La Grande Mort (Doctor's POV)
‘How good is your self-control, Doctor?’
Light. Daylight, in fact, and - where was he? The Doctor slowly opened his eyes, blinking slowly, his thoughts still drug-edged and sleepy. He was lying on a bed - tied to a bed - in some sunny, empty room of the Valiant, a large observation window not far away. His body felt odd - that was it, he remembered: the Master had de-aged him, put him back to his usual appearance - but then what?
He frowned at one of the straps binding his wrists to the bed, and then realised that wasn’t the only thing that felt odd about his body: he was naked. And as well as the generalised ache all over his body from the Lazarus tech, there was a more specific, localised pain in his left temple.
And the Master was watching him, waiting, a soft, cocky little smile on his face.
He didn’t bother struggling; the Master was cleverer than that. And where would he escape to? The Master didn’t even need restraints to keep the Doctor where he wanted him. All he needed were threats. Incentives. Which meant the restraints were for his satisfaction only, and the Doctor wasn’t going to amuse him by struggling against them. Whatever the Master was planning - and the Doctor was trying very hard not to think about it - he’d get through it. In a matter of months it would never have happened, anyway.
He told himself all this, calmly and rationally, in an attempt to ignore the part of his brain that was panicking, that had just woken to find itself naked and bound in the clutches of someone who was more-or-less an enemy, and was screaming at him to escape by any means necessary. Pushing it roughly aside, he forced himself to relax into the mattress and answered the question. ‘Good. Much better than yours, I’m certain,’ he said. He didn’t feel half as brave as he was pretending.
The Master must have known, because he laughed. The Doctor shuddered, not because of the menace in it - he was more than used to that - but because of the pleasure. ‘Shall we put it to the test?’ he asked, with a look of such delight that it hurt. Oh, Koschei. He was completely insane, wasn’t he? He’d been slipping slowly closer and closer to it for centuries, and now, with this latest body…what could he do to the Doctor that would be worse than watching his friend turn into this?
That wouldn’t make whatever the Master was planning less sadistic.
‘Do I have a choice?’ the Doctor asked. The Master grinned, walked closer. He was wearing his dressing gown; the Doctor didn’t think, somehow, he had anything on underneath.
He touched one finger to the Doctor’s chest, very lightly, trailing it down the skin. It felt - oh, he couldn’t deny how it felt. Good. More than good. Because no matter what happened to him, no matter how he changed, no matter what he did, somewhere under all the things that made him the Master was the person he’d once known. He believed that, because he couldn’t, wouldn’t give up on him. ‘Do you want a choice?’ the Master asked.
‘Yes,’ the Doctor said. And he did. ‘Whatever you’re planning, just don’t. Please.’
‘You don’t even know what I’m planning yet,’ the Master pointed out, a gleeful grin crossing his face. ‘You might like it.
He knew. Of course he knew. And in better circumstances he would like it - he hadn’t forgotten those times at the Academy, so long ago. But it had to be like this, now, didn’t it? Whatever they’d had back then had been warped and twisted, and this was all they had left. ‘I can guess,’ he said, doing his best to turn the pain he felt at that into sarcasm. ‘The nudity’s a bit of a giveaway.’
‘You don’t know the best part,’ the Master said, his tone mocking, and the Doctor’s hearts sank. Of course, there’d be something else at stake.
He felt the mattress dip under the Master’s weight, and didn’t bother trying to move his head away when the Master reached in and tapped it, in that far-too-familiar rhythm. That explained the pain in his temple; there was something attached to it. ‘This is a telepathic trigger,’ the Master explained proudly. ‘It’s wired up to a spare nuclear bomb or two those silly humans had lying around. Very careless.’
A telepathic trigger? Which meant it had to be something that happened inside his head that set it off, but what - oh, no. No, no, no. How good is your self-control, Doctor? ‘Guess what the trigger is!’ the Master asked triumphantly
He didn’t need to guess: it was obvious. ‘Don’t do this,’ he begged, knowing it was futile and hating himself a little for doing it - hating the Master for making him. ‘Please, you don’t have to do this.’
‘Of course I don’t have to,’ the Master told him, with a mocking laugh. ‘Ruling the world means never having to do anything.’ And he was right. The Doctor was naked and tied to a bed, utterly powerless; what kind of bargaining chip could he possibly offer to stop the Master from going through with whatever he wanted?
