Title: Slippery Possessions

Summary: The Doctor takes a few licks… *deletes* *rewrites* The Master's mouth possesses… *deletes quickly and rewrites* Licking as… *smashes keyboard with head* OH FOR CYRING OUT LOUD! WILL THE RIDICULOUSLY DIRTY PUNS NEVER END?!?!


*hides in shame of her own slashiness*

Rating: R for… dear god, the PUNS! They don't stop! They never EVER stop!

Author's Note: So, I joined up with #slashlords and promptly found tulapeiwa's signature, which reads: "You can't take it with you... but you can lick it so no one else takes it when you're gone". And it got stuck in my brain. So after taking a physics test the gnawing urge, not even urge, craving to write Doctor/Master came into mind accompanied by this charming phrase and… we get this.

"You can't take it with you... but you can lick it so no one else takes it when you're gone!" The TV blared as the spokesperson grinned broadly, demonstrating their new product.

"Ugh!" the Doctor cringed emphatically, "who writes these TV slogans? They should really get better people for this..." still with a disgusted grimace, the Doctor continued watching the endless advert in hopes that the actual program would come on again soon.

The Master, who had been attempting to ignore the Doctor's bizarre habit of watching telly in bed, was in a chair secluded from the chatterbox and the mechanical thing that entertained him. But with that advert, he perked up. It had given him pause, about licking something so no one else would take it... Yes, licking something, or more specifically someone, as a form of possession. There was a devious idea if he'd ever had one.

Sneakily, so as not to arouse the Doctor's… suspicion, the Master turned in his high-backed chair ever so slightly, still pretending to read the unrated version of "Crime and Punishment". With even more punishment than the original.

"Yes, you too could now be the proud owner of this never-before-seen saliva-everlasting technology! Once you lick it, no one else will EVER be able to touch it!" a very moist alien, the Master realized, was selling this product. Which made a little more sense, but now brought up the question of how on earth the Doctor had gotten hold of an interstellar television.

"Finally!" the Doctor exclaimed as the program finally returned. A special on the importance of bananas throughout history and their shaping of the known universe. How very typically Doctor

The Master rolled his eyes, disgusted with his warden. Yes, indeed, the poor sod had, in fact, used a crude human technique of bringing him back to life through extensive electric shock and air from his own lungs through mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. The Master's delight at this realization when he was brought back to life was only equaled by his absolute horror that the git just couldn't let him die.

Since then he had been kept, every waking and sleeping moment, under the Doctor's watchful, if sometimes more than necessary, stare. And, at first, his spine had prickled with intense irritation and exasperation at the thick idiot, and then had slowly turned into something much more dangerous still… a sort of hungry, jealous, greedy lust.

The Master's teeth ground together in frustration as he watched his would-be lover gleefully lavish attention on the unresponsive television set. Why couldn't he ever be that excited about the Master? He pouted slightly. Not that he tried to get the Doctor's attention, not with the Doctor barring every door, locking every control, hiding his laser screwdriver, even going so far as to tuck him in at night. Which the Master couldn't stand… especially since he never got a goodnight kiss to go with it. It was maddening!

No, the Master had made up his mind, he wanted the Doctor, and he wanted him BAD. And, when the Master wanted something… he wasn't just going to get it, he was going to get and use it in ways that made sure NO one else would EVER get to use it. EVER. The Master smirked slightly, oh yes, with how bad he wanted the Doctor and how possessive he had really always felt about him, no one ever ever ever ever in a million lives as a Time Lord was ever getting his Doctor.

The Doctor yawned, stretching, "That's about enough telly for tonight… come on, Master, I'll take you to bed."

The Master bit down hard on his tongue to keep it from wagging out of his mouth and looking like the lovesick fool that, in truth, he was. Closing his book sharply, he replaced it on the Doctor's bedside bookcase (the damn things practically populated the TARDIS, a bookshelf around every corner), and stood up with a vaguely haughty expression and just the slightest hint of a sneer, which would have passed for normal Master face.

The Doctor, seeming not to notice any change, gestured for the Master to make his way out the door and followed close behind. The Master really found it rather insulting that his bedroom was so far away from the Doctor's instead of, in the same bed, or at the very least, in the same room. But no, he had been given that little closet bed a level above the Doctor's sleeping quarters.

When the Master had seen it he thought the Doctor had been joking, or perhaps getting revenge, but when he turned out to be serious the Master threw fit… which resulted in a cold shower. Because the Doctor got his kicks from humiliating the Master and preventing him from hurting anything, including himself, through a clever set of TARDIS controls. The TARDIS went into panic mode whenever violence was detected and nullified the threat at its source… namely, bodily restraining the Master whenever he tried something by creating long tendrils out of its walls to hold him back.

And on those nights when the Doctor would squeeze inside and tuck him in, it could almost be called intimate, except for there was a very strict policy of no contact. And it was infuriating.

Tonight proved no different as the Master laid down on his tiny trundle bed and the Doctor pulled up the covers, neatly fitting them back under the mattress.

"Why do you do this?" the Master asked coldly.

"Because," the Doctor did not look up, "I have to take care of you. Tucking you in at night is part of that," he stood up, grinning amiably.

The Master groaned and rolled his eyes, "Maybe if I was 82, but I'm no younger than you are Doctor!"

The Doctor's grin remained; he stepped back to the door, "Then it's because I want to," the Doctor's grin widened and switched off the light, closing the door firmly behind him.

The Master glared at the closed door, oh, he knew why the Doctor did it. Partly just to annoy him, but partly because he felt it too, that strange, undeniable attraction between them, almost magnetic in it's power and gravitational in its constancy. Who rotated around whom was an unanswerable question, but the Master would never admit to revolving around the Doctor.

Sighing, the Master settled into his hand-tucked sheets, waiting for some sign that the Doctor was asleep. Listening closely, eventually the Master recognized the sound of the Doctor's soft snoring. Undoing all the Doctor's careful handiwork, the Master padded out of bed and quickly befuddled the TARDIS lock on his door.

He approached the cell phone the Doctor always left on the TARDIS control panel. Remembering the number flashed on the screen, the Master typed in the galactic code, the earth extension, the high-speed connector… The Master hated buying things by mail order, but at least this way it would be untraceable.

After roughly an hour waiting on hold, the poor outsourced alien at the other end got a piece of the Master's mind as well as the outrageous price they were asking for. The Master was a bit uneasy giving out the TARDIS homing address, so instead chose its current location. At last, after losing almost two hours of sleep to this ridiculous plot, the Master returned to bed.

The Doctor slept on, unaware of the foil unfolding around him.