FIC: Adonis (Doctor/Master, NC-17, 1/2)
Title: Adonis
Author: extryn
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Tenth Doctor/Simm!Master
Genre: Year That Never Was, angst, darkfic, pwp, possibly crack
Length: 10 K
Warnings: Non-con (or maybe dub-con if you really squint), BDSM, fisting, anal, and Hello Kitty. Not joking.
The night before Japan burns, the Master celebrates. The Doctor is tired of resisting.
(Note: this unholy brainchild is set in a Japanese love hotel, in a very specific and very infamous room. I'm very sorry. Originally published circa. 2012.)
It's just as the Doctor realises he's been left in peace far too long that there's movement, somewhere outside. The muted clatter of weapons and chink of fine bone china make clear his short lived rest has reached its end.
He doesn't bother moving. The Master loves dragging him to his feet, shoving him to the floor; judging by the noise the tea hasn't been made yet (but the Master likes it scalding hot) and he's caused Francine enough pain already.
It turns out that he shouldn't have worried, or perhaps should have worried harder. When the doors open it's with a booming greeting and a gleeful rush in his step that the Doctor knows is meant only for him. The footsteps bounce closer until glossy black shoes bend at the open flap of his tent, then legs and a torso follow and the Master feigns a knock on the door they both know doesn't exist.
'Doctor,' he croons, catching the Doctor's gaze as if he'd always known where to find it. 'Oh, I have such a surprise for you.'
He says nothing. He's tiring of trying to guess the correct answers in this endless game they play. The Master's grin doesn't falter, and isn't that a bad sign? Now when he thinks he's won, the Doctor finds that he is right more often than not.
'Don't be dull, now,' chastises the Master, 'It's been a lot of work and I just know you're going to love this.'
Warily, the Doctor levers his aged body up onto one elbow. It takes him a while to gather the strength, long enough that the Master grows impatient and seizes the end of his tie like a leash, pulls him up with a savage wrench down his spine and dumps him back onto limbs that these days won't take his weight. Aching, the Doctor keeps still, wants to tell the Master he really can't move, but it's just another thing they both pretend they don't know.
The Master ducks his head inside the tent, peering down at the stiff tangle of limbs. Conspiratorial, he winds the silk around his hand a couple of times, pulls the Doctor's wrinkled head up to his with a smirk.
He doesn't whisper. Just breathes it, low and breathless with excitement against the Doctor's ear.
'I'm going to burn Japan.'
The realisation cuts through the dull ache in his neck, the perverse closeness. He finds his voice. 'What?'
The Master's face is a sort of derisive smirk, leaning back to observe the responses he's earned. 'Burn it, Doctor. Into ash. All of it.'
The world condenses down, like it always did, to this private moment of horror. It's not about Japan, never has been.
'No. You can't.' His reply is dried up, devoid. To the Master it's nothing but backdrop. Their faces are further apart now and somehow still spiralling inevitably in like binary stars. Deliberately, he is ignored.
'I bet you could see the flames from here. Millions of people, burning. They're all just fat, in the end,' the Master hums, his eyes somewhere far away. Imperceptibly, his grip tightens. 'I bet the whole sky would turn red.'
He loses. No matter what he says, he loses this game. But it's not just them and this filthy scrap of canvas because he loses what he vowed to never lose again. It can never be just them while there are those one hundred and thirty million innocent, human lives; that whole, ancient civilisation. And that's why he begs.
'Please, Master,' he begins, and the rasp that comes out feels as old as the voice that says it. 'What do you want? Just not this. Please.'
The Master raises his head to the right, closes his eyes as if trying to catch a sound on the air. His voice is a growl and it still sounds soft. 'I want, Doctor, I want the last sight of every inbred generation poisoning those islands to be their loved ones and then their homes and their nation on fire. I want their modern history to end the way it started.' He releases the Doctor's tie like a fish too small to be eaten, rests back on his heels. 'Don't look so miserable, I wouldn't be the first. You should know, how your precious humans beat me to it.'
The Doctor can only pant for the air he needs to drag his sight back up, choke out speech when he knows it won't matter what he says. He never listens. He clamps down on the grief so he doesn't have to know who it belongs to, tries to remember there are still so many million others he can save and channels it into sound. 'Don’t.'
The Master reaches into his jacket. 'Oh, I wouldn't dare. Not without having some fun first.'
The few expectant moments are almost worse than the pain itself which is bright and surging and feels like setting all of his cells alight from the inside. But it consumes him and even after his body has been torn inside out into youth there's a blissful relief, where the pain is still too strong to think but gently letting him go and it's a kind of rebirth. It's not long, then he's suddenly aware of light and being dragged somewhere, and the faces of Martha's family that both plead and curse at him.
He's stripped and washed efficiently by too many hands to tell whose are whose. It's only a little uncomfortable in light of the indignities that are surely yet to come - the neat little pile of clothing he's been allowed doesn't contain any underwear, which usually means he can expect them to be numerous and inventive. Only one guard is left as he dresses hurriedly. His customary suit is missing, replaced with a black zip-up jacket and some dark grey casual pants, which is different (and has to be bad), but he's grateful to be able to keep his shirt. He's hauled outside and taken away in a different direction than the way they came, and it's not to the Master's own quarters nor the bowels of the airship where Jack is kept when not in use.
The Doctor eventually recognises it as some kind of loading dock or transport terminal and can't deny a soft thrum of excitement when he realises they must be travelling somewhere. He hasn't seen the surface since they teleported here and can neither help the shame of wanting to see it again though he's well aware of the price. They take him into a small, military aircraft and buckle him into a plush seat opposite the Master who smiles knowingly and sips a glass of scotch. It's the most comfort he's had in weeks, but he's kept far from rest by the thoughts. The Master's gaze stays fixed just above him and through him where a screen plays something loud and colourful.
The trip is long enough to get through half a season of Teletubbies and they don't say a word.
When they exit, it's night and bitterly cold. The Master slips on a pair of leather gloves and waves away his security, the Doctor following behind, shivering, like he knows he has to. The biting wind reminds him what it's like to be alive and he's so tempted to just run, but he refuses to make that mistake again. This time it's about Jack and Martha's family and breaking the paradox. All of it is for him. He's the only one who can handle the Master.
'We're going to have a celebration, you and I,' says the Master, into the empty air. 'A farewell party.'
The Doctor only feels sick. All around him is his escape and it's an imprisonment more absolute than any other. He knows where they are.
'Tomorrow, all of this will be gone. Go on, give me those great big simpering doe-eyes, Doctor. Tell me to stop.'
'If that's what you want,' he says, dully. They're leaving some kind of hangar, into the lights of Osaka. The streets are empty and storefronts long destroyed, but the power grid is still functional and the city doesn't quite feel broken yet.
The Master doesn't turn. 'I don't need to ask you for anything I want. We both know acting the hero gets you off.'
There are people in the distance, scurrying around like rats trying to hide from the light. 'Where are we going?'
'Almost as much as your precious humans! You ought to know, you're the one who loves them so much. Or are you racist, as well as a hypocrite? Do only white ones do it for you, Doctor? No wonder you left dear Miss Jones to die down here,' he continues, blithely.
The Doctor falls silent, pulls the folds of his jacket closer together. It smells vaguely of disinfectant. He knows now why he's been given different clothes; to better blend in with the last survivors around him. It's miraculous, really, how they still endure. Businessmen and factory workers so far away from their lives and adapting, never giving up. When he realises all they will ever become now is his private spectacle, he can't take the same pride in it.
The Master turns a corner and takes them down something better defined by alley than street, where the lights have all been smashed and the waste and rubble are overflowing off the pavement. The rotted skeletons of lanterns hang in strings between the two tall walls of buildings, in shades of colour that the Doctor is sure were once all different. That they come to an open intersection where sheets of plastic blow through like tumbleweed both in one piece is something of a minor miracle he doesn’t really deserve.
