"Valiant," Ten/Simm!Master slash, NC17
THE FOURTEENTH YEAR AFTER HAROLD SAXON BECAME PRIME MINISTER, the Toclafane revolted.
As lenient as the Master was with them, the Toclafane were stifled by his control. They simply enjoyed slaughtering their ancestors too much for the Master to keep much of a hold on them. It started with a startlingly simple act of rebellion.
"Go and fetch the freak, will you? I need to have a little fun." The Master smirked at the Doctor, huddled in his cage. "Blow off some steam."
"No."
"...Sorry?"
"We said no, Mister Master. You never let US have any fun."
The Master thought about it. "Well, you can have fun with him first. When he's dead, bring him to me."
"No."
"No?"
The Master never forgot the look on the Doctor's face, the look of shock, of terror, of horror, as the Toclafane literally stabbed the Master in the back.
Now, they were huddled in a maintenance shaft on the Valiant, the Master bleeding everywhere, the Doctor's hands shaking as he put pressure on the wound. "What are you doing?" the Master muttered. "You're supposed to let me die."
"No," the Doctor said simply. "I'm saving you. We're going to break the paradox, and the Toclafane will stop hunting us. And then after that, you're going to come with me, and we're going to find the source of those drums and put a stop to them."
The Master laughed bitterly. "And after that we're going to ride a flying unicorn to a city made entirely of chocolate--"
"There's a chocolate city on Aldivan Four."
"Maybe, but we lack the flying unicorns we'll need to get there. Ow."
The Doctor tied off the bandage over the Master's wound, stood, and held out a bloody hand. The Master scowled at it and started to stand up, but stumbled back and would've fallen over again if the Doctor hadn't caught him. "Might not want to do that. The Toclafane punctured some major muscles in your back." He gave the Master a shit-eating grin and they headed for the TARDIS, one striding, the other limping.
"This is suicidal. They're going to find us at any moment," the Master said irritably. Sure enough, they were halfway there when they came across a small army of Toclafane. The Doctor got a severe burn to the left arm during the pitched multi-screwdriver battle that followed, but eventually, with the Master's help, he rewired some communications circuitry in the wall to disable them. They dropped instantly to the floor, rolling like marbles, and the pair continued on their way. The TARDIS, naturally, was guarded by another small army, which the Master managed to bluff into a diversion by hacking the intercom and telling them he was in the main conference room, awaiting their presence. He just wanted to talk to all of them. "I can't believe that worked," the Doctor said, much to the Master's amusement.
Once they were in the TARDIS, and the Master had disabled the Paradox Machine, it was time for a battle of wills. Well, a fistfight of wills. Well, a sort of awkward grapple of wills, which the Doctor eventually won due to the Master's blood loss.
THE DOCTOR REMAINED IN CONTROL FOR NEARLY SIX MONTHS, until the Master found a White Point Star in a museum, in the year 3,245. Then it was Gallifrey returning through the dark, and the Master giving a gun-weilding Doctor a minute shake of the head--
--no, I don't have a plan, if you kill me I won't come back--
--and the Doctor turning around and shooting Rassilon between the eyes. He fell backwards into white nothingness, and Gallifrey fell. Once it had gone, the Master looked up at the Doctor, looked at the smoke pouring from the barrel of the gun, at the smudge of blood where Rassilon had been, and realized he was different. Special. The Doctor could have killed him so many times during all those years that never were, and he hadn't. The Master assumed it was because the Doctor was too much of a coward to pull the trigger. Now, though, he found himself sprinting across the grounds, seeking somewhere, anywhere, to hide, because he couldn't handle the seemingly simple and yet overwhelmingly complicated notion that the Doctor didn't want him dead.
THE MASTER REMAINED MISSING FOR THREE MONTHS, but eventually went back to the TARDIS. Not that he missed the Doctor or anything, and it certainly wasn't that he constantly had to hide because he was the bleeding Prime Minister and assassinated the President on international television.