He closed his eyes, grieving for the world below, for the Master; he didn’t know which. Both. But at least he had that hope to cling onto, that at the end of all this whatever happened to the world below could be undone, could be erased. He didn’t know how to begin to undo the Master.
He felt the Master shifting forwards, felt the pressure of lips against his own, and didn’t react. Didn’t kiss back, didn’t pull away, just lay there and let it happen. What else could he do? ‘I want to,’ the Master whispered against his lips, and it took a moment for the Doctor to realise what he was referring to. Of course I don’t have to…
When the Master pulled away, and the Doctor opened his eyes, waiting for the inevitable. And then the Master spoke, a little breathlessly: ‘Kiss me.’
The Doctor stared at him, uncertain. The Master wanted him to kiss him? Why would he ask that? He was supposed to be being humiliated, surely, forced by the betrayal of his own body to kill whatever poor souls the Master had whimsically doomed.
‘You know better than to disobey,’ the Master added, when he didn’t move. He hadn’t intended disobeying; it wasn’t worth it. Coming, not for the first time, to the conclusion that this whole thing was completely insane, he leant up - uncomfortably, with his limbs bound to the bed and the Master half on top of him - and pressed their lips together.
Somewhere, deep down, a part of him had to admit that he wanted this. Not the circumstances that came with it, not the cruelty and the death, but the simple touch of lips on lips; he wanted that. And the Master kissed back only lightly, responding but not taking control. Even with the telepathic trigger firmly affixed to his head, even tied up and helpless, he could almost pretend this was something else. Something kinder. And oh, he’d missed this, he’d needed this…
And then the Master pulled away. ‘Good Doctor,’ he said mockingly, and the spell was shattered. Or would have been, if he hadn’t then confused the issue by grinning and asking, ‘Any preferences?’
He half-wished the Master would make his mind up; make this simple. But nothing between them was ever simple, was it? ‘I’d rather not do this at all,’ he said, letting his head fall back to the pillow.
‘Oh, but you want it.’ The Master started to dance his fingers across the Doctor’s chest again, brushing delicately over his skin, and how could he help but think of those fingers… No, he had to fight this. Couldn’t let himself think like that. He couldn’t. ‘You know you do. You don’t want the inevitable grande mort, but this…’
He opened his mouth, to say he didn’t want it, not at all, but found he couldn’t. The Master wouldn’t believe him anyway. He couldn’t lie, and he certainly couldn’t admit the truth.
So he closed his eyes and allowed it to happen, let those teasing fingers dip lower, brush harder, refusing to let them have any physical effect on him. Onto his abdomen. His navel. Detouring over the ridges of his hips, and then…
He took a sharp breath as that hand covered his cock, wrapping around it firmly. Couldn’t let himself get aroused. The telepathic trigger weighted heavily against his head, and he knew what that little device would do. He had to fight this, even though it was inevitable - because not fighting would be unthinkable.
The Master just kept stroking in a nice, steady rhythm that felt impossibly good until, however hard he tried to stop it, the Doctor felt himself begin to harden. Then the Master stopped.
Involuntarily, the Doctor’s hips bucked up into the lost contact, and he heard the Master laugh. There was a long second when he wasn’t being touched, other than the Master’s body pressing against his, and then a single, slick finger pressing inside him. He caught his breath, biting down hard on his lip so as not to cry out. He wasn’t going to cave in. Had to fight. How many people would that explosion kill? How many more would survive, wounded or with radiation poisoning?
Another finger, gentle, opening him up. Oh, this wasn’t fair. The Master couldn’t do this, he couldn’t, he couldn’t… When the fingers pulled out, after far too long, the Doctor tensed - even knowing that would make it hurt more, he couldn’t help himself - and waited.
He felt large - too large, he thought at first - as he pressed inside. Not too fast, which the Doctor was thankful for, but not giving him quite enough time to acclimatise; it hurt, his entire body prickling with it. He heard the Master moan, and flushed a little as he felt his cock harden more. No, he couldn’t - but then the Master was all the way inside and he felt his breath catch in his throat. And when the Master’s strokes settled into a regular rhythm, and the Doctor felt that taunting, teasing hand resume its stroking of his cock, he actually moaned.
