Pieced Together

The Doctor snatches Malcolm Tucker off the street before he makes his way to the Goolding inquiry hearing. Why? Fucked if Malcolm knows. Something to do with the copies of their shared face scattered across the universe. But while they're figuring that out, they've got a lot of time to fill.


Malcolm dropped the flogger where he stood and wiped sweat from his face. His chest was wet with it too. Difficult to say which one of them was sweatier, him or the Gallifreyan git who called himself the Doctor and affected an accent half-way between Glasgow and London. The man-- the alien, whatever he was-- could take a lot of flogging. The man wanted a lot of flogging. Something in him needed it enough that he’d found a way to ask for it from Malcolm. Malcolm! He’d been living his life in fear that the Doctor would dump him out the TARDIS door the next time they set down in Whitehall, never mind what year it was. But no. The irritation had been cover for deep uneasy longing.

Malcolm had been entirely willing to do what the man longed for. He’d done it before. Julius had been the most recent, before-- well, before it had all fucked itself sideways into ruin. Probably the git had known it. Seemed to have known something about him when he plucked him off the street: “You! Pudding-brain! Yes, you, the one with the foul mouth. Come with me. Don’t bother with the hearing.”

And he was off. And here they were: fucking lovers. Of a sort.

Okay, time take him down from the cross. He wasn’t breathing as hard as he’d been, but he was sagging and putting more weight onto his wrists than Malcolm wanted to see.

“I can take more,” the Doctor said, with a slurry voice.

“Sure you can, you leather-arsed aristocrat. I don’t fucking feel like giving you more.”

That was the way to handle him when he was like this, just take charge and keep the pushy bottom where he belonged. Which was in Malcolm’s arms, leaning into him, resting his shoulder on Malcolm’s head, letting Malcolm help him over to the bed.

Malcolm laid the Doctor down on his face, adjusted a pillow or two for him. Blanket, right. Wrap the fucker up, keep him warm. A bottle of that stuff he liked, orange Lucozade, room-temperature. Malcolm helped him up onto an elbow and held the bottle for him. He pushed the Doctor’s wet hair back from his forehead. Doing okay, he thought. Was hard sometimes to figure out what an alien needed after these things. He was a tough nut physically, but emotionally he was far more vulnerable. Emotionally he was like ancient pottery, pieced back together after being smashed and always ready to fracture again on the same lines. He’d wanted it badly this time. Malcolm had had to dial back the scene he’d wanted to something Malcolm was willing to do. Who the fuck knew why? Some day the cunt would tell him.

Malcolm set the bottle on the bedside stand and stretched himself out next to the alien cunt who was his lover. Got his arms around him and tugged him close, kissed him. Looking into his eyes was like looking into a mirror of time, like looking at an older version of himself. The Doctor had told him it was a thing, a strange thing that he’d been investigating: there were copies of this face scattered all over Earth’s history and in its future, and when the Doctor had regenerated as one it was a fucking puzzler.

Nice to know that the universe was laughing at the both of them.

In the meantime, he had a scrawny Scots git as his lover, in his arms right now, whimpering a little as Malcolm’s hand wandered down over his arse, the backs of his thighs, his well-flogged thighs. Fuck him, but it was a joy to flog this man, to aim and strike and hear him cry out.

“You were fucking fantastic,” Malcolm said. “On the cross. Fucking amazing under the whip.”

The Doctor looked away, but Malcolm could see the relief, feel him relax a little. Yes, you fucking idiot alien cunt, you’re wanted. You haven’t cocked it up. I’m not leaving you alone. Not that Malcolm was about to say that. Just cuddle the fucker, cuddle him and kiss him and pet his hair. Most powerful being Malcolm had ever met, just mind-bogglingly powerful, so much brain, so much gadgetry, and so tangled up on the inside.

He said, “I want to make love to you now, if you’re up for it. Don’t want to let go of you just yet.”

The Doctor closed his eyes for a moment. Lovely silver eyelashes, lovely blue eyes, just like his. “That’d be good.”

“Yeah, you sure? I can wait.”

“Now, please. While it’s still raw.”

Malcolm knelt up next to him and admired his work. Reddened arse, stripes all over his back, like a fucking zebra or something, red stripes on that pale skin. They’d be black and blue soon enough. Malcolm found it erotic. Always had. A man’s beaten arse-- or a woman’s, sure, but it was a man’s he had now, and he’d always found less joy in whipping a woman. It was a man’s heated arse he had now cupped in his hands. The Doctor moaned a little at his touch. He was starting to get hard; he’d stayed at least half-hard through the whole thing, which was a marvel. He’d probably come while he was being fucked. He liked being fucked. He liked it more than was entirely believable.

Fucking alien.

Sex this time was slow, because Malcolm wasn’t in a mood to be rough with him. He got himself stretched out over the Doctor, right up inside him, spooned over him, blankets over the both of them. He lay there, let himself feel the alien cunt’s body around him, tight, warm. He let the Doctor do the work for a little while, not that either of them were doing much, just rolling his hips, rubbing himself against the sheets, fucking himself on Malcolm’s cock slowly. Malcolm let it go along like that for a while, nice slow pleasure build, while he held the Doctor close and murmured sweet fucking nothings in his ear. Whatever the fuck came to mind, telling him how amazingly he suffered under the whip, how much Malcolm had loved doing it for him, how good it felt now to fuck him, to see his marks all over the Doctor’s arse. Slowly it built, until the Doctor was moving faster and moaning steadily. Malcolm liked hearing it. Fucking turn-on. Better than a turn on. It was an inspiration to get himself into motion as well, to start doing some of the fucking. Friction, yeah, sliding in and out, pulling back enough to watch himself moving, to see those whip-marks again, oh yeah, he could feel it building.

“You near?”

“Almost,” the Doctor said, and yeah, Malcolm could hear it in his voice.

“Don’t you dare fuckin’ come before me.”

A whimper below him, and Malcolm knew he had to be quick. He closed his eyes and let himself get rough, let himself take all the pleasure he wanted, and there it was, the moment of fucking inevitability, and then he was coming inside the Doctor’s arse, bare, coming inside him, filling him up. He collapsed over the Doctor, and held tight, and there he went, so hard and so fast that he had to have been biting his fist to hold himself off.

Mess on the sheets, mess on the Doctor’s backside, who the fuck cared? Malcolm had a swig of the fucking awful Lucozade and held the bottle again for the Doctor, watched him drink, careful even now in the afterglow. He burrowed back down under the blankets and tugged the Doctor around until he had his head resting properly on Malcolm’s shoulder, where it belonged.