Work Text:
“Ah, no hatstand, a very wise choice!”
And that’s the only comment the TARDIS interior gets from his former self. The Doctor is vaguely insulted. He’d hoped for a few appreciative words about all the nice clocks, or the imposing cinnabar-and-blue nebula projected on the ceiling. At the very least, a quip about the candles. He closes the doors, sees the other Doctor peel off several layers of scarf and overcoat and throw them over a particularly baroque sofa. It takes him a moment to remember the basics of hospitality — that had always been Charley’s thing, after all. With her gone, off on adventures of her own, the TARDIS seems overly empty these days. The Doctor finds himself glad for this bit of unexpected company, even if it has to be from — well, himself.
They both know what they’re here for, this mad, ridiculous thing between them — not that they’ve actually said it, as such, but it’s clear as day in all their shared smiles and all their little touches. It’s only been a few hours since they met, although there is that nagging, familiar sense that they’ve seen each other a dozen times before. Memory is a fickle thing when you spend your days rewriting history.
This time around, the Doctor had fallen into a trap set by an entire fleet of Naxians. Backed against a wall with no way out, convinced that his world was about to collapse and that the universe would have a big gaping hole in it if he couldn’t think of some extremely clever way to escape — and then his younger self had sauntered in, all scarf and curls and wild plans and impossible stories. He’d half confused the Naxians to death with his entrance alone, bopped a few on the head for good measure, and deftly dodged the loose body parts they’d started flinging at his own head in return. And both Doctors had understood each other perfectly, moving in sync to attack, disorient and outwit the invaders. The battle hadn’t been quick, but it had been decidedly one-sided.
And now, with the both of them standing in his TARDIS, the Doctor finds that he’s immediately lost all that grace and deftness again. Funny how this had seemed like such a good plan, with the adrenaline still coursing through his veins and the thrill of an easy victory fresh on his mind. He fumbles around for something to offer his guest, decides on putting the kettle on.
“I’ll get you a cup of mmmpfhht—” is about as far as he gets, before he’s unceremoniously grabbed and pushed up against the console, a hand covering his lips. His own, or rather, what used to be his own hand, rough and much larger than he remembers it. He grabs hold of the fingers probing at his mouth, tries to pull them away, fails spectacularly. His younger self is already pushing up against him, his free hand grabbing hold of the golden silk cravat. Pulls at it a bit, makes the older Doctor’s face come just that much closer.
They stand there, frozen in place, just for a moment, before the younger Doctor starts to grin.
“Do you remember?” he asks, not expecting a reply, “how small the world looked when you were me?” He takes a final small step forward, traps his older self neatly between his own body and the hard console. His voice is low, threatening. “How everything seemed so easily dealt with? So simple to conquer?” He tugs at the soft cravat again, gets a whimper out of his older self, moves his fingers aside to steal a brief kiss — their lips touching just for a moment.
He doesn’t doubt that he’s made the right choice. He’s not in the habit of doubting himself at all, not as a rule. Just briefly, though, he wonders if this skinny, velvety version of him really had invited him in just for tea. But his older self soon returns the kiss, gently and carefully at first, as if concerned they’d both break. “Not what I’d expected,” he feels him murmur softly against his mouth, but there’s a smile in there, full of promises and invitations.
“Don’t be afraid,” the Doctor whispers in reply, moving his free hand to grab hold of his older self’s long hair. “It’s only me.” That earns him a bitter laugh from the other Doctor, and he takes it as his cue to lean down for another kiss, longer this time. The touch of his own lips is electrifying. He tastes of black tea and honey, his mouth soft and wet, his body close and welcoming. His other self moans into his mouth, eager to deepen the kiss.
He lets his fingers trail down from the other Doctor’s hair to the nape of his neck, stroking his skin. His future self shivers in response. Through the console, the soft hum of the TARDIS reverberates through both of them, and he can already feel this older Doctor bucking against him, hungry for more. They’re in perfect sync again, their bodies pressed tightly against each other. His future self may be shorter and a good deal thinner, but he’s still surprisingly strong, putting up a nice bit of token resistance against him. And he lets him, of course. He pins him just a bit tighter between himself and the cold metal, kisses him much more forcefully, just to see how far he can go. The other Doctor makes a good show of struggling, but the way he shivers at his touch, moans into his mouth speaks volumes. His future self’s hands — his own hands — are already tugging at his waistcoat buttons. He could do anything he likes, anything at all, and he knows it—
And he breaks the kiss, and takes a step backwards.