‘Please stop,’ he begged, eyes opening only to see that the Master’s eyes were closed. ‘Please. Do what you like to me, anything, just don’t kill anyone, don’t make me kill anyone, please, please…’
The Master came, gasping wordlessly into the air.
Lying beneath him, the Doctor closed his eyes again, despairing, and waited for the Master to move. It didn’t take long. Two hearts: good stamina.
‘I didn’t come,’ he whispered.
‘Yet.’ The Master chuckled, his hand still loosely around the Doctor’s cock. He pulled himself out, a long slow motion, and settled back on the bed. ‘Now that I’ve had my fun - for now - it would be terribly ungentlemanly to leave you unsatisfied, wouldn’t it?’ He’d known it was only a temporary victory, but his hearts still sank. ‘What would you like?’
‘Don’t.’
‘Tell me what you want, Doctor.’ The Master’s voice was teasing, with that hard undertone that meant he was deadly serious. ‘You can’t pretend you don’t want this. You can’t control the outcome. I’m giving you a choice in how you get there. Anything you want, Doctor, as long as it gets you off.’
‘No.’ His voice was suddenly vehement. ‘I won’t have any part in this. I refuse. If you want to rape me, Master, I suggest you carry on as you were. But I won’t take part in your genocide.’
For a moment, he thought he’d actually startled the Master; then the other man laughed. ‘I wouldn’t rape you,’ he said. ‘Lucky for both of us I know you. I know what you want. I know what you don’t want to admit you want. And however much you might claim otherwise, you want this.’ And with that he leant down and took a kiss - not as gentle as before; a hard kiss, with an edge of violence. The Doctor tried not to respond, stubbornly, but how could he not? The Master knew him too well. He was right.
When the Master pulled back, they were both breathing hard. ‘You don’t want the deaths on your conscience, but you want me,’ he said, and smirked. ‘Pity I always come with a side order of destruction. Now, Doctor, what do you want?’
He closed his eyes, tried to turn his head away. All those people, going to die, because of him, because he couldn’t refuse this. Because the Master knew him well enough to know that the only thing he didn’t want in this were the deaths. If the Master had doubted that, if he’d been able to persuade him that he didn’t want this, this touch, his touch - would he have stopped?
If it were just sex. If there wasn’t a bomb somewhere on the earth below, set to go off the instant he came, then it would be simple, easy - even tied up, helpless. As if that would matter, as if he’d care. But the Master just couldn’t let it be that simple, that easy, could he? He had to make it difficult, had to make it hurt.
‘I hate you,’ the Doctor whispered, feeling tears gather at the corners of his eyes, and then - because he had to answer the question - said, ‘Your mouth. I want your mouth.’
At least he would have to stop talking. At least he couldn’t gloat.
He felt the Master shift on top of him - then, to his surprise, felt gentle little kisses, first to his forehead, then to his eyes, kissing the tears away. He couldn’t take this. It was too cruel. Too kind. If it were pain, if it were sadism, if it were cruelty and violence, oh, he could cope with that, but kindness…
‘You don’t hate me,’ the Master whispered back, and the Doctor had to bite his lip to keep from breaking into tears.
Too much of both, he thought, as the Master kissed his way down his body. It was cruel, oh so cruel, the whole point of this was to hurt him, to make him suffer. To lay another load of guilt on his already overburdened shoulders, made worse by the knowledge that he wanted this - and that he could have coped with, he was used to it, but not mixed with this, all kindness and gentleness, almost affectionate, he couldn’t, oh…
And then the Master’s mouth closed around him, warm without the feverish heat of humans and oh so moist, and he sobbed.
So long. He’d waited so long for this. The Master had to destroy it, make it wrong, oh, where was his Koschei? Too good, all too too good, but he fought it, always. Swallowed the noises, twisted and turned as much as he could, curse these restraints - but how could he ever win? It wasn’t just that the Master had all the power, physically and mentally - not just that his own mind simply couldn’t resist the urges of his body for too long - but how could he have won anyway when he wanted and didn’t want, craved and feared, loved and hated, all at once mixed up so tightly he’d never have won the war with himself, let alone his body, let alone the Master?
No. The bomb. He’d have walked out if he could. But if it weren’t for that, he’d have stayed here and drowned himself in the Master, over and over, till he was dead or as good as.
And then the Master moved away from his cock, and he had to bite his tongue to stay silent. ‘Look at me,’ the Master said, and how could he not?
The Master was lying between his legs, looking flushed, messy, but powerful, glowing, beautiful. The Doctor pressed his lips together, stared back, wondering what was going through the Master’s head. He knew better than to hope for some respite; it would be a fresh onslaught.
The Master started to tap the drumbeat out against his cock, thoughtfully, setting the Doctor’s teeth on edge. The moment when the Master came up with his plan was clear; he suddenly grinned, sat up. Reached for the lubricant.
The Doctor’s first conclusion, the most obvious, was that he was going to be fucked again. But faster than he could follow, the Master was kneeling above him, one leg either side of his body, knees pinning him in place. Then he dipped his fingers into the lubricant and reached not for the Doctor, but round his back and inside himself.
The Doctor stared, flushing hot and cool again, blood surging downwards. No, he couldn’t be - except that he very clearly was. Was there anything, anything, the Master didn’t know about? Anything he’d leave to rest silently, any button he’d shy away from pressing?
He screwed his eyes tight shut, unable to watch. Not that he could see anything - the Master’s dressing gown had survived thus far - but he couldn’t look, couldn’t look, oh, all those people… ‘Look at me,’ the Master repeated, and with a shuddering breath, the Doctor did. ‘You want this, don’t you? You want me.’
‘Yes,’ the Doctor whispered, and with that, triumphantly, the Master, as smoothly as could be managed, positioned both of them and slid down.
He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, hot, tight, and he couldn’t move, why couldn’t he move, it wasn’t fair, wasn’t fair at all, all he wanted was to thrust up, to bury himself in, in, not this slow tease the Master was taking, hard and fast and no, he didn’t want this, had to control himself.
The people. The deaths. He didn’t want to think about the deaths, it should have been just them, just him and the Master, the two of them. He bit his lips together, wishing he could close his eyes, because the sight was making it all worse; the wicked grin, the cruelness, and everything else, all those centuries, blurring into one moment, one breath, and he couldn’t come, couldn’t stop himself much longer. He found himself begging. ‘Just take it off, let this be about us, just us, only us, please, Master…’
‘I don’t do soppy,’ the Master said, and it might have been an apology, he didn’t know, was too far gone to know, but the Master contradicted himself, almost immediately. ‘Do you remember? When we were young. Remember, Doctor,’ he said, leaning closer even as he carried on moving, lowering his lips till the Doctor thought he might kiss him ‘Theta.’ And then he whispered his real name, making every syllable an obscenity.
And the Doctor came.
He didn’t close his eyes - didn’t quite dare - but it didn’t matter; his eyes blurred with tears anyway. He couldn’t see the look on the Master’s face, and he didn’t want to.
He heard the explosion, and the Master chuckled, a long, slow, slightly breathless laugh. ‘There,’ he whispered. ‘It’s all over now.’
‘How many?’ the Doctor asked, flatly. ‘How many dead?’
‘No idea.’ He seemed amused by it, and the Doctor finally gave up, closed his eyes, the motion dislodging a tear or two from his eyes. He’d had enough. He couldn’t do this any more. Couldn’t play this game. Couldn’t hurt any more. He needed somewhere to curl up, somewhere to sleep, somewhere to stop blaming himself for being a pawn in the Master’s scheme. Somewhere to sort all this out into something he could deal with. He turned his head to one side, which was the best he could do, and then felt the Master undoing the restraints.
He felt oddly, sickeningly grateful, for that - had to keep perspective, he reminded himself distantly - and as soon as one arm was free, curled over on his side as best he could. The Master tutted, undid the other arm, oddly gentle, then both legs.
When he was done, he uncurled the Doctor from the ball he’d wrapped himself into. ‘Oh, no you don’t,’ he said cheerfully.
The Doctor went along with him, moving where he pushed, head bowed. He didn’t want to see this. He just wanted to sleep.
They stood together at the window. Below them the land stretched out, a smooth, silent, deadly cloud rising above it.
The Master’s arms wrapped around his waist, and the Doctor didn’t resist him.
