love like winter.
Author: biroid.
Title: Love Like Winter.
Pairing: Master/Lucy.
Rating: R.
Summary: An evening in with the Saxons.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, etc. If I did, there would have been far more Saxon!love.
Warnings: Language, mild-ish sexual situations & a complete lack of sense in some parts. I blame the clock that reads 3:40 AM. You'll also have to excuse any glaring errors/typos. I have no beta, and, like I say: it's very late :)
The never-ending drumbeat.
Pounding through his head, rattling his thoughts and stopping them from ever blossoming. It disturbed his every waking moment, demanded his full concentration and beat a tattoo into the back of his mind if he foolishly tried to distract himself. It never stopped, never ceased, never dimmed nor faded. It was the constant of mathematics and sciences throughout the universe, the impossible and the improbable, the tribar and the blivet.
It shouldn't have been. It beat at the inside of his skull like a caged animal, it shouldn't have and yet it did. Always and unfailingly, from dusk till dawn, it was there, yet that wasn't what disturbed him most. He could live with the pounding of a double beat in his head, one that was just out of sync with the hearts drumming away in his chest, if he could just find the reasoning behind it. Why was it there, and why did it inflict itself upon him so?
Rolling onto his left shoulder, the Master glanced at the ticking clock on the nightstand. One thirty six AM. He muttered it to himself once, twice, and then thrice before pushing himself flat onto his back and staring at the ceiling. Beside him, Lucy slept, a frown creasing her pretty little brow. Unlike in the old Earth movies, a smile didn't fall upon his lips as glanced over at her.
The drumming, however, intensified.
Wincing, the lines etching themselves deep into his forehead, the Master pressed both hands against his temples, trying to fight against the beat. It hurt. It burnt like a thousand suns and lasted just as long. Never ending, never ceasing, never resting. It was the beast, the beast of the pit and the beast of men that rose to torment, rose only to torture and to terrify before finally--
“Stop!” Slamming his arms down against the sheets that bound his body, the Master called out into the dark of the night. At once, he felt a jolt at his elbow, and his wife sat bolt upright. No light filtered through the drawn curtains, but he could see her form well enough. She was clutching the thin sheets to her chest, wide-eyed and startled by the noise that had awoke her from an otherwise peaceful slumber.
/For better or for worse, Lucy. You took me for better or for worse. I gave you the better, the stars and the beauty. Now you get the worst. You get the noise. You get the drumming, the lethal beat in the back of your mind./
“Harry?” She sounded fearful. He smirked. Her voice, her usually quiet, level voice was terrified of some unknown thing. She was terrified of him. He'd made her scared, made her paw at the bed in the hopes of finding his hand. She couldn't see nearly as well in the darkness and he could hear her breathing grow ragged and rapid as he moved his hand gently from her reach. She couldn't sense his presence. She didn't know he was there.
“Shh,” With a start, the Master sat up ever so slightly and pressed the palm of his hand against her bare arm. In a split second, he felt all the tension in her body drop away beneath that touch, his touch, and the smirk only grew. He was in control. He had power over her feelings, emotions and actions. He was the Master. A master. Her master.
“Shh, my love, I'm here.”
He didn't spit that term of endearment, nor did he try to savage her after uttering it. Instead, he allowed her to grasp his hand and squeezed her slender fingers gently. She breathed a sigh of relief, which he felt on his shoulder, and tried to fix a smile on her dainty lips. Although Lucy couldn't understand why she was trying to please her husband in utter darkness, he saw it clearly and released her hand to trace those lips.
“I like it when you smile,” A mutter, a distracted little mutter of a man with far greater things to be doing, dropped from his own lips as he stared straight into her eyes. And she felt it. With an absence of light and no indication to his actions, the Master knew she could feel his eyes roaming her soul. It disturbed her, and the shudder that fell through her slender body proved that. He was staring into her guarded secrets, the desires she never knew she had, and setting each one of them aflame.
“Keep smiling for me, Lucy. Don't stop smiling.”
She nodded, almost frantically, like that would rid her of the strange feeling. It was something that had been with her ever since she met the young, up-and-coming politician at a book signing. Harold Saxon, signing copies of his life story, had caught her eye through the crowded room. It'd been like he'd been searching for her, because a sudden hunger flared in his pupils. His hunger had still been there, five hours later, when the sick smile froze on his lips as he came, giggles rising in his throat after fucking her into the cheap hotel mattress.
Her Harry was insatiable. Hungry for sex, hungry for power, hungry for anything he could possibly get his hands on. And when somebody dared try to take it away? That was when her Harry stopped being so nice. He stopped touching her gently, stopped holding doors open for her and stroking away the golden wisps of her hair. That was when he pinned her beneath him, binding her wrists with the shackles of his hands. That was when he forced her, ordered her, commanded her. That was when he wasn't her Harry.
