La Grande Mort (Master's POV)
‘How good is your self-control, Doctor?’
The Master leaned forward, smiling to himself in anticipation as the Doctor’s eyes slowly opened. It was a delectable sight: the Doctor utterly helpless before his Master. He’d been planning this for weeks, of course, and so far everything had gone perfectly; the necessary preparations down on Earth, the building of the clever little device currently attached to the Doctor’s temples, then drugging him, aging him back to his young and far prettier self, stripping him and binding him securely to the bed. And waiting.
Now he was waking up, and the Master indulged himself in the moment, slowing down his subjective sense of time just so he could watch the expressions cross the Doctor’s face in slow motion, so he could admire the way the slack obliviousness on his face shifted as he took in the room, his state. The way his eyebrows furrowed briefly. The way his eyes went wide, the gentle way his lips fell apart in fear, before his jaw tightened in some sort of defiance. Good. He liked defiance, to a point. It made their games far more interesting.
And oh, he was looking forward to this one,
‘Good,’ the Doctor said, and the Master allowed his perception of time to return to normal. ‘Much better than yours, I’m certain.’
He laughed. ‘Shall we put it to the test?’ he asked, mockingly. He quite hoped the Doctor’s self-control was as good as he was claiming it to be. The longer this was dragged out for, the better. He knew the Doctor wouldn’t be able to hold back, in the end. And it would be beautiful.
‘Do I have a choice?’
Of course he didn’t, and he knew it. Knew perfectly well what his place was in this: victim. Sacrifice. Obedient little slave to the whims of his Master, and the Master wanted him to know it. That look of despair in his eyes, of hopelessness - oh, he knew what was coming. And that was what the Master wanted most of all. Not fear, or pain, or the determination to defy him which kept their games going - oh, he loved all of those, but what he really treasured was submission. To own him, body and mind; for there to be no part of the Doctor that wasn’t his, that didn’t respond only to him, that didn’t fulfil his every desire.
So difficult to procure, which only gave it the greater worth in the Master’s eyes. He grinned, stepping slowly towards the bed where the Doctor lay, and gently ran a finger down his chest. Smooth skin. And yes, there it was - the quiet, stifled gasp, the tension. He knew the Doctor wanted this, possibly even as much as he did - well, he certainly wouldn’t like the little surprise the Master had in store for him, but that just made it all the more perfect, in his mind.
‘Do you want a choice?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Whatever you’re planning, just don’t.’ He paused for a moment, before adding, ‘Please.’ Did he really think begging would get him anywhere?
‘You don’t even know what I’m planning yet. You might like it,’ he said with a look of wide-eyed innocence.
‘I can guess. The nudity’s a bit of a giveaway.’
Oh, his dear Doctor. Always so stubborn. ‘You don’t know the best part,’ he sing-songed, taking a seat on the bed and tapping the device he’d attached to the side of the Doctor’s head while he slept. ‘This is a telepathic trigger. It’s wired up to a spare nuclear bomb or two those silly humans had lying around. Very careless.’ He paused for dramatic effect, until the blood drained away from the Doctor’s face. ‘Guess what the trigger is!’
The Doctor swallowed, hard. Oh, that look of fear. Time Lords might have superior control over their physical faculties, but even the Doctor wouldn’t be able to hold himself back forever. And when he cracked, bye bye Japan! ‘Don’t do this,’ he pleaded. ‘Please, you don’t have to do this.’
He laughed. ‘Of course I don’t have to. Ruling the world means never having to do anything.’ He brushed a hand against the Doctor’s face, deciding what to do first, then leant forwards, kissing him. Gentle, gentle; tantalising himself. It would be no fun at all if he went too fast. The longer this went on for, the better. It was difficult, though, holding back, when the Doctor tasted so sweet, and knew he was trapped, with no way out, no escape but to resist as long as possible. ‘I want to,’ he whispered against the Doctor’s lips, mid-kiss.
The Doctor’s mouth was unresponsive, opening to his intrusion but making no effort to reciprocate. That would have to change. Because the Doctor wanted this; wanted his every touch, his every caress. Even in his hatred, the Doctor wanted him. And the Master, in turn, wanted to see it.
So he pulled away, just far enough; close enough for the Doctor to reach him, with his limited freedom of movement. Was it his imagination, he wondered, or were the Doctor’s lips a little redder? ‘Kiss me,’ he commanded.