La Grande Mort (Master's POV)
Light. Daylight, in fact, and - where was he? The Doctor slowly opened his eyes, blinking slowly, his thoughts still drug-edged and sleepy. He was lying on a bed - tied to a bed - in some sunny, empty room of the Valiant, a large observation window not far away. His body felt odd - that was it, he remembered: the Master had de-aged him, put him back to his usual appearance - but then what?
He frowned at one of the straps binding his wrists to the bed, and then realised that wasn’t the only thing that felt odd about his body: he was naked. And as well as the generalised ache all over his body from the Lazarus tech, there was a more specific, localised pain in his left temple.
And the Master was watching him, waiting, a soft, cocky little smile on his face.
He didn’t bother struggling; the Master was cleverer than that. And where would he escape to? The Master didn’t even need restraints to keep the Doctor where he wanted him. All he needed were threats. Incentives. Which meant the restraints were for his satisfaction only, and the Doctor wasn’t going to amuse him by struggling against them. Whatever the Master was planning - and the Doctor was trying very hard not to think about it - he’d get through it. In a matter of months it would never have happened, anyway.
He told himself all this, calmly and rationally, in an attempt to ignore the part of his brain that was panicking, that had just woken to find itself naked and bound in the clutches of someone who was more-or-less an enemy, and was screaming at him to escape by any means necessary. Pushing it roughly aside, he forced himself to relax into the mattress and answered the question. ‘Good. Much better than yours, I’m certain,’ he said. He didn’t feel half as brave as he was pretending.
The Master must have known, because he laughed. The Doctor shuddered, not because of the menace in it - he was more than used to that - but because of the pleasure. ‘Shall we put it to the test?’ he asked, with a look of such delight that it hurt. Oh, Koschei. He was completely insane, wasn’t he? He’d been slipping slowly closer and closer to it for centuries, and now, with this latest body…what could he do to the Doctor that would be worse than watching his friend turn into this?
That wouldn’t make whatever the Master was planning less sadistic.
‘Do I have a choice?’ the Doctor asked. The Master grinned, walked closer. He was wearing his dressing gown; the Doctor didn’t think, somehow, he had anything on underneath.
He touched one finger to the Doctor’s chest, very lightly, trailing it down the skin. It felt - oh, he couldn’t deny how it felt. Good. More than good. Because no matter what happened to him, no matter how he changed, no matter what he did, somewhere under all the things that made him the Master was the person he’d once known. He believed that, because he couldn’t, wouldn’t give up on him. ‘Do you want a choice?’ the Master asked.
‘Yes,’ the Doctor said. And he did. ‘Whatever you’re planning, just don’t. Please.’
‘You don’t even know what I’m planning yet,’ the Master pointed out, a gleeful grin crossing his face. ‘You might like it.
He knew. Of course he knew. And in better circumstances he would like it - he hadn’t forgotten those times at the Academy, so long ago. But it had to be like this, now, didn’t it? Whatever they’d had back then had been warped and twisted, and this was all they had left. ‘I can guess,’ he said, doing his best to turn the pain he felt at that into sarcasm. ‘The nudity’s a bit of a giveaway.’
‘You don’t know the best part,’ the Master said, his tone mocking, and the Doctor’s hearts sank. Of course, there’d be something else at stake.
He felt the mattress dip under the Master’s weight, and didn’t bother trying to move his head away when the Master reached in and tapped it, in that far-too-familiar rhythm. That explained the pain in his temple; there was something attached to it. ‘This is a telepathic trigger,’ the Master explained proudly. ‘It’s wired up to a spare nuclear bomb or two those silly humans had lying around. Very careless.’
A telepathic trigger? Which meant it had to be something that happened inside his head that set it off, but what - oh, no. No, no, no. How good is your self-control, Doctor? ‘Guess what the trigger is!’ the Master asked triumphantly
He didn’t need to guess: it was obvious. ‘Don’t do this,’ he begged, knowing it was futile and hating himself a little for doing it - hating the Master for making him. ‘Please, you don’t have to do this.’
‘Of course I don’t have to,’ the Master told him, with a mocking laugh. ‘Ruling the world means never having to do anything.’ And he was right. The Doctor was naked and tied to a bed, utterly powerless; what kind of bargaining chip could he possibly offer to stop the Master from going through with whatever he wanted?
