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𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞 | 11th Doctor x GN!Reader x Ganger!Doctor

❝𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘩𝘦’𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 d𝘰𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘰.❞

summary: you can always tell between the the doctor and his ganger. always. you've made your dislike towards the "doctor" very clear. that was, until a petty wager and a lust-induced fever reveals some hidden desires the three of you need to share.

warnings: SMUT, no explicit mention of genitalia or reader's gender, voyeurism, exhibitionism, rough sex, oral (character receiving), orgasms via penetration, slight dacryphilia, use of aphrodisiac, dom (Ganger)/sub (reader), nipple play, biting, use of "puppy" as a pet name, jealousy, feelings of inadequacy, budding poly relationship.

words: 5.6k

a/n: i can't find the ask that requested this but big thanks to the anon that sprouted this story! i took some creative liberties and i couldn't help but think of the dynamic the Ganger would have with the reader if they were already romantically involved with the Doctor. and thus this fic was born. the Doctors are freaks. you have been warned.

A hand reaches out to caress the side of your hot cheek. You let out a pained groan, feeling another wave of burning emanating from your abdomen. You’re on the ground, panting like a dog, trying to fight the fever that has overtaken you.

“You feeling alright, love?”

The hand drifts from the side of your face to the underside of your chin, tilting your head up. Your vision blurs from your hazy mind. Dots of colors smear against one another until your eyes manage to focus.

The Doctor is crouched down in front of you, staring back at you with a half-smile on his face. His tender hands leave your face in favor of ghosting his fingers along your heated neck. Your body shivers in response.

“It would be wise to stop fighting it.” The Doctor retracts his hand, moving to stand up. You instinctively chase his touch, trying to move from your spot on the floor. The Doctor lets out a sharp chuckle at your pitiful form. “It’s only going to hurt more.”

Another cramp in your abdomen and a fresh wave of arousal makes you yelp in pain.

You grit your teeth. “Where is the Doctor?”

“I am the Doctor,” the man says with a smile that borders a smirk. The mockery in his tone lets you know that he’s enjoying every minute of your suffering. “I look exactly like him, so is there really a difference?”

“I need the other Doctor,” you force out. You rise on shaky legs, trying to put distance between you two. Half limping, half stumbling to the center of the control room.

You grab ahold of the railing of the console, steadying your swaying body. Everything is pulsating. Your heart, your head, your sex—

The “Doctor” simply observes you. Or rather the glistening expanse of your neck as you lean back against the TARDIS console. His hands itch to touch you again, but he kept his distance, preferring to simply observe.

You harsh breathing and sweaty skin would’ve made you look sickly if it wasn’t for your intense, wanting gaze. The more you stare at him, the more your resolve starts to crumble. Rapidly. Your unshakable resolve, something that the Doctor had always admired about you, is being purposefully bent and shaped with the way the fever messes with your body (your mind).

The “Doctor’s” steps are slow, methodical, watching your apprehensive stare. When you make no word of protest, he approaches you with all the confidence in the world. His stare is a fire, never leaving your dilated, wandering eyes.

He stops until he’s chest to chest, your heavy panting filling the air between you two. You keep your white-knuckled grip on the railing, using every ounce of willpower to not thread them in his hair and yank him towards you. Your mind knows the difference between him and your Doctor. But your body doesn’t care whether it is the Doctor or it is his Ganger.

(Your heart doesn’t care either, as much as you hate to admit. It feels wrong. So, so wrong.)

Hot breath fans across your lips along with a teasing chuckle. You jerk towards the “Doctor”, but he tilts back so you don’t make contact.

“Impressive,” he murmurs above your parted mouth. “You’re stronger than you look. Such an intense fever should crack even the most intense of wills—“ His hand cups your heated face and you immediately nuzzle his palm. “—but you’ve managed to keep your stubbornness even if it hurts you.”

You feel the hard press of his erection against your stomach and it threatens to reduce you to a wanting animal. Stripped away of any semblance of humanity and leaving only a desperate and pathetic slut wanting to be used. The “Doctor’s” grin is wicked and cruel as his hands make a purposeful trail down your face. His large hand is pressing against the middle of your chest and you subconsciously lean into his touch.

His two hands grip onto your hips and without hesitating, grinds your hips against his clothed dick. The effect is immediate. Your back arches towards him and your head thrown back, letting out a loud, desperate moan. The “Doctor’s” hips are rigid, leaving you to roll yours in an attempt to alleviate the tension in your body. His rough hands guide your wild movements, pressing you harder against him. His breathing is matching yours with his chest rising and falling harshly to keep up with you.

He’s warm, like your Doctor. He knows how much you like dry humping his dick, just like your Doctor knows. Everything about him screams your Doctor, but you’re not easily fooled. Which is why you were confident in taking their bet—to finally determine if there is a real, tangible difference between the two.

When his Ganger first appeared in your lives, it was a lot harder to tell if the person in front of you is the love of your life. The same quirky manners, the same inflection of voice, even the same lopsided smile. It messed with your brain in the worst way, even more infuriating whenever the Doctor tried switching places with his Ganger to see if you knew.

You always knew. A freakish sixth sense if you will. It didn’t matter if the Doctor and his Ganger took three hours to get their appearance to be exactly the same, with their hair parted the same way down to the individual follicles, you always knew. Each time you made the TARDIS tell the difference, you were always 100% right. It frustrated the two of them. Their devilish schemes of fooling you falling flat each and every single time.

The bet was simple: if there was a real difference between him and his Ganger, your body wouldn’t react strongly to the fever around the Ganger. If you win, the Doctor and his Ganger would cease pulling pranks on you and stop trying to use you to test their weird obsession with telling each other apart.

It was this hubris that made you smugly take the glowing pink vial in your Doctor’s hand.

You have made your dislike towards the Doctor’s Ganger very known since the “Doctor” seems to also think that he’s in love with you. But the way he expressed that desire for you was different from your Doctor’s. Where your Doctor was more gentle and passionate when it came to love, the “Doctor” seemed to draw out a more primal side of you.

In one of their “tests”, the Doctor blindfolded you and let you kiss either of them.

Your Doctor was all gentle nips and soft holding. His calloused hands were firm in their hold and he drew out every kiss for as long as he could. Your heart would flutter helplessly in your chest when he parted from you, leaving you smiling.

The “Doctor” was anything but. The moment your lips touched a fire seemed to break between you. Intense was the word you could describe that kiss. It scared you how easily your mouth parted for him and how your brain turned to mush as his hands shamelessly groped your body. He hoisted your body against the wall, meeting your lips with kiss after kiss until you couldn’t breathe. It took about five seconds to tell the difference, but you let the kiss go for almost a minute.

It scared you how easily you surrendered to the Ganger’s rough handling of you. It solidified their difference in your eyes, and you made a point to let them know that you were only attracted to your Doctor.

You would catch the Ganger lingering in the shadows, watching you get intimate with your Doctor. It started with an embarrassed glance whenever the two of you shared a kiss. Then it turns to lingering in your peripherals when the Doctor gets handsy with you. Soon, you catch him silently observing you through the crack in your bedroom. Watching you tangle your body with the Doctor for hours on end. Only you. No doubt imagining him doing the undressing, the kissing, and drawing out orgasm after orgasm. You never told the Doctor about his Ganger’s voyeurism, but you have a sneaking suspicion that the Doctor is fully aware of it. Nothing gets past him.

A small voice in the back of your mind whispers traitorously that you like it. To be openly wanted by a being who shares the same brilliant mind. If the Doctor’s clone is as infatuated with you as your Doctor is, it really shows just how crazy you drive him. How much he wants you as you want him.

Since the two of them share the same memories, the “Doctor” remembers what sex is like with you. He remembers the way you feel around his dick, spasming around him as you reach your high. He knows what positions you like, the way the Doctor usually talks you through sex, how hard he fucks to get you to make those pretty sounds. All for him.