The Doctor stayed silent, closing his mouth and looking up at him blankly. Amusing. ‘You know better than to disobey,’ he said, low and breathy, smirking a little as he toyed with the Doctor’s hair with one hand.
Slowly, reluctantly, the Doctor leant up and kissed him. The Master didn’t kiss back; if he had, the Doctor could simply have reacted, letting him lead, and he didn’t want that. Later, yes. But first, he let the Doctor kiss him, the thrill in being obeyed equal to and inseparable from the thrill of those lips on his own, the tongue brushing against them. Uncertain and unwilling at first, but he responded just enough to be encouraging and felt those lips soften on his own in return. Perfectly silent, no sound but their breathing and the drums to distract him. No sight; he’d closed his eyes. Just the feel of the Doctor’s mouth, the taste…
As soon as he thought the he had softened enough, he pulled back. ‘Good Doctor,’ he said, with a smile. Now then. Time to get down, as it were, to business. But where to begin? There were far too many options. He had shifted in the course of things, so he was half-lying on top of the Doctor, nothing but his flimsy dressing gown between them, which was definitely giving him ideas.
‘Any preferences?’ he asked cheerfully.
The Doctor looked at him crossly, head falling back to the pillow. ‘I’d rather not do this at all,’ he said. How very petulant of him.
‘Oh, but you want it,’ the Master told him, propping himself up on one arm and using the other to start teasing the Doctor’s skin, just to make his point. ‘You know you do. You don’t want the inevitable grande mort, but this…’
The Doctor opened his mouth for the inevitable comeback, but didn’t make one; just pressed his lips together. For a moment the Master thought that was all he’d get, but then the Doctor closed his eyes, relaxing into the bed. Which was practically tacit permission.
So he went back to the Doctor’s body, running one hand over it, trailing it down the skin of his torso. Such smooth skin. You only had that in the first few years after regeneration; how lucky that both of them had died so recently.
He moved slowly but steadily, enjoying the conquest of each new square of skin like an army moving unstoppably across brand new territory. He didn’t rush to the prize, taking his time, dawdling over his hips. Alright, he might have rushed a little towards the end, but he couldn’t really be blamed for that, could he?
Slowly, slowly. He teased until he felt the Doctor begin to grow in his hand - smirked to himself in satisfaction - and then decided that his own needs really couldn’t be ignored any longer. He pulled away, delighted when the Doctor pressed after the lost contact, and reached into his dressing gown pocket; he hadn’t planned all this out only to forget lubrication.
The Doctor was tight. Virgin-tight? Probably. He’d expected so, of course, but it was still so satisfying to have those suspicions confirmed. He pressed a finger in further, watching the Doctor bite his lip. So tempting just to thrust in there, to hurt him - but that would be against the point, wouldn’t it? Well. A little pain could work wonders. The Doctor had always been a bit of a masochist.
So he let his impatience take over and didn’t quite stretch the Doctor far enough before he pilled his fingers out and wiped them distastefully on the bedsheets. The Doctor was half-hard already, despite his obvious efforts, white-faced and determined. His hands in their restraints were clenched into fists.
The Master, on the other hand, didn’t need any further preparation; the sheer anticipation had done that for him. Opening his dressing gown, just enough, he shifted down the bed, adding a little extra lubrication to himself before…
Yes. The Doctor was warm - not unpleasantly hot, as Lucy was, but warm - and so very, very tight, clenching back against him. He couldn’t keep from giving a little moan - but knew the Doctor felt the same; could hear his breathing quicken. He did like the pain. Always had done. His Doctor.
As soon as he’d controlled himself enough to settle into some kind of regular rhythm - dictated, as always, by the beat of the drums - he reached a hand down between them and resumed stroking the Doctor’s cock. He did moan, at that, a long, drawn-out vowel which made the Master shiver.
And then, to add not just the icing but the marzipan, the edible flowers and the sparklers to the cake as well, the Doctor started to beg. ‘Please stop. Please. Do what you like to me, anything, just don’t kill anyone, don’t make me kill anyone, please, please…’
Such a desperate tone, so needy; how could he not come then and there, strangling a cry of Doctor before it ever became more than a gasp, oh, nothing could be this good, nothing and no one, only him, always him…
He came back to himself after a few moments, when the Doctor whispered, quietly, ‘I didn’t come.’
Of course not: he was saving that for later. ‘Yet,’ he said, pulling himself slowly out of the Doctor. And time, he decided, to get on with that. Nuclear bombs would not blow themselves up on their own. ‘Now that I’ve had my fun - for now - it would be terribly ungentlemanly to leave you unsatisfied, wouldn’t it?’ In a sudden burst of inspiration, he asked, ‘What would you like?’
