Golden (6/?)
Title: Golden (6/?)
Author: darklyenigmatic
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Spoilers for LotTL
Summary: The Doctor can’t let him go. He will do anything to save the Master, literally anything.
Characters: Simm!Master, Ten
Pairing: Doctor/Master
Warnings: Sexual content
Disclaimer: Not mine, unfortunately. BBC owns them.
Word count: 1772
Author’s Note: Um ... sorry? This is far later than I intended it to be, but at least it’s here. And there’s smut! That makes up for the wait, right? *feels guilty* Anyway, it’s finally done. Many thanks to edzel2 for the beta, and hopefully (though I can’t guarantee it, I only have two paragraphs written) the next chapter will come without such a long gap. Hope you enjoy, comments are love! :D
The Master frowns. The Doctor had been ... odd. Odder than usual, and that worries him, provides more to fuel his anxiety. He isn’t sure why he is worried - he certainly doesn’t care for the Doctor - but he is concerned that maybe the Doctor’s strangeness poses a threat to him. He does not seem himself, and if that is linked in any way with his absorption of the Vortex then the situation could be incredibly dangerous. It is not one he is in a good position to escape, either.
He ponders this. He considers what the Vortex might have done to the Doctor, too, but as it is something that has never been done before the possibilities are endless, and currently impossible to either verify or discount.
His musings are broken by an awful psychic scream that bursts across his shields in a flare of pain, momentarily blotting out the low drumbeat. He clutches his head automatically, even as he jumps up, the fear and raw emotion of the sound overwhelming. He is moving almost before he realises it, long strides and the TARDIS’s help quickly taking him to the Doctor’s room, a multitude of possibilities flashing through his mind. It never even occurs to him to ignore it. Later, he might be irritated by that.
He throws the door open - it isn’t locked; he doesn’t know if that’s the TARDIS’s doing or the Doctor’s oversight - and is confronted with the sight of the Doctor huddled, cowering, on the bed. It should send a thrill through him. It doesn’t. He moves closer instinctively, conscious mind seemingly not in control of his body. The Doctor is staring through him, unseeing, eyes dazed and frightened.
‘Doctor.’ There is no response. He tries again. This time the other Time Lord’s eyes slide into focus, the fear still sharp in them. The Master moves closer, wary. Every instinct in him is at war. Leave, hurt him, mock him, a small part even wants to take care of him. All of them fighting a terrible, multi-sided battle inside his head.
‘What happened?’ he asks, the most neutral path he can take. The Doctor shudders, then shifts, leaning in towards him like a cat seeking heat or affection or something far more indefinable. He doesn’t move, waiting. Finally, the Doctor responds, voice low and trembling, much like the rest of him.
‘Dream.’
He scoffs. ‘A dream? A dream? That scream nearly ripped my head open, and you’re telling me you had a nightmare.’
‘It was the Vortex.’
He stills, voice going flat, tension humming through him as the drums pound. ‘What?’
‘I was dreaming it was still in me. I was controlling ... everything. Every Law of Time broken, twisted by me.’ A pause. Then, quieter still, ‘I liked it.’
For several moments, he stands there, silent, frozen into immobility. When he speaks his voice is sharp. ‘Is it still in you?’
‘I - I don’t know.’ The Doctor looks miserable and tired and scared, hunched down into himself, arms wrapped tight around his knees. He looks like a little boy. The Vortex might still be inside him. Fear curls through the Master, snake-tongue flickering at the edges of his mind, muscles tightening in response.
‘We need to check.’ They both know what he means. The Doctor looks at him, eyes wide and solemn.
‘What if it’s still there and it gets inside you too?’
This is not a good thought, but it’s better than the idea of being at the mercy of an all-powerful Doctor. He shakes his head and does not reply, stepping closer and kneeling on the bed instead, facing the Doctor with scant inches between them. The Doctor unfolds until he is sitting cross-legged, ankles almost touching the Master’s knees. He raises his hands, brings them up to frame the Doctor’s face and leans their heads together.
He slides into the Doctor’s mind easily, seeping through the silver-sheen shields and into the chaos beyond. And it is chaos, fear bright and jagged, slicing at him. He skims through, searching, not bothering with mental constructs. This kind of psychic contact ... it’s so close, and it’s been so long. The Doctor is allowing him full access, too scared that the Master might miss something, some Vortex-spark, to erect any barriers. Satisfaction courses through him. This is how it should be. He is distantly aware that he is becoming hard, the thread of mind to body loose. For now, he ignores it. He wants to take full advantage of the total access the Doctor is allowing him. But first he must be sure there is no Vortex.
