Title: vicious longing & worn-soft commitment
Series: Doctor Who
Character/Pairing: Twelfth Doctor/Gomez!Master
Genre: Gen, romance
Rating: PG
Theme/Prompt: Kinktober 2017 prompt "01: sleepy sex"
Spoilers/Warnings: spoilers for 'Extremis'
Wordcount: 879
He doesn't allow Nardole to help him carry Missy into the containment chamber.
It's not right to allow anyone else near her while she's like this, her defences lower than usual. He thinks it was mostly an act her claiming to be napping, but the failed execution seems to have taken more out of her than she would like to let on. Missy's leaning heavily into him and her carefully measured breaths seem thunderously loud as they watch the chamber slowly inch its way to shore.
She is more or less sleeping on her feet by the time it makes landfall, her head drooping onto his shoulder, and the Doctor has to readjust his arm more securely around her waist to keep from dropping her. It jostles her temple against his cheek, enough contact for a brief psychic connection. Warmth floods him, longing and the vicious gratitude that so sums up his oldest friend pooling low in his stomach.
"S'ry," she mumbles, "didn't mean to let that slip."
"You were almost executed, it's understandable." He flicks a glance at where Nardole is standing sentry, the frown on his face clear even under the hood, before tugging Missy forward into the now open chamber. The inside is dimensionally transcendent by a cube factor but bare aside from a stone slab sitting in an isolation field. A buzz of the sonic screwdriver deactivates the field, but Missy opts to slump against the side of the slab rather than be helped up onto it. Her warmth against his side is absent for the first time in a hour and the Doctor already misses it.
She's tilting sideways again and the Doctor removes his jacket to wedge it behind her head, talking to her as he does so.
"This is only until we can get you some furniture, a proper bed, something to entertain yourself with-"
"Shut up." Her fingers are tangled up in his lips, but otherwise the silencing hand Missy's held up to mash against his face works. There's a flicker of annoyance, brows drawn together, but it fades and softens as he obeys. She looks at him like she did earlier, yearning, but no longer terrified.
"I meant what I said, you know. You are my friend."
"I know."
"Do you, friend?" The form of friend she uses would be loosely translated in 21st century English as fuck-buddy, a jibe meant to provoke him, but the Doctor ignores the vulgar language to gently brush aside Missy's hand to hold it to his cheek instead.
"I know Missy. I know that I am your friend, just as you are mine." He turns his head to kiss her palm. That form equates to lover.
"Thank you," she says, in a sigh more than anything else and her eyes flutter shut finally. The Doctor kneels there for a moment before gently lowering Missy's hand.
"Stay, please."
Perhaps it's the accidental brush earlier or maybe the language they've been using, but the Doctor acquiesces, sitting down beside her and letting Missy lean against him again, her temple pressing against his cheek once more.
Guilt washes over him for a moment as Missy's longing seeps through the contact, before dismissing the thought. This counts as keeping watch.
The Doctor loosens the hold on his own longing and worn-soft commitment, letting them leak across to Missy. There's nostalgia mixed in too, memories of illicit evenings doing this in Academy dorms, the thrill of doing what adults did a familiar rush that prickles over his skin. Missy's response is slow and muted, dulled by tiredness, but she returns with a volley of emotion brought up by his memories: the hearts thundering adrenaline the time they almost got caught, the promise filled sweetness before graduation and the centuries-tempered longing this incarnation has held for him.
The Doctor allows the feedback loop to play out between them, each emotion heightening as it gets passed between them, new feelings and memories getting tossed in occasionally, soon reaching an overwhelming crescendo. Their psychic climax washes over him as a blindingly hot lassitude, shorting out all other senses.
When he recovers, Missy is slumped against him. She's gone straight from climax to slumber and the Doctor stores away the soothing waves of her unconsciousness and gentle huffing breaths for the next time. (He doesn't delude himself that this was a one off bout of psychic intercourse. They've known each other for far too long for that to be the case, and they have a thousand years stretching ahead of them.)
Gently, he lowers her to the ground, tucking his folded jacket under her head, kissing her hand one final time before letting it go. Standing, the Doctor considers the chamber's temperature before shedding his waistcoat as well, draping it over Missy's hips. It's not much of a blanket, but it will do until he gets a chance to make this vault more comfortable for her.
The containment field is turned to its lowest setting, a reminder more than anything, and a final glance is given to the internal controls, already figuring out the adjustments and alterations that need to be made.
The Doctor backs out of the containment chamber, already counting down the 999 years and 364 days left of his promise.