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Short Circuit

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"Look what the cat dragged in," Missy drawls. "What are you doing here?"

That's a very good question, actually - and not one the Doctor can answer. She scrunches her nose in thought. How did I get here?

Where is here, even?

Missy's breath is hot against her neck. The Doctor tries to focus. Here appears to be a bulkhead against her back, and Missy pressed against her front. The Doctor is pinned, Missy's hands on her shoulders and a knee between her thighs, a hard pressure. She rocks against it, involuntarily; Missy laughs, and licks against her lips.

Breathing hard, the Doctor angles her head, looks over Missy's shoulders, to the left, to the right. The empty corridor has no answers. Something jangles against her senses, but she's not sure what. The mess of crossing timelines, perhaps? She's pretty sure Missy shouldn't be here, at least. Paradox conditions?

No, that doesn't sound quite right.

Missy's teeth close over the Doctor's lower lip: a sting, a pull, a scrape. The Doctor's lip feels raw in her wake, and when she prods it with her tongue, it stings.

The backhanded slap Missy delivers against her cheek stings more.

Missy has pulled back. She's standing with her hands on her hip, leaning forward just a little. She's peering at the Doctor, eyes gleaming: the old I know something you don't know look. "You don't remember, do you?"

The space between the Doctor's legs feels empty. She pouts, and blinks, and tries to think. Every thought feels slow and thick, like honey starting to crystallise.

"Remember what?" She blinks again. Her vision is perfectly clear; why is she still trying to clear it? Even her hair isn't hanging in front of her eyes. She brushes a strand behind her ear in reflex anyway.

Missy tilts her head this way and that. "Oh, for -," she exclaims, and then she's grabbing the Doctor by her braces and shaking her before slamming her back into the bulkhead.

"It's working too well," Missy murmurs, nuzzling against the Doctor's ear. "But don't you fear, I can short-circuit it." She pulls back, gives a sharp smile. "I can short-circuit anything."

And then her foot kicks the Doctor's legs apart, and her hand comes up hard between the Doctor's thighs, knuckles digging in. The Doctor's hips surge, and Missy laughs, breathless, pushing back harder, building a rhythm: knuckles between and thumb against just the right places.

The Doctor pants, and rocks with it, and blinks. Her hands flail about for a moment, then settle on Missy's shoulders, fingers digging into the purple fabric of Missy's dress.

Wait a minute. How did she get here? And short-circuit what?

She tries to frown, but frowns don't go well with glassy eyes, and her eyes are definitely glassy now, no question about it. She can tell, even from the inside. Eyes aren't that difficult. Eyebrows, now - eyebrows are harder, and she doesn't think she's ever mastered ears. (Are hers standing out, this time round? She can't tell.)

Missy holds her in place, one hand twisting the Doctor's braces, the other between the Doctor's thighs. The straps dig into her shoulders. Missy's fingers dig into the seam of her trousers, pressing between her labia.

Missy keeps crowding her against the bulkhead, and that shouldn't work - she's still taller than Missy, damn it, even in this regeneration, though perhaps not by much - but it does. Not that the Master ever had any trouble being physically overwhelming, in any regeneration. Size is not everything, after all.

(Except when it comes to bras. Size is definitely everything, there. The Doctor has travelled with women for centuries; she has a TARDIS full of bras, and barely any of them fit.)

Her thoughts are a scatter, and she knows it. But they won't pull together the way they should. She rocks harder against Missy's hand.

"What's happening?" she gasps, as it builds up inside her, thrumming, craving, needing. With her arousal, with her pleasure, clarity builds.

"I held your hand," Missy whispers into her ear, conversationally. "I wanted to stand with you."

"You left." The Doctor's hips thrust back against Missy's hand with as much force as her minimal leverage allows.

"Left you something, Doctor," Missy breathes against her lips, not letting up for a second. "That's why we're here. Well, you are. I'm not."

"Oh!" The Doctor's eyes widen as her brain finally catches on. Her face splits into a delighted grin. "Telepathic imprint! You left a telepathic imprint in my head." Her eyebrows pull down; her forehead wrinkles; her mouth twists. Her thighs clench around Missy's hand. "Wait. You left a telepathic imprint in my head?"