That was when he was the Master.
He was her diamond. He had so many faces, many of them she cared not to stare into. Some scared her. Some tormented her. And others? They unleashed butterflies in her stomach, they lavished her with gifts and compliments and they blocked out the rest of the universe. When held in that Harry's arm, nothing else mattered. Not her family, nor her friends, nor indeed the world. She didn't care, because he wanted her as much as she needed him.
“Harry,” He still allowed her to use that pathetic name. In many ways, it was endearing; she was still caught up in the memories of trysts and candlelit dinners with Harold Saxon while he drafted up another ingenious plot to become the master of all matter.
“Harry, what-- what are you doing?” Lucy, all fear dropping from her voice, sounded incredibly, if timidly, curious. He'd moved away from her, to the other side of the bed, and was pulling away the sheets to allow him to stand. When on his feet, he padded over to the other side of the room and pointedly ignored her questions.
He was playing with her, just as he always did. She was his rag doll, his blond porcelain beauty to twist around his little finger. She was the one with whom he shared his most beloved games. With her, he admitted his love before pushing her away in favor of the dark-haired masseuse. His mind told him he hated her when his body was tantalizingly close to hers. He swore to make her suffer everything that he had, swore to break her, shake her, hate her, take her over, and then he told her how he'd make her his empress in the new Time Lord empire.
The truth was, the Master did not know how he felt. He was reasonably certain that he was better off with her by his side, and fairly sure that his ego would feel less loved if she ever left, but that was it. Did he love her? Probably not. Did he want to love her? Debatable. Did he want to hurt her? Possibly.
If the Master had ever felt anything solid about Lucy Saxon, it was a good guess to say that it was sexual and nothing more. For such a primitive being, she was more beautiful than any woman he'd had the misfortune of bumping into. That was the only reason he'd smiled just a little more warmly, kissed her hand for a little longer, at that damn book signing. He'd needed a wife, but it never had to be her. She'd won him over with her glances and her touches, the way she always leant into him, how she always looked so needy when he brushed her thigh.
“I'll give you it all, Lucy,”
He had, of course, felt many less-solid feelings. He'd felt genuine urges to please her, to make sure she was happy. He adored seeing her smile and could think of nothing better than dressing her up and taking the last dance upon the bridge in the moonlight. These feelings, however, they came and went. They never remained for longer than a day. His emotions towards her were temperamental, and the most romantic evening he'd never dreamt up could turn into his own dark fantasy. He'd push her down and take her, despite the protests and the small, pleading words.
As this thumb clipped a small blue button just beneath the windowsill, the thick curtains parted and revealed the night in all it's glory. Stars seemed so close, close enough to be touched. Every so often, a metal orb would shoot by, on it's way to continue the destruction of the planet they hovered above. Behind him, the Master heard a small gasp, and Lucy Saxon soon joined him at the window. Unlike him, she'd chosen to cover herself with one of the sheets, and this sparked a small scowl from her husband as they gazed.
“I'll give you the universe. We'll rule it, all of it. Together.”
Turning to her, he grasped both of her hands, digging his clipped nails into the skin of her fingers. Again, she gasped, but this time from pain and surprise instead of awe. She dropped the sheet. He smiled. After spending a moment in silent stillness, he slipped his arms around her perfect waist and pressed her against the cool glass of the window. Another gasp, which amused him greatly. His trademark grin played about his thin lips as he stared into her bright eyes. She wanted him. He could sense it.
Taste, hear, see, smell, feel it. She wanted him.
“Harry,” Breathless, she was so breathless. From the fear he'd installed in her with his cry into the darkness, she was now begging for him as they were mere centimeters from that darkness. It was the same voice she'd used after he'd released the Toclafane, the same voice he'd prised from her again that evening when he told her the story, told her everything.
“Harry, please.”
“No.”
The reply was unexpected enough to silence even her breathing. 'No'? What did he mean by 'no'? He was never the one to refuse. Only she ever said 'no', but then it was brushed off like water from a duck's back. They didn't take notice of the word 'no'. So why?
“Harry--”
“No!” He cut her off sharply, pushing himself away and making a clear path to the bedroom door. “Can you hear it, Lucy? Can you hear the drumming? The rhythm that's in every living thing, that beats away in foursomes until death?”
Mutely, she shook her head, her eyes trained on his fingers. They were pressed against the wall, tapping out something. Duh-duh-duh-dum. Duh-duh-duh-dum. Duh-duh-duh-dum. He'd beat it against her thigh, he'd beat it against the coffee table and he'd beat it against his notes. She'd never once asked why he beat it.
“No...” He trailed off. Wrenching his hand away from the wall, the body of Harold Saxon left his wife in favor of the bridge, leaving her to murmur his name wistfully, longingly, as she gathered her sheet and slipped back into bed.