And, of course, it wasn't that he had no resources and no way of getting resources, and it wasn't that he was terrified of those piddly human taskforces and the torture they promised to perform when they found him. He wasn't scared at all. He was the Master. He didn't get scared.
No, he went back because he was bored. He was so bored, in fact, that he refused to leave the TARDIS for a week. He gave in, though, when they went to Aldivan Four, not because the Doctor said (and then promised and then swore) he wouldn't leave without the Master, but because the engineering of a chocolate city was fascinating.
FIVE MINUTES INTO THE GAME, the Master accused the Doctor of cheating. The Doctor hadn't cheated. He never cheated. The Master knew that, and yet, he found himself telling the Doctor he must have switched the pieces around. That pawn and the bishop, maybe, or that rook with the queen. The Doctor just smiled. "You know I'm going to win," he said.
The Master scowled. "No chance." He moved his knight; the Doctor took it. The Master could see what would happen next. The Doctor's white bishop would take that pawn, then the Master would have to take the bishop with a pawn to avoid the check, because he couldn't move the king. Then the Doctor would take the pawn with his queen, and then it would be checkmate. "You cheated," he hissed.
"If I cheated, why are you playing?" the Doctor said.
The Master glared at the board, at the queen who would win the Doctor the game in four moves, but didn't say anything. He just handed over his king and stalked away.
THE MASTER'S BAD MOOD LASTED FOR DAYS. Finally, the Doctor had enough.
"I played fair and square," he snapped. "We were even. I just got one up on you."
"We haven't had a game that wasn't a tie since our first year at the Academy, and I won that one. You must have cheated."
The Doctor had to hide his surprise--the Master almost never talked about when they were younger. "I had never played chess before," the Doctor said. "Remember? You used to play with your cousins." He smiled. "You always beat them."
"Because they didn't cheat," the Master snarled.
"You know, this is why nothing you do ever works out. If something doesn't go your way, you just assume someone cheated, and you give up and you run off. You're terrified of losing, so you run away the moment it's in sight. That's why you gave up that game. That's why you ran away from the War. That's why I always beat you, and why you run away every time."
An awkward grapple of wills followed. The Doctor won.
SEVEN HOURS AFTER THE DOCTOR WAS TAKEN BY THE DALEKS, the Master found him. He was barely alive, but woke up when the Master put a hand on his forehead, smiling when he saw the twisted remnants of the Dalek fleet burning around them. When the Doctor could talk again, his first question was "are you all right."
The Master couldn't stop having nightmares, the drums, the Daleks, the mutilated husks that were Skaro Degradations. But he looked down at the Doctor and said yes, he was, and are you? The Doctor was.
"Where did they come from?"
"Escaped from the Time War."
"They cheated. And you still won."
The Master smiled, brushing a bit of ash out of the Doctor's hair. He found he was a lot less willing to surrender his king when that king was the Doctor. That notion made him want to scream and run and hurt something, but he was still here. Every millimeter of hair his fingers carded through was an act of daring.
The kiss was positively suicidal.
AFTER THE MASTER CAME IN THE DOCTOR'S MOUTH, the Doctor didn't stop. He couldn't. Momentum propelled him forward, into the Master's lap, kissing, sloppy, messy, wet kisses, the Master's fingers slicked by the Doctor's tongue, curling hard against the ripple of sensitive flesh just inside the Doctor's arse, making the Doctor keen into his mouth. When the Master's hard again, the Doctor's ready. As the head of his cock sinks past the second tight ring of muscles and slides in, in, until he's balls-deep in the Doctor, he has to take a deep breath and bite into the Doctor's shoulder, biting back a sudden, irrational spike of fear.
WHEN THE DOCTOR'S HAND STARTED TO UNDO HIS FLY, the Master grabbed his wrist to stop him. "Don't," he said, his whole body a mess of tension--tight, trembling muscle and rigid posture, lying unnaturally stiff on the bed.
"The way you were... I thought you wanted me to--"
"Kissing isn't the same as me, err, you know."
"Bottoming?"
"Do you have to call it that?"
"Receiving? Playing uke? Bending over?"
"Stop it!"
"Scared?" The Master's response to the Doctor's challenge was to glare, his jaw clenched. The Doctor hoped he wasn't grinding his teeth. His headaches were bad enough as it was.
The Master was, in fact, grinding his teeth. He wasn't aware of it. He was trying to work out why the thought of letting the Doctor take him terrified him more than a fleet of Daleks.
WHEN THEY LEARNED THE DRUMMING WAS INTEGRATED IN THE FABRIC OF THE VORTEX, the Master gave up. He stopped helping the Doctor search for a way to cut the signal, withdrawing into himself. He would pretend to do everything. He pretended to eat most of the time, and lost twenty pounds. He pretended to sleep, but the Doctor could hear him fidgeting at all hours. He pretended to read, but the pages never turned. He pretended to work on the TARDIS, but all he did was tighten and loosen the same bolt, over and over again.
The Doctor wondered what he thought about, if he was going over their conclusions in his mind. The drumbeat had become partially integrated within the structure of tachyons, so even the Zero Room was no use. The drumming was in the Time Vortex, and the Time Vortex was everywhere, therefore the drumming was everywhere. The signal was programmed to seek out the Master's biological signature, and the Master had, in turn, become programmed to receive it.
Someone cheated.
AFTER ALMOST A MONTH, the Doctor found the Master pretending to read in bed, glasses perched on the end of his nose, eyes closed. The shadows under his eyes had darkened to bruises. The Doctor could count his ribs. The Master was awake, which the Doctor knew by the way his hands were fidgeting at the corners of the book. The Master opened his eyes when the Doctor sat on the edge of the bed, then closed them again when the Doctor kissed him. He kept them closed while the Doctor murmured against his lips, "I will find a way. I swear, I will find a way to make them stop, and you'll be free, and we can travel the stars, just like I promised."
"I don't believe you," the Master replied, a hoarse whisper. "Some things can't be fixed."
"I'm the Doctor, remember? I make people better." The Doctor half-smiled, trying to make a joke, but he knew he was a liar. He killed people, used people, put people in danger. "Sorry for the sanctimony."
The Master's voice was dry and raspy from disuse. It reminded the Doctor of the trees on Gallifrey, silver leaves glinting in sunlight, rustling in the wind, two boys sitting in its shade and pretending to study.
"People," he whispered. "Not monsters."
When the Master placed a shockingly gentle, almost chaste kiss on the Doctor's lips, he wasn't pretending.
THE DOCTOR SAW ROSE. She was worried about him, of course, once she learned who the Master was. But he assured her he was fine, and she believed him, which was more than he could say for Jack. They started talking about the old days, when they met, Autons, and then Cybermen and Slitheen and Daleks and Sycorax.
The Slitheen. When the Doctor had defeated the Slitheen, he'd broadcasted an inverse wave to neutralize the signal they were sending to bargain-hunters. He hadn't been able to disable the actual transmitter until later, but the effect was the same. The signal stopped.
THE MASTER ONLY STARTED EATING AGAIN BECAUSE THE DOCTOR CRIED, and because he threatened to strap the Master down in the infirmary and force-feed him. They ate in bed together, and the Master exchanged bites of food for kisses. Today, the Master's head was in the Doctor's lap, and the Doctor was feeding him grapes. When the Master finished each one, the Doctor would lean down, nearly folding in half, and give him a kiss. He was just pulling back to get another grape when the Master's hand materialized on the back of his neck, holding him down, and suddenly the Master was all teeth and tongue and force. The Doctor responded in kind, and when they pulled back a full two minutes later to breathe, both were panting. The Doctor was only granted a brief reprieve before the Master was kissing him again, less forcefully this time. Again, the Doctor tried to match his intensity, and found that the Master was suddenly kissing as hard as he was before. He matched that, and the Master dropped off again, only to ramp back up when the Doctor followed.
Then the Doctor understood what the Master wanted--not why he wanted it, or how long he had wanted it, or if it really were a want and not a need--and attacked. The Master moaned into his mouth, relaxing into him, his kisses becoming progressively softer and less aggressive as the Doctor bit his lip, the Doctor thrust his tongue into the Master's mouth, the Doctor pressed himself down with enough force to bruise the Master's lips. Of its own accord, the Doctor's hand slipped into the waistband of the Master's boxers, wrapped around his budding erection, squeezed. The Master made a noise somewhere between a scream and a sob, and his hips thrust up involuntarily, so the Doctor did it again, and again, and suddenly he was fumbling with his fly and the Master was lapping at the tip of his cock, like a cat with cream, then sucking, sucking, swallowing as the Doctor hit the back of his throat, gagging slightly but recovering as the Doctor's grip tightened in his hair. He couldn't take the Doctor in all the way, but that was fine, because the Master had just released his come all over the Doctor's hand, the Doctor could feel the rings of cartilage in his throat nudging the head of his cock, and the Master seemed... okay. Not healthy, not safe to unleash on the universe. But he was okay, this way, lashes standing out sharply against his cheeks, head resting on the Doctor's thigh, one hand curled around the Doctor's tie.
The Doctor was making him happy.
This was unbelievable. Literally. The Doctor didn't believe it, especially not when the Master pulled off abruptly and sat up.
"Sorry," the Doctor whispered. "I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."
"Shut up," the Master advised, and pressed something into the Doctor's hand before resting his forehead on the Doctor's shoulder, just breathing, completely still. The Doctor opened his hand to look at the object in it. It was a chess piece, a black king. He jumped, startled, when the Master fanned his fingers out on the side of the Doctor's face, initiating the barest mental contact.
"Master?"
The Master looked up. He was smiling, not the manic-evil-genius grin, or the smug look he wore if he won something, or that maddening and indecipherable smirk, but a small, crooked one, which didn't even show his teeth. "Can you hear it, Doctor?"
"I'm sorry, I.. I can't hear it."
The Master's smile widened. "Me, either," he said softly. "I wasn't sure, but it's... gone. Quiet. What did you do?"
"Inverse signal."
"Why didn't I think of that?" The Doctor chuckled, and the Master rolled his eyes. "Thank you, I suppose."
"You're welcome. I suppose."
THE MASTER STILL NEEDED IT ROUGH. The drumming being gone hadn't changed much about him. He was still dangerous, obviously, and he still wanted the universe. Now, though, he was at least content just to see it with the Doctor, mostly because the inverted signal only worked if he stayed close to the TARDIS. They travelled the stars together, like the Doctor promised. Sometimes the Master would be rude, or mean, or cruel, and he didn't always help when he should, and there was that time he infiltrated the government of Alcatz and was well on his way to becoming a dictator by the time the Doctor figured out he wasn't sunbathing. But he was getting better, braver, smarter. Just the other day, he'd freed some slave workers from a mine.
But that really didn't matter right now, because right now, the hands that had so deftly freed innocents were cuffed to a headboard, and the teeth that had so viciously torn open the artery of an Alcatzian politician were biting through a pillow. The Master was beautiful this way, and he always would be, no matter how many times they regenerated, even if his next body weren't slim and flexible and that body's back didn't arch the way this one does now, even if his next arse weren't so round and full and firm. Right now, the Master's arse was red--the Doctor gave him a spanking earlier.
They were in the TARDIS, and the TARDIS was parked on the Valiant. Some of the international goons looking for the Master were under ten feet away, the next deck up, with no idea that the number one most wanted person in the world had just reached a very loud, very messy climax directly below them. After the Doctor uncuffed the Master, they had an awkward grapple of wills. The Master won.