Another face catches his eye as they make a right turn, eyeing them with suspicion from behind a shattered doorframe. He looks away, quickly, focusses on how the black fabric in front of him catches the chilly wind. Another sidestreet, this one strewn with boxes and cartons turned wet and soggy. The Master shoots a look over his shoulder, all raised eyebrows and amused sneer. He has nothing to say but feels like he should. Again, the Master ducks to the right, but this time it's an alcove rather than a street, lit with dirty neon pink. It's always somehow worse than he expects, so the Doctor tries not to, but when the Master beckons him in graciously to near total blackness he steels himself for some of the more unpleasant possibilities.
Nothing should be worse than all of this, all those people outside screaming and dying. He still jumps when the Master digs fingers into his shoulder and steers him into the dark, rushes of air he knows are a chuckle too soft to hear down his neck. A faint glow lies ahead and they enter a much wider hall, adorned with mostly-intact screens advertising what at first look to be an interior design convention before he realises every one contains some kind of bed. They illuminate stairs at either end, just visible, reflect off the numerals on brass plaques over their doorways.
'A hotel?' asks the Doctor, or at least the bits of him that can still feel incredulous at the Master.
The hand clamps tighter, the Master's breath warm in his ear. 'A treat.'
He squints a little harder at the screens. The pictures of the rooms they show vary from what look like libraries, to a boxing ring, to an aquarium. Some of them have clearly been built with other purposes in mind, but he takes a while admiring the creativity - it's a bit laughable that it's the most interesting thing he's seen in a while. Ancient Egypt, the Amazon, a train carriage. Something amuses the Master and he moves aside, slips into the dark. All of the screens show prices both per-hour and for an overnight stay which leaves little doubt what kind of service this hotel must provide.
'Ingenious, really,' says the Doctor, giving the display one last glance before turning to find the Master. 'I've always said humans were imaginative.'
'Hardly, but I don't expect the Freak has convinced you to take him to many pleasure planets,' the Master replies, off to the left and fiddling with a machine that looks something like a pipe organ.
The Doctor waits behind him, but a rack catches his sight and he browses it, gladly distracted and admittedly curious . It houses a variety of plastic-wrapped costumes and he pulls one out at random, dusts it off. Japanese school uniform, if he's not mistaken.
Unfortunately, the rustling attracts the Master, who shoots him a look. 'Really, Doctor? Was Rose a victim of your schoolgirl fantasies, too? But then again, you were always a dreadful student. You probably did it just for the caning.'
His words don't entirely hide the spark of lust in his eyes, but the Doctor decides to keep that particular revelation quite decidedly to himself. Dwelling on it seems futile; he realises the jibes cut more than they should.
A soft thump signals the machine is finished with whatever purpose it's been assigned, and on closer inspection, is a set of vacuum-tubes that vend keys to the different rooms. It's been designed with anonymity in mind - it all seems fully automated - and that peculiar quirk of human thought is a welcome comfort.
He's led up the stairs by a confident smirk and a smooth gait that speaks of purpose. They follow a hallway two floors up, a couple of people hiding at its end twitching upright and warily watching the Master slot a key into a room, open the door and lead the Doctor through.
The light switch flicks on and the offensive, obnoxious pink that is the first thing the Doctor sees somehow manages to make him feel even more nauseous. The walls are slathered in it, right down to the frightening shade of the carpet. Worst of all are the cartoon prints that decorate each surface of a character that has to have been branded on every item on Earth. It's sick, in the way the Master likes him to feel most; that in the end, his ideals are just as corrupted as the Master's own.
They find a bathroom on the right, completely glass-walled, but he's used to the lack of privacy and it's still better than lying in his own waste. The Master opens a final door onto a room that, in nine hundred-or-so years of time and space still manages to make his jaw slacken a little. He's beginning to realise the extent of "every item on Earth" when he catches sight of the plush toys displayed bound and gagged in a case, the cute little faces that cover the bedspread and the couch.
Of course, there are restraints; four for each limb on the bed, another four across a shockingly pink piano, two more still hanging from chains bolted firmly to the ceiling (and all of them pink). It's such an unforgiving parody of all the times he's been tortured, really, honest-to-Rassilon tortured, until his throat was too torn to scream and he was going to die from the agony alone and the worst, the utter worst thing was knowing no matter how hard he begged it would never be allowed him. Too many of those times have been at the Master's hands for it to be unintentional.
The Master's grin is as if he's told a particularly filthy joke as he says, 'Hello Kitty, the apotheosis of human consumerist culture. I thought you'd like it.'
Wordlessly, the Doctor sheds his borrowed jacket onto the floor, begins unlacing his trainers. The sooner this is over, the better. He doesn't need to be told. He hates that one way or another, the Master always reduces him to this. Hates that he still prefers it to remembering he's responsible.
He's trapped, held in place by the Master's gaze that sheds so much longing and hatred it pierces him straight through, even as he mutters, 'Always a whore, Doctor.'
He pulls off his socks, unzips his trousers. 'Why are you doing this?'
'You know why,' is the foreseeable reply. There's already a bulge in the Master's trousers.
The pants come off entirely and he starts on the shirt with a snarl. 'Got jealous of the genocide title? Can't bear to be outdone?'
His head whips to the side with a stinging, brick-wall force to his jaw and there isn't even any time for the pain to register before the Master strikes him again, harder, enough that his head hits the wall behind him and his vision swims and now it hurts--
--then there's a prod at his foggy thoughts and a ruthless tear but the sensation of having another Gallifreyan mind intertwine with his own eclipses anything else he could possibly feel. The Master slides deep into his consciousness, past any attempts to throw up any barriers or mental shields, so he doesn't try. Instead he's melting into the contact. Memories that are never far off involuntarily tumble and weave to the surface, but the Master discards those with recoil and attacks deeper, into his nervous system now, where data turns into sensation. Far away he realises this is dangerous but he aches in all those places that can't be touched by physical contact, aches for the roiling, rich mindscape of another Time Lord (though the Master's own consciousness is tightly guarded). The Master is perfectly capable of taking his mind by force, or he can submit freely and save himself a great deal of pain.
That's as far as he gets. Then his thoughts are ripped and tucked away somewhere unreachable and there's only sensations.
Pleasure tingles across all of his senses, gentle and teasing at first with fresh, warm scents and light touches and time bent around perfectly circular orbits and then stabs so hard and overwhelming it defies description, drowns out the awareness of his buckling legs and guttural moans. There's sudden, sharp pain that starts fuzzy and welling and crests through the warmth into panic-inducing spikes of white agony, recedes back to the euphoria dissolving each and every one of his nerves and he's battered from both directions, thrashing because it's so so much that he can't process it and he can't find purchase in his own mind--he's drowning in what he wants so desperately and can't bear because it's choking him from every direction, he can't breathe, oh Rassilon he can't breathe, half his autonomic processes cut off now like being crushed, or thrown in deep space, a vacuum of animal, primal panic, there's no air but it doesn't stop him from screaming--he can't think, trapped and consumed in the dark creeping in and rendering more and more of his consciousness inaccessible to a final pinpoint of pain and fierce, pure terror, and the Master's laugh chasing him down into the black.
In a desperate, lurching gasp of a breath he feels the Master tear from deep inside his mind, his vision grey and shapeless and fizzling with spots, heaving breaths like he's never tasted them before. His senses fade back in, suddenly empty; his shaking, half-bare form, slumped between the Master's penetrating gaze and the wall, arms pinned to his sides where they still twitch though their bodies don't touch. The hundreds of cartoon faces that may as well be the rest of humanity. He shuts his eyes and tries to cling on to the pounding blood in his ears.
The Master pushes weight against him, voice dark with lust. His lips drag along the Doctor's jaw. 'What do you want, Doctor.'
Somewhere lost inside him he finds his voice and drags it out of his throat. He can't help lean into the softness of the Master's face and the solid bulk of his body, cling onto something, as he manages, 'I want this to stop.'
The pressure leaves his wrists and the Master secures one gloved hand around his throat, pins him with the weight of his body and lands a hard blow to the side of his ribs. His yelp is stifled by the hand at his neck that effortlessly clamps down on his air, and while he has plenty of time now he has control over respiratory bypass again the message is clear.