He closed his eyes, grieving for the world below, for the Master; he didn’t know which. Both. But at least he had that hope to cling onto, that at the end of all this whatever happened to the world below could be undone, could be erased. He didn’t know how to begin to undo the Master.
He felt the Master shifting forwards, felt the pressure of lips against his own, and didn’t react. Didn’t kiss back, didn’t pull away, just lay there and let it happen. What else could he do? ‘I want to,’ the Master whispered against his lips, and it took a moment for the Doctor to realise what he was referring to. Of course I don’t have to…
When the Master pulled away, and the Doctor opened his eyes, waiting for the inevitable. And then the Master spoke, a little breathlessly: ‘Kiss me.’
The Doctor stared at him, uncertain. The Master wanted him to kiss him? Why would he ask that? He was supposed to be being humiliated, surely, forced by the betrayal of his own body to kill whatever poor souls the Master had whimsically doomed.
‘You know better than to disobey,’ the Master added, when he didn’t move. He hadn’t intended disobeying; it wasn’t worth it. Coming, not for the first time, to the conclusion that this whole thing was completely insane, he leant up - uncomfortably, with his limbs bound to the bed and the Master half on top of him - and pressed their lips together.
Somewhere, deep down, a part of him had to admit that he wanted this. Not the circumstances that came with it, not the cruelty and the death, but the simple touch of lips on lips; he wanted that. And the Master kissed back only lightly, responding but not taking control. Even with the telepathic trigger firmly affixed to his head, even tied up and helpless, he could almost pretend this was something else. Something kinder. And oh, he’d missed this, he’d needed this…
And then the Master pulled away. ‘Good Doctor,’ he said mockingly, and the spell was shattered. Or would have been, if he hadn’t then confused the issue by grinning and asking, ‘Any preferences?’
He half-wished the Master would make his mind up; make this simple. But nothing between them was ever simple, was it? ‘I’d rather not do this at all,’ he said, letting his head fall back to the pillow.
‘Oh, but you want it.’ The Master started to dance his fingers across the Doctor’s chest again, brushing delicately over his skin, and how could he help but think of those fingers… No, he had to fight this. Couldn’t let himself think like that. He couldn’t. ‘You know you do. You don’t want the inevitable grande mort, but this…’
He opened his mouth, to say he didn’t want it, not at all, but found he couldn’t. The Master wouldn’t believe him anyway. He couldn’t lie, and he certainly couldn’t admit the truth.
So he closed his eyes and allowed it to happen, let those teasing fingers dip lower, brush harder, refusing to let them have any physical effect on him. Onto his abdomen. His navel. Detouring over the ridges of his hips, and then…
He took a sharp breath as that hand covered his cock, wrapping around it firmly. Couldn’t let himself get aroused. The telepathic trigger weighted heavily against his head, and he knew what that little device would do. He had to fight this, even though it was inevitable - because not fighting would be unthinkable.
The Master just kept stroking in a nice, steady rhythm that felt impossibly good until, however hard he tried to stop it, the Doctor felt himself begin to harden. Then the Master stopped.
Involuntarily, the Doctor’s hips bucked up into the lost contact, and he heard the Master laugh. There was a long second when he wasn’t being touched, other than the Master’s body pressing against his, and then a single, slick finger pressing inside him. He caught his breath, biting down hard on his lip so as not to cry out. He wasn’t going to cave in. Had to fight. How many people would that explosion kill? How many more would survive, wounded or with radiation poisoning?
Another finger, gentle, opening him up. Oh, this wasn’t fair. The Master couldn’t do this, he couldn’t, he couldn’t… When the fingers pulled out, after far too long, the Doctor tensed - even knowing that would make it hurt more, he couldn’t help himself - and waited.
He felt large - too large, he thought at first - as he pressed inside. Not too fast, which the Doctor was thankful for, but not giving him quite enough time to acclimatise; it hurt, his entire body prickling with it. He heard the Master moan, and flushed a little as he felt his cock harden more. No, he couldn’t - but then the Master was all the way inside and he felt his breath catch in his throat. And when the Master’s strokes settled into a regular rhythm, and the Doctor felt that taunting, teasing hand resume its stroking of his cock, he actually moaned.