‘Don’t.’ Resistance, which meant he was pressing buttons the Doctor didn’t want pressed. Good.
‘Tell me what you want, Doctor. You can’t pretend you don’t want this.’ And he did. This wouldn’t be half so much fun if he didn’t have that little detail to play with. And he could toy with it: making the Doctor participate, making him kiss, making him ask for what he wanted. Making him admit that to himself, that he wanted this. That he wanted him. ‘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. I won’t have any part in this. I refuse.’ The Doctor sounded suddenly furious, not merely disobedient, reluctant, but actually angry. ‘If you want to rape me, Master, I suggest you carry on as you were. But I won’t take part in your genocide.’
He was surprised, for a moment, at the accusation; then understood, and 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.’
To prove it, he kissed him - harder than before, more dominant, still demanding response, a little bit violent until the Doctor gave in and started to kiss back. Then he broke the kiss. ‘You don’t want the deaths on your conscience, but you want me,’ he said, knowing he was right. ‘Pity I always come with a side order of destruction. Now, Doctor, what do you want?’
The Doctor closed his eyes and turned his head away, as though he couldn’t even bear to face the Master with his eyes closed. So difficult for him, wasn’t it? If only he could stop caring so much, the Master thought. Not completely; just enough, to narrow his world to just to two of them, so he cared only for the Master and himself. What a pair they’d make.
‘I hate you,’ the Doctor whispered. If he hadn’t known how completely untrue that was, it might have hurt; as it was, he nearly laughed. But it would be no fun if it were simply the two of them, wanting each other with nothing hanging in the balance. Just as it would be no fun if they were equally matched in wanton, uncaring destruction. They needed to be opposites, so they could define themselves by what the other was and what they themselves were not. The Doctor and the Master.
‘Your mouth. I want your mouth.’
Feeling indulgently amused, he leant down and pressed a kiss to the Doctor’s forehead. And - oh, yes - were those tears around his eyes? He rather thought they were. He pressed his lips to them as well, revelling in the taste of the salt. ‘You don’t hate me,’ he reminded the Doctor, smirking to himself, and then made his way down the Doctor’s body.
He wasn’t particularly fond of blow jobs - well, receiving, yes, of course - but the giving was usually a little too undignified. Usually. He could quite happily suck someone off, if the occasion required it, and with the Doctor a ticking time bomb, tied up at his mercy, he felt it quite appropriate. How long had it been since he’d last done this? Centuries, it must be.
But you never forgot, did you? Watching, always watching, for the Doctor’s reaction, he slipped his lips over the Doctor’s cock.
The Doctor actually sobbed.
Apparently you didn’t forget, because he continued to gasp and moan in an entirely satisfactory way. Made all the more delectable by the way he was trying his hardest not to. Eyes closed, the muscles of his neck tensing and twisting as he threw his head back and forth - the only part of him that really had freedom to move. The Master ran his fingernails along the Doctor’s thighs, playing him like an instrument.
He emptied his mouth of the Doctor’s cock - now impressively hard, which he felt quite smug about - long enough to say, ‘Look at me.’ He waited until the Doctor’s eyes opened, so very dark, so very desperate. The thrill from that never got old.
And it gave him pause. He tapped the rhythm of the drums out on the Doctor’s cock, thinking. He wanted to see the look on the Doctor’s face, more than anything, the pain and despair in those eyes, and it didn’t seem the best of ideas, really, to bring him off while lying between his legs. You really didn’t get the best view, from down there. So many other ways to have sex - and oh, yes. He knew what to do.
Picking up the lubricant from where he’d casually tossed it on the bed, he shifted forwards, kneeling, one leg either side of the Doctor. The dressing gown, though skewed and crumpled, was still tied around his waist, but it was perfectly obvious what he was doing as he squeezed some lubricant onto his fingers and reached round behind himself.
He knew he’d chosen correctly when the Doctor didn’t gasp, didn’t groan, just lay there and stared. And could have sworn the Doctor’s eyes went even wider, lips falling apart a little way, invitingly. Yes.
Such a long time since he’d done this. Not his favourite at all, since it always said so much about power, that age old question of who fucked whom - but here and now, where the balance of power was weighted all the way to his side, and this just twisted the Doctor’s pain into prettier, complicated patterns? Perfect.
The Doctor’s eyes slