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arting-block · 25 days ago

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𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 | vi x f!reader

you’re lonely. vi is right here.

summary: you tell yourself that you can play pretend with vi. just one more day. one more week. just until you find the will to break everything off yourself.

pairing: pitfighter!vi x mercenary!reader

warnings: ARCANE S2 SPOILERS, SMUT, unrequited feelings, angst, emotional cheating (?), porn with too much plot, reader has tattoos and scars, afab!reader, switch!vi, switch!reader, slight brat taming, finger fucking, vi is obsessed with your tongue, you're obsessed with her fingers

words: 6.5K

a/n: thank you guys so much for the love in part one!! (and sosos sorry for the long wait) it brought me endless joy reading all of your messages telling me how sad you guys were :D it means im doing something right. before anyone asks, i have 47 pages of stuff about vi and arachne so yea i WILL be making another part.

★ ‧₊˚ ⋅ part one | vi masterlist

There’s little sleep to be had. You curl into yourself, trying to quell the growing unease in your chest.

Morning comes slowly as you absentmindedly watch your clock tick, tick, tick. The second hand makes another round, the minute hand knocks to the right, and the hour hand clicks above the number five. Each second passing is punctuated with Vi’s even breathing down your neck. Her heart thudding softly against your back. Embracing you as if you’re all that matters to her.

Vi’s arm is heavy around you. Her face is nuzzled into the back of your neck and her hands cage your body. Calloused palms rest above the soft flesh of your bruised stomach. Careful, like you’re something fragile. Her breath fans across your heated skin, this time no haunting words leaving her lips.

You couldn’t relax yourself, much less fall back asleep.

You feel suffocated. It's jarring how two fights and one night of sex can make you feel…exposed. Vulnerable. You don’t love Vi. You’re attracted to her. Drawn to her in ways you’ve never felt with anyone. The walk back to your apartment from the ring was pleasant and calm. You held hands, letting your fingers mold against hers, and for once you felt comforted by the touch of another. You didn’t love Vi, but knowing that Vi has feelings for someone else—a Piltover heiress no less—stung. She was just using you as a rebound.

A question gnaws at your mind, keeping you from feeling relaxed in Vi’s hold.

Did she wish you were her?

Vi may have had that childhood crush all those years ago, but you were no longer the wide-eyed, shy, and docile little girl. Those quaint memories of sitting on the stools of Vander’s bar as you made small-talk with Vi were a lifetime ago. The memories themselves are foggy in your mind but you remember the feeling of warmth and mutual respect with crystal clear accuracy.

But seven years is a long time to reunite with a friend. One night isn’t enough to move on from someone you loved.

When you first met Vi, she had already had a tight-knit family of her own. Though only sharing Powder as a blood sister, Claggor, Mylo, and Ekko were still her brothers. They did everything together. They explored Zaun with scabbed knuckles and aching knees from jumping between buildings. They escaped to Piltover with nothing but the clothes on their back and their honed reflexes from living in criminal infested streets.

They seemed so close together that you didn’t think they could fit you into their family.

Your parents dying was just the beginning of the end to your fragile world. You were the only witness to their murder and for a long time you couldn’t go one day without your anger exploding. It made street brawls more bearable. It pushed you to hone into your new identity—Arachnid.

The Enforcer attack that killed Vander and Benzo sent Zaun into a frenzy. It broke the thin veil of peace that existed between Piltover and Zaun. Silco only worsened the divide. He scrambled to collect all the fragments of power and unite them under his expensive coat. And with him came his blue-haired lapdog: Jinx.

You would catch Ekko here and there, zipping through the air like green lightning, chasing after the cackling phantom of Jinx. You would hear whispers of him building a sanctuary—a paradise on Zaun. A clear air oasis with a large tree and multi-colored murals. As fresh and clean as Piltover itself.

You shift over until Vi’s sleeping face fills your vision. Most of her makeup had been smudged off and you see how much she’s changed since childhood. Her round face grew into a sharp beauty. Her corded muscles bulked her once tiny and spindly frame. A darkened angel, kissed to sleep in your bed.

But her demons are present in the way her body is still tense around you. Her murmured pleas for this Caitlyn.

Vi isn’t your friend. Even if you managed to get to the point where you do have feelings for Vi, you were a mercenary. Connections, relationships, love of any kind is a weakness. It gets people killed. Vi clearly has enough on her plate and getting tangled into your life is only going to make things worse.

For the both of you.

— — —

“You miss me, don’t you?”

Vi doesn’t dream often. It comes with drinking heavily until your head swims and the constant need to break her body until she collapses. Her unhealthy lifestyle choices lead her to hallucinate during her waking hours. Every dream, every mirage, was always the same person.

“Of course I do,” Vi admits with a sigh. “It hurts just thinking about it.”

Caitlyn is sprawled across her spacious bed in her uniform. Relaxed and tempting. Her near perfect image, the details of her face, the way she stares at Vi like she is worth acknowledging was a testament to how much Vi treasures Caitlyn. Even if Vi is trying to suppress it.

Vi stands to the side of her bed, peering over Caitlyn. Once upon a time Vi couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming need to be as physically close to her as possible. Now she’s glad that there’s three feet of mattress and bed sheets separating them.

Caitlyn stretches her body, emphasizing the arch of her back and the curve of her neck as she tilts her head back. Her smile is as sharp as a blade. “You’re still mad.”

“Pissed would be a more appropriate term,” Vi spits. “Your ego was more important than killing an innocent child.”

Caitlyn rolls her eyes, waving her hand dismissively. “You and I both know that I had a good shot. Worst case scenario the girl’s arm gets hurt.”

The scene is vivid in Vi’s mind. The sheer terror in the amber eyes of the small child that shielded Vi from Jinx. From the girl’s perspective, Vi was one of them. An Enforcer trying to kill a Zaunite. The realization hit harder than a punch straight in her gut.

“The worst case scenario,” Vi says with venom, “is an innocent child shot dead. Even if by some miracle you managed to still gun down Jinx, it will never be a victory. You didn’t stop, Caitlyn. That’s your problem. You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t consider that maybe we should retreat and think of a better way to capture Jinx than risk a child getting hurt.”

Caitlyn’s stare is chilling. “You’re right. I didn’t hesitate. Jinx is unstable and unpredictable. She’s fast and smart. One wrong move—one second of delay—could’ve ended all of us. I did what I had to do. How many people did Jinx hurt during her tirade in Piltover? How many children had to go home to an empty house and bury their parents before they reached adulthood themselves?”

“It doesn’t mean we should retaliate in the same manner,” Vi insists. “We’re better than that. You should be better than that. Now…I’m not so sure.”

In the span of a few months Caitlyn had transformed Piltover into a militaristic regime. The Caitlyn that busted Vi out of prison and made peace with Zaunites was nowhere to be seen. Her hatred spilled into her policy making. New security checkpoints that made it harder for workers to commute, restricting funds to community services, more Enforcers lining the borders…all that care Vi had seen during their short time together was stripped away.

Vi is starting to think that Caitlyn’s care was merely a front, and that deep down Caitlyn had always harbored hatred for the Zaunites. How could she not? The idea that Zaunites are inherently dangerous and deserving of their poverty has been instilled in PIltover since its founding. Vi was just an exception to that dogma.

It would be easier to blame everything on Jinx. All of the divide and tension came crashing down the moment her sister raised that monstrous weapon on her shoulder. All that pent up rage and hatred that Piltover had for the undercity was fanned when Caitlyn donned that stupid cloak—promising to bring justice to her citizens.

Vi knows it’s all a ruse to justify her brutality.

Caitlyn’s face is neutral, save for the slight scrunch in her nose. “I’m sorry, Vi.”

Vi scoffs. “Are you? Or do you just want me to drop it?”

“I’m sorry you can’t see things the way I do,” Caitlyn clarifies with icy cold words. “You don’t understand. I’m only doing this to stop Jinx. Once she’s captured—or if the heavens permit, dead—we can leave all of this in the past. I didn’t mean to upset you, truly. I love you, Vi.”