'Don't you dare lie to me,' hisses the Master, fingers tightening what must be out of anger as it makes little physical difference. The Doctor struggles, needs to feel the pressure, the reality of it, but the Master pulls back with a hollow laugh, leaves only the hand around his neck anchoring the Doctor to the wall. 'If you left your mind any more open I could stop your hearts with one thought, Doctor. Tell. Me. What. You. Want.'
The grip relinquishes slightly, enough to allow a whisper of air to escape. He can feel a decal on the wall where it rubs against the back of his neck. 'Kiss me,' he rasps.
It earns him another backhand to the jaw on top of the others and this time he hears something audibly crack. The Master stares him down, takes no pity in his prolonged grimace of pain. 'Again!'
He turns his face away. He doesn't need or want to be told. 'Please, kiss me. Master.'
The leather, warm with friction, finds his wrists again and when the Master obliges it's with punishing force. He slams his head back against the wall with a thud, shoves his tongue past the Doctor's lips to taste blood where his teeth have cut the inside of his cheek.
It feels the same as it always has. When he closes his eyes it's as if he could believe nothing has ever changed, beyond the grating of the bones in his wrists and the Master's teeth bloodying his lower lip. It's warm rather than feverish and suffuses, fills his senses, even while any tenderness is overwritten by cruelty. He tastes just like he does in every regeneration, something that is so him and so much surer than anything else he's forced to rely upon. It's always been there when he's the most lost. It still reminds him who he is.
The Master breaks away first, sweeps a quick look down his body; naked save for a half-ruined shirt, jaw slack and lips bruised, swelling. He releases a hand to squeeze a gloved fist around the Doctor's erection and watch the pained moans he can draw out with a couple of rough, dry strokes.
It hardly feels good; oversensitized, stinging flares of pleasure that hurt as much as they satisfy, but that's a comfort of its own. While it's still far too much at once to focus on anything but steeling himself for the next onslaught, he doesn’t have to think about how much he still wants, needs the Master. Doesn't have to feel the shame that he's begging and hard for the deaths of millions of innocents.
It's over far too soon and he shivers against the wall, aching for what he refuses to accept he needs. The Master shakes his head, lip curled contemptuously, and ignores the twitches of his hips into cool air to instead seize his jaw in a crushing grip that makes him whine, and then unashamedly wail when he pries his mouth open with a twist of his fingertips. The fingers on his other hand slip past moistened, tender lips and the Doctor sucks and licks anxiously, tries to lose himself in the scent and taste of the leather, the peculiar tang he recognises as his own skin, the dirty bite of metal that clings there too. More fingertips press at the corners of his mouth which he accepts both despite and because it stretches his jaw painfully to accommodate them.
Satisfied, the Master withdraws and offers his palm. 'Spit.'
He complies, because the alternative is more unpleasant than he'd prefer, tries to search the Master's eyes for some kind of connection beforehand. The Master refuses to meet his gaze, so instead he steadies himself by grasping both of his shoulders, only to have something of him back. He realises his mistake when the Master's other hand snakes behind his head and wrenches fistfuls of his hair back, forces his chin to the ceiling. Instinctively he snaps both hands to the source of the burn, which only amuses the Master more, makes him pull harder until the Doctor gasps out a 'S-sorry!'
The Master won't relent, trails his gaze up the length of the Doctor's neck. 'Sorry, what?'
'Master,' he reacts, instantly, but teeth still bite down just above his collarbone, hard enough he can feel the blood spreading under his skin and he loses his voice to a whimper.
'"Sorry, Master",' he's corrected in a vicious hiss. His knees are crumpling, but the hand in his hair adjusts its hold and hauls him upright.
He scrabbles at the grip, mind reeling between the pain and the echoes of the Master's lips still soft on his neck and what he's supposed to do to keep it all from falling apart around him. He digs the clarity up from a cold, worn place inside him for the required 'Sorry, Master,' and shoves it back down, focuses on his scalp ripping clean off his skull. His nails scratch the back of the Master's glove uselessly until at last his feet find purchase, and he half expects the Master to pin his wrists where they've fallen above his head.
Satisfied, with a disbelieving shake of the Master's head he's released, the hand running, proprietary, down his bare skin until it reaches his left hip, where it applies a slight pressure and stays put. His other hand, leather still slick with his own saliva, grasps his arching cock and works loosely up and down, takes from him throaty, keening moans. The hand on his hip is a reminder to keep still and he does, hates it, hopes the Master will get impatient and hold him down instead. It's another cruelty, that a large part of himself is still firmly stuck in the present, devoted to bracing his body upright, to not pressing back to meet the touch that feels so, so good he could lose himself in it if only he'd be allowed.
It's not in the rules of this game, that much is obvious from the plastic-wrapped Hello Kitty adorned with barbed wire in the corner. When the Master's strokes become firmer, tighten just below the head on the up stroke, how he likes it, it doesn't stop him from trying anyway. The technique varies and these hands are shorter, stubbier, but the grip is the same, confident and solid, like he's done it for centuries (and he has). He shifts, slightly against the hand on his hip, rocks back and forth in time to lengthen the motion, aware that he's whining and throwing his head against the wall, but the glory is that with showers of sparks at the edges of his vision-every - time the Master - hits just - there-none of it matters at all.
When he's close, he lets himself fall into reckless abandon, bucks against the hand on his hip and chases that single endless moment of bliss. It's probably something in his open-mouthed, glazed stare, millions of light years away; the selfish, total disregard for what he's supposed to be doing here, that leads the Master to withdraw his hand like it's been burnt, wipe it with distaste on the fabric of his trousers.
The haze fades, slowly and then all at once, leaving nothing but need so urgent it's painful and boring through his groin up into his insides. A choked, desperate sound escapes his mouth when air makes contact with skin, empty but for a cruel chill that bites like needles and drags him kicking and screaming back from the edge when all he wants to do is jump. It's too late, the room fades back in colours too impossibly bright to be real, but the dull throb of his jaw and quiver in his thighs gouged out with painful arousal don't let him forget it's real, so much more real than he ever wanted this to be.
It really does fall to pieces then when the Master snarls savagely and seizes the back of his neck in a sticky grip, slams him against the wall face-first and snaps into ringing ears, 'It's always about you. Bloody pathetic hypocrite!'
He does it again and again until the Doctor's lip is bleeding in a thin ribbon down his chin and each resounding thud brings a high-pitched yelp, but it can't have been enough because the Master pulls him backwards and throws him, sends him sprawling across the room with strength borne from an age-old fury.
He lands on something hard and smooth with a cacophony of dissonant noises. For just a moment it all spirals black and then it's over, leaving patches of colour and sound reverberating around the Master's ragged pants. He must feel as pathetic as he looks because he still needs something, anything but the pain in his body or worse, awareness beyond it. He breathes the Master's name like a dying wish and is rewarded with a glorious, muffled sound behind him like a moan cut short in his throat. There's the sound of a zipper being undone and half a sigh that's all the Master will allow himself, and he wants to turn around and look, because the Master has always somehow seemed beautiful, stops because he knows he isn't permitted and it always has to be about that else he gets nothing at all.
The sight of the Doctor slumped over the piano, little more than a shivering, broken mess and somehow further reduced to wanting it, is heady enough that the Master has to temper his arousal with a few lazy strokes, drinking it in. He walks around to where the Doctor's face mashes against the keys, takes in the flush of his cheeks, the spread of mottled corpse-blue across his jawline, the way his eyes are lost and lips parted in total surrender. He lets the tip of his thumb swipe up a line of blood left by a split lip and nudges for the Doctor to clean it, which he only does with a sickening gratitude in his eyes. He imagines fucking the Doctor's mouth until he chokes, fucking all that pathetic self-inflicted misery right out of him. It plays out in his mind right up to the comical look of surprise on the Doctor's face when he pushes a little too far and his limbs begin to seep energy, and he quickly stills his hand, lets go of his cock. Not yet.