Title: Love Like Winter.
Pairing: Master/Lucy.
Rating: R.
Summary: An evening in with the Saxons.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, etc. If I did, there would have been far more Saxon!love.
Warnings: Language, mild-ish sexual situations & a complete lack of sense in some parts. I blame the clock that reads 3:40 AM. You'll also have to excuse any glaring errors/typos. I have no beta, and, like I say: it's very late :)
The never-ending drumbeat.
Pounding through his head, rattling his thoughts and stopping them from ever blossoming. It disturbed his every waking moment, demanded his full concentration and beat a tattoo into the back of his mind if he foolishly tried to distract himself. It never stopped, never ceased, never dimmed nor faded. It was the constant of mathematics and sciences throughout the universe, the impossible and the improbable, the tribar and the blivet.
It shouldn't have been. It beat at the inside of his skull like a caged animal, it shouldn't have and yet it did. Always and unfailingly, from dusk till dawn, it was there, yet that wasn't what disturbed him most. He could live with the pounding of a double beat in his head, one that was just out of sync with the hearts drumming away in his chest, if he could just find the reasoning behind it. Why was it there, and why did it inflict itself upon him so?
Rolling onto his left shoulder, the Master glanced at the ticking clock on the nightstand. One thirty six AM. He muttered it to himself once, twice, and then thrice before pushing himself flat onto his back and staring at the ceiling. Beside him, Lucy slept, a frown creasing her pretty little brow. Unlike in the old Earth movies, a smile didn't fall upon his lips as glanced over at her.
The drumming, however, intensified.
Wincing, the lines etching themselves deep into his forehead, the Master pressed both hands against his temples, trying to fight against the beat. It hurt. It burnt like a thousand suns and lasted just as long. Never ending, never ceasing, never resting. It was the beast, the beast of the pit and the beast of men that rose to torment, rose only to torture and to terrify before finally--
“Stop!” Slamming his arms down against the sheets that bound his body, the Master called out into the dark of the night. At once, he felt a jolt at his elbow, and his wife sat bolt upright. No light filtered through the drawn curtains, but he could see her form well enough. She was clutching the thin sheets to her chest, wide-eyed and startled by the noise that had awoke her from an otherwise peaceful slumber.
/For better or for worse, Lucy. You took me for better or for worse. I gave you the better, the stars and the beauty. Now you get the worst. You get the noise. You get the drumming, the lethal beat in the back of your mind./
“Harry?” She sounded fearful. He smirked. Her voice, her usually quiet, level voice was terrified of some unknown thing. She was terrified of him. He'd made her scared, made her paw at the bed in the hopes of finding his hand. She couldn't see nearly as well in the darkness and he could hear her breathing grow ragged and rapid as he moved his hand gently from her reach. She couldn't sense his presence. She didn't know he was there.
“Shh,” With a start, the Master sat up ever so slightly and pressed the palm of his hand against her bare arm. In a split second, he felt all the tension in her body drop away beneath that touch, his touch, and the smirk only grew. He was in control. He had power over her feelings, emotions and actions. He was the Master. A master. Her master.
“Shh, my love, I'm here.”
He didn't spit that term of endearment, nor did he try to savage her after uttering it. Instead, he allowed her to grasp his hand and squeezed her slender fingers gently. She breathed a sigh of relief, which he felt on his shoulder, and tried to fix a smile on her dainty lips. Although Lucy couldn't understand why she was trying to please her husband in utter darkness, he saw it clearly and released her hand to trace those lips.
“I like it when you smile,” A mutter, a distracted little mutter of a man with far greater things to be doing, dropped from his own lips as he stared straight into her eyes. And she felt it. With an absence of light and no indication to his actions, the Master knew she could feel his eyes roaming her soul. It disturbed her, and the shudder that fell through her slender body proved that. He was staring into her guarded secrets, the desires she never knew she had, and setting each one of them aflame.
“Keep smiling for me, Lucy. Don't stop smiling.”
She nodded, almost frantically, like that would rid her of the strange feeling. It was something that had been with her ever since she met the young, up-and-coming politician at a book signing. Harold Saxon, signing copies of his life story, had caught her eye through the crowded room. It'd been like he'd been searching for her, because a sudden hunger flared in his pupils. His hunger had still been there, five hours later, when the sick smile froze on his lips as he came, giggles rising in his throat after fucking her into the cheap hotel mattress.
Her Harry was insatiable. Hungry for sex, hungry for power, hungry for anything he could possibly get his hands on. And when somebody dared try to take it away? That was when her Harry stopped being so nice. He stopped touching her gently, stopped holding doors open for her and stroking away the golden wisps of her hair. That was when he pinned her beneath him, binding her wrists with the shackles of his hands. That was when he forced her, ordered her, commanded her. That was when he wasn't her Harry.
