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The Doctor tumbles through space, the radiation of stars bathing her skin in a pleasant hum. Artron energy rushes through her body, finding release in the burn of the engines and the thrusters correcting her course in minute bursts. It’s exciting. Invigorating. She’s alive with the thrill of flight and the sting of solar winds blowing across her cheeks.
An asteroid slams against her shields and bounces off, and she reels at the blow. The TARDIS pokes her mind, reminding her of the circlet that drags her head down, the slump of her shoulders, the cool metal of the controls under her hands.
The Doctor pulls her mind back to the console room. She should concentrate on piloting, but Yaz catches her eye. Brown fingers hover over a series of switches and dials, and Yaz leans in close to inspect them. The TARDIS shakes and shudders, and the Doctor’s attention is pulled outside again, where a wave of asteroids crashes over them. A thousand tiny cuts sting her skin.
Back in the console room, Yaz flips three of the six switches in front of her. “How are we doing?” she yells over the pings of tiny impacts against the shields.
The TARDIS grumbles in the Doctor’s head. Maybe she should take off the circlet—this connection is getting too deep, too consuming—but she can’t go back now. She needs this fine control over the ship’s movements.
When the TARDIS rocks again the Doctor stumbles. The wires running from the circlet pull taut as she’s forced a step away from the console. She lurches back to the controls and adjusts their heading to compensate for this latest wave.
“We’re fine! Brilliant! Definitely not about to be pummeled to death by asteroids!”
Yaz grins—she’s enjoying this way too much.
“How’s our tag-along?” the Doctor asks. The other ship huddles behind the TARDIS’s shields, so close the Doctor could open the doors and touch its hull. It makes piloting tricky, hence the need for extra control.
Yaz glances at the scanner. “Fine, as far as I can tell. Doesn’t look like they’ve managed to get their shields back up but hull integrity is holding.”
The Doctor’s core clenches with a sudden burst of desire, and she has no idea why. Sure, Yaz is flipping switches and grasping the edge of the console like she owns it, and that’s undeniably sexy. But something about her knowing exactly what she’s talking about… that beautiful brain on display…
The TARDIS pokes the Doctor and rocks with another asteroid impact. “Hold onto something, I need to change our course again,” the Doctor says.
She concentrates, relying on the strengthened connection between herself and the TARDIS to control a series of course corrections. She flares the shields wider to cover the other ship better and the circlet heats up, stinging the skin of her forehead. That patched connection had better hold up, because she’s never used it for this sort of thing before.
The TARDIS’s flight smoothes out. They’re safe, at least until they hit the next wave or a rogue asteroid crosses their flight path. The Doctor blinks, and the room comes back into focus around her. Where did Yaz go?
Ten seconds later, Yaz bounds down the stairs. “Water?” she asks, holding up a bottle and shaking it. She comes closer and lays a hand on the Doctor’s cheek, then the side of her neck. Making a face, she unscrews the lid. “Actually, that’s not a question. You’re way too warm. Here.”
The bottle is hard and cold, and Yaz pushes the rim into the Doctor’s mouth. Water slides down her throat almost too fast to keep up with, and she gulps it down. Yaz watches her lips and neck with wide eyes.
The Doctor’s core clenches again at that look. She sputters and chokes, but that really doesn’t help the throbbing between her legs, and it doesn’t deter Yaz at all. Her eyes are still glued to the Doctor’s mouth, and they widen even further when water drips down the Doctor’s chin. The Doctor grabs the end of the water bottle and pulls it away. “I’m perfectly capable of—”
“Would you just let me?”
The TARDIS laughs in the back of the Doctor’s mind. But then Yaz lowers the bottle and touches the Doctor’s neck again, pulling damp hair away from her overheated skin. The TARDIS shuts up.
“You need to take your coat off,” Yaz says, and starts pushing it from the Doctor’s shoulders.
“Oi! I need that!”
Yaz raises one eyebrow. “For what?”
An answer doesn’t come to the Doctor. Which is odd—she’s great at thinking on her feet—but she’s still keeping track of the TARDIS’s movements with one brain, so she gives herself a break.
Yaz pulls one sleeve off, then runs her hand down the Doctor’s arm. The Doctor shudders. When the other sleeve comes off Yaz tosses the coat away and presses herself against the Doctor’s back.
“I can help, if you need something wrapped around you,” she says into the Doctor’s ear.
In the Doctor’s head, the TARDIS goes even quieter. Anticipatory.
Yaz’s breasts push against the Doctor’s back and she’s so heavy and warm… heat rushes between the Doctor’s legs.
