Title: the clock ticks from five to six
Series: Doctor Who
Character/Pairing: Twelfth Doctor/Gomez!Master, brief appearance from Bill Potts
Genre: Romance, crack (sort of)
Rating: PG-13
Theme/Prompt: Kinktober 2017 prompt "03: Biting/Public"
Wordcount: 966
Dedication: for geekns
Author's Notes: title from Richard Siken's 'A Primer for the Small Weird Loves' - The clock ticks from five to six. Kissing degenerates into biting.
It's twenty minutes after the Charybidean kebabs that Missy starts acting strange. The clinginess is normal, or at least normal for when she wishes to be annoying, but she's nibbling at his ears and his fingers when he tries to brush her off. It's abnormal enough that Bill is starting to give them glances from where she's hunched over a book in the mezzanine library.
Five more minutes of the same behaviour and Bill's excused herself with a muttered "I'll leave you two alone then", Missy having sucked four hickies along his shoulder and neck. The Doctor is regretting the t-shirt he put on today, the stretchy fabric allowing her greater access to his skin.
"Is there," he says, gasping at a particularly hard suck, "something you want?"
"Complex hormonal and amaryllis-apiales consumption interaction," Missy answers into his neck before starting another love bite. Three taps and a squeeze to his arm tells him that it'll be another half an hour before the effects wear off.
"Sodium help?"
A hum buzzes against his skin.
"Iron?"
"Maybe," gets mumbled into the back of his neck, teeth nibbling as Missy's nose tickles the hair there.
"Go ahead then," he says, giving her permission as he starts switching and flicking the TARDIS into the closest thing to neutral.
With this consent obtained, Missy takes a moment to pick her target before her teeth sink into her previous mark at the junction of his shoulder and neck. It's tender and over one of the Doctor's more sensitive pressure points, making him shudder and shiver in her grip, drawing a panting gasp out of him. Missy has to pull his hands away from the console once he's stopped shaking, his grip on the edge of it and on one of the levers white-knuckled.
"Lower next time," he manages to gasp, drawing breath in huge gulps, electricity still racing down his spine.
She licks the skin she's broken in apology, air and saliva stinging cooly at the wound.
"Worried about the children?" Missy asks, turning him around to nibble at his ear and jaw again, sliding her hands underneath his jacket to push it off.
There's a clatter from the upstairs doorway into the rest of the TARDIS and the Doctor dismisses the idea of going to the second parlour, not wanting to bump into either Bill or Nardole with Missy attached to him like this.
"Not those ones," the Doctor nods toward where the noise came from, wriggling one arm out of a sleeve, "but I have a lecture tomorrow." He offers Missy his free hand and she latches onto the digits, nibbling and sucking as they both try to wrestle his shirt over his head. His hand is still in her mouth when they succeed and he has to claim his fingers back with a wet pop.
"Third parlour," he suggests, even as Missy noses at his collarbone, her nails dragging sharply down his now bare back. There's a murmur from the upstairs hallway and while the Doctor doesn't think either of them would be scandalised by a couple of hickies, he desperately doesn't wish to be caught with his pants down. Or shirt off.
"Now!" he whispers, pulling away even as Missy makes a noise at the loss of contact. She seems a little mollified when he grabs her hand, her desire for touch satisfied by being able to press against the length of his arm.
In the corridor the Doctor makes the mistake of taking his attention off Missy to get his bearings. It's a bad decision to do that even when Missy isn't under the influence of questionable food additives, but it's a worse one when she is.
He hisses in a breath as she bites at the ball of his shoulder, pain blossoming as her teeth dig in, tearing the flesh open.
"Sorry."
The Doctor turns his attention back to her. She's making her eyes big, attempting to look innocent. His wince must have been obvious to merit the apology, but the way she's swiping at the blood running down from his shoulder isn't exactly remorseful.
"No biting until we've found somewhere private—"
The roll of her eyes is all the warning he gets before Missy shoves him through the nearest door. The Doctor stumbles, driven backwards until his knees eventually hit something and he falls back onto his ass.
It's a daybed and they're in the fifth parlour, the one with a chandelier and a first aid kit but has terrible wallpaper. Missy is already nestling in beside him, mouth and hands fully exploring then skin she now has access to. She's turned her efforts away from inflicting pain, instead focusing on another of his pressure points, teeth and suction working in concert. The Doctor gives up glaring at the firmly shut door to shudder and gasp in pleasure under her attention.
More than half an hour passes until Missy's scratching and biting turns to idle tracing and puffing breaths. It makes for pleasant afterglow and the Doctor wishes they could linger, but he's keenly aware his other companions have likely noticed their absence. He tries not to feel the prickle of Bill's observant look as he bounds back up to the console room, dressed in a spare shirt found in the parlour's closet, slipping on the abandoned jacket. The t-shirt, lying crumpled in the jump seat, is pointedly ignored.
"Doctor, you might want to-" Bill says after a minute, but doesn't finish, instead tapping at her neck, one of those awkward smiles on her face that she has when she thinks he's being weird.
The Doctor touches the area she's indicated, feeling the warmth of a developing bruise, and follows Bill's advice to button his shirt up before setting a course back to Bristol.