That was when he was the Master.
He was her diamond. He had so many faces, many of them she cared not to stare into. Some scared her. Some tormented her. And others? They unleashed butterflies in her stomach, they lavished her with gifts and compliments and they blocked out the rest of the universe. When held in that Harry's arm, nothing else mattered. Not her family, nor her friends, nor indeed the world. She didn't care, because he wanted her as much as she needed him.
“Harry,” He still allowed her to use that pathetic name. In many ways, it was endearing; she was still caught up in the memories of trysts and candlelit dinners with Harold Saxon while he drafted up another ingenious plot to become the master of all matter.
“Harry, what-- what are you doing?” Lucy, all fear dropping from her voice, sounded incredibly, if timidly, curious. He'd moved away from her, to the other side of the bed, and was pulling away the sheets to allow him to stand. When on his feet, he padded over to the other side of the room and pointedly ignored her questions.
He was playing with her, just as he always did. She was his rag doll, his blond porcelain beauty to twist around his little finger. She was the one with whom he shared his most beloved games. With her, he admitted his love before pushing her away in favor of the dark-haired masseuse. His mind told him he hated her when his body was tantalizingly close to hers. He swore to make her suffer everything that he had, swore to break her, shake her, hate her, take her over, and then he told her how he'd make her his empress in the new Time Lord empire.
The truth was, the Master did not know how he felt. He was reasonably certain that he was better off with her by his side, and fairly sure that his ego would feel less loved if she ever left, but that was it. Did he love her? Probably not. Did he want to love her? Debatable. Did he want to hurt her? Possibly.
If the Master had ever felt anything solid about Lucy Saxon, it was a good guess to say that it was sexual and nothing more. For such a primitive being, she was more beautiful than any woman he'd had the misfortune of bumping into. That was the only reason he'd smiled just a little more warmly, kissed her hand for a little longer, at that damn book signing. He'd needed a wife, but it never had to be her. She'd won him over with her glances and her touches, the way she always leant into him, how she always looked so needy when he brushed her thigh.
“I'll give you it all, Lucy,”
He had, of course, felt many less-solid feelings. He'd felt genuine urges to please her, to make sure she was happy. He adored seeing her smile and could think of nothing better than dressing her up and taking the last dance upon the bridge in the moonlight. These feelings, however, they came and went. They never remained for longer than a day. His emotions towards her were temperamental, and the most romantic evening he'd never dreamt up could turn into his own dark fantasy. He'd push her down and take her, despite the protests and the small, pleading words.
As this thumb clipped a small blue button just beneath the windowsill, the thick curtains parted and revealed the night in all it's glory. Stars seemed so close, close enough to be touched. Every so often, a metal orb would shoot by, on it's way to continue the destruction of the planet they hovered above. Behind him, the Master heard a small gasp, and Lucy Saxon soon joined him at the window. Unlike him, she'd chosen to cover herself with one of the sheets, and this sparked a small scowl from her husband as they gazed.
“I'll give you the universe. We'll rule it, all of it. Together.”
Turning to her, he grasped both of her hands, digging his clipped nails into the skin of her fingers. Again, she gasped, but this time from pain and surprise instead of awe. She dropped the sheet. He smiled. After spending a moment in silent stillness, he slipped his arms around her perfect waist and pressed her against the cool glass of the window. Another gasp, which amused him greatly. His trademark grin played about his thin lips as he stared into her bright eyes. She wanted him. He could sense it.
Taste, hear, see, smell, feel it. She wanted him.
“Harry,” Breathless, she was so breathless. From the fear he'd installed in her with his cry into the darkness, she was now begging for him as they were mere centimeters from that darkness. It was the same voice she'd used after he'd released the Toclafane, the same voice he'd prised from her again that evening when he told her the story, told her everything.
“Harry, please.”
“No.”
The reply was unexpected enough to silence even her breathing. 'No'? What did he mean by 'no'? He was never the one to refuse. Only she ever said 'no', but then it was brushed off like water from a duck's back. They didn't take notice of the word 'no'. So why?
“Harry--”
“No!” He cut her off sharply, pushing himself away and making a clear path to the bedroom door. “Can you hear it, Lucy? Can you hear the drumming? The rhythm that's in every living thing, that beats away in foursomes until death?”
Mutely, she shook her head, her eyes trained on his fingers. They were pressed against the wall, tapping out something. Duh-duh-duh-dum. Duh-duh-duh-dum. Duh-duh-duh-dum. He'd beat it against her thigh, he'd beat it against the coffee table and he'd beat it against his notes. She'd never once asked why he beat it.
“No...” He trailed off. Wrenching his hand away from the wall, the body of Harold Saxon left his wife in favor of the bridge, leaving her to murmur his name wistfully, longingly, as she gathered her sheet and slipped back into bed.