Focussed again, he continues his search. Words fail to describe psychic contact without using mental constructs, but the closest he can come to it is colour and shape and movement. The Doctor’s mind is bright, and some of the colours clash. That is how it has always been. This body’s mind moves quicker though, often without direction, and the small patches of darkness that had always been present, since the very first, have grown deep and impenetrable in the recesses, encroaching on other parts with shadowy tendrils, dimming the vivid, swirling colours.
The search reveals nothing. The Doctor’s mind is different, yes; there is even a little strangeness about it - unsurprising, considering - but he can find no spark of the Vortex, large or small. A thought brushes against him, then begins twining round in little flashes of pleasure. The Doctor’s fear is receding, being replaced by contentment and arousal at the mental contact after so long without it.
Slowly, teasingly, the Master draws his mind back until only the most tenuous of mental links remains, becoming fully aware of his surroundings and undeniably aroused body once again. He isn’t sure who kisses whom first, but he is more than happy to continue it, curling his tongue into the Doctor’s mouth as his thoughts had into his mind only moments before. He pushes them back, the Doctor’s legs unfolding so that he kneels between them, leaning over the taller Time Lord, pinning his arms above his head and leaning over, down, the kiss becoming hard and heated, a fight for dominance that the Doctor isn’t really trying to win.
He pulls back a little, smirking, satisfaction spreading warm through his chest. When he speaks, his mouth is close enough that their lips brush together, light and breathy, his voice a low, smug purr. ‘You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you? Probably since you first saw me, all the way at the end of the Universe. So lonely, so desperate.’ The Doctor shrugs, glances aside, but they both know it is true, reality condensed and simplified into a few sentences. It might not be the whole story (the whole story is much too long, sprawling and complicated, some of it lost and forgotten to their conscious minds, still shaping them even for all that) but that doesn’t make it a lie.
The Doctor’s erection is hard and hot against his thigh, and he shifts to bring his own into firmer contact, pleasure rippling through him as he moves, the last of the fear that had clouded them dissipating to give way to pure lust. It has been a long time, and he can’t help but note the differences. The Doctor’s body is long, thin and lean, one leg rising to curl around him, and he feels it again, the thrill of control, the knowledge that the Doctor is desperate for him, and in this at least he holds all the power. It makes him grind down harder, the kiss turning savage, pleasure and desperation-edged arousal chasing away his worries, his anger, the drums pounding a low counterpoint to the beating of his hearts.
He had slept with Lucy, of course, and others, but for so long now all he has had is humans, and this is different. Better. When he touches the Doctor it doesn’t feel like he’s on the verge of burning, it feels right. Later, when he can think, when he is no longer overwhelmed by sensation and a tangle of emotions he can’t begin to catalogue or name, he might be angry, disgusted with himself for allowing this, for giving in to temptation and desire and the Doctor. For now, he pulls back from the kiss, feeling the Doctor’s gasps brush against his face, on the verge of respiratory bypass. He takes the mental connection, weak but fizzling gently between them, and opens it, widens it, plunging back into the Doctor’s head. He plucks the pleasure centres, stirs up regret and happiness and whatever strange mixture it is the Doctor feels about the Master. He plays him like a virtuoso, until the Doctor is whimpering and writhing against him, little half-pants and gasps and soft, broken moans that rise into mewls as he mirrors the pleasure, sending it echoing and rippling between them, each feeding off the other until they are both almost delirious with sensation.
Orgasm comes for them both at the same moment, in a haze of white and gold that sweeps away all thought and memory and leaves only that second, which stretches on forever and is over far too soon. For long seconds, he slumps over the Doctor, dazed and sated, bathing in satisfaction and physical release, a tired smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. They have fallen so they are facing each other, the Doctor’s eyes hanging at half-mast, looking hazy and content, sharing the air between them, every exhale of the Doctor’s drawn into his own lungs, the mental connection that had exploded into a dazzle of fireworks fading into something low and comfortable.
Now that he can think again, even with his jagged thoughts and emotions dulled and wrapped in the soft warmth of the afterglow, he wants to say something sharp and mocking, something that will wrap around him like thorny vines and keep the Doctor’s soft, pleased eyes off him. But he can’t think of anything, and it’s too late now anyway, the Doctor is asleep. He leaves instead, extricates himself from the tangle of limbs, pulls his mind back into himself until nothing of it lingers in the Doctor. He feels a little lonely, no longer entwined, and that annoys him. He steps out silently and heads back to his room. Maybe later he will lose himself in the depths of the TARDIS’s labyrinthine corridors, but for now he just wants to get clean.
Undiscovered, hidden in the darkest corner of the Doctor’s mind, the Vortex flickers and glows, pulsing golden.