The Doctor's hand reaches towards him with such unashamed pleading he wants to scour it off his skin. The ease with which he gives himself is as disgusting as it is arousing; it's almost pitiable, it's almost righteousness when he seizes the Doctor's wrist and brings it to the cuff screwed to a plate on the piano. The hideously pink veneer of the cover, he discovers, is cracked along the grain where a bolt has weakened it, which can only be a courtesy to all of humanity but entirely inconvenient for what he has in mind. It's with the air of martyrdom that he leans over and against the Doctor, slides off the top board of the cabinet with his other hand and discards it to the carpet where, somehow, the colours still manage to clash. The body beneath him is distinctly warm, radiating heat and sweat as it bucks into his suit. It's a relief to stretch it out, take both wrists and pull them up to the top of the cabinet, dangle him between the stool and the keys so there's no longer any purchase to arch off of.
The Doctor is so needy and willing he stays where the Master puts him while he reaches into his pocket for a blade, hooks it under three of the exposed treble strings and snaps them with a sharp yank and an ear-grating twang. He's glad for the extra protection of the leather when he winds a few loops of wire around the wrists still waiting for him, like some kind of abused puppy that hasn't yet figured out its fawning affection will only ever earn it more contempt. He twists the spare end around itself a couple of times to keep the loop in place, confident it's not tight enough to do any irreversible damage (though he hasn't tested the Lazarus technology on amputation yet, its restorative abilities are extremely promising), but the puppy analogy nags harder with the godawful whine it draws from the Doctor as he no doubt begins to realise the last thing he deserves from the Master is mercy. It's as if he has no idea how he looks, lip quivering and eyes all morose while the Master wraps the wire around his fingers a couple of times, pulls it taut to the other end of the iron frame and tighter again until it's about to slice his gloves to ribbons and winds it securely around one of the pins.
He slips a hand underneath the Doctor, just teasing, feels him harden again (glutton) and lets him chase his fingers further down towards the floor, until the wire begins to cut and he jerks away. Good. Novel, but nevertheless functional.
The glass case beside him unsurprisingly reveals what he's looking for and he withdraws a riding crop, thankful to find it matte-black and his dignity left intact. He lets it fall loosely by his side so he can hitch up the remains of the Doctor's shirt, runs fingertips down the curve of his spine. It's such a small touch and it has the Doctor responding beautifully, drenching himself in the caress like a man dying of thirst.
He steps back, tests the weight and flex of the crop with a flick of his wrist. It's sufficient - he adjusts his grip and lays the tip between the Doctor's shoulders, traces it halfway down his back. That the slim loop of leather is a lot stiffer than his gloves hasn't gone unnoticed; the muscles of his back tense suddenly and his head bows further once the sensation registers. The Master ventures lower, adds more pressure at the hollow of his lower back until he halts at the Doctor's tailbone. He's sprawled awkwardly over the stool, thighs half-off and toes braced on the floor, which won't do at all. He brings the tip of the riding crop just above the cleft of his arse and gently taps in rhythm, the Doctor following like a puppet on a string and shifting onto his knees, baring himself to his Master.
Arse in the air, the lewd slap of his erection against his stomach, he looks nothing short of obscene. On the grounds of contempt alone he aims two rapid strikes to the curve of his arse, sparing little strength as it makes the Doctor's breath catch into shallow, hissing gasps. He quickly figures out that squirming away from the blows only makes the wire dig more harshly into his wrists, leans up towards him, obedient, instead. Short, white lines erupt on his flesh that soon turn raised and red and deeper colours blooming underneath. That's plenty of time, overly generous; so his next stroke is harder, has his full weight behind it and whistles atop the other two with an impressive whack. It's accompanied by a cry buried within a fierce exhale, trails off into a groan, a diminuendo, when the welt begins to form.
He eyes off the sheen of sweat on the Doctor's back, the way his body shakes with each breath. 'Does it make you feel better, Doctor?'
A fourth, and this one really makes him tremble. How rude, to fidget when they have so much to catch up on. He finds a firm grip on his hip stills him well enough.
'No other Time Lords left to punish you.' He giggles as he says it, can't possibly resist it because the moment is just too priceless. 'Oh, and you've been such a naughty boy.'
His thighs, this time, because they better suit the angle, but if this gasp isn't almost a sob - a real sob! - and he keeps chuckling.
'Poor, bad Doctor. Double genocide! And those are just the ones in the War, aren't they? How many innocents, Doctor. How many do you think would be alive if you never played God in their affairs?'
Two more, again to his thighs and just as hard because there's no need for him to respond. His voice rises in pitch, sharpens. It's so much more effective and pleasing than any gag, still makes his saliva drip in long strings from his lips as he yelps. He moves in closer, crouches down so his mouth is level with the Doctor's ear and straining arms.
The laugh hasn't quite left his whisper. 'Non-interference, that's the most important law of all. Did it never occur to you there was a reason why?'
By the eighth strike, high on his arse, the Doctor's breath is held and his whole body jerks on impact. The ninth sees these exquisite, stifled whimpers where he won't let go of his breath and the noise forces its way out of him - the tenth hits in just the right spot to travel deep through his groin and has him moaning loud and long.
'No wonder you murdered them all. Didn't want to hear being God isn't all it's cracked up to be?' he addresses, straight through the Doctor's eyes that are scrabbling for purchase in his own. They're watering, but whether from pain or his dear, broken hearts is impossible to tell when he always looks this woeful (is he supposed to offer tissues and a cup of tea?).
He hovers there, a moment, fascinated by the anguish this regeneration likes to display so abjectly. 'And when it's all fallen apart, you think this is going to absolve you?'
'...M-Master,' whines the Doctor, with such supplication he can't possibly mean it. He stalks back around and hefts the riding crop, smacks it down on his thighs, doesn't care when it catches between his legs and he howls like a dying animal.
'I'm the only one left who can possibly understand what you've done. Is that it, I'm the only one who can forgive you?' It's still not enough. He raises his arm over his head, aims just above his lower back instead. 'Tough.'
The Doctor's jagged cry is a result to be proud of, to match the fast-bruising welt on his back. He bucks and there's a softer yelp when the wire slices his wrists; he's always looked so much better this way.
'Is it better, Doctor? Has the martyr served his penance?' he muses, punctuates it with four quick hits a little above the juncture of thigh and buttock, that sweet spot that's almost pleasure and makes the Doctor groan and groan. 'Atoning for his sins, bearing the deaths of a whole nation on his heavy conscience, enduring agony and humiliation, oh, does that make it feel better?'
Another, on his back again, his whole form twisted and straining away from the pain and into it all at once, sobbing breaths that make his thighs quiver.
With a hint of disgust, the Master runs his hand over the damaged skin, digs his fingertips into the welts and enjoys the wails it draws out of the Doctor's throat. 'Do you tell yourself you're here because you deserve it? The altruistic Doctor, accepting his punishment out of self-sacrifice, saving his friends from the same, terrible fate-it must get you hard.'
When the Doctor quietens, he switches back to the crop, three strikes that land sharp and fast over his thighs with little care where they fall, tear from him wretched cries that only grow louder when the pain floods through.
The Master pauses for a while, smirks behind his back because he doesn't need him to see. 'But you and I, we both know that's not true. You're no better than me.'
He waits for it to sink in; watches how the Doctor shivers, appraises the deep purple stripes he's marked him with. His whimpers subside down to ragged breaths, his eyes find focus, anchor against something he can hold onto. It's only a moment of clarity and then he squeezes his eyes shut as if he's glimpsed some terrible secret.
'You're here because you want this.'
That's all it takes. His voice is so desperate and so utterly broken, somewhere deep within his core, like somehow the Master can spare him from himself.
'P-please. Master...more. Please,' whispers the Doctor, hoarse. It sends heat shooting straight down into his crotch, so sudden and powerful as if he's been kicked, turns his knees weak.
The Master shakes his head in disbelief, clamps down on his own arousal. 'I can beat you until the skin sloughs right off your bones, and it still doesn't change that it's never coming back and it's your fault. You're still hard, Doctor.'
