’re fucking my mouth with yours, Master, Master, please. Please.”
The Master obliges, and once again his lips move forcefully, possessive, biting-tugging-nipping with his teeth, and the Doctor moans. Somewhere, distantly, in the back of his mind, he’s wondering what the other Masters are up to, but he can’t force himself to care about the copies when the genuine article’s tongue is approaching the back of his throat. He’s just starting to wonder how the Master can do this for so long, since his own respiratory bypass is starting to give out and the edges of his vision are darkening, when the Master pulls away, and his breath is hot against the Doctor’s face as he again traces swollen lips with a fingertip. “Mm, that should do, I think,” he says. “I’ll be requiring the use of your mouth, so I thought I’d get you nice and ready.”
“My mouth?” the Doctor says, squirming hopefully. “Are you going to let me out of this thing?”
“Hardly,” the Master says. “And…” He slaps again, not the face this time, but the sensitive inside of the Doctor’s thigh, dangerously close to the increasingly large bulge in the front of his trousers. “That’s for speaking out of turn,” he says, and slaps the same spot again, “and that’s for not using my name.”
“Sorry, Master,” the Doctor says, eyes stinging at the pain. He’s rewarded with another kiss, a quick one with enough force to bruise.
“Such a good boy,” the Master murmurs, ruffling the Doctor’s hair fondly. “Thank me for punishing you.”
“Thank you for punishing me, Master,” the Doctor says. No hesitation. It’s easier now, it always is. “I was bad.”
“Yes, you were. But now you’ll be good, won’t you?”
“Yes, Master. I’ll be good.” He answers the Master’s smile with his own, and cries out in surprise as the back of the chair falls away and comes to a sudden, painful stop. It takes him a moment to realize what happened—the chair must have a hinge somewhere in the back, allowing the portion that secures the upper body to move, and now his torso is almost parallel to the floor, his arms pointing toward the skylight in the ceiling, chest and thighs nearly forming a straight line. He looks down himself and whines at the sight of his erection straining against the front of his trousers. He wants to struggle, but the chair’s balance feels a little precarious, and he’s afraid it will tip over if he does.
The Master’s standing behind him now, next to his head, and the Doctor flushes as the Master undoes the strap over his chest so that he can open his suit jacket, undo the knot on his tie, and (growing impatient now) yank his shirt open. Buttons pop off and bounce, click-click-click, on the floor. Having exposed the Doctor’s torso, the Master replaces the strap, then moves south, unceremoniously opening the Doctor’s trousers and yanking them down to his knees, allowing the Doctor’s cock to twitch, untouched, up to his stomach, leaking precome. “Now, dearest Doctor,” the Master murmurs. “Would you care to suck my cock?”
“Yes, Master,” the Doctor says immediately. “Yes. Please. Yes.”
“No biting, now,” the Master says, and leans on the chair. The Doctor jumps instinctively as the chair leans further and further back, and he thinks surely this is low enough, but the Master keeps pushing it down until the Doctor’s precome is slowly sliding down his abdomen toward his ribcage and the chair is tilted all the way back, sitting on two wheels and the headrest, which is still keeping the Doctor’s head strapped firmly in place. The Doctor watches, upside-down, as the Master strips efficiently, biting back moans and small noises as each new expanse of skin is revealed.
“Master, I missed you,” the Doctor says, his voice small and strained. The Master smiles in reply, getting down on his hands and knees and giving the Doctor an upside-down kiss. The Doctor moans into it, thinking that right now the Master’s arse has to be in the air, wants to touch and squeeze and kiss, but he’s not allowed. So many things he wants, and he’s not allowed. “Master, please,” the Doctor says. He needs something, needs the Master, needs him now, and suddenly the Master’s cock is at his lips and his chest aches with gratitude. He thanks the Master in the only way he can, taking the Master’s cock as deeply as he can into his throat, cheeks hollowed around it, taking it deeper and deeper as the Master thrusts into his mouth, heavy balls brushing against the Doctor’s face.
“Good boy,” the Master tells him, and he’s rewarded with a gentle, teasing stroke of his erection, a near-painful squeeze of his balls; fingers worm their way between his closed legs and press into his perineum, his arsehole; and, finally, after long minutes, when his jaw aches as much as his straining cock, the Doctor is rewarded with his Master’s come. He chokes slightly, coughing, but swallows it all, and then the Master licks from the head of his cock to his balls, and he soars over the edge, held there by the Master’s fingers teasing his nipples. The world is a sea of white, it rocks and spins him in pleasure, in pain; anything could happen now, and he wouldn’t care, wouldn’t even care.
When he’s next aware of himself, he’s upright again, and a collection of Masters is cleaning his own come off of him with their tongues. “Thank you, Master,” the Doctor says, and he means it, watching as two of them start wrestling for control of a large dollop of come on his chin.
The others look up at him, grinning, and say in chilling unison, “Oh, we aren’t done with you yet.”
The Doctor distinctly feels his arsehole clench and relax again. This is going to be a long night.
I feel this is appropriate for Tumblr’s mood tonight, even more than it usually is. It probably makes no sense at all, but IDGAF. YOU SHOULD READ IT ANYWAY.
