DW -- Meanwhile, at 10 Downing Street
Title: Meanwhile, at 10 Downing Street
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Master/Ten
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 980
Warnings: crack, mental illness (mine), tie fetish (mine), sexual references, language, more crack
Summary: The Master gets creative.
Author's Note: Total crack -- but total crack that was crafted with love for eltea.
MEANWHILE, AT 10 DOWNING STREET
“Ah-!” the Doctor gasped, throwing back his head. “Master, I-I-” He spread his big grasshopper legs wantonly, the sheen of sweat on his forehead like Gallifreyan rain on the bubble around the Temple. “I-I know you’ve always been better than me at everything I’ve ever pathetically attempted, but I didn’t realize you were also a sex god!”
The Master sits back, scowling, and presses his index finger down on the delete key. He glances out the window, gazing over Downing Street, and sighs feelingly, and then he sets his shoulders, cracks his knuckles, and gets back to work.
“I know you’ve always been better than me at everything I’ve ever pathetically attempted, but I didn’t realize you could turn me to jelly with just a smoldering glance!”
The Master considers, nods to himself, hits enter, and moves right along.
“Shut it, Sweetheart; I’ll crush you.”
No.
“I’ll obliterate you and everything you stand for, and your little dog, too.”
Better.
“Master, I-I’m so sorry; it’s just that you’re so ruggedly handsome that I can’t resist your charms and wiles.” The Doctor turned vast brown doe eyes upward, plaintively, his only clothing the tie draped limply around his neck. “Please stop taunting me and just take me, won’t you? I’ll die this way, of want, slowly and in insufferable agony.”
Thoughtfully, the Master stroked his strong chin and jaw. “That’s kind of the point.”
The Doctor pressed the back of his hand over his eyes, letting out one weak sob. “How can such a beautiful creature have such a cruel heart?”
“Centuries of practice,” the Master answered coolly, because he also had a great deal of practice shutting people down. “Are you done sniveling yet, or should I give you a few more minutes?”
“Hours!” the Doctor wailed. “I’ve never forgotten you! I couldn’t have; I never stopped thinking about you for a moment! You’re like a swarm of Vashta Nerada, taking over my mind-shadowy and oh-so hungry, nibbling at my memories, devouring my thoughts.”
Is that too obscure a reference? The Master clicks his tongue to the drumbeat, watching the cursor blink. It’s a bit abstruse-obtuse? some word like that-but it’s so poetic he hates to lose it.
“Don’t talk like that, Doctor,” the Master sniffed, turning away so that only his sculpted profile was visible. “Those days are gone. Very gone. You pretty much blew them up, if you want to get technical.”
“Wasn’t my fault.”
“Yeah, all right, fine.”
“Will you please sleep with me now, please?”
The Master looked down his elegant nose at the writhing ruffian on the
The Master glances around.
paisley sofa with the tassel-edged cushions. It kind of complimented the writhing ruffian’s complexion, if the Master was to be honest, which he wasn’t, because honesty is for idiots.
“You’re pitiful,” he sneered. “Look at you, begging for mercy like a really sex-starved puppy-”
The Master pauses. He jams his finger down on delete.
“Look at you, begging for mercy like a slave.”
“I am a slave,” the Doctor gasped out, “your slave-Master.”
The Master shivered despite himself, and from there it was all too easy. He shucked off his extremely flattering tailored suit jacket, peeled off his very fine Oxford, abandoned his increasingly-too-tight trousers, and straddled the scrawny little devil on the couch.
“You know this is only a one-time thing, right?” he asked. “Because you’re really boring, and I’ve got better things to do than realize your sick sexual fantasies about me. For instance, take over the world, thence the universe. Or get a new bag of Jelly Babies from the corner store; my secret stash is running low.”
“Once will be enough,” the Doctor whimpered, soft white hands fluttering against the Master’s face. “Once will be enough for a lifetime.”
“I should kill you and see if you regenerate into somebody who isn’t going to stab me with his hipbones, you know.”
“You won’t kill me,” the Doctor murmured, clasping both hands at the back of the Master’s neck, admiring him through thick eyelashes, and pulling him nearer. “You’re much too fond of me for that.”
The Master pauses. That’s a bit too… true… for comfort, somehow. He can imagine doing a lot of things to that freak of nature, but killing the sad little bastard isn’t one of those things.
“I’ll kill you later,” the Master promised, sighing deeply. “That, or I’ll just fuck you until you can’t move and consider it a victory.”
The Doctor swooned.
The Master nods a bit, sits back, stretches, and saves the document carefully. He then applies his screwdriver, with great finesse: in the event that his foolproof endgame plans fall through one way or another, if another human being becomes Prime Minister of Great Britain, this is the first thing that will pop up on his or her official office computer.
And it will refuse to go away.
If the Master is going to have a successor, he is going to scar said individual for life.
He thinks it over, and then he tries another tack, just for shits and giggles.
Two hours later, the Master, sort-of-second-to-last of the Time Lords, gets his first review.
He settles down, intrigued, and squints at the contents of the message.
i have to admit that i like the idea, but your characterization of the doctor is complete shit, i’m afraid. definitely think it over before you come back to this - you’ve got a lot of potential to write some really hot, really great stuff, but DUDE SERIOUSLY i have never seen the Doctor whimper in my life. except that time i seduced him, but that’s totally different.
i could be joking.
The Master’s eyes narrow, and he seethes quietly.