"Lucky you," the Mistress says, brightly. "You'd have no one to set you straight, otherwise."

Then Missy's mouth is on hers, suddenly, lips hard, tongue demanding. It's as much a bite as a kiss, and it's glorious. She rocks against Missy's hand, frantically. She hitches a leg around Missy's hips, loosely, for better access.

Damn. Should she be worrying more? She can't seem to, just now.

"Straight," the Doctor repeats when Missy lets her mouth go, breathing hard. She looks down between them. "Is that what we're calling it?"

Missy bares her teeth, a mock-offended snarl. "I left you something," she repeats, "just in case. Did you even want to regenerate?" Missy's head tilts to the side. "Looks like you didn't need it."

"Mm. Someone - someone else helped." The Doctor smiles, breathless. "You could have stayed."

"I really couldn't," Missy says, cryptically, and slams her head against the bulkhead with a vicious push. "You're trapped," she snaps. Her hand untangles itself from the Doctor's braces, cups her breast instead. "A nice little telepathic trap, and it needs a telepath more skilled than you are to wiggle out of it."

The Doctor was notoriously bad at this kind of thing even as a student, back on Gallifrey. The Master, on the other hand, was a prodigy.

Through the Doctor's shirt, Missy rolls her nipple between thumb and forefinger. So close. Then Missy twists her nipple, harshly, and she yelps.

"Pay attention," Missy demands. "Or I'm putting you over my knee until you do."

The Doctor's breath stutters. Her face appears to be overheating. Bad design, that. "I don't think that would work."

Missy peers at her again, and throws her head back, and laughs. The vibrations of it travel through her body, her hand, right to the Doctor's crotch. "I think it would, dear. You still haven't caught on."

She shivers. She doesn't pull away. Yes, she has: arousal, overriding whatever it is that keeps her from thinking in this place. But there's a limit to everything. They're still fully clothed, even if her trousers are soaked through at the crotch, Missy's fingers pushing the seam and her underwear right into her wetness.

If she fell fully into this, she might lose herself in this instead.

"No," she gasps. "Missy, please."

Missy scowls. "All right. Listen to me."

With the bulkhead against her back, Missy against her front, it's not as if the Doctor has much choice.

"You're trapped." Missy bites at her throat, and her hand moves again, slowly at first, then faster. Hard. Relentless. Her other hand is cupped firmly around the Doctor's breast. "You need to wake up.

In the Doctor's mind, yes and more and harder keep bubbling up, threatening to spill from her mouth. She tries to think.

"How?" she gasps. The rhythm builds, and she rocks with it, desperately grasping for something. Pleasure, fulfilment, clarity - they're all the same.

"Easy," Missy whispers. "Just. One. Push."

Her hand thrusts. Her mind thrusts.

Pleasure spikes. The Doctor's insides convulse. For a moment, she seems to be spinning in the middle of an empty corridor.

It crashes down on her.

"Off you go," the Doctor hears faintly, through a haze. "Time to save the universe. Well, this corner of it, anyway."

Lightning rolls through her, and keeps rolling. She clenches as it surges, as it scours. Her mind scatters under the pleasure - and then, suddenly, something kicks her right in the arse. She stumbles forward -

- forward, into -

- into something that's definitely not a corridor. In fact, it rather looks like a quarry.

Her arse stings. The visions that dance before her eyes are entirely Missy's fault. But she's not swimming in her knickers any more. She looks down. Her trousers are immaculate, or at least as much so as they ever are. Not soaked through at all.

She looks around, mind switching into gear. How did I get here?

The last thing she remembers is returning to the TARDIS after going for take-out in Harthalura, during the Eighth Revolutionary Cycle. Nice place, and not the kind where you'd stumble across telepathic traps.

This doesn't look anything like Harthalura, though. Orbital installations generally don't have quarries, after all.

Well. Time to find out, isn't it? She's out of the trap, thanks to Missy, and now the fun can start.

I'll find you, Missy. And after we've had a little talk about leaving telepathic imprints in other people's brains without their permission, I'm going to thank you. Properly, and in person. But first, she has a universe to save. Or a corner of it, anyway.

The Doctor's face opens into a smile.