(no subject)
The Doctor’s feeling brighter than he has for quite some time. He doesn’t share the need that the Master has, to be in control of every situation, dominating every person in the room. He’s never understood the satisfaction the Master seems to gain from forcing others under his will. What does loyalty or obedience mean if it is done through fear, rather than respect? Or even love? He understands that they both enjoy chaos, but the Master wishes to be in control of it, watching others caught up in the turmoil. The Doctor wants to be part of it, feeling it rather than watching it, along with everyone else.
However, he’s had to change his feelings slightly since the Master moved into the TARDIS. He has realised that he will have to take control, sometimes. He’s heard the drums, now, and he knows how to help, but he will have to be cruel, to be kind. The situation will get worse before it gets better.
But there’s one last thing he needs to do first. The Master will fight this; deny it to his dying breath, most likely, but he needs to know that the Doctor is doing this out of kindness. He must show him that he is acting with the best of intentions, and to do this, the Doctor will have to surrender all of his control.
It’s a long walk back to the console room, and it feels longer, because the Master is testing the limits of their devices every step of the way. He pauses at the console, making minute adjustments. The Master sighs, loudly.
“Are we going or not, then?”
“In a minute.” The Doctor replies, mildly, turning a couple of tiny wheels. “Just checking I haven’t landed us on a precipice, or underwater, or something.”
Snorting, the Master replies, “Wouldn’t surprise me, flying this thing. But could you hurry it up? Even you must want to get off this broken-down wreck by now.”
Instead of hurrying, the Doctor sits down, and makes a great show of straightening his tie, re-tying his shoelaces and putting away his glasses.
The Master fixes him with his most deadly stare.
“There’s something I want to talk about before we go,” the Doctor begins, resting his elbows on his knees. “Last night - how did we go from fighting, to … to … to kissing?”
The Master smirks at him, his expression cocky. “Oh, don’t pretend you haven’t been wanting that for the last half millennium.” He watches the Doctor, lazily, waiting to see the righteous denial and protestations of innocence.
But they do not come. Instead, to his astonishment, the Doctor drops his eyes to the floor and mumbles. “Well, I … you … well, we …”
The Master’s tone is incredulous. “Are you … are you blushing?”
More mumbling. The Master’s face lights up with glee, and he crosses the four-foot distance to the Doctor so slowly it is almost … predatory.
“You liked it!” His voice is teasing, and flirtatious. “I shoved you up against a wall and forced myself on you, and you liked it!”
By now he has reached the Doctor and has started to touch him, running his hands up his arms, over his shoulders, into his hair. After a few moments of twirling the brown strands around his fingers, he tightens his grip and jerks downwards, forcing the Doctor’s face up to stare into his own.
“Didn’t you?”
The Doctor swallows hard, but is smiling slightly by the time he answers. “Didn’t you?”
As much fun as it would be to deny it, to claim it had turned his stomach and that he must have been taken by some temporary madness, that enjoyment won’t last. Really, it’s more fun to release the Doctor’s hair and move one hand to his cheek, cupping his face, being firm without being rough; to bring his face right next to the Doctor’s, a mere inch away, looking right into his eyes, and to murmur seductively, “What’s not to like?”
The Doctor has no idea the Master’s other hand has moved down his back until he feels it grip his backside hard. Softly, so quietly it can barely be heard, he moans.
Spurred on, the Master kisses the Doctor once again, every bit as fiercely and passionately as he did before. This time the Doctor tries to respond, sitting up in his chair, but the he is pushed right back down, held in place by the Master’s strong hands. When the hands are released, needed elsewhere, pushing the Doctor’s jacket off his shoulders, pressing across his chest, reaching down over his hips, stroking firmly, the Doctor waits a few seconds before moving. And every time, the Master restrains him, becoming more fierce in his kiss, and more aggressive with his hands.
The Master is testing him, setting his own rules for this new stage in their relationship. He wants to know if the Doctor will accept his terms … and how far he’ll have to go to make him.
Eventually, the Doctor seems to understand. He kisses the Master back passionately, moaning under his breath, but otherwise he does not move. The Master is pleased. As a reward he moves his hands further, over the Doctor’s hips, down to his knees, and then back up the inside of his leg, up and up …
At this, the Doctor moans more loudly. The Master uses his other hand to undo some buttons on the Doctor’s shirt and slides it inside, bare skin touching bare skin. Another moan.
The Master breaks the kiss and smiles, magnanimously. “Was there something you wanted to say?”
The man underneath him simply gasps.
“Go on, you can speak …”
“Please … please ...”
“Oh, that’s nice. A nice bit of begging. Oh, yes. But I need more. What do I need to hear? Come on, say it …”
“Please … oh, please, Master!”
“Mmm … that’s good. Good Doctor. More!” With his last word he grips the Doctor’s thigh roughly.
“Oh … oh, Master, please. Please, Master.”
With this, the Master kisses him again, more fiercely than ever. As he pulls away and unfastens his belt, before turning his attentions to the other’s trousers.
Once they are both free he climbs onto the chair with the Doctor, taking in the side below him. It is the most pleasing sight he has looked upon in a good long while. The Doctor’s jacket hangs from his shoulders, his shirt is unbuttoned and gaping, his hair is wild, crazier than ever. He is gasping and sweating and still pleading …
The Master presses down against him, hard. He moves the Doctor’s hands to his own backside, giving the other permission to touch him, before he abandons himself completely, taking possession, moving constantly in time with the gasping and the moaning and the fevered beating of four hearts.
When it is over, the Master pauses for the briefest of moments, and then stands, pulling himself together, righting his clothing in a few economical motions. He is pleased to note that the Doctor lacks this poise; he appears barely conscious, more dishevelled than the Master imagined he could look.
The Master takes a deep breath and rolls his shoulders, like one about to run a race, He speaks to the Doctor in tones of great exasperation, as if he’d just walked in and found the other Time Lord in this ragged state, rather than having been the one to bring him to this state.
“Are you coming, or not?”
* * *