Work Text:
Missy keeps reaching for the Doctor’s throat.
“Stop that,” he says as he catches her hand a third time. It flexes in his grip, nails curled.
“It’s kinky, not evil,” she complains. She’s more naked than he is, so he presses her hand back to her chest. She’s still new to him like this, this body, this face. He’s never had it looming over him, but Missy only does that from his lap. He squeezes her breast and lets his hand fall away. Missy doesn’t touch herself. Her attention goes right back to him, trying to push him back, pin him down.
It’s like being kissed by her all over again.
(Guiltily, the Doctor knows he preferred when he was the one to kiss her, on her knees.)
His hand slips between her legs, and she smiles when he pushes a finger into her. Two, and she hums as she rides them with small swivels of her hips. He leans into her, kissing up her throat.
He’s a sentimental old man. He enjoys having his friend back too much. “Be good for me, Koschei.”
Missy exhales sharply. He doesn’t have time to react. He blinks, and there’s anger instead of relaxed pleasure. There’s nails raking across his cheek and drawing blood. There’s her hand on his throat, crushing, tighter and tighter, and he jerks his hand back out of her. He doesn’t know how to get the Master off of him.
He can’t. Missy lets go. She’s halfway across the room before he can breathe, already inside the deactivated containment field. She puts the piano between them.
The scratches on his face are burning.
“That,” Missy says, and her voice is very small, “was evil.” She doesn’t apologize.
He doesn’t tell her it wasn’t. He knows he should.
He doesn’t.