‘Please stop,’ he begged, eyes opening only to see that the Master’s eyes were closed. ‘Please. Do what you like to me, anything, just don’t kill anyone, don’t make me kill anyone, please, please…’
The Master came, gasping wordlessly into the air.
Lying beneath him, the Doctor closed his eyes again, despairing, and waited for the Master to move. It didn’t take long. Two hearts: good stamina.
‘I didn’t come,’ he whispered.
‘Yet.’ The Master chuckled, his hand still loosely around the Doctor’s cock. He pulled himself out, a long slow motion, and settled back on the bed. ‘Now that I’ve had my fun - for now - it would be terribly ungentlemanly to leave you unsatisfied, wouldn’t it?’ He’d known it was only a temporary victory, but his hearts still sank. ‘What would you like?’
‘Don’t.’
‘Tell me what you want, Doctor.’ The Master’s voice was teasing, with that hard undertone that meant he was deadly serious. ‘You can’t pretend you don’t want this. You can’t control the outcome. I’m giving you a choice in how you get there. Anything you want, Doctor, as long as it gets you off.’
‘No.’ His voice was suddenly vehement. ‘I won’t have any part in this. I refuse. If you want to rape me, Master, I suggest you carry on as you were. But I won’t take part in your genocide.’
For a moment, he thought he’d actually startled the Master; then the other man laughed. ‘I wouldn’t rape you,’ he said. ‘Lucky for both of us I know you. I know what you want. I know what you don’t want to admit you want. And however much you might claim otherwise, you want this.’ And with that he leant down and took a kiss - not as gentle as before; a hard kiss, with an edge of violence. The Doctor tried not to respond, stubbornly, but how could he not? The Master knew him too well. He was right.
When the Master pulled back, they were both breathing hard. ‘You don’t want the deaths on your conscience, but you want me,’ he said, and smirked. ‘Pity I always come with a side order of destruction. Now, Doctor, what do you want?’
He closed his eyes, tried to turn his head away. All those people, going to die, because of him, because he couldn’t refuse this. Because the Master knew him well enough to know that the only thing he didn’t want in this were the deaths. If the Master had doubted that, if he’d been able to persuade him that he didn’t want this, this touch, his touch - would he have stopped?
If it were just sex. If there wasn’t a bomb somewhere on the earth below, set to go off the instant he came, then it would be simple, easy - even tied up, helpless. As if that would matter, as if he’d care. But the Master just couldn’t let it be that simple, that easy, could he? He had to make it difficult, had to make it hurt.
‘I hate you,’ the Doctor whispered, feeling tears gather at the corners of his eyes, and then - because he had to answer the question - said, ‘Your mouth. I want your mouth.’
At least he would have to stop talking. At least he couldn’t gloat.
He felt the Master shift on top of him - then, to his surprise, felt gentle little kisses, first to his forehead, then to his eyes, kissing the tears away. He couldn’t take this. It was too cruel. Too kind. If it were pain, if it were sadism, if it were cruelty and violence, oh, he could cope with that, but kindness…
‘You don’t hate me,’ the Master whispered back, and the Doctor had to bite his lip to keep from breaking into tears.
Too much of both, he thought, as the Master kissed his way down his body. It was cruel, oh so cruel, the whole point of this was to hurt him, to make him suffer. To lay another load of guilt on his already overburdened shoulders, made worse by the knowledge that he wanted this - and that he could have coped with, he was used to it, but not mixed with this, all kindness and gentleness, almost affectionate, he couldn’t, oh…
And then the Master’s mouth closed around him, warm without the feverish heat of humans and oh so moist, and he sobbed.
So long. He’d waited so long for this. The Master had to destroy it, make it wrong, oh, where was his Koschei? Too good, all too too good, but he fought it, always. Swallowed the noises, twisted and turned as much as he could, curse these restraints - but how could he ever win? It wasn’t just that the Master had all the power, physically and mentally - not just that his own mind simply couldn’t resist the urges of his body for too long - but how could he have won anyway when he wanted and didn’t want, craved and feared, loved and hated, all at once mixed up so tightly he’d never have won the war with himself, let alone his body, let alone the Master?