Vi can barely hear her over the sound of her own rage building up.

“‘Sorry?’” Vi repeats with such hurt in her voice that her voice wobbles. “‘Didn’t mean to?’ You gutted me back there. I placed everything I had into you. I trusted you. I would’ve gone through with as many back up plans as you wanted. Hell, I was ready to kill my own sister for you. But you didn’t care. You’re too blinded by revenge.”

Vi spits the word revenge like it’s a curse. All the bad things in her miserable life have been the result of it. Caitlyn doesn’t seem moved by her words. Her slanted eyes are sharp as blades, carefully picking apart Vi. Caitlyn’s flippant declaration of love rang insincere, providing Vi with the final push to move on.

“I love…”

The words lodge painfully in Vi’s throat. But if she didn’t get it out, she might suffocate in her own misery.

“I love you, Caitlyn,” Vi says. A weight lifts off her chest and she can finally steady her voice when she speaks. “I do, truly. But I don’t think I can keep worrying about you anymore. I’m done. With you and all the bullshit you bring to the undercity. I want nothing to do with you anymore.”

Caitlyn doesn’t seem all that surprised. Not even a twitch of her brow betrays her thoughts. Vi’s vision darkens as the edges of the room fades away. Bit by bit until the bed with Caitlyn remains. Caitlyn doesn’t seem alarmed by the melting bedpost or the look of hurt on Vi's face.

“We’ll see about that,” Caitlyn echos before the darkness swallows her entirely.

— — —

It’s late morning when the city of Zaun is alive again.

The higher elevation of your apartment allowed streams of sunlight to catch onto Vi’s face. The exhaustion of the previous night keeps Vi from opening her eyes fully, opting to hold onto you. Your body is soft in her hold as she nuzzles into you.

When was the last time she’d ever gotten a full night of sleep?

Elements of her dream fizzle out of her brain until she can only hold onto the feeling she had from it. She was sad. A familiar hollowness took root in her chest, one that she filled with alcohol and shitty fights inside of a ring. In the midst of that hollowness—that lingering sadness that keeps her locked in a cycle of self-destruction—there was something else.

It’s not hope. It’s not quite acceptance either.

Events of last night spark in her mind. The booze, the fighting, the sex. The feeling of your body against hers, the warmth of your bed, the way your lips felt against hers. Slowly, it all starts coming back to her. With a smile, she stirs from her sleep and tightens her hold against…a pillow.

Vi wakes up to a cold, empty bed and the sound of movement outside your room.

— — —

The sponge in your hand is scraping noisily against your pan. You hand continuously scrubs over the same spot over and over again. A simple breakfast of eggs and leftovers shouldn’t leave a mess that requires five minutes of scrubbing, but you need something repetitive to ground you.

“I love you.”

You can still feel the remnants of Vi’s lips against your skin, mumbling in her sleep. Her strong arms caging you as if you were someone she loves. Not you, of course.

“I love you…Caitlyn.”

You don’t know what this Caitlyn looks like. Was she short and sweet or tall and domineering? Blue eyes or brown? Is she someone who can command a room with a single look? A woman who can sweet talk her way into a stranger’s heart?

The water is scalding as you rinse the over-scrubbed pan. Your plate rests in your hands as you give it the same abuse as your pan. It hurts to stand for too long. There is a soreness to your legs from both the fighting and the romp from last night.

Your mind conjures the worst image of the Kiramman heir. A slimy toad of a woman who croaks instead of talks. She’s mean and obnoxious and every other bad thing you hate in yourself. She’s greedy with her money and takes advantage of the poor to fuel her wealth.

But then you remember that Vi loves this woman. Not like or admire or revere. Love. A heavy, suffocating word. One that shouldn’t have you obsessively replaying over and over in your head. Vi wouldn’t love someone who is mean and rude or ugly.

Your plate is gleaming by the time you rinse it. It’s pathetic. You’re pathetic.

When the door to your room creaks open, you pretend to be preoccupied with tidying your kitchen. You put away the stray spices on your counter, push in your chair, and a million other small things that keep you from looking up at Vi.