Author: extryn
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Tenth Doctor/Simm!Master
Genre: Year That Never Was, angst, darkfic, pwp, possibly crack
Length: 10 K
Warnings: Non-con (or maybe dub-con if you really squint), BDSM, fisting, anal, and Hello Kitty. Not joking.
The night before Japan burns, the Master celebrates. The Doctor is tired of resisting.
(Note: this unholy brainchild is set in a Japanese love hotel, in a very specific and very infamous room. I'm very sorry. Originally published circa. 2012.)
It's just as the Doctor realises he's been left in peace far too long that there's movement, somewhere outside. The muted clatter of weapons and chink of fine bone china make clear his short lived rest has reached its end.
He doesn't bother moving. The Master loves dragging him to his feet, shoving him to the floor; judging by the noise the tea hasn't been made yet (but the Master likes it scalding hot) and he's caused Francine enough pain already.
It turns out that he shouldn't have worried, or perhaps should have worried harder. When the doors open it's with a booming greeting and a gleeful rush in his step that the Doctor knows is meant only for him. The footsteps bounce closer until glossy black shoes bend at the open flap of his tent, then legs and a torso follow and the Master feigns a knock on the door they both know doesn't exist.
'Doctor,' he croons, catching the Doctor's gaze as if he'd always known where to find it. 'Oh, I have such a surprise for you.'
He says nothing. He's tiring of trying to guess the correct answers in this endless game they play. The Master's grin doesn't falter, and isn't that a bad sign? Now when he thinks he's won, the Doctor finds that he is right more often than not.
'Don't be dull, now,' chastises the Master, 'It's been a lot of work and I just know you're going to love this.'
Warily, the Doctor levers his aged body up onto one elbow. It takes him a while to gather the strength, long enough that the Master grows impatient and seizes the end of his tie like a leash, pulls him up with a savage wrench down his spine and dumps him back onto limbs that these days won't take his weight. Aching, the Doctor keeps still, wants to tell the Master he really can't move, but it's just another thing they both pretend they don't know.
The Master ducks his head inside the tent, peering down at the stiff tangle of limbs. Conspiratorial, he winds the silk around his hand a couple of times, pulls the Doctor's wrinkled head up to his with a smirk.
He doesn't whisper. Just breathes it, low and breathless with excitement against the Doctor's ear.
'I'm going to burn Japan.'
The realisation cuts through the dull ache in his neck, the perverse closeness. He finds his voice. 'What?'
The Master's face is a sort of derisive smirk, leaning back to observe the responses he's earned. 'Burn it, Doctor. Into ash. All of it.'
The world condenses down, like it always did, to this private moment of horror. It's not about Japan, never has been.
'No. You can't.' His reply is dried up, devoid. To the Master it's nothing but backdrop. Their faces are further apart now and somehow still spiralling inevitably in like binary stars. Deliberately, he is ignored.
'I bet you could see the flames from here. Millions of people, burning. They're all just fat, in the end,' the Master hums, his eyes somewhere far away. Imperceptibly, his grip tightens. 'I bet the whole sky would turn red.'
He loses. No matter what he says, he loses this game. But it's not just them and this filthy scrap of canvas because he loses what he vowed to never lose again. It can never be just them while there are those one hundred and thirty million innocent, human lives; that whole, ancient civilisation. And that's why he begs.
'Please, Master,' he begins, and the rasp that comes out feels as old as the voice that says it. 'What do you want? Just not this. Please.'
The Master raises his head to the right, closes his eyes as if trying to catch a sound on the air. His voice is a growl and it still sounds soft. 'I want, Doctor, I want the last sight of every inbred generation poisoning those islands to be their loved ones and then their homes and their nation on fire. I want their modern history to end the way it started.' He releases the Doctor's tie like a fish too small to be eaten, rests back on his heels. 'Don't look so miserable, I wouldn't be the first. You should know, how your precious humans beat me to it.'
The Doctor can only pant for the air he needs to drag his sight back up, choke out speech when he knows it won't matter what he says. He never listens. He clamps down on the grief so he doesn't have to know who it belongs to, tries to remember there are still so many million others he can save and channels it into sound. 'Don’t.'
The Master reaches into his jacket. 'Oh, I wouldn't dare. Not without having some fun first.'
The few expectant moments are almost worse than the pain itself which is bright and surging and feels like setting all of his cells alight from the inside. But it consumes him and even after his body has been torn inside out into youth there's a blissful relief, where the pain is still too strong to think but gently letting him go and it's a kind of rebirth. It's not long, then he's suddenly aware of light and being dragged somewhere, and the faces of Martha's family that both plead and curse at him.
He's stripped and washed efficiently by too many hands to tell whose are whose. It's only a little uncomfortable in light of the indignities that are surely yet to come - the neat little pile of clothing he's been allowed doesn't contain any underwear, which usually means he can expect them to be numerous and inventive. Only one guard is left as he dresses hurriedly. His customary suit is missing, replaced with a black zip-up jacket and some dark grey casual pants, which is different (and has to be bad), but he's grateful to be able to keep his shirt. He's hauled outside and taken away in a different direction than the way they came, and it's not to the Master's own quarters nor the bowels of the airship where Jack is kept when not in use.
The Doctor eventually recognises it as some kind of loading dock or transport terminal and can't deny a soft thrum of excitement when he realises they must be travelling somewhere. He hasn't seen the surface since they teleported here and can neither help the shame of wanting to see it again though he's well aware of the price. They take him into a small, military aircraft and buckle him into a plush seat opposite the Master who smiles knowingly and sips a glass of scotch. It's the most comfort he's had in weeks, but he's kept far from rest by the thoughts. The Master's gaze stays fixed just above him and through him where a screen plays something loud and colourful.
The trip is long enough to get through half a season of Teletubbies and they don't say a word.
When they exit, it's night and bitterly cold. The Master slips on a pair of leather gloves and waves away his security, the Doctor following behind, shivering, like he knows he has to. The biting wind reminds him what it's like to be alive and he's so tempted to just run, but he refuses to make that mistake again. This time it's about Jack and Martha's family and breaking the paradox. All of it is for him. He's the only one who can handle the Master.
'We're going to have a celebration, you and I,' says the Master, into the empty air. 'A farewell party.'
The Doctor only feels sick. All around him is his escape and it's an imprisonment more absolute than any other. He knows where they are.
'Tomorrow, all of this will be gone. Go on, give me those great big simpering doe-eyes, Doctor. Tell me to stop.'
'If that's what you want,' he says, dully. They're leaving some kind of hangar, into the lights of Osaka. The streets are empty and storefronts long destroyed, but the power grid is still functional and the city doesn't quite feel broken yet.
The Master doesn't turn. 'I don't need to ask you for anything I want. We both know acting the hero gets you off.'
There are people in the distance, scurrying around like rats trying to hide from the light. 'Where are we going?'
'Almost as much as your precious humans! You ought to know, you're the one who loves them so much. Or are you racist, as well as a hypocrite? Do only white ones do it for you, Doctor? No wonder you left dear Miss Jones to die down here,' he continues, blithely.
The Doctor falls silent, pulls the folds of his jacket closer together. It smells vaguely of disinfectant. He knows now why he's been given different clothes; to better blend in with the last survivors around him. It's miraculous, really, how they still endure. Businessmen and factory workers so far away from their lives and adapting, never giving up. When he realises all they will ever become now is his private spectacle, he can't take the same pride in it.
The Master turns a corner and takes them down something better defined by alley than street, where the lights have all been smashed and the waste and rubble are overflowing off the pavement. The rotted skeletons of lanterns hang in strings between the two tall walls of buildings, in shades of colour that the Doctor is sure were once all different. That they come to an open intersection where sheets of plastic blow through like tumbleweed both in one piece is something of a minor miracle he doesn’t really deserve.