A larger asteroid bounces off the shields and the Doctor flinches. Her attention is yanked back to the outside of the ship. The wave is getting denser, the impacts increasing, but she can see a path through if they act quickly.
“Rotation adjustment,” the Doctor says.
Yaz squeezes her shoulders and returns to the console. Her hand slips along smooth metal until she finds the rotation knob. The Doctor can’t look away from those fingers, though she should be adjusting their vector by two-tenths of a degree.
The ghost of a laugh breathes through her mind again—the TARDIS is in a strange mood today.
Yaz pinches the knob between her thumb and forefinger. She turns it in one direction, then the other, and the ship twists back and forth with the movement. The telepathic connection to the TARDIS flares as the Doctor focuses on Yaz’s fingers, and a light touch rolls over her nipple.
A gasp escapes the Doctor. She almost recoils from the controls, but that vector adjustment needs to happen now.
“What’s wrong?” Yaz’s brow furrows. Would a kiss, right there where the skin wrinkles between her eyes, smooth that expression? The Doctor’s lips tingle at the thought. Her nipple tingles with the ghost of Yaz’s touch.
The TARDIS nudges her. Just in time, she makes the vector adjustment. A large-ish asteroid bounces off the shields.
“Wrong? Nothing. Nope, everything's fine, just a little telepathic feedback.” She looks to the ceiling. “Right?”
A mental image crashes into the Doctor’s mind—of Yaz’s hand gliding along the console (along the Doctor’s stomach, tickling fine hairs and leaving a burning trail in its wake). The Doctor’s center throbs.
Well, this isn’t ideal. She never paid much attention at the academy, but she’s fairly certain she’d remember hearing a TARDIS could become aroused. Either the ship has gone even stranger than the Doctor in her old age, or the Doctor is causing this somehow.
Yaz’s expression screams I don’t believe a word you’re saying but I’m not in the mood to fight about it. Good thing too, because now she’s looking to hit the rotation lock, and her fingers are questing oh so slowly across the console. An echo of that sensation traces along the Doctor’s shoulders, and the stimulation stokes the fire in her core. Yaz is so slow, taking her time, the pads of her fingers searing the Doctor’s skin and driving her mad—
“Faster, Yaz, we don’t have a lot of time here,” the Doctor snaps. She regrets it when Yaz frowns, but Yaz picks up her hand and the relief is worth it.
Yaz slaps the button (taps the Doctor on the ass). The Doctor jumps, and Yaz throws her a questioning look again.
Time for the next vector adjustment. The Doctor closes her eyes and concentrates. Behind them, the other ship is so close she can taste its thruster expulsion. They need to get out of this asteroid field, but according to the nav chart, it’s going to take a while.
Yaz moves on to the temporal calibration unit and lays her other hand on the artron release valve. Which would be fine—it’s exactly where she needs to be—except that it feels like she’s cupping the Doctor’s core through her trousers. The Doctor’s hips jerk forward.
She opens her eyes to the sight of the time rotor pumping up and down. She stares, transfixed, the phantom pressure of Yaz’s hand making her ache. If Yaz would just move her fingers…
“You okay? That thing’s not going to fry your brain, is it?” Yaz leans forward to peer at the circlet, resting more of her weight on the console. The pressure of that phantom hand increases.
“No!” The Doctor shuffles her feet, trying to shake loose the feeling. “I mean, yes. I’m fine. It’s a bit warm. Nothing dangerous.” The circlet is burning her forehead, actually, but she’s not about to tell Yaz that.
A new wave of asteroids crashes over them and the Doctor grits her teeth. Something slips through the shields and impacts the TARDIS (the Doctor’s shoulder). She jerks and catches herself against the console.
Yaz grabs the console (digs her fingers into the Doctor’s shoulders) as the TARDIS rocks and the central crystal flashes red. “What happened?”
The TARDIS shouts a long string of warnings through the Doctor’s mind. She closes her eyes and tunes in. “One got through the shields! Oh, this is not good. Shield modulation is shorting out!”
“But if the shields don’t modulate we can’t keep up with this many asteroids!”
There’s that beautiful mind again. It makes the Doctor draw in a breath and centers the throbbing in her body to a hard point between her legs. She doesn’t have time to investigate that feeling, but oh, she wishes she did.
The shields aren’t down. Not completely. But the problem’s going to become dire if they don’t fix it fast. “You’re going to have to do the repairs while I fly,” the Doctor says.
“What?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll talk you through it.”