You feel her stare, watching you intently as you attempt to make your already clean kitchen spotless. You settle on manually drying your dishes with a cloth so that your back is facing her. You’re hyper aware of the exposed skin of your shoulders and arms through your oversized shirt, and the fact that you’re in nothing but a pair of cotton underwear. The delicate markings of your tattoos ripple across your skin as you force yourself to act normal while drying your dishes. It doesn’t matter that half of your dishes are already squeaky clean to the touch.

Your heart leaps when you hear the creak of Vi’s footsteps coming closer. She settles beside you with her powdery-blue eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Normally up this early?” she asks, her words are thick with sleep. She leans against the counter, hovering over you.

Vi fills up your peripherals. Once again you are overwhelmed by her.

You gave her a curt nod. “Lots on my mind.”

The plate in your hands nearly falls into the sink when you feel the press of Vi’s hand on your lower back. Your body stills as she stands behind you.

“Such as?” Vi’s hands are firm in their hold on your hips. The rasp in her voice makes you involuntarily shiver.

You.

“I only have the weekend off before heading back to work,” you explain. You set your clean plate down and sigh. “I’ve been working non-stop these past weeks. That's why I stopped seeing you.”

That last part slipped out before you could stop yourself. As if Vi would care whether or not you showed up to her matches.

But Vi doesn’t notice your slight panic. She chuckles, light and airy. “I was wondering where you slipped off to. Thought I scared you off from fighting me again.”

You still your movements, a flash of anger cuts through at her false narrative.

“If I recall correctly—” You finally turn your body to meet Vi’s stare head on. Your hand trails up her throat before possessively grasping her jaw. “—it was you who lost at the end of the fight.”

The effect was immediate. Vi’s pupils were blown wide and a faint blush appeared on her cheeks.

You let go of Vi’s face and turn back to your pile of clean dishes. Before you make a move to put away your plates, she reaches into the back pocket of her jeans and a bag of money drops in front of you. A cat bringing in her kill for her owner.

“For you,” she says, casually. Her hands settle onto the curve of your hips, her lips are dancing along the exposed skin of your shoulder. “Your reward for beating me.”

“Technically it wasn’t my fight to win.” You open up the bag, seeing a small pile of gold and silver. By weight you guess it’s around two hundred golden hexes. “How did you even get this?”

Vi shrugs, hugging you tighter. “Gord doesn’t exactly have the best security.”

You give Vi a harsh glare, which Vi doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest. “You stole from his personal treasury?”

“Every time I go there I take a little at a time,” Vi says. “It’s not like he’s using it anyway—greedy pig.”

You glance at the bag. “Is that even the betting money?” Vi’s silence was enough of an answer. You cross your arms, ignoring how Vi’s stare went straight to your chest. “Vi, I am not taking your money.”

“It’s not mine if I gave it to you,” she mutters. Vi untangles your crossed arms and wraps them around her waist. “You won it fair and square. You beat me, therefore you get the money.”

You make a point to exaggerate the roll of your eyes. Vi doesn’t have enough money as it is, and now she’s giving you her entire monthly check. You open your mouth to retort but your words get lodged into the back of your throat.

Vi’s lips are slightly chapped and scabbed, but the kiss against your cheek was softer than any Noxian silk. It wasn’t hungry, lustful, or demanding. A simple and sweet kiss.

Your anger melts with each kiss Vi gives you. Slow, purposeful. You’re pliable in her hands, caving into her touches like you weren’t fuming about her sleep talking just moments earlier. Vi is here, in the moment, giving you her comfort through scarred lips and delicate touches of her hand. She kisses you like you’re precious. Like you matter to her. That, you think, would be enough.

You pull away slightly, fluster and disoriented. “As if you’re hard to beat.”

“What can I say?” Vi chuckles, letting her hands slip under your loose shirt, gripping onto the soft skin underneath. She drags her fingers across your stomach, her nails lightly scratching the scar on your hip. Her mouth reaches your ear, playfully nipping it. “I have a weakness for pretty girls.”