His future self makes a rather undignified sound. “Come back—” he manages, and he looks altogether very inviting, all flushed skin and crumpled velvet. But the Doctor just grins down at him, reaches out one hand to run a finger across the other’s lips. “No,” he says, “I don’t think so,” and he slips that finger into the other Doctor’s mouth, watches as he sucks on it eagerly. The sight is mesmerising. “I want you to beg for it,” he tells his older self, pulling his hand back again and trailing it across his cheek, “and plead, and tell me to get closer.”
“I’m no good at begging,” the other starts, leaning into the touch with a dreamy sigh, “I want you to want to touch me, otherwise I don’t want to want it,” and he adds a quick “please?” when the Doctor’s hand leaves his cheek again. The Doctor considers him, the hungry look in his eyes, the slightly parted lips. “No,” he decides, “not good enough.” He trails his hand down the other Doctor’s neck, tugs the silk cravat loose a bit. “More,” he commands simply. There’s a defiant look in his future self’s eyes, as though he’s ready and willing to fight this, but then he gives in — mutters another “please,” more heartfelt this time. “Please, Doctor.”
“That’s the spirit!” the Doctor says jovially, and he traces his older self’s lips again, before roughly grabbing his chin and lifting up his head towards him. “Let’s have some more of that, now.” The other Doctor obeys, muttering almost incoherently, “please,” he says, “yes, closer, Doctor,” and he’s trembling at his own words. “Closer.”
“Splendid,” the Doctor replies, “just absolutely marvellous.” With a dramatic flourish of his hands, he closes the gap between them again, places his fingers on his older self’s hips. “You like this, don’t you?” he asks, slowly dragging those long fingers down towards the center of his legs. “You like that I’m me. That I’m you.” His older self moans, bucks against his hands, and he can feel his arousal through the fabric. He leans over to whisper in the older Doctor’s ear. “Don’t you know,” he says, mockingly, “that talking to yourself is the first sign of madness?”
That’s enough to make his other self burst into giggles, but they’re replaced by moans again quickly enough, as the Doctor starts stroking him through the fabric in earnest. “I— I know,” he manages between breaths, grinning like an idiot, and the Doctor finds that it’s quite the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen — having his future self pinned between him and the console, eager, ready to be ravished by him in any way he can think of. With his free hand, he gently grabs the other’s face, lifts it up to kiss him deeply again. He feels him trembling, moaning into his mouth as his other hand starts undoing a trouser button.
His future self whispers encouraging sounds against his lips, and the Doctor’s hand slips inside the trousers to touch his naked skin. It’s warm, inviting, downy. He traces little patterns into the soft hairs, makes sure to touch every spot but the right ones. It’s met with very encouraging noises. He loosens the trousers further, slides them off his other self’s hips, takes him into his hand. “Tell me,” he says, stroking as tantalisingly gently as he can, “what you want.” The older Doctor leans in for another hungry kiss, breaks free after a moment to reply, “what I— what I want—“ and he’s twitching, bucking, reduced to absolute incoherence. “Say it,” he tells himself, and between a few very undignified moans, the older Doctor manages to whisper, “you— your mouth, I want your mouth.”
So he leans in again, naturally, for another kiss.
“No, I mean—“ the other says as they break free, then looks him in the eyes — “Oh, you bastard,” he laughs, struggling to even get the words out, “I was so— I was infuriating when I was you, wasn’t I?”
The Doctor flashes him his most complacent grin, exceptionally pleased with himself. “That’s true,” he says, and he leans down to kiss a very inviting spot on his future self’s neck. “That’s very true. How very kind of you to notice.” He drags his tongue across the other’s skin, finds a few spots on his neck that look good enough to bite, and he gladly does. A surge of memory hits him without warning, quickly fading again under those decadent little cries from his other self — have they done this before? There’s the unfamiliar memory of some encounter in the night, someone’s teeth sinking deep into his neck, this Doctor barging in to save him, holding him close. A bit of their history that must have been long since overwritten, replaced by a new reality. “Other times,” he whispers, “other places,” and he gives one final little bite, “other lives”. The other Doctor gasps, doesn’t even seem to hear his words anymore.