Author: darklyenigmatic
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Spoilers for LotTL
Summary: The Doctor can’t let him go. He will do anything to save the Master, literally anything.
Characters: Simm!Master, Ten
Pairing: Doctor/Master
Warnings: Sexual content
Disclaimer: Not mine, unfortunately. BBC owns them.
Word count: 1772
Author’s Note: Um ... sorry? This is far later than I intended it to be, but at least it’s here. And there’s smut! That makes up for the wait, right? *feels guilty* Anyway, it’s finally done. Many thanks to edzel2 for the beta, and hopefully (though I can’t guarantee it, I only have two paragraphs written) the next chapter will come without such a long gap. Hope you enjoy, comments are love! :D
The Master frowns. The Doctor had been ... odd. Odder than usual, and that worries him, provides more to fuel his anxiety. He isn’t sure why he is worried - he certainly doesn’t care for the Doctor - but he is concerned that maybe the Doctor’s strangeness poses a threat to him. He does not seem himself, and if that is linked in any way with his absorption of the Vortex then the situation could be incredibly dangerous. It is not one he is in a good position to escape, either.
He ponders this. He considers what the Vortex might have done to the Doctor, too, but as it is something that has never been done before the possibilities are endless, and currently impossible to either verify or discount.
His musings are broken by an awful psychic scream that bursts across his shields in a flare of pain, momentarily blotting out the low drumbeat. He clutches his head automatically, even as he jumps up, the fear and raw emotion of the sound overwhelming. He is moving almost before he realises it, long strides and the TARDIS’s help quickly taking him to the Doctor’s room, a multitude of possibilities flashing through his mind. It never even occurs to him to ignore it. Later, he might be irritated by that.
He throws the door open - it isn’t locked; he doesn’t know if that’s the TARDIS’s doing or the Doctor’s oversight - and is confronted with the sight of the Doctor huddled, cowering, on the bed. It should send a thrill through him. It doesn’t. He moves closer instinctively, conscious mind seemingly not in control of his body. The Doctor is staring through him, unseeing, eyes dazed and frightened.
‘Doctor.’ There is no response. He tries again. This time the other Time Lord’s eyes slide into focus, the fear still sharp in them. The Master moves closer, wary. Every instinct in him is at war. Leave, hurt him, mock him, a small part even wants to take care of him. All of them fighting a terrible, multi-sided battle inside his head.
‘What happened?’ he asks, the most neutral path he can take. The Doctor shudders, then shifts, leaning in towards him like a cat seeking heat or affection or something far more indefinable. He doesn’t move, waiting. Finally, the Doctor responds, voice low and trembling, much like the rest of him.
‘Dream.’
He scoffs. ‘A dream? A dream? That scream nearly ripped my head open, and you’re telling me you had a nightmare.’
‘It was the Vortex.’
He stills, voice going flat, tension humming through him as the drums pound. ‘What?’
‘I was dreaming it was still in me. I was controlling ... everything. Every Law of Time broken, twisted by me.’ A pause. Then, quieter still, ‘I liked it.’
For several moments, he stands there, silent, frozen into immobility. When he speaks his voice is sharp. ‘Is it still in you?’
‘I - I don’t know.’ The Doctor looks miserable and tired and scared, hunched down into himself, arms wrapped tight around his knees. He looks like a little boy. The Vortex might still be inside him. Fear curls through the Master, snake-tongue flickering at the edges of his mind, muscles tightening in response.
‘We need to check.’ They both know what he means. The Doctor looks at him, eyes wide and solemn.
‘What if it’s still there and it gets inside you too?’
This is not a good thought, but it’s better than the idea of being at the mercy of an all-powerful Doctor. He shakes his head and does not reply, stepping closer and kneeling on the bed instead, facing the Doctor with scant inches between them. The Doctor unfolds until he is sitting cross-legged, ankles almost touching the Master’s knees. He raises his hands, brings them up to frame the Doctor’s face and leans their heads together.
He slides into the Doctor’s mind easily, seeping through the silver-sheen shields and into the chaos beyond. And it is chaos, fear bright and jagged, slicing at him. He skims through, searching, not bothering with mental constructs. This kind of psychic contact ... it’s so close, and it’s been so long. The Doctor is allowing him full access, too scared that the Master might miss something, some Vortex-spark, to erect any barriers. Satisfaction courses through him. This is how it should be. He is distantly aware that he is becoming hard, the thread of mind to body loose. For now, he ignores it. He wants to take full advantage of the total access the Doctor is allowing him. But first he must be sure there is no Vortex.