The next kiss is different—it’s bruising. Your body automatically caves into her like it’s trained to do so. An unconscious reaction that coded into your brain. Your hands find their way into the threads of her dark hair, encouraging her further. Vi’s hands blindly outline your body, stopping at the landmarks of your chest and ass. Her intentions are clear as she pressed down the length of your body. You let out a deep groan when Vi cups your clothed sex, rolling her palm into your clit.

“I think you’re deserving of another reward,” she murmurs against your neck. Kissing, nipping, her teeth grazing your skin with a purpose of claiming you once more. Her palm works a precise rhythm against your body, the tips of her fingers poking the barely clothed entrance, feeling the growing patch of slick accumulating there. “Want to cum on my fingers?”

You buck your hips to the motions of her hand. You pant into the space between you, already feeling the rising tension in your core. You tilt your head, slotting your lips against Vi’s, moaning into her without any shame. The air is hot and shimmering, with hunger and lust. “I want to come on your face.”

Vi exhales heavily with a grin that shows acute lines around her mouth. The one that makes you remember why you want more with her. “Don’t worry, you will.”

She pulls the hem of your shirt off, revealing your naked torso to her. You preen under her lust-filled gaze, committing the curves and angles of you to her memory. You don’t miss the lingering gaze on the large scar down your hip or the way her nail lightly traces the edges of the raised skin. You let out a gasp when her fingers slip into your underwear, gathering your arousal before rubbing your clit.

One night and she’s already playing your body like a well-loved instrument.

You’ve had other partners before. You’ve moaned names and rode waves of pleasure from other hands—but never had you feel your climax approach so fast. Vi was a quick learner when it came to your body. Her fingers worked diligently, putting just enough pressure and speed to make your legs buckle beneath you.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” Vi coos, never faltering in her pace. She grins wider when you grip onto her broad shoulders, bracing for your orgasm. “You’re so fucking wet—fuck I need you so bad.”

“Need you too,” you moan, rocking your hips in tandem. You lean into Vi, peppering kisses along her neck and collarbone. “Need to—fuck—Vi please.”

You don’t know what you’re begging for, but Vi took your pleas in earnest. Her free hand groped your chest, pinching your nipples while her palm kneaded the flesh. Every so often her fingers ran across your dripping cunt and you can hear how needy you were. You clenched around nothing as Vi’s fingers purposefully missed entering you, favoring to keep rubbing your clit. You whine pitfully against her heated skin, trying to catch the tips of her fingers inside your pussy.

“Something the matter?” Vi asks. Through your lust-filled haze, you can clearly hear the mockery in her voice.

You open your mouth ready to sass her off, but Vi presses her lips harshly against yours. As her kisses bruises your lips, you feel her fingers rub hard against your aching clit, effectively silencing your bitter words. A choked sob is lodged in your throat as Vi continues to capture your lips. Her fingers slip down your wet cunt, prodding your entrance just enough to feel the pad of her finger tease your sensitive walls. The fire in your core settles, just enough so that she can keep you from cumming too quickly.

Vi continues her torture, unbothered by your desperation. In her mind, it was your own fault for putting yourself in this predicament. When she saw you over the sink in nothing but a shirt that barely covered your ass, she was overtaken by the need to fuck you again. Even as her arms are still tense and her hips are sore from last night’s romp, all of that was forgotten the moment she saw you.

Vi had to battle between readily giving into your sweet, desperate moans and keeping you tight along the edge of denial and satisfaction. Edging you like this will only make your orgasm all the more satisfying, she reminds herself. Selfishly, she wants to prolong the sounds of your moans and the feeling of your wet cunt along her fingers for as long as possible. She needs you pinned against her, at her mercy, and begging against her lips for euphoria.

Unlike before, where you meet her words with ferocity, you are yielding to her touch without much of a fight. The raw edge of your personality is abandoned and Vi is presented with a different side to you. No snippy comments, no pinched glare or insult…

Vi could get used to you like this.

Your nails dig into her shoulders as your frustration mounts. Your mind was consumed by the thought of having her fingers fuck into you—finally freeing you from Vi’s sexual torture. You try to placate her with hot kisses along her jaw and desperate moans of her name in her ear. If that doesn’t work, you try to drag your nails across her back. You would palm her pert breasts as you took turns kissing and licking any new bites you’ve given her.