Still stroking gently, he sinks to his knees, looks up to see his future self staring hungrily at him. He gives one slow, experimental lick, just enough to elicit another soft moan. He tastes of cinnamon and sandalwood, honey and salt, of skin and sweat and lust. Another slow, deliberate lick, and then he rests his hands on the other Doctor’s sides and places his lips on the most sensitive spot, letting the wet skin slide against his mouth. He moves his head forward, feeling himself slide across his lips, hears him cry out when he slowly starts moving. The other Doctor’s hands knot into his curls and draw him in closer, trying to force a rhythm, but he doesn’t relinquish control to him, keeps his movements slow and deliberate.
When he looks up again, his older self meets his eyes, grinning down at him, and gives one small, tentative thrust. And he allows it — decides a moment later to encourage it, guiding his hips towards him with his hands. They find a rhythm together, the other Doctor’s soft moans telling him where to move his tongue, his fingers, his lips.
The Doctor draws back only when he can feel his other self tensing up, nearing the point of climax. He hears a very undignified whimper coming from above when his lips no longer touch him. But he ignores it, instead planting little licks and kisses in every spot but the right one. “Not yet,” he murmurs into his other self’s skin, “I don’t want you to come yet.” He moves his attentions to unexplored spots, feels the other Doctor’s fingers tightening into his hair in appreciation. “I want to see you lose control,” he says, and that’s met with another gasp — “I want to see you on the edge, giving me everything you can.” He drags his nails across the back of the other Doctor’s legs, just lightly, eliciting another hungry moan. “And then,” he says, pausing to give his other self a long and decadent lick, “I want you to let me into your mind.”
His older self stops all that flustered moaning very suddenly. But the Doctor ignores it, keeps on talking, his hands roaming over the other’s naked skin. “You want to let me inside,” he says, “feel me slip into your head, and share every little moment of this.”
“No, I don’t—“
“Oh, but you do,” he replies, and he flashes a smug grin. “I’m quite sure that you do.” And at that, he rises up again to loom over his other self, grabs his hair roughly with both hands. He brings their lips together once more, tasting that sweet and wonderful flavour. His full body weight traps him between himself and the console. “Wait,” his older self whispers, “you don’t know what—” Another kiss cuts him off, and he seems altogether too distracted to continue. With a dazed smile, the older Doctor finally manages, “I’ve got things in my mind. Things you… probably don’t want to see.”
The Doctor stops, just stares at him, wide-eyed and unsure of what to say. After a moment of silence, he tries, “I do hope you don’t have a miniature space shrimp building a nest in there again, do you?”
His other self laughs, looking relieved, and shakes his head. “I had a— someone,” he elaborates after a moment, “that sat inside my head. It sat inside my head, and lived among the dead. It’s long gone now, but…” he trails off, gestures vaguely.
“Unpleasant memories,” the Doctor suggests, and that seems close enough to the right answer. “Uninvited guests.” He punctuates his words with another brief kiss, and sets to work on unbuttoning his other self’s waistcoat, keeping their hips pressed closely together. The older Doctor tangles his fingers into his curls, whispers encouraging words as his waistcoat is quickly opened, followed by the buttons of his shirt. The Doctor drags one hand across his older self’s bare chest, feeling his body heat, letting his other hand wander back to between his legs.
If he’d looked gorgeous already with half of his clothes still on, he’s downright spellbinding like this — his shirt open to show his bare skin, the golden cravat now hanging loosely around his neck. The Doctor brings his lips back to his older self’s ear, whispers softly, “I’ll have a few obvious design flaws once I’m you, don’t you think?” His other self sounds like he’s about to reply, but a ragged gasp escapes his mouth instead, as the Doctor moves his fingers across his ribs in a decidedly wicked way. “But I’m going to love it,” he continues, “just love it,” and he slips his free hand underneath the shirt and to his back, trails his nails carefully along his future self’s spine. The other Doctor shudders with pleasure, arching his back against his hand.