Yaz stares at the scanner, thumb rubbing circles on the smooth corner of the console (on the skin at the Doctor’s waist, soft and teasing). The Doctor’s body burns and shudders with the need for more of that touch.
“All right. Let’s do this,” Yaz says.
There’s a toolkit under the console. Yaz pulls it out and opens it with an incredulous look. Anticipation builds within the TARDIS at the promise of Yaz’s touch. The Doctor shares that anticipation—a warmth in her chest, a tingle along the skin of her arms, a tightness at the back of her throat. The wet throbbing between her legs picks up in intensity.
She ignores the sensation as best she can. “First you need to get the access panel off.”
Yaz digs through the kit and pulls out a screwdriver. The Doctor’s eyes stick to the hard, flat end, and that anticipatory curl in her chest strengthens. She swallows a gasp and ignores Yaz’s questioning look.
Yaz goes to work. She drags the screwdriver across the panel (down the Doctor’s breast) until she finds the first screw (nudges the point ever so gently against the Doctor’s chest). She twists the screwdriver, fast and sure, and the screw turns along its thread (between the Doctor’s ribs, pulling a gasp from her). Yaz makes the last few turns by hand and pulls the screw out. Gripping the console and planting her legs wide, the Doctor breathes through the feeling while the TARDIS sighs.
“You’d tell me if there was something wrong, wouldn’t you?” Yaz is looking over the side of the console, hair escaping her braid, and the Doctor wants to smooth it over with her hands. Yaz’s eyes narrow.
The Doctor plasters on her most winning smile. At least, she thinks it’s winning; from the look Yaz is giving her, it might be something else entirely. She tries for a distraction instead. “You’re doing so well, Yaz. Never knew you were so good with a screwdriver.”
Yaz’s breath catches and her eyes widen. She takes a deep, exaggerated breath and disappears back below the console. When she starts on the next screw, that twisting sensation digs into the Doctor again. This time she manages to hold back her reaction.
They’re due for another course change, and she executes this one with ease, but then Yaz runs her hands along the access panel (ghosts her fingertips across the Doctor’s back). The throb between the Doctor’s legs increases. She shifts from one foot to the other and the feel of her own wet, swollen labia sliding together makes her eyes roll back in her head.
Yaz removes the panel. Her hand penetrates the console (her fingers sink into the Doctor). Pushing in deeper (knuckles stretching the Doctor open), Yaz’s head brushes the top of the access opening (slides over the Doctor’s clit).
Leaning further in, Yaz touches every wire, every bolt (every inch of the Doctor’s wet, throbbing cunt). Yaz is inside her.
Yaz reaches in even further (another finger pushing in alongside the others, stretching the Doctor even wider). Yaz’s other hand pulls apart a tangle of wires (spreads the Doctor’s labia apart). She leans closer to inspect something (to breathe over the Doctor, warm and humid).
An orgasm slams into the Doctor.
She has no idea if she makes a sound—the wave of sensation pulls her away from the console room, away from the TARDIS’s exterior, and focuses her mind solely on the hot, pulsing point between her legs. Her hips jump, her knees weaken, and her knuckles whiten against the console.
It’s way too much—the Doctor’s hips stop jerking and she feels overwhelmed, too sensitive, like every nerve ending in her body is filled with Yaz. “Stop stop stop!” Is that pitiful squeak her voice? Oh, she is never going to survive what she needs Yaz to do in there. But right now, Yaz needs to stop.
The touch falls away (Yaz pulls out of her, so slowly she feels the drag of skin against her inner walls).
Yaz stands up. “Okay, what is going on?”
The Doctor’s going to have to admit to something here. “Might be getting a little uncomfortable.”
Yaz frowns, makes her way around the console, and probes at the tender skin of the Doctor’s forehead. Her fingers feel cool, and that’s not right, is it? With a curse, Yaz starts to lift the circlet. The Doctor grips her wrist.
“You need to take it off,” Yaz says.
“No, no, it’s fine.” It’s not, really, but there are two hundred people on that other ship counting on her to guide them through this safely. She can’t give up just because of a little burn or the way Yaz’s fingers are starting to ignite other fires all over her body again already. The TARDIS starts to shake, and the Doctor’s attention is drawn back to their erratic flight. Asteroids fill the space around the TARDIS now, and the Doctor slows to let the trailing ship close the distance between them even more.
Yaz touches the Doctor’s forehead again. The vastness of space and the sting of tiny pebbles striking her shields and the heavy, lumbering presence of the other ship and Yaz’s icy fingers and the TARDIS groaning in pleasure along with the Doctor—
The Doctor gasps and Yaz jerks back, startled.