The effect you have on Vi is not well-hidden. Vi’s hand falters with each moan of her name and palm of her chest. You think that Vi is being stubborn and not willing herself to give in to you—not yet at least.

“Fuck me, fuck me please, Vi.” You nip at the junction between Vi’s jaw and neck. It's almost embarrassing how easily you submit to her, how badly you want to please her. You murmur sweetly in her ear: “Need you so fuckin’ bad. Need you to finger me, please.”

The moment those words left your swollen lips, you feel the unmistakable stretch of Vi’s two fingers going knuckle deep into your cunt. You cry out into Vi, trying your hardest to hold onto her as she builds a ruthless pace that makes you see stars. Vi should earn a medal of some kind for winding up your orgasm so quickly.

You meet her frantic thrusts with a roll of your hips, desperately chasing your own release. The sound of Vi’s fingers stretching your cunt open is downright pornographic. If it wasn’t for you still wearing your underwear, your arousal would leak down your thighs and spill onto your floor. The edge of the counter is biting into your lower back from how roughly Vi is fingering you, but you don’t care in the slightest. You needed this. The rough, possessive look on Vi’s face as she’s determined to make you cum is all the reward you could ever ask for.

“Fuck ‘m gonna—shit, ‘m so close!”

A harsh kiss on the side of your neck was all it took for you to cum hard into Vi’s hand.

You moan loudly, unabashed and uncaring if anyone hears you. Vi doesn’t stop moving, eager to fuck your through your orgasm until you’re squirming. The sound of her fingers working harsh thrusts into your sopping wet pussy was music to Vi’s ears. All the tension lingering in your body ebbs away, leaving you slumped against Vi.

You let out a hiss when Vi’s hand leaves you. You catch her wrist, bringing her soaked fingers to your mouth. Vi curses under her breath as you take her fingers down to her knuckle, sucking gently. Once her fingers are cleaned your tongue darts out to collect all the cum that has coated her palms. All the while you maintained direct eye contact.

Vi swallows hard and you can practically see the million different ways she wants to ruin you. “You got the whole day free, right?”

— — —

Time seemed to slow the longer you hung around Vi. As the day dragged on, it felt like there weren't seven years separating you. Your fingers were intertwined, swaying slightly as you walked through the Lanes. Conversation flowed as easily as an uninterrupted stream. Vi reassured you that it wasn’t a big deal to follow you around while you run errands. Mundane trips to the market, depositing money, and shopping for new clothes. Things you’ve done countless times by your lonesome. You expected Vi to hover beside you like a shadow, observing your ordinary routine.

“Allow me, princess,” Vi says in a humorous—almost mocking way. She plucks the small bags of clothes from the shopkeeper while you were busy signing off on the receipt.

You scoff, trying to reach for the bag but Vi hoists it away from your reach. “Stop messing around Vi. I’m not making you carry my shit.”

“Well it’s a good thing you’re not making me do anything,” she retorts, firmly grasping your hand so that you’re walking in tandem. As much as she liked holding your hand, she also wanted to keep you from weaving around her and snatching the bag.

You roll your eyes but you don’t try to twist your hand away. A silent victory that makes Vi walk with more pep in her step. The small trek through the markets results in similar bickering. Vi insisted that she carry all of your produce, even though the weight isn’t a burden to you.

The shops in the Lanes were more crowded than usual. Bodies press against one another in a giant wave with you and Vi caught in the middle. You were more than comfortable with grasping Vi’s hand so that you wouldn’t feel separated, but this time somehow felt different. To any bystander on the street, you looked like a couple going shopping for the weekend.

You glance at Vi, wondering if she is thinking the same. Vi is staring ahead, guiding you to the next store you wanted to go to. It’s cute seeing how determined she looked.

In the next hour, Vi accumulated enough bags to make her statuesque-arms start to buckle.

Vi readjusts her arm for the umpteenth time. “Is this what you do when you’re not fighting? Spend money on a vase?”