The Doctor isn’t prone to masturbation in the usual sense. What possible purpose could he have for handling himself like a randy teenager when he can bloody well time travel? The TARDIS’s transtemporal systems can isolate and negate the paradox created by his literally touching himself, so he indulges himself (twice) whenever he feels it necessary.
His tenth and eleventh regenerations both have a thing about mouths.
The eleventh’s is far more subtle, but it’s definitely there in that slight pucker of his lips, the ridiculous flexibility of his jaw, that willing smile, in some ways a mirror image of his previous incarnation.
They’re both horny and in a hurry, so they end up on the floor a few feet away from Ten’s bed, their normally neat outfits in shambles; Eleven’s braces drape over his thighs, his tweed jacket elsewhere, the tails of his open shirt framing the flushed, heavy cock jutting from his open trousers. His bow tie has come off of his collar, but is still (miraculously) tied. Ten’s coat was abandoned somewhere by the door during their snog, but the rest of his clothes are present—open jacket, open button-down, his T-shirt pushed up under his arms. His trousers haven’t come open, though, since he was so insistent about getting Eleven’s free earlier, feeling it harden in his hand as he squeezed it roughly.
He crawls over his future self’s body, moving from his head down, but stops abruptly when Eleven seizes his tie and yanks sharply on it. He realizes why and looks down, a flush rising in his cheeks, as Eleven starts nuzzling and mouthing at the bulge in the front of his trousers, fumbling to open them. In his eagerness, he forgets himself for a moment, and the scrape of his teeth is painful even through the fabric. He laughs when Ten gives a thready moan and thrusts against his face—it’s hard to forget when a body loves pain that much. His fifth was nearly as bad. He drags his teeth over the tented fabric again, then slaps (just hard enough to hurt) at the spot between Ten’s spread legs where he knows a pair of hot, heavy balls are hiding, and is rewarded when Ten moans and rocks into him again, then bends forward and strokes Eleven’s cock, once, twice, again, squeezing just under the head and spreading the clear bead of fluid he’s extracted with his thumb, pumping it a few more times and whining as Eleven’s answering noises vibrate against his cock. All at once, he bends down and swallows it whole, thoroughly enjoying himself as Eleven rewards him with a smack to the arse and another scrape of teeth.
Eleven remembers this as it happens, knows the man he used to be is drowning in blissful abandon, that he loves the cock thrusting down his throat as much as he enjoys the torture to his own, that the head must be pressing painfully against the zipper (it always did, damned suit), that the damp spot spreading over it isn’t just coming from his own mouth. “Missing him again?” he asks. Ten pauses, pulling off of his cock with a wet pop, and nods silently. In reply, Eleven cups the hard, twitching shape in the front of Ten’s trousers and squeezes it painfully.
“Thanks,” Ten says shakily, and resumes sucking and licking and generally being as wonderful as they both remember him being (Ten’s also been with the ninth, eigthth, fifth, fourth, and third versions of himself; he keeps missing the others). Soon, he’s holding his head still, lips forming a seal around Eleven’s shaft as Eleven thrusts and arches up into his mouth, coming sticky and salty on Ten’s tongue. He swallows it all before Eleven shoves him and sends him sprawling onto his back, and Eleven’s deft, deceptively fumbly fingers have his trousers open, and those full lips are talented. “I…” he begins, shuddering and thrusting helplessly. Too talented. “W-wait, I—”
Eleven’s reply is to smirk and hum, making an obscene slurping sound as he works his way further, further, and Ten comes the moment his cock hits the back of Eleven’s throat. Eleven manages not to swallow most of it, keeping the mess trapped between his tongue and the roof of his mouth as he pulls off, then drowns the desperate, breathless whimpers Ten always makes after sex with a sticky kiss, extracting a loud groan as he makes a tight fist around Ten’s softening, sensitive cock.
“Better?” he asks, and remembers Ten’s relief, the tension in his body all but gone, the blistering ache in his chest soothed somewhat. It would never quite go away—Eleven still carries it himself—but it was worse, so much worse, before he remembered that there was a very good reason he was the last.
donthateexterminate asked:
Ummm Doctor/TARDIS I don’t even know about those, they just came inside my head. Also; How are you liking Supernatural? :)
Ideas “came inside” you? Sounds legit. Doctor/TARDIS is my other OTP. Doing this one next. BECAUSE I FEEL LIKE IT SHH JUST COME. Also, Supernatural is le kewl. This is super NC17 and quite long, so it is under a read more.
The Doctor doesn’t like to sleep anywhere but the TARDIS, for two primary reasons: first, whenever he tries, he gets the strange feeling he’s cheating on his bed, and second, the TARDIS’s telepathic field helps suppress his nightmares so he actually can sleep. There is a third reason, but it’s hardly primary. He shouldn’t even mention it, really, as it has very little bearing on the situation at all, but it is a reason and in the interests of completeness, it should be here. Sex.
No. Really. The sex.