You feel the “Doctor’s” hips loosen, finally moving with yours in a purposeful twist that leaves you crying out. His hands dig painfully over the fabric of your jeans, but it only adds to the sensation you feel in your body. Each rock builds the tension in your core. He brings you to the tip of his bulge and slides your hips down his length. That primal desire the both of you share is clawing to the surface. You’re winding tighter, breathing harder, and your eyes are screwed shut, trying to relieve the pressure inside of you. You can feel his gaze watching every pained expression you make as the fever rises. His own pleasured sounds mingle with yours, taunting you further to the finish line.

You’re so close. Just one more slide, one more groan in your ear—

He pushes you onto the surface of the console and his warmth leaves immediately. Your eyes fly open and you let out the most pitiful sob like you’ve been struck across the face. You think being hit would be a mercy in comparison to taking away the friction on your core. His heaving chest and smug grin is so like the Doctor that your lust-driven mind forgets that it’s his Ganger. In some way, it feels like a betrayal against your Doctor, but you know it probably turns him on to see you grind against his clone.

You know your Doctor is watching somewhere. Observing you like you’re some rat in an experiment for the side-effects of a new drug. He needs to be far, far away from the scene so that his presence doesn’t interfere with the testing.

The fact that you reacted so strongly towards his Ganger, the person who you’ve made your dislike very known, means only two things.

There really is no physical difference between the Doctor and his Ganger and your dislike was just for show and you actually want them equally.

A secret third option is that you’re too horny to care about who gets to fuck you, but that won’t be a good enough conclusion for their experiment. Because, if you’re being honest with yourself, the Doctor is above petty bets. He knows you better than anyone, so it goes without saying that he predicted your reaction to the virus. He knows that when you see his Ganger lurking in the background while you two have sex and you get more vocal, more wet in response.

The whole reason for this stupid, petty situation is that the Doctor wants you to admit that you like his Ganger for whatever reason. There was no winning this bet for you, he just made it seem like you had a feasible chance of proving him right. The realization should’ve made you angry and stormed out of the control room to hunt down your Doctor.

But your throbbing core is starting to hurt. Slick is accumulating between your thighs, a direct response to having the virus. It forces your body to provide the lubrication necessary for intense sex. It makes your mouth water, your legs shake, and every nerve sparking whenever the person you’re attracted to touches you.

The “Doctor’s” hard-on is the only thing your eyes seem to focus on. His casual stance as if your actions didn’t affect him makes you want him more.

“P-Please,” you whine. He’s just out of reach, so close yet so far.

He tuts, unimpressed. Surprisingly composed considering how wild he was just moments before. “I know you can beg harder than that.” The authoritative edge to his voice makes you whine more. “I’ve heard you. Seen you, even. Try again.”

The throbbing is close to pain. You feel like an exposed nerve, waiting to explode. Tears sting your eyes as you let out another sob. “Please, Doctor.”

His eyes slide down your body, appreciating the way your legs are parted, waiting for his hips to slot between them. The warmth between your legs is a temptation that he can barely withstand. Your darkened, dilated eyes that are glassy from unshed tears. He almost pitied you. Almost.

You try again. “Doctor, please, I need you!”

Your cries do nothing to move him. “I should leave you here,” he says casually and you let out a sound that is caught between a whine and a sob. The smile on his face is enough to know that he means it. “Clearly you don’t want me. Why should I bother with you if you can’t even do as you’re told? Seems like there’s a difference to us after all. You win.”

Victory rings hollow in your ears, soured by the fact that winning means losing your chance to be fucked senseless. The rational part of your brain knows that there’s never winning against the Doctor, even if it comes to his clone. All of this is a trick to tear down your walls and submit yourself to him. His copy. The lesser version of the one you love.

So your mind whispers.