He could really get used to this, he thinks, having his future self trembling with lust in his arms, but it’s not enough. He wants more. The Doctor withdraws both hands, eliciting another undignified noise of protest. “Do you trust me?” he whispers, grabbing one end of the cravat, sliding it off of the other Doctor’s neck. His future self nods, looking at him expectantly, and he draws the silk up in front of his eyes, ties both ends tightly behind the back of the other Doctor’s head.
Once again, he takes a step backwards, just to drink in the sight of himself — blinded, covered in sweat, utterly debauched. It seems such a waste now, knowing that he won’t remember a moment of this until he’s taken on the other role, who knows how many centuries on. But for the moment, he delights in seeing himself this hungry just for his touch alone.
When he brings one hand back to his future self’s mouth, the older Doctor shudders with anticipation, eagerly licking and sucking at his fingers as they slide past his lips. His mouth is warm and wet — perfect. He draws his hand back again, grabs the back of his older self’s head in one swift motion, and pushes him down on his knees.
He loosens his own trousers quickly with one hand, never letting go of his other self’s head, and pushes him forward, forcing himself into the other’s mouth. The noises his future self makes are downright obscene. His mouth is as warm and as wet as it had felt around his fingers, and he moves his head blindly to the rhythm that the Doctor sets.
With his fingers wound tightly around the knot in the silk cravat, the Doctor forces his other self to move faster, thrusting hard past his lips. The wetness of his soft tongue is even better than he’d expected — and the sight of his blindfolded self, on his knees in front of him, is breathtaking.
It isn’t long before he comes, hard. He hold his other self’s head in place for a long moment, making him feel every little twitch deep inside his throat. And then he pulls the other Doctor’s head back, drags him to his feet, and has him pinned up tight against the console again moments later. He claims his future self’s mouth with a deep kiss before he can speak. Though from what he can tell, the way his other self hungrily kisses him back, his arousal hard between their bodies, speaking is the last thing on his mind.
He reaches between them again, takes his future self into his hand, never breaking the kiss. He knows the other Doctor can’t hold back for much longer, from the way his hips rock into his hand, the frantic way his other self’s fingers are tugging blindly at his hair. He increases the rhythm of his movements, feeling him twitch, determined to make him lose control entirely. He pulls back slightly — “tell me,” he whispers, “what you want,” and he can tell the effect that his voice alone is having. “Tell me what you want me to do.” The other Doctor grabs him closer, still thrusting into his hand, and flashes him a wicked grin — and with a sudden burst of psychic energy, their touch becomes much more as his future self initiates — “Contact.”
Their minds crash into each other. For a moment, the Doctor is sure he’s going to fall, physically as well as mentally — but they find their balance, and wrap their selves around each other the way their bodies are already entangled.
In between the bright-gold bursts of pleasure, he can feel carefully locked-up memories moving in the shadows, and he’s not surprised at all that his future self was reluctant to let him in. But he’s in now. Deep inside the other’s mind, already adding waves of mental pleasure to the movements of their bodies, worlds away. He finds the threads of the other Doctor’s thoughts, clutches at them tightly until he’s not even sure anymore which of them is which.
Far beyond that haze, he can still feel the other Doctor’s body trembling against him. He can hear whispered words that meld into the endless stream of colours flooding their shared mind. And he pushes, prods, pulses into his other self’s thoughts until those whispers turn into desperate screams, echoing into him and enveloping the both of them. And their world explodes in a burst of light.
For a long moment, they stay like that — just clinging to each other — until he breaks away, shakes off the mental link. Without his support, his future self stumbles and sinks back to his knees in front of him, exhausted and limp, but still grinning like a fool.
He watches himself catch his breath. Properly conquered.
Another long moment later, he turns around, and grabs his scarf and coat from where he’d discarded them.
Once his breathing has calmed down, the older Doctor rests his head in his hands — finds the velvet blindfold still there, removes it with trembling fingers and blinks against the dim light. The TARDIS is empty. Most of the candles have gone out. From the ceiling, the soft glow of the nebula illuminates the console room, and the hum of the TARDIS rings heavily in his ears.
And from the closing doorway, a voice — his own voice — calls out, “delightful tea!” and disappears.