He doesn’t normally tell people, and he takes care to hide it (particularly after that incident when Jo walked in on them; they had just started exploring that aspect of their relationship, and when Jo walked in, the Doctor had made a face Jo only described later as “terrifying.” He wasn’t sure what she meant by it).
He isn’t entirely certain what exactly the TARDIS uses, since she blindfolds him. He suspects she uses the block-transfer system somehow, though he isn’t entirely certain how she could access the system herself without his approval. Of course, TARDISes weren’t supposed to be able to spontaneously redecorate themselves, either, and the Doctor’s does it all the time. Then again, she could just access his sensory nervous system directly, feeding him the sensations with no need for physical objects.
He knows when she’s in the mood because he feels it, a warm, buzzing feeling at the edge of his mind, a gentle spark of heat whenever his bare skin makes contact with the ship. He feels that now, a drop of warmth as he puts the kettle on, smiling a little wider than is perhaps necessary as Amy and Rory chat animatedly about their latest adventure. Once they go to bed, the Doctor returns to the console room and fixes a stuck valve on the helmic regulator, plus a few of the other mild problems that always turn up in systems as complex as a TARDIS.
As he works, he’s distracted by the TARDIS’s little tokens of appreciation. By the time he fixes a little glitch in the vortex loop, he’s flushed slightly, hearts pounding in his ears, every contact with the ship’s mechanics making him breathe a little harder, until he can no longer concentrate and has to go to bed, to her.
His bed is more of an elliptical bowl, roughly three feet deep, set into the floor and lined with pillows and blankets. He strips efficiently, feeling the TARDIS’s approval as he does so. She’s practically purring now, calling him in closer, and he obliges, slipping under the covers. She warmed them for him.
“You’re so considerate,” he tells her, grinning, and closes his eyes, holding still. After a few seconds, a soft cloth settles over his face and knots itself at the side of his head. There’s no evidence of how she does it—no shadows to suggest someone moving, no sensation of fingers on the side of his face. There is a sensation, however, when a soft, warm hand slides down his spine, making him shiver as it slides back up; as it caresses the nape of his neck, it’s joined by another hand, this one on his thigh, and another traces the shape of his jaw before skimming down to his neck. It disappears, and then lips appear there, kissing gently, and the Doctor sighs happily. He squirms, and his hands reach out, searching for a body to hold, but nothing’s there. He would like it if there were, if he could wrap his arm around a bare, smooth shoulder, lay his hand on the nape of a neck, but of course there isn’t.
He’s spared the indignity of waving his hands all over the place when cuffs wrap themselves around his wrists and pull them above his head. She isn’t quite violent, but she isn’t quite gentle, either—he sometimes thinks she forgets her own strength. He smiles as he feels her apology, a flare of I’m sorry, my Doctor, and the brush of lips against his own.
“That’s all right,” he murmurs, then moans quietly as one of the hands trails down and squeezes his arse gently. “Impatient today, aren’t we?” he chuckles.
Over. Your body. Over. Please? (She rarely communicates directly. It isn’t a natural urge for her, to translate a thought into words, then those words into another language, and place it in the mind of an alien, so she isn’t very good at it.)
Obligingly, the Doctor turns over, then rises partially to his knees, chest against the mattress, so that his arse is in the air for her, feeling the pleasure that sweeps through her at his compliance—she loves ordering him around. Her hands guide his legs apart, and then he gives a loud, shuddering moan as she starts to touch, one warm hand cupping his balls as another takes hold of his erection, both of them massaging and stroking, stopping occasionally to squeeze gently. (He’s wondering if the position means she wants his arse—she started that in his fifth regeneration.) He thrusts, then once more, and as he pulls back to thrust again, something small and wet starts to probe at his entrance. He whimpers and wiggles his hips slightly, panting into his pillow; more hands appear, these ones at his waist, steadying him, and he knows why when the hand on his cock turns into a mouth; moments later, the tongue thrusting in his arse starts to grow and change. It’s not large, but larger and harder than it was; as he relaxes into the sensation, it keeps growing. As usual, it’s very wet, and the Doctor feels lube drip down onto his balls, where it’s spread by the hand still massaging him. The Doctor moans, loudly, unrestrained, since Amy and Rory are sleeping nearly a half-mile away from his own bedroom. Bigger and bigger and bigger, and now he’s full of her, hot and slick, rocking into her as she pushes inside, then thrusting into her welcoming mouth as she pulls away, teased and touched by her many hands, his teeth sinking into the pillow, her silent voice nearly lost in his own whimpers of pleasure—
My Doctor, my Doctor, come, come, my Doctor, my Doctor…
He shudders and does as he’s told, comes in her mouth, clenching around her, and feels a rush of pleasure completely outside of himself as she reaches her own orgasm. It’s vast and powerful and all-consuming, and when he wakes up, she’s turned off the lights and removed the cuffs and blindfold, leaving him safe and sated, warm and dry, under the covers.
Love, she murmurs to his mind., and the Doctor replies, “I love you, too.” He closes his eyes, and as he drifts off to sleep, feels a hand brush the hair away from his face, a soft kiss to the forehead. He smiles slightly, and then he’s asleep.