Your heart is pounding in your ears. Two paths lay ahead: take your remaining pride and show the Doctors that their mind games won’t work on you. Or let your pride burn up and beg like a dog to have the “Doctor” ravage you until your mind is empty and the fever is gone.

All it takes is one, long, hard look at the bulge in the “Doctor’s” pants to make your mind up.

The ounce of willpower is ripped away as your knees hit the metal floor harshly. You drag yourself to the “Doctor”, and in a powerful display of submission, your head rests against dick. You let the tears in your eyes fall and grip the sides of his hips to press his bulge against your cheek. You suppress the urge to get his fly open by your teeth and pounce on him like an animal.

“Please Doctor!” Your voice is wounded, desperate, and scratchy. “I need you—need you so bad. I need you to fuck me. Please! That’s all I want—all I want is you. Just you. Fuck me, please—”

You watch as the “Doctor’s” uncaring demeanor crumbles away like dust. In an instant, his own raging desire takes over his body.

Your back hits the floor at such a speed that makes you dizzy. Pain doesn’t register in your mind. In fact, you feel a powerful shiver cut through your body, pleasure shooting up your spine at the “Doctor’s” close proximity. Rough hands descend on your body, pushing your shirt to expose the heated skin of your torso, trailing down until they meet the buttons on your jeans. With his haste in getting your pants off your body, the “Doctor” snaps the button of your jeans off. He tugs them down your legs in one go, exposing your ruined underwear.

The “Doctor” brings his hand to rub against your clothed entrance, watching the way your body arch and shivers. He’s mesmerized by your reactions, cataloging the different sounds you make. You tilt your hips up, encouraging him to yank off the garment.

You moan as cool air hits your slick entrance. The clear substance of your arousal is smeared everywhere. Seeing you spread out, with tears in your eyes and your throbbing entrance made the “Doctor” nearly cum his pants on the spot.

Observing sex from afar was never going to be enough for him. Having clear pictures in his mind from your Doctor felt…wrong.

He wanted his own memories of sex with you. In his own perverse fantasies, he wants see you ruined, completely fucked out beneath him. He wants to be included in your sex, helping his twin wring out orgasms from your tired body. He can’t stand hiding away, forced to be a ghost while you actively put on a show for him. Teasing him, bringing him to near insanity when you lock eyes with him while fucking your Doctor.

Maybe if he fucks you right, he’ll be your Doctor too.

With that thought running wild in his mind, he makes quick work of his pants and underwear, sliding it down just enough to free his erection. He grasps his cock, sweeping his thumb over his leaking tip, the sight of which sets a fresh wave of arousal through you.

“Please, Doctor,” you cry, reaching out towards him, trying to grasp him.

His tip meets your entrance. He slides along your hole, gathering slick along his length with that smug grin that’s tormenting you. He wants to drag out this moment. Savoring the raw need in your voice, the way you tilt your hips in a desperate attempt to get him to fuck you.

“Please what, (Y/N)?” he asks, prodding your entrance to further wear you down, enjoying the whimpers you let out. He can get used to you begging for him—for his cock.

You’re full on sobbing down. Hot tears stream down your face and your body heat is threatening to cook you alive. “Fuck me, please!”

The way your breath catches in your throat and the neediness seeping through your raw, scratchy voice is what snaps his resolve in half. He slams into you with such force that you let out a sharp cry, practically spearing your body on his thick cock.

The “Doctor” hated himself at that moment for not betting against you sooner. The tightness of your hole and the gush of wetness around his hip is enough to bring him to an altered mental state. He almost dropped his weight on top of you, catching himself with his forearms, caging you. You hold onto him, latching your legs around his waist to bring him deeper into you.

Your gummy walls are squeezing him, inviting him further into you. His breathing is ragged, groaning in your ear: “So good, so fucking good.” He gives an experimental rock of his hips.

He eases into you, stretching you until you’re full of him. His thrusts are slow, trying to drag out the sensation of you around him. Better than anything his mind could ever conjure.