“You die first,” he mutters, “‘Boeshane42.’ You die first.”
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Master/Ten
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 980
Warnings: crack, mental illness (mine), tie fetish (mine), sexual references, language, more crack
Summary: The Master gets creative.
Author's Note: Total crack -- but total crack that was crafted with love for eltea.
MEANWHILE, AT 10 DOWNING STREET
“Ah-!” the Doctor gasped, throwing back his head. “Master, I-I-” He spread his big grasshopper legs wantonly, the sheen of sweat on his forehead like Gallifreyan rain on the bubble around the Temple. “I-I know you’ve always been better than me at everything I’ve ever pathetically attempted, but I didn’t realize you were also a sex god!”
The Master sits back, scowling, and presses his index finger down on the delete key. He glances out the window, gazing over Downing Street, and sighs feelingly, and then he sets his shoulders, cracks his knuckles, and gets back to work.
“I know you’ve always been better than me at everything I’ve ever pathetically attempted, but I didn’t realize you could turn me to jelly with just a smoldering glance!”
The Master considers, nods to himself, hits enter, and moves right along.
“Shut it, Sweetheart; I’ll crush you.”
No.
“I’ll obliterate you and everything you stand for, and your little dog, too.”
Better.
“Master, I-I’m so sorry; it’s just that you’re so ruggedly handsome that I can’t resist your charms and wiles.” The Doctor turned vast brown doe eyes upward, plaintively, his only clothing the tie draped limply around his neck. “Please stop taunting me and just take me, won’t you? I’ll die this way, of want, slowly and in insufferable agony.”
Thoughtfully, the Master stroked his strong chin and jaw. “That’s kind of the point.”
The Doctor pressed the back of his hand over his eyes, letting out one weak sob. “How can such a beautiful creature have such a cruel heart?”
“Centuries of practice,” the Master answered coolly, because he also had a great deal of practice shutting people down. “Are you done sniveling yet, or should I give you a few more minutes?”
“Hours!” the Doctor wailed. “I’ve never forgotten you! I couldn’t have; I never stopped thinking about you for a moment! You’re like a swarm of Vashta Nerada, taking over my mind-shadowy and oh-so hungry, nibbling at my memories, devouring my thoughts.”
Is that too obscure a reference? The Master clicks his tongue to the drumbeat, watching the cursor blink. It’s a bit abstruse-obtuse? some word like that-but it’s so poetic he hates to lose it.
“Don’t talk like that, Doctor,” the Master sniffed, turning away so that only his sculpted profile was visible. “Those days are gone. Very gone. You pretty much blew them up, if you want to get technical.”
“Wasn’t my fault.”
“Yeah, all right, fine.”
“Will you please sleep with me now, please?”
The Master looked down his elegant nose at the writhing ruffian on the
The Master glances around.
paisley sofa with the tassel-edged cushions. It kind of complimented the writhing ruffian’s complexion, if the Master was to be honest, which he wasn’t, because honesty is for idiots.
“You’re pitiful,” he sneered. “Look at you, begging for mercy like a really sex-starved puppy-”
The Master pauses. He jams his finger down on delete.
“Look at you, begging for mercy like a slave.”
“I am a slave,” the Doctor gasped out, “your slave-Master.”
The Master shivered despite himself, and from there it was all too easy. He shucked off his extremely flattering tailored suit jacket, peeled off his very fine Oxford, abandoned his increasingly-too-tight trousers, and straddled the scrawny little devil on the couch.
“You know this is only a one-time thing, right?” he asked. “Because you’re really boring, and I’ve got better things to do than realize your sick sexual fantasies about me. For instance, take over the world, thence the universe. Or get a new bag of Jelly Babies from the corner store; my secret stash is running low.”
“Once will be enough,” the Doctor whimpered, soft white hands fluttering against the Master’s face. “Once will be enough for a lifetime.”
“I should kill you and see if you regenerate into somebody who isn’t going to stab me with his hipbones, you know.”
“You won’t kill me,” the Doctor murmured, clasping both hands at the back of the Master’s neck, admiring him through thick eyelashes, and pulling him nearer. “You’re much too fond of me for that.”
The Master pauses. That’s a bit too… true… for comfort, somehow. He can imagine doing a lot of things to that freak of nature, but killing the sad little bastard isn’t one of those things.
“I’ll kill you later,” the Master promised, sighing deeply. “That, or I’ll just fuck you until you can’t move and consider it a victory.”
The Doctor swooned.
The Master nods a bit, sits back, stretches, and saves the document carefully. He then applies his screwdriver, with great finesse: in the event that his foolproof endgame plans fall through one way or another, if another human being becomes Prime Minister of Great Britain, this is the first thing that will pop up on his or her official office computer.
And it will refuse to go away.
If the Master is going to have a successor, he is going to scar said individual for life.
He thinks it over, and then he tries another tack, just for shits and giggles.
Two hours later, the Master, sort-of-second-to-last of the Time Lords, gets his first review.
He settles down, intrigued, and squints at the contents of the message.
i have to admit that i like the idea, but your characterization of the doctor is complete shit, i’m afraid. definitely think it over before you come back to this - you’ve got a lot of potential to write some really hot, really great stuff, but DUDE SERIOUSLY i have never seen the Doctor whimper in my life. except that time i seduced him, but that’s totally different.
i could be joking.
The Master’s eyes narrow, and he seethes quietly.
“You die first,” he mutters, “‘Boeshane42.’ You die first.”