Another face catches his eye as they make a right turn, eyeing them with suspicion from behind a shattered doorframe. He looks away, quickly, focusses on how the black fabric in front of him catches the chilly wind. Another sidestreet, this one strewn with boxes and cartons turned wet and soggy. The Master shoots a look over his shoulder, all raised eyebrows and amused sneer. He has nothing to say but feels like he should. Again, the Master ducks to the right, but this time it's an alcove rather than a street, lit with dirty neon pink. It's always somehow worse than he expects, so the Doctor tries not to, but when the Master beckons him in graciously to near total blackness he steels himself for some of the more unpleasant possibilities.
Nothing should be worse than all of this, all those people outside screaming and dying. He still jumps when the Master digs fingers into his shoulder and steers him into the dark, rushes of air he knows are a chuckle too soft to hear down his neck. A faint glow lies ahead and they enter a much wider hall, adorned with mostly-intact screens advertising what at first look to be an interior design convention before he realises every one contains some kind of bed. They illuminate stairs at either end, just visible, reflect off the numerals on brass plaques over their doorways.
'A hotel?' asks the Doctor, or at least the bits of him that can still feel incredulous at the Master.
The hand clamps tighter, the Master's breath warm in his ear. 'A treat.'
He squints a little harder at the screens. The pictures of the rooms they show vary from what look like libraries, to a boxing ring, to an aquarium. Some of them have clearly been built with other purposes in mind, but he takes a while admiring the creativity - it's a bit laughable that it's the most interesting thing he's seen in a while. Ancient Egypt, the Amazon, a train carriage. Something amuses the Master and he moves aside, slips into the dark. All of the screens show prices both per-hour and for an overnight stay which leaves little doubt what kind of service this hotel must provide.
'Ingenious, really,' says the Doctor, giving the display one last glance before turning to find the Master. 'I've always said humans were imaginative.'
'Hardly, but I don't expect the Freak has convinced you to take him to many pleasure planets,' the Master replies, off to the left and fiddling with a machine that looks something like a pipe organ.
The Doctor waits behind him, but a rack catches his sight and he browses it, gladly distracted and admittedly curious . It houses a variety of plastic-wrapped costumes and he pulls one out at random, dusts it off. Japanese school uniform, if he's not mistaken.
Unfortunately, the rustling attracts the Master, who shoots him a look. 'Really, Doctor? Was Rose a victim of your schoolgirl fantasies, too? But then again, you were always a dreadful student. You probably did it just for the caning.'
His words don't entirely hide the spark of lust in his eyes, but the Doctor decides to keep that particular revelation quite decidedly to himself. Dwelling on it seems futile; he realises the jibes cut more than they should.
A soft thump signals the machine is finished with whatever purpose it's been assigned, and on closer inspection, is a set of vacuum-tubes that vend keys to the different rooms. It's been designed with anonymity in mind - it all seems fully automated - and that peculiar quirk of human thought is a welcome comfort.
He's led up the stairs by a confident smirk and a smooth gait that speaks of purpose. They follow a hallway two floors up, a couple of people hiding at its end twitching upright and warily watching the Master slot a key into a room, open the door and lead the Doctor through.
The light switch flicks on and the offensive, obnoxious pink that is the first thing the Doctor sees somehow manages to make him feel even more nauseous. The walls are slathered in it, right down to the frightening shade of the carpet. Worst of all are the cartoon prints that decorate each surface of a character that has to have been branded on every item on Earth. It's sick, in the way the Master likes him to feel most; that in the end, his ideals are just as corrupted as the Master's own.
They find a bathroom on the right, completely glass-walled, but he's used to the lack of privacy and it's still better than lying in his own waste. The Master opens a final door onto a room that, in nine hundred-or-so years of time and space still manages to make his jaw slacken a little. He's beginning to realise the extent of "every item on Earth" when he catches sight of the plush toys displayed bound and gagged in a case, the cute little faces that cover the bedspread and the couch.
Of course, there are restraints; four for each limb on the bed, another four across a shockingly pink piano, two more still hanging from chains bolted firmly to the ceiling (and all of them pink). It's such an unforgiving parody of all the times he's been tortured, really, honest-to-Rassilon tortured, until his throat was too torn to scream and he was going to die from the agony alone and the worst, the utter worst thing was knowing no matter how hard he begged it would never be allowed him. Too many of those times have been at the Master's hands for it to be unintentional.
The Master's grin is as if he's told a particularly filthy joke as he says, 'Hello Kitty, the apotheosis of human consumerist culture. I thought you'd like it.'
Wordlessly, the Doctor sheds his borrowed jacket onto the floor, begins unlacing his trainers. The sooner this is over, the better. He doesn't need to be told. He hates that one way or another, the Master always reduces him to this. Hates that he still prefers it to remembering he's responsible.
He's trapped, held in place by the Master's gaze that sheds so much longing and hatred it pierces him straight through, even as he mutters, 'Always a whore, Doctor.'
He pulls off his socks, unzips his trousers. 'Why are you doing this?'
'You know why,' is the foreseeable reply. There's already a bulge in the Master's trousers.
The pants come off entirely and he starts on the shirt with a snarl. 'Got jealous of the genocide title? Can't bear to be outdone?'
His head whips to the side with a stinging, brick-wall force to his jaw and there isn't even any time for the pain to register before the Master strikes him again, harder, enough that his head hits the wall behind him and his vision swims and now it hurts--
--then there's a prod at his foggy thoughts and a ruthless tear but the sensation of having another Gallifreyan mind intertwine with his own eclipses anything else he could possibly feel. The Master slides deep into his consciousness, past any attempts to throw up any barriers or mental shields, so he doesn't try. Instead he's melting into the contact. Memories that are never far off involuntarily tumble and weave to the surface, but the Master discards those with recoil and attacks deeper, into his nervous system now, where data turns into sensation. Far away he realises this is dangerous but he aches in all those places that can't be touched by physical contact, aches for the roiling, rich mindscape of another Time Lord (though the Master's own consciousness is tightly guarded). The Master is perfectly capable of taking his mind by force, or he can submit freely and save himself a great deal of pain.
That's as far as he gets. Then his thoughts are ripped and tucked away somewhere unreachable and there's only sensations.
Pleasure tingles across all of his senses, gentle and teasing at first with fresh, warm scents and light touches and time bent around perfectly circular orbits and then stabs so hard and overwhelming it defies description, drowns out the awareness of his buckling legs and guttural moans. There's sudden, sharp pain that starts fuzzy and welling and crests through the warmth into panic-inducing spikes of white agony, recedes back to the euphoria dissolving each and every one of his nerves and he's battered from both directions, thrashing because it's so so much that he can't process it and he can't find purchase in his own mind--he's drowning in what he wants so desperately and can't bear because it's choking him from every direction, he can't breathe, oh Rassilon he can't breathe, half his autonomic processes cut off now like being crushed, or thrown in deep space, a vacuum of animal, primal panic, there's no air but it doesn't stop him from screaming--he can't think, trapped and consumed in the dark creeping in and rendering more and more of his consciousness inaccessible to a final pinpoint of pain and fierce, pure terror, and the Master's laugh chasing him down into the black.
In a desperate, lurching gasp of a breath he feels the Master tear from deep inside his mind, his vision grey and shapeless and fizzling with spots, heaving breaths like he's never tasted them before. His senses fade back in, suddenly empty; his shaking, half-bare form, slumped between the Master's penetrating gaze and the wall, arms pinned to his sides where they still twitch though their bodies don't touch. The hundreds of cartoon faces that may as well be the rest of humanity. He shuts his eyes and tries to cling on to the pounding blood in his ears.
The Master pushes weight against him, voice dark with lust. His lips drag along the Doctor's jaw. 'What do you want, Doctor.'
Somewhere lost inside him he finds his voice and drags it out of his throat. He can't help lean into the softness of the Master's face and the solid bulk of his body, cling onto something, as he manages, 'I want this to stop.'
The pressure leaves his wrists and the Master secures one gloved hand around his throat, pins him with the weight of his body and lands a hard blow to the side of his ribs. His yelp is stifled by the hand at his neck that effortlessly clamps down on his air, and while he has plenty of time now he has control over respiratory bypass again the message is clear.