Good doesn’t begin to describe the euphoria he’s experiencing as he’s fucking you. The way you latch onto him, crying in his ear with each thrust makes it feel like your fever is spreading to him. It feels like a dream. Even his picture-perfect memory of sex pales in comparison to the real thing. The “Doctor” has no idea how his copy manages to be calm and collected around you when you have a body this good. If it were up to him, he would have you bent over every surface morning, afternoon, and night. He’ll have you cream around him, screaming his name until your voice is hoarse. His teeth will mark every inch of skin, his tongue will trace wet paths down the valleys of your body, his hands mapping out your body until he knows it better than his own.

It takes a few moments to find rhythm. He tried to replicate the way the other Doctor would piston himself, but he finds the pace too tame for what you need.

So he pulls out a bit more. He snaps his hips harder against yours. Your body has an incredible way of sapping all thinking out of his brain and leaving behind only thought: fucking you into oblivion. He feels the way you tighten around him as he builds a steady, rough pace into your slopping hole. A chorus of sobs and yelps echo in your throat and he finds himself happy that he prolonged your suffering. He is your only salvation against the fever and he’s going to make sure you know that.

The “Doctor’s” confidence grew the longer he fucks you. The sounds you make almost ring painful. Your body rocks in tandem, letting him do all the work in bringing you out of the fever. You grip onto his shoulders and tighten your legs around his waist. The wet sound of rough sex filling the console room and the way the “Doctor’s” cock hits that spot with such fervor makes your eyes roll to the back of your skull. Pleasure rips through your body like lightning. It’s painful. It’s intense. But it’s what you need.

“Such a good little puppy,” he moans, emphasizing his newfound name for you with a particularly hard thrust. “See what happens when you stop being a brat?”

You tug him closer, wanting to feel every inch of him. “Sorry—fuck! You feel so good, Doctor, so good!”

You feel his lips ghost over yours, breathing hot and heavy in your face. The “Doctor’s” head dips to the hollow of your throat, latching onto your pulse and sucking the skin taut. His teeth marks the spot then soothes the area with a hard kiss. He kisses and nips any skin he sees, until he finally, finally slots his lips against yours. Your body keens and your grip around him tightens. It wasn’t a neat kiss in the slightest. It’s all tongue and teeth and bruising lips. His harsh fucking makes it hard for him to properly kiss you, but you appreciate the effort all the same.

“Need you to cum for me,” he pants, his relentless pace never faltering.

He removes himself from your grip, much to your whined disappointment. He brings your aching legs from his waist and shoves your knees up to your heaving chest. It’s lewd, down right pornographic the way your hot, sweaty body is sprawled out for him. When he presses himself forward, you swore you reached heights of pleasure never before witnessed or felt.

Sex with the Doctor has always been leaps and bounds better than any partner you had. Most men could barely reap a genuine moan from you, much less a satisfying orgasm. The Doctor delivered that and then some. To him, love and sex were intertwined with one another. He took his time with you, cherished your body like you were the grandest piece of art he had the pleasure of looking at.

In any other circumstance, your Doctor would’ve handled your fever with slow, purposeful movements. His kisses would be languid. His touch would be grounding so that your attention is in the present.

This “Doctor” was hellbent on knocking the breath out of your lungs. Pressing so far into your body until there’s nothing between you two. He’s taking out all of his past grievances with you; all the sneers, the denial, and your incessant need to remind him that he’s a copy. He’s the inferior one, the one that pales in comparison to the original. Those feelings rise to the surface as the urge to make you his.

Your body shakes and tightens as the crest of your pleasure approaches. Each drag of his long, thick cock sends sparks mingled of pain and pleasure. There aren’t any words—English or alien—that could ever come close to how you were feeling. The “Doctor” was pulling every string taut, pushing any button he can find just to make you sing.

“‘M so close!” you moan, threading your hands through his wild brown hair.