There’s a bang under the console (a punch to the Doctor’s gut). She forces her back straight. “Break’s over. Need to get those shields sorted.”
“Maybe we should—”
“No. Just get back in there.” She meets Yaz’s eyes with a nod. “You’re doing so well, Yaz. You’ve got this.”
Yaz’s eyes go a little wide and she darts back around to the access hatch. With a last look back at the Doctor, she disappears.
“Going to need some direction here,” Yaz says.
The Doctor closes her eyes. One of Yaz’s hands is on the temporal gear shaft. The other holds the edge of the repair hatch. Her knees press against the hard metal of the floor. The TARDIS conjures up the mental image of Yaz on her knees under very different circumstances, looking up at the Doctor with a smile, opening those full lips wide—the Doctor’s breath catches. She pushes the thought away with an effort.
“There’s a bundle of wires right in front of you, you can’t miss it. That’s part of the shield energy regulation assembly. You’re going to need to reroute a few things.”
Yaz takes the bundle in her hand (presses on a bundle of nerves deep inside the Doctor). The Doctor’s hips jerk. A craving for more of that touch bolts through her. “Run your hands along the wires.” Not strictly necessary for repair, but the Doctor’s wound up again and she can’t help giving the direction.
Yaz caresses the wires, putting pressure on other nerve endings inside the Doctor, spots she hasn’t even physically found yet, with her limited knowledge of Time Lord anatomy. The Doctor shudders.
“Find the wire strippers, you’re going to need them,” the Doctor says, hoping her voice doesn’t sound as strangled as it feels.
Yaz is so quiet. Is she nervous about this? “You are so perfect, Yaz, you’re doing so well.”
Yaz gasps. The sound penetrates the Doctor as if Yaz is right behind her, lips tickling her ear. Yaz’s hands tighten against the cluster of wires (her fingers sink into soft spots inside the Doctor) and the Doctor’s hips jerk again.
“I need you to strip every wire in that bundle.”
Yaz fumbles the handful of wires and catches them. With a hum, she shoves one into her mouth (closes her lips around the Doctor’s clit). Her tongue absently flicks out against it as she works to separate the others. The Doctor’s knees buckle and she catches herself against the console with a groan.
Those little flicks are enough to make the Doctor want to grind herself against the console, and the TARDIS laughs in her head. Sod this, she’s going to rip the circlet off, drop to her hands and knees, and bury her mouth between Yaz’s legs. It’ll only take two minutes to make her come, they can spare two minutes.
But the next course correction needs to happen. It’s a close thing; an asteroid pings off the TARDIS at an angle that makes the whole ship rock. The Doctor groans.
Yaz strips a wire (scratches her fingernails down the Doctor’s back), and those lips clamp down a little harder, the pressure almost painful against the Doctor’s clit.
“Yaz!”
“Just a second, I’ve almost got it…”
Yaz’s tongue taps against the wire (against Doctor’s clit) again and she’s going to lose it. She’ll miss a course change and they’ll crash and—
Yaz strips the next wire. The Doctor arches under the onslaught and spots Yaz’s ass wiggling out of the hole in the console. She’s so deep inside, and the visual pulls the pleasurable knot in the Doctor’s core even tighter.
“Two down,” the Doctor says.
Yaz’s fingers pause. “Wait. How do you—Can you feel that?” She taps a wire and it sends a jolt through the Doctor’s body.
“Yes,” she says, and her voice sounds all wrong to her ears.
Yaz caresses the wire. Tugs on it a little. The Doctor’s whole body locks up. “That doesn’t hurt, does it?”
“No,” the Doctor croaks.
“Am I doing this right?” Yaz applies the wire strippers again (fire, burning along the Doctor’s arms and legs).
The Doctor has a theory, and, spurred on by the throbbing under her skin, decides to test her hypothesis. “Yes, that’s perfect. Good girl.”
Yaz almost manages to swallow her gasp, but the Doctor catches it. It makes her even more desperate to detach herself from the TARDIS and cross the room. She could drape herself over Yaz’s back and plunge her fingers into a core that has to be just as wet and throbbing as her own.
But no—not now. Yaz needs to fix the shields. All those people on that other ship are counting on them.
They’re getting close to the edge of the asteroid field now. If Yaz can just finish the repair, the Doctor can safely increase their speed and get them out of here.
“Okay. The wire you’re holding. Feed it into the energy matrix to your right.”