No. The bomb. He’d have walked out if he could. But if it weren’t for that, he’d have stayed here and drowned himself in the Master, over and over, till he was dead or as good as.
And then the Master moved away from his cock, and he had to bite his tongue to stay silent. ‘Look at me,’ the Master said, and how could he not?
The Master was lying between his legs, looking flushed, messy, but powerful, glowing, beautiful. The Doctor pressed his lips together, stared back, wondering what was going through the Master’s head. He knew better than to hope for some respite; it would be a fresh onslaught.
The Master started to tap the drumbeat out against his cock, thoughtfully, setting the Doctor’s teeth on edge. The moment when the Master came up with his plan was clear; he suddenly grinned, sat up. Reached for the lubricant.
The Doctor’s first conclusion, the most obvious, was that he was going to be fucked again. But faster than he could follow, the Master was kneeling above him, one leg either side of his body, knees pinning him in place. Then he dipped his fingers into the lubricant and reached not for the Doctor, but round his back and inside himself.
The Doctor stared, flushing hot and cool again, blood surging downwards. No, he couldn’t be - except that he very clearly was. Was there anything, anything, the Master didn’t know about? Anything he’d leave to rest silently, any button he’d shy away from pressing?
He screwed his eyes tight shut, unable to watch. Not that he could see anything - the Master’s dressing gown had survived thus far - but he couldn’t look, couldn’t look, oh, all those people… ‘Look at me,’ the Master repeated, and with a shuddering breath, the Doctor did. ‘You want this, don’t you? You want me.’
‘Yes,’ the Doctor whispered, and with that, triumphantly, the Master, as smoothly as could be managed, positioned both of them and slid down.
He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, hot, tight, and he couldn’t move, why couldn’t he move, it wasn’t fair, wasn’t fair at all, all he wanted was to thrust up, to bury himself in, in, not this slow tease the Master was taking, hard and fast and no, he didn’t want this, had to control himself.
The people. The deaths. He didn’t want to think about the deaths, it should have been just them, just him and the Master, the two of them. He bit his lips together, wishing he could close his eyes, because the sight was making it all worse; the wicked grin, the cruelness, and everything else, all those centuries, blurring into one moment, one breath, and he couldn’t come, couldn’t stop himself much longer. He found himself begging. ‘Just take it off, let this be about us, just us, only us, please, Master…’
‘I don’t do soppy,’ the Master said, and it might have been an apology, he didn’t know, was too far gone to know, but the Master contradicted himself, almost immediately. ‘Do you remember? When we were young. Remember, Doctor,’ he said, leaning closer even as he carried on moving, lowering his lips till the Doctor thought he might kiss him ‘Theta.’ And then he whispered his real name, making every syllable an obscenity.
And the Doctor came.
He didn’t close his eyes - didn’t quite dare - but it didn’t matter; his eyes blurred with tears anyway. He couldn’t see the look on the Master’s face, and he didn’t want to.
He heard the explosion, and the Master chuckled, a long, slow, slightly breathless laugh. ‘There,’ he whispered. ‘It’s all over now.’
‘How many?’ the Doctor asked, flatly. ‘How many dead?’
‘No idea.’ He seemed amused by it, and the Doctor finally gave up, closed his eyes, the motion dislodging a tear or two from his eyes. He’d had enough. He couldn’t do this any more. Couldn’t play this game. Couldn’t hurt any more. He needed somewhere to curl up, somewhere to sleep, somewhere to stop blaming himself for being a pawn in the Master’s scheme. Somewhere to sort all this out into something he could deal with. He turned his head to one side, which was the best he could do, and then felt the Master undoing the restraints.
He felt oddly, sickeningly grateful, for that - had to keep perspective, he reminded himself distantly - and as soon as one arm was free, curled over on his side as best he could. The Master tutted, undid the other arm, oddly gentle, then both legs.
When he was done, he uncurled the Doctor from the ball he’d wrapped himself into. ‘Oh, no you don’t,’ he said cheerfully.
The Doctor went along with him, moving where he pushed, head bowed. He didn’t want to see this. He just wanted to sleep.
They stood together at the window. Below them the land stretched out, a smooth, silent, deadly cloud rising above it.
The Master’s arms wrapped around his waist, and the Doctor didn’t resist him.
La Grande Mort (Master's POV)