He continues his brutal assault on your weeping hole and you hold onto him for dear life. His gaze is solely on yours, drinking in the way your face scrunches up in pleasure—all because of him. The other Doctor may have had you first, but this is his memory alone. No one can take that away from him.

Your nails scratch the fabric of his jacket and you let out a certain primal sound that the “Doctor” knows to mean that you’re close.

“Tell me I’m yours,” he pleads into the sweaty skin of your neck. He places heated kiss after heated kiss, his voice just as needy as yours. “Please, love.”

Your response is immediate. “You’re mine, all mine! Please, baby. I need you—fuck, I need you. Fuck fuck fuck—” You cave into his body, shivering and wanting. Pulling and tugging on his clothes like he is the only solid thing in the world.

The “Doctor” gives one more powerful thrust and grinds his pelvis against yours and you see stars.

Your orgasm rips through your body, pulling your soul along with it. There’s no telling where your “Doctor’s” body ends and yours begins. It comes in deep waves, muscles spasming around the “Doctor’s” cock. If there was a name to the harsh flashes of light and ringing in your ears, it would be pure, unfiltered ecstasy. The “Doctor”—your “Doctor” is fucking you through the afterschocks of the most toe-curling, mind-altering orgasm you’d ever had, chasing his own release. A few quick, sloppy thrusts and you feel the unmistakable twitch of his dick and the warmth of his cum spilling into you.

It feels like you’re melting into the floor. The air fizzles and pops like soda as your body finally—finally relaxes. The “Doctor” damn near collapses on top of you, making no move to pull out of your spent body. He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, inhaling the smell of sex radiating off of you.

That painful ache in your core eases out of you. When the fever was at its peak, it felt as though your whole body was a unified heartbeat. Every muscle pulsing in tandem, your blood vessels opening up to fill every crevice with your high blood pressure. Now that the heat has died down, your blood cools and your heart rate slows to a steady pace. The cold metal floor feels nice on your skin.

You don’t move and neither does your “Doctor”. You stare at the ceiling, trying to catch your breath as you run your fingers through his thick hair. You feel the “Doctor’s” breath fan across your neck, matching the rise and fall of your chest. It would’ve been wholesome and sweet if it wasn’t for the fact that you can still feel his hard cock still lodged inside of you.

When you give an experimental squeeze around him, the “Doctor” sucks in a sharp breath.

“Don’t start what you can’t finish, love,” he warns. “I don’t want to wear you out too soon.”

You give him an airy chuckle. “Oh, now you care about my well-being? I’m pretty sure you ground up my internal organs. Not that I’m complaining though.”

The “Doctor” gave an apologetic look and tried to ease out of your body. You responded with your legs coming to wrap firmly around his waist, trapping him against you. You weave your fingers into the hairs at the base of his head and bring him down for a deep kiss. One that pours all of your worries and sorrows into his lips and the hope for forgiveness for how you acted towards him. You didn’t want to part from him. Not even when your lungs started to burn and your movements were getting sloppy from the lack of oxygen.

You finally let him go, your lips making an audible noise when they parted. The “Doctor” simply admires you as you try catching your breath. Curse the Gangers and their inhumane lung capacities.

You release your grip, watching him tuck himself back in his pants. You sit across from him, naked as the day you were born. Vulnerable, exposed with nothing to hide. Not anymore. The “Doctor’s” hand gently holds yours. His thumb bumping affectionately across the peaks of your knuckles. You scoot closer so that you can see the flecks of brown in his eyes and the slight shadow of stubble on his chin.

“I was right,” you say, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “There’s always a difference between the two of you.”

“Yet you reacted strongly to the fever,” he points out. You feel the motions of his thumb stop and a hesitant look crosses his face. His voice is hollow as he speaks: “You were…ashamed, weren’t you? That you were attracted to me. The copy.”

The way he spits out the word “copy”, as if it was a curse, makes your heart drop to your stomach.