“My apartment is rather sparse in decorations,” you say, sifting through your small coin purse. “And for the record, I don’t usually go shopping. I’m trying to gauge how many bags you can carry before you start complaining. Which I can now say is seven bags.”

“Is that all I am to you? An experiment?” Vi grumbles, rolling her sore shoulder. “I’m trying to be useful here, but now I see my chivalry is being taken for granted. Also, where the hell did you get enough money to buy all this shit?”

You tuck your coin purse away before grabbing a few bags from Vi’s arm. She doesn’t fight back, letting out a sigh of relief with the reduced weight.

“I budget, sweetheart,” you say with a mocking smile full of teeth. “How about you stop being stubborn and let me—”

You cut yourself short as Vi shoves her hand down your back pocket of your pants. Her hand molds against your ass, purposefully pressing just enough to make your body run a few degrees hotter.

Vi smiles all too innocently for your liking. “How about you let me worry about it, ‘kay? Your shoulder is still healing anyways.”

You nodded, not wanting to bicker for any longer. Vi kept her hand in your back pocket and you tried to act like it wasn’t bothering you. Not that the act itself made you uncomfortable—but the fact that it’s something girlfriends do. It feels more intimate than the rough sex in your bed. Her hand on your ass is another layer of her claim on you like the hickeys on your collar bones. It’s weird. It’s all you think about on the way home. The thoughts follow you—haunting you like Vi’s confessions of her love to another woman.

Funny how you almost forgot about it.

— — —

Cooking was a relatively new luxury to indulge in. Prior to working with Parvata, you would frequent local bars and try to swipe a few pieces of bread and cheese from their pantries. Whatever meager earnings you had were enough to buy a small plate of grub and if you were lucky you could score something edible in the dumpster. Those days were long behind you.

While Vi takes her sweet time in your shower with all of your fancy soaps and lotions, you busied yourself with a simple meal. A pasta dish with the ingredients you and Vi collectively picked out at the market. The sauce was a recipe from your mother that was taught to you. You imagined her voice, strong and real, instructing you through the process. If she were still alive her hands would mold over yours, firmly guiding your movements as you stirred the pasta into the saucepan. She wasn’t gentle with cooking and would often nudge you to the side if you weren’t stirring vigorously enough.

You plate the food and set up the small dining table. A small candle in the middle to illuminate the space and a neatly folded napkin with utensils on top. A picturesque scene of a romantic dinner.

When was the last time I had dinner with someone else?

You were hit with a certain longing that you thought you had buried deep into your soul. The loneliness that aches you bloomed in your heart and you wondered why you even bothered with this whole charade. Because that’s what all this was. The market errands, the hand holding, the intense stares…a veil to cover the fact that Vi loves someone else. How long until you realize that you’re not the woman Vi imagines herself with?

Dinner was relatively quiet.

You told Vi that you still have work despite it being the weekend. You two ate in relative silence as you read through some files Parvata had given you in preparation for your next assignment. It was a comprehensive layout of all the tunnels leading from the edge of Zaun to the capital of Piltover. Vi found a book she wanted to flip through from your personal library—something about old folktales—but she ended up simply admiring you in between each bite.

The candles you lit casted an angelic glow to you. A complete opposite of what you looked like in the pit. Here, in your newly decorated apartment, you looked sublime.

You caught Vi looking at you in the corner of your eye, like you’re the only thing in the room. But the muffled whisper of her voice saying another woman’s name made your heart heavy. It plays in your mind like a broken record, tainting the bubbling feelings in your chest.

“Staring is rude, y'know.”

Vi pretends she doesn’t notice the shift in mood in your face. “Sorry, can’t help it. You’ve changed a lot.”

You don’t look up from your documents. Flipping through blueprints, you say: “Seven years is a long time to grow up.”

Clipped and tense response, so unlike your enthusiastic and teasing remarks from earlier. You barely touched your food and there’s an unmistakable furrow in your brows that you show when something is not going your way. Now Vi is wondering if she did anything to piss you off.

Vi clears her throat. “I’m just—you looked beautiful. I mean, I’ve always thought that, but it's different now.”