Focussed again, he continues his search. Words fail to describe psychic contact without using mental constructs, but the closest he can come to it is colour and shape and movement. The Doctor’s mind is bright, and some of the colours clash. That is how it has always been. This body’s mind moves quicker though, often without direction, and the small patches of darkness that had always been present, since the very first, have grown deep and impenetrable in the recesses, encroaching on other parts with shadowy tendrils, dimming the vivid, swirling colours.
The search reveals nothing. The Doctor’s mind is different, yes; there is even a little strangeness about it - unsurprising, considering - but he can find no spark of the Vortex, large or small. A thought brushes against him, then begins twining round in little flashes of pleasure. The Doctor’s fear is receding, being replaced by contentment and arousal at the mental contact after so long without it.
Slowly, teasingly, the Master draws his mind back until only the most tenuous of mental links remains, becoming fully aware of his surroundings and undeniably aroused body once again. He isn’t sure who kisses whom first, but he is more than happy to continue it, curling his tongue into the Doctor’s mouth as his thoughts had into his mind only moments before. He pushes them back, the Doctor’s legs unfolding so that he kneels between them, leaning over the taller Time Lord, pinning his arms above his head and leaning over, down, the kiss becoming hard and heated, a fight for dominance that the Doctor isn’t really trying to win.
He pulls back a little, smirking, satisfaction spreading warm through his chest. When he speaks, his mouth is close enough that their lips brush together, light and breathy, his voice a low, smug purr. ‘You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you? Probably since you first saw me, all the way at the end of the Universe. So lonely, so desperate.’ The Doctor shrugs, glances aside, but they both know it is true, reality condensed and simplified into a few sentences. It might not be the whole story (the whole story is much too long, sprawling and complicated, some of it lost and forgotten to their conscious minds, still shaping them even for all that) but that doesn’t make it a lie.
The Doctor’s erection is hard and hot against his thigh, and he shifts to bring his own into firmer contact, pleasure rippling through him as he moves, the last of the fear that had clouded them dissipating to give way to pure lust. It has been a long time, and he can’t help but note the differences. The Doctor’s body is long, thin and lean, one leg rising to curl around him, and he feels it again, the thrill of control, the knowledge that the Doctor is desperate for him, and in this at least he holds all the power. It makes him grind down harder, the kiss turning savage, pleasure and desperation-edged arousal chasing away his worries, his anger, the drums pounding a low counterpoint to the beating of his hearts.
He had slept with Lucy, of course, and others, but for so long now all he has had is humans, and this is different. Better. When he touches the Doctor it doesn’t feel like he’s on the verge of burning, it feels right. Later, when he can think, when he is no longer overwhelmed by sensation and a tangle of emotions he can’t begin to catalogue or name, he might be angry, disgusted with himself for allowing this, for giving in to temptation and desire and the Doctor. For now, he pulls back from the kiss, feeling the Doctor’s gasps brush against his face, on the verge of respiratory bypass. He takes the mental connection, weak but fizzling gently between them, and opens it, widens it, plunging back into the Doctor’s head. He plucks the pleasure centres, stirs up regret and happiness and whatever strange mixture it is the Doctor feels about the Master. He plays him like a virtuoso, until the Doctor is whimpering and writhing against him, little half-pants and gasps and soft, broken moans that rise into mewls as he mirrors the pleasure, sending it echoing and rippling between them, each feeding off the other until they are both almost delirious with sensation.
Orgasm comes for them both at the same moment, in a haze of white and gold that sweeps away all thought and memory and leaves only that second, which stretches on forever and is over far too soon. For long seconds, he slumps over the Doctor, dazed and sated, bathing in satisfaction and physical release, a tired smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. They have fallen so they are facing each other, the Doctor’s eyes hanging at half-mast, looking hazy and content, sharing the air between them, every exhale of the Doctor’s drawn into his own lungs, the mental connection that had exploded into a dazzle of fireworks fading into something low and comfortable.
Now that he can think again, even with his jagged thoughts and emotions dulled and wrapped in the soft warmth of the afterglow, he wants to say something sharp and mocking, something that will wrap around him like thorny vines and keep the Doctor’s soft, pleased eyes off him. But he can’t think of anything, and it’s too late now anyway, the Doctor is asleep. He leaves instead, extricates himself from the tangle of limbs, pulls his mind back into himself until nothing of it lingers in the Doctor. He feels a little lonely, no longer entwined, and that annoys him. He steps out silently and heads back to his room. Maybe later he will lose himself in the depths of the TARDIS’s labyrinthine corridors, but for now he just wants to get clean.
Undiscovered, hidden in the darkest corner of the Doctor’s mind, the Vortex flickers and glows, pulsing golden.