'Don't you dare lie to me,' hisses the Master, fingers tightening what must be out of anger as it makes little physical difference. The Doctor struggles, needs to feel the pressure, the reality of it, but the Master pulls back with a hollow laugh, leaves only the hand around his neck anchoring the Doctor to the wall. 'If you left your mind any more open I could stop your hearts with one thought, Doctor. Tell. Me. What. You. Want.'
The grip relinquishes slightly, enough to allow a whisper of air to escape. He can feel a decal on the wall where it rubs against the back of his neck. 'Kiss me,' he rasps.
It earns him another backhand to the jaw on top of the others and this time he hears something audibly crack. The Master stares him down, takes no pity in his prolonged grimace of pain. 'Again!'
He turns his face away. He doesn't need or want to be told. 'Please, kiss me. Master.'
The leather, warm with friction, finds his wrists again and when the Master obliges it's with punishing force. He slams his head back against the wall with a thud, shoves his tongue past the Doctor's lips to taste blood where his teeth have cut the inside of his cheek.
It feels the same as it always has. When he closes his eyes it's as if he could believe nothing has ever changed, beyond the grating of the bones in his wrists and the Master's teeth bloodying his lower lip. It's warm rather than feverish and suffuses, fills his senses, even while any tenderness is overwritten by cruelty. He tastes just like he does in every regeneration, something that is so him and so much surer than anything else he's forced to rely upon. It's always been there when he's the most lost. It still reminds him who he is.
The Master breaks away first, sweeps a quick look down his body; naked save for a half-ruined shirt, jaw slack and lips bruised, swelling. He releases a hand to squeeze a gloved fist around the Doctor's erection and watch the pained moans he can draw out with a couple of rough, dry strokes.
It hardly feels good; oversensitized, stinging flares of pleasure that hurt as much as they satisfy, but that's a comfort of its own. While it's still far too much at once to focus on anything but steeling himself for the next onslaught, he doesn’t have to think about how much he still wants, needs the Master. Doesn't have to feel the shame that he's begging and hard for the deaths of millions of innocents.
It's over far too soon and he shivers against the wall, aching for what he refuses to accept he needs. The Master shakes his head, lip curled contemptuously, and ignores the twitches of his hips into cool air to instead seize his jaw in a crushing grip that makes him whine, and then unashamedly wail when he pries his mouth open with a twist of his fingertips. The fingers on his other hand slip past moistened, tender lips and the Doctor sucks and licks anxiously, tries to lose himself in the scent and taste of the leather, the peculiar tang he recognises as his own skin, the dirty bite of metal that clings there too. More fingertips press at the corners of his mouth which he accepts both despite and because it stretches his jaw painfully to accommodate them.
Satisfied, the Master withdraws and offers his palm. 'Spit.'
He complies, because the alternative is more unpleasant than he'd prefer, tries to search the Master's eyes for some kind of connection beforehand. The Master refuses to meet his gaze, so instead he steadies himself by grasping both of his shoulders, only to have something of him back. He realises his mistake when the Master's other hand snakes behind his head and wrenches fistfuls of his hair back, forces his chin to the ceiling. Instinctively he snaps both hands to the source of the burn, which only amuses the Master more, makes him pull harder until the Doctor gasps out a 'S-sorry!'
The Master won't relent, trails his gaze up the length of the Doctor's neck. 'Sorry, what?'
'Master,' he reacts, instantly, but teeth still bite down just above his collarbone, hard enough he can feel the blood spreading under his skin and he loses his voice to a whimper.
'"Sorry, Master",' he's corrected in a vicious hiss. His knees are crumpling, but the hand in his hair adjusts its hold and hauls him upright.
He scrabbles at the grip, mind reeling between the pain and the echoes of the Master's lips still soft on his neck and what he's supposed to do to keep it all from falling apart around him. He digs the clarity up from a cold, worn place inside him for the required 'Sorry, Master,' and shoves it back down, focuses on his scalp ripping clean off his skull. His nails scratch the back of the Master's glove uselessly until at last his feet find purchase, and he half expects the Master to pin his wrists where they've fallen above his head.
Satisfied, with a disbelieving shake of the Master's head he's released, the hand running, proprietary, down his bare skin until it reaches his left hip, where it applies a slight pressure and stays put. His other hand, leather still slick with his own saliva, grasps his arching cock and works loosely up and down, takes from him throaty, keening moans. The hand on his hip is a reminder to keep still and he does, hates it, hopes the Master will get impatient and hold him down instead. It's another cruelty, that a large part of himself is still firmly stuck in the present, devoted to bracing his body upright, to not pressing back to meet the touch that feels so, so good he could lose himself in it if only he'd be allowed.
It's not in the rules of this game, that much is obvious from the plastic-wrapped Hello Kitty adorned with barbed wire in the corner. When the Master's strokes become firmer, tighten just below the head on the up stroke, how he likes it, it doesn't stop him from trying anyway. The technique varies and these hands are shorter, stubbier, but the grip is the same, confident and solid, like he's done it for centuries (and he has). He shifts, slightly against the hand on his hip, rocks back and forth in time to lengthen the motion, aware that he's whining and throwing his head against the wall, but the glory is that with showers of sparks at the edges of his vision-every - time the Master - hits just - there-none of it matters at all.
When he's close, he lets himself fall into reckless abandon, bucks against the hand on his hip and chases that single endless moment of bliss. It's probably something in his open-mouthed, glazed stare, millions of light years away; the selfish, total disregard for what he's supposed to be doing here, that leads the Master to withdraw his hand like it's been burnt, wipe it with distaste on the fabric of his trousers.
The haze fades, slowly and then all at once, leaving nothing but need so urgent it's painful and boring through his groin up into his insides. A choked, desperate sound escapes his mouth when air makes contact with skin, empty but for a cruel chill that bites like needles and drags him kicking and screaming back from the edge when all he wants to do is jump. It's too late, the room fades back in colours too impossibly bright to be real, but the dull throb of his jaw and quiver in his thighs gouged out with painful arousal don't let him forget it's real, so much more real than he ever wanted this to be.
It really does fall to pieces then when the Master snarls savagely and seizes the back of his neck in a sticky grip, slams him against the wall face-first and snaps into ringing ears, 'It's always about you. Bloody pathetic hypocrite!'
He does it again and again until the Doctor's lip is bleeding in a thin ribbon down his chin and each resounding thud brings a high-pitched yelp, but it can't have been enough because the Master pulls him backwards and throws him, sends him sprawling across the room with strength borne from an age-old fury.
He lands on something hard and smooth with a cacophony of dissonant noises. For just a moment it all spirals black and then it's over, leaving patches of colour and sound reverberating around the Master's ragged pants. He must feel as pathetic as he looks because he still needs something, anything but the pain in his body or worse, awareness beyond it. He breathes the Master's name like a dying wish and is rewarded with a glorious, muffled sound behind him like a moan cut short in his throat. There's the sound of a zipper being undone and half a sigh that's all the Master will allow himself, and he wants to turn around and look, because the Master has always somehow seemed beautiful, stops because he knows he isn't permitted and it always has to be about that else he gets nothing at all.
The sight of the Doctor slumped over the piano, little more than a shivering, broken mess and somehow further reduced to wanting it, is heady enough that the Master has to temper his arousal with a few lazy strokes, drinking it in. He walks around to where the Doctor's face mashes against the keys, takes in the flush of his cheeks, the spread of mottled corpse-blue across his jawline, the way his eyes are lost and lips parted in total surrender. He lets the tip of his thumb swipe up a line of blood left by a split lip and nudges for the Doctor to clean it, which he only does with a sickening gratitude in his eyes. He imagines fucking the Doctor's mouth until he chokes, fucking all that pathetic self-inflicted misery right out of him. It plays out in his mind right up to the comical look of surprise on the Doctor's face when he pushes a little too far and his limbs begin to seep energy, and he quickly stills his hand, lets go of his cock. Not yet.