You can’t really blame him. His love for you was as real and tangible as it is for the Doctor. Same memories, same feelings, same everything. Seeing you shy away from his affection, openly preferring the original, reminding him day in and day out that he’s nothing more than a clone must’ve torn him from the inside out. But he kept his distance and yearned for you from afar. Waiting. Wanting. Watching.

You lace your fingers together, gripping the “Doctor’s” hand hard enough to bring him out of his spirling thoughts. “You are your own person. Sure you looked identical and you shared the same brain, but I always thought of you as separate from the Doctor. You’re less erratic. You tend to not go off into tangents. You make more grounded analogies of complicated concepts. You put your pants before you put on your shirt—”

The “Doctor” gave you a quizzical look. “You spied on me?”

“What? No!” Your face heats up in embarrassment. “I—y-you—that’s not the point!”

“It seems we have more in common than we thought,” he teases with a wide grin, leaning in close to your ear.

You groan, playfully pushing his head away. “My point is—because you are different from the Doctor, it felt like…cheating in a way. Stupid, I know. The difference was so jarring to me that it scared me. But there’s one thing that I’ll never do.”

“Hm?”

You gave him another lingering kiss. Slower than the previous ones as you wanted to make sure he feels the love you harbor for him. When you pull away, you keep close to his face, pressing your forehead against his.

“Be ashamed of my love for you,” you confess with a whisper. “I love you. I love you because of your differences, not in spite of them. I’ll apologize on my hands and knees for a month if that’s what it’ll take to earn your forgiveness.”

The “Doctor’s” eyes widened at your confession. He stares into your face, cataloguing every twitch of muscle for signs of deception. The silence is jarring and you worry you didn’t say the right thing. Was it too early to say the “L” word? Did you come off as insincere?

You don’t say a word, holding your breath for any harsh words or awkward tension. You looked at him, admired him, savoring the realization dawn on him when he found no lies in your words. He visually relaxes and that mischievous energy comes back.

“Hands and knees you say?” The “Doctor” lightly bumps his shoulder with yours.

You roll your eyes. “With my clothes on.”

“Even better. In those jeans with the lil’ pattern on the back? There’s a memory I want to recreate.”

“Apology rescinded then. I should make you sit in the corner while the other Doctor and I fuck for a month.”

“Darling, I’ll be more than happy to,” he says. “But we both know your appetite. You’ll be begging me to ruin you too.”

You open your mouth to offer a scathing rebuttal, but the “Doctor” shuts you up with a kiss on the corner of your lips. He places another on your cheek, smothering your entire face with quick kisses. His hands wrap around you, trapping you in his embrace while he continues his attack.

You wiggle out of his grip and push his face away from yours. “I will do no such thing. Stubbornness is my specialty.”

“I wonder how long that stubborn streak would last when the Doctor doesn’t know how to fuck you right.”

A startlingly familiar voice cuts through. “I can fuck them just fine. Isn’t that right, love?”

The Doctor is leaning against the doorframe to the entrance of the console room. His smile is a bit too all-knowing and smug for your liking. He looked relatively well-kept save for the fact that his hair is ruffled—a tell-tale sign that his hands have been running through it repeatedly—and the slight outline of his cock imprinted on his trousers.

So he has been watching, you noted.

“Come to join the party?” the “Doctor” asks. “I’m afraid we had a bit of a head start.”

The way the Doctor looks at you makes you shift in your spot. His cheery and upbeat personality is replaced with something far more calculating. He takes apart your disheveled appearance, inch by inch, raking his eyes down every part of your exposed body. The Doctor walks closer until he towers above you. His leather boot nudges your legs apart, assessing the smear of cum along your thighs. You involuntarily clench, watching the muscle in his jaw tense as he sucks in a breath.

“You alright?” he asks. His face is serious as he watches or any sort of hesitation. “If you’re too tired, we can get you cleaned up.”

A warmth spreads through your chest at his concern. You can see the raw need in his eyes and the heavy bulge right in front of you, but the Doctor would put aside his own desires for you.

That alone makes you want him even more.

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