Yaz follows the instruction. The wire slides into place (three fingers slide into the Doctor, a perfect fit). A sense of rightness flows along the connection with the TARDIS.
“Yes, that’s it. That’s exactly right,” the Doctor says. Yaz groans and her ass shifts outside the repair hatch again.
The Doctor falls into a trance. Yaz’s fingers play along wires (caress the Doctor from the inside). She makes quick work of stripping the rest (raking her fingernails down the Doctor’s back, along her waist, down her thighs).
The Doctor directs Yaz to the spots to insert the other wires (pushing in, filling the Doctor, over and over, a dozen perfect thrusts) and her cunt tightens. When it’s done, power bursts through the shields and they modulate to a new frequency. The asteroid impacts pummeling the Doctor’s back fall away.
“That’s got it! Hang on, we’re out of here!” The Doctor pushes the thrusters as hard as she can and the ship behind the TARDIS keeps pace. They shoot out of the asteroid field and into open space. The TARDIS sighs and her relief fills the Doctor.
The tag-along ship sends a message of thanks, activates its faster-than-light drive, and disappears.
Yaz pops up from under the console. “We did it!” she laughs. “We really did it.” Her eyes are dilated, her breathing heavy, and she’s looking at the Doctor like she’s about to combust. The Doctor’s body echoes that feeling.
“You did. That was all you, Yaz. You are so incredible. So brilliant.”
Closing her eyes, Yaz breathes in through her nose. “You’re… you’re doing that on purpose.”
“Maybe I am.”
Yaz licks her lips. “So,” she says. “This whole time, when I’ve done something like this,” She flips a switch and the TARDIS’s running lights flash on outside. “You could feel it?”
“Yes.”
Yaz wraps her hands around a lever (around a cock the Doctor no longer has but can vividly remember). “What does it feel like?” She strokes the shaft. One finger touches the tip of the lever and rubs a slow circle over it.
The Doctor jerks—can she come from a phantom touch on an appendage she no longer has?
Yaz seems determined to find out. “Does it feel like I’m touching your cock?”
The Doctor groans. “Yes.”
Yaz knows exactly how to wind the Doctor’s body up, and she applies her knowledge now as she experiments. She turns dials (twists the Doctor’s nipples) and flips switches (scatters soft, teasing touches down the Doctor’s arms, across her stomach, up her legs) and taps buttons (drums her fingers on the Doctor’s thighs, the top of her head). She pauses in her circling of the controls to stand nose-to-nose with the Doctor.
“Keep going Yaz, you’re so good, you’re amazing, you’re doing everything right—“
With a predatory smile, Yaz captures the Doctor’s lips in hers and pushes her tongue into the Doctor’s mouth.
It’s too much, after the symphony of phantom overstimulation, and the Doctor gasps and squirms. Yaz gets the message. She backs away. “Do you want me to keep going?”
“Not here,” the Doctor gasps. “On the console. Please, Yaz.”
Yaz nods and circles the controls again. She stops at the maintenance hatch. “Should probably make sure everything’s in order in here.”
She dives in. The Doctor rises to her toes and freezes. Yaz is touching everything again (fingers plunging into the Doctor’s wet center, feeling all along inner walls, touching her tongue experimentally to nerve endings and soft flesh).
It’s so much—the Doctor has never been touched like this. It’s not possible to be touched like this. Her brains have no idea how to process it. Her body locks up, on the edge of a precipice, straining but frozen, at Yaz’s mercy.
It goes on. And on. Yaz’s back brushes against the hatch opening (a swipe against the Doctor’s clit) and the Doctor is so close…
“Come for me,” Yaz says, and her voice echoes within the console (vibrates inside the Doctor).
The Doctor’s entire body pulses. Her mind clenches. Yaz draws out every sensation with continued touches.
A cry rips out of the Doctor. Her hips thrust over and over. She sees white; feels the expansion of space outside the TARDIS; burns with the heat of stars and freezes in vacuum. Yaz hums in satisfaction.
For long moments the Doctor can’t move, her muscles tensed and painful, every mental circuit overloaded. Finally, she collapses, catching herself against the console.
Yaz pops up, hair disheveled, a satisfied smile playing across her lips.
“That was—”
Yaz rounds the console, wraps her arms around the Doctor’s waist, and kisses her. “Fascinating,” she says. “Amazing.”
She pulls back and taps her fingertips along the edges of the console. The dematerialization lever is right beside her. She wraps her hand around it and swipes her thumb over the tip. Grins. “Let’s do it again.”
“Oh, Yaz, I don’t know if I can—”
Yaz pulls the lever.