The Doctor's hand reaches towards him with such unashamed pleading he wants to scour it off his skin. The ease with which he gives himself is as disgusting as it is arousing; it's almost pitiable, it's almost righteousness when he seizes the Doctor's wrist and brings it to the cuff screwed to a plate on the piano. The hideously pink veneer of the cover, he discovers, is cracked along the grain where a bolt has weakened it, which can only be a courtesy to all of humanity but entirely inconvenient for what he has in mind. It's with the air of martyrdom that he leans over and against the Doctor, slides off the top board of the cabinet with his other hand and discards it to the carpet where, somehow, the colours still manage to clash. The body beneath him is distinctly warm, radiating heat and sweat as it bucks into his suit. It's a relief to stretch it out, take both wrists and pull them up to the top of the cabinet, dangle him between the stool and the keys so there's no longer any purchase to arch off of.
The Doctor is so needy and willing he stays where the Master puts him while he reaches into his pocket for a blade, hooks it under three of the exposed treble strings and snaps them with a sharp yank and an ear-grating twang. He's glad for the extra protection of the leather when he winds a few loops of wire around the wrists still waiting for him, like some kind of abused puppy that hasn't yet figured out its fawning affection will only ever earn it more contempt. He twists the spare end around itself a couple of times to keep the loop in place, confident it's not tight enough to do any irreversible damage (though he hasn't tested the Lazarus technology on amputation yet, its restorative abilities are extremely promising), but the puppy analogy nags harder with the godawful whine it draws from the Doctor as he no doubt begins to realise the last thing he deserves from the Master is mercy. It's as if he has no idea how he looks, lip quivering and eyes all morose while the Master wraps the wire around his fingers a couple of times, pulls it taut to the other end of the iron frame and tighter again until it's about to slice his gloves to ribbons and winds it securely around one of the pins.
He slips a hand underneath the Doctor, just teasing, feels him harden again (glutton) and lets him chase his fingers further down towards the floor, until the wire begins to cut and he jerks away. Good. Novel, but nevertheless functional.
The glass case beside him unsurprisingly reveals what he's looking for and he withdraws a riding crop, thankful to find it matte-black and his dignity left intact. He lets it fall loosely by his side so he can hitch up the remains of the Doctor's shirt, runs fingertips down the curve of his spine. It's such a small touch and it has the Doctor responding beautifully, drenching himself in the caress like a man dying of thirst.
He steps back, tests the weight and flex of the crop with a flick of his wrist. It's sufficient - he adjusts his grip and lays the tip between the Doctor's shoulders, traces it halfway down his back. That the slim loop of leather is a lot stiffer than his gloves hasn't gone unnoticed; the muscles of his back tense suddenly and his head bows further once the sensation registers. The Master ventures lower, adds more pressure at the hollow of his lower back until he halts at the Doctor's tailbone. He's sprawled awkwardly over the stool, thighs half-off and toes braced on the floor, which won't do at all. He brings the tip of the riding crop just above the cleft of his arse and gently taps in rhythm, the Doctor following like a puppet on a string and shifting onto his knees, baring himself to his Master.
Arse in the air, the lewd slap of his erection against his stomach, he looks nothing short of obscene. On the grounds of contempt alone he aims two rapid strikes to the curve of his arse, sparing little strength as it makes the Doctor's breath catch into shallow, hissing gasps. He quickly figures out that squirming away from the blows only makes the wire dig more harshly into his wrists, leans up towards him, obedient, instead. Short, white lines erupt on his flesh that soon turn raised and red and deeper colours blooming underneath. That's plenty of time, overly generous; so his next stroke is harder, has his full weight behind it and whistles atop the other two with an impressive whack. It's accompanied by a cry buried within a fierce exhale, trails off into a groan, a diminuendo, when the welt begins to form.
He eyes off the sheen of sweat on the Doctor's back, the way his body shakes with each breath. 'Does it make you feel better, Doctor?'
A fourth, and this one really makes him tremble. How rude, to fidget when they have so much to catch up on. He finds a firm grip on his hip stills him well enough.
'No other Time Lords left to punish you.' He giggles as he says it, can't possibly resist it because the moment is just too priceless. 'Oh, and you've been such a naughty boy.'
His thighs, this time, because they better suit the angle, but if this gasp isn't almost a sob - a real sob! - and he keeps chuckling.
'Poor, bad Doctor. Double genocide! And those are just the ones in the War, aren't they? How many innocents, Doctor. How many do you think would be alive if you never played God in their affairs?'
Two more, again to his thighs and just as hard because there's no need for him to respond. His voice rises in pitch, sharpens. It's so much more effective and pleasing than any gag, still makes his saliva drip in long strings from his lips as he yelps. He moves in closer, crouches down so his mouth is level with the Doctor's ear and straining arms.
The laugh hasn't quite left his whisper. 'Non-interference, that's the most important law of all. Did it never occur to you there was a reason why?'
By the eighth strike, high on his arse, the Doctor's breath is held and his whole body jerks on impact. The ninth sees these exquisite, stifled whimpers where he won't let go of his breath and the noise forces its way out of him - the tenth hits in just the right spot to travel deep through his groin and has him moaning loud and long.
'No wonder you murdered them all. Didn't want to hear being God isn't all it's cracked up to be?' he addresses, straight through the Doctor's eyes that are scrabbling for purchase in his own. They're watering, but whether from pain or his dear, broken hearts is impossible to tell when he always looks this woeful (is he supposed to offer tissues and a cup of tea?).
He hovers there, a moment, fascinated by the anguish this regeneration likes to display so abjectly. 'And when it's all fallen apart, you think this is going to absolve you?'
'...M-Master,' whines the Doctor, with such supplication he can't possibly mean it. He stalks back around and hefts the riding crop, smacks it down on his thighs, doesn't care when it catches between his legs and he howls like a dying animal.
'I'm the only one left who can possibly understand what you've done. Is that it, I'm the only one who can forgive you?' It's still not enough. He raises his arm over his head, aims just above his lower back instead. 'Tough.'
The Doctor's jagged cry is a result to be proud of, to match the fast-bruising welt on his back. He bucks and there's a softer yelp when the wire slices his wrists; he's always looked so much better this way.
'Is it better, Doctor? Has the martyr served his penance?' he muses, punctuates it with four quick hits a little above the juncture of thigh and buttock, that sweet spot that's almost pleasure and makes the Doctor groan and groan. 'Atoning for his sins, bearing the deaths of a whole nation on his heavy conscience, enduring agony and humiliation, oh, does that make it feel better?'
Another, on his back again, his whole form twisted and straining away from the pain and into it all at once, sobbing breaths that make his thighs quiver.
With a hint of disgust, the Master runs his hand over the damaged skin, digs his fingertips into the welts and enjoys the wails it draws out of the Doctor's throat. 'Do you tell yourself you're here because you deserve it? The altruistic Doctor, accepting his punishment out of self-sacrifice, saving his friends from the same, terrible fate-it must get you hard.'
When the Doctor quietens, he switches back to the crop, three strikes that land sharp and fast over his thighs with little care where they fall, tear from him wretched cries that only grow louder when the pain floods through.
The Master pauses for a while, smirks behind his back because he doesn't need him to see. 'But you and I, we both know that's not true. You're no better than me.'
He waits for it to sink in; watches how the Doctor shivers, appraises the deep purple stripes he's marked him with. His whimpers subside down to ragged breaths, his eyes find focus, anchor against something he can hold onto. It's only a moment of clarity and then he squeezes his eyes shut as if he's glimpsed some terrible secret.
'You're here because you want this.'
That's all it takes. His voice is so desperate and so utterly broken, somewhere deep within his core, like somehow the Master can spare him from himself.
'P-please. Master...more. Please,' whispers the Doctor, hoarse. It sends heat shooting straight down into his crotch, so sudden and powerful as if he's been kicked, turns his knees weak.
The Master shakes his head in disbelief, clamps down on his own arousal. 'I can beat you until the skin sloughs right off your bones, and it still doesn't change that it's never coming back and it's your fault. You're still hard, Doctor.'