You stop reading whatever was in front of you and look up. Vi felt her heart seize in her chest at the way you looked directly into her eyes. Piercing, unyielding. Vi felt like she was at the mercy of you, completely and wholly.

“Different…how?” you ask with a slightly raised brow.

Vi shrugs, picking the remnants of your cooking with her fork. “Like you’re ready to take on the world. Unafraid about what’s in front of you.”

You’re quiet for a moment, considering her words. “You make it sound like I’m some noble knight.”

“Wouldn’t be too far fetched.”

“I kill people for a living,” you say, sharp and unforgiving. “Doesn’t exactly fit the picture of a noble person.”

Vi furrows her brows. “Did I do something to piss you off?”

Yes.

“I’m stressed,” you say automatically. It’s not a lie, but it’s definitely not the whole truth. “Hunting people down and killing them. Y’know. Work stuff.”

“Stop talking like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re the worst person on earth,” Vi says. She stands only to bring her chair to sit beside you.

Your skin prickles at the close proximity.

“You talk as if you know me,” you mutter.

Vi nudges you with her elbow, her voice light. “Then talk to me so I can get to know you. You’re right, I don’t know everything about you. But I wouldn’t mind learning. Starting now.”

She sounds so sincere it makes your chest hurt.

Maybe you misheard her.

(You didn’t. The sound of Caitlyn's name is burned into your mind.)

Maybe you’re overthinking it.

(You shouldn’t do this.)

You lock eyes with her. Unmoving, still, waiting for something to happen.

Vi’s eyes dip to your lips.

Everything thereafter blurs.

— — —

You shouldn’t have invited Vi to stay for the rest of the weekend, but the request slips out anyway.

“One more night?” you ask, soft as to not show your desperation.

Vi was on top of you, sweaty and marked in a hundred bruises from your teeth. Her weight brought you comfort and safety. She was real, solid in your arms and not a figment of your imagination. You stare up at the ceiling of your room waiting for a response.

You feel Vi shift her head to look at you, her hand squeezing the flesh of your hip just slightly. “You sure you want me around? I don’t want you to have another cold shower.”

Of course I want you here.

Instead of saying those thoughts out loud, you let your hand trace patterns along Vi’s exposed spine.

You couldn’t help it. You wanted to be with her for a little longer. To play pretend girlfriends for another day. Vi couldn’t resist saying yes.

It takes a bit for Vi to feel comfortable in a place that’s not her own. She helps clean the invisible dust that you swear is in the corner of every room. She brings groceries up the three flights of stairs when the elevator stops working. You lay on your expensive couch and massage the tight muscles in Vi’s back as she complains about her landlord.

When the weekend ends, you internally mourn the domestic life you pretended to live. You don’t think Parvata would be giving you another break anytime soon. With one final night tangled in your sheets, you kiss your momentary happiness goodbye. It was for the better was a mantra you repeated over and over as you went about business as usual.

Your grief promptly ends when Vi waits by the entrance to your apartment with a bag of groceries.

She doesn’t question why there’s blood splattered across your face or the fact that there’s another stab wound on your shoulder.

Vi takes cleaning solvent and healing ointment laced with shimmer and tends to your wounds without a sound.

You really shouldn’t indulge in…whatever it is that you two are doing. Playing pretend. Toeing the line between friends with benefits and something more.

You shouldn’t keep asking Vi to stay another night even though you will be gone the next morning. Vi shouldn’t keep saying yes with a kiss on your lips whenever you ask.

Somewhere along the way, Vi asks to stay the rest of the week. Temporarily, of course. Just so that she doesn’t have to go back and forth between her apartment to get spare clothes. If she’s going to be at your place anyways…

You keep saying yes, ignoring the way that Vi’s gaze lingers at the posters of Caitlyn Kiramman outside your apartment. Ignoring the way you catch her whispering her name in her sleep occasionally.

If you confront her, you will lose the comfort of hugging someone every night.

You’re lonely. Vi is right here.

You can keep up.

Just one more day.

One more week.

You can fool yourself that Vi might actually want something with you.

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arting-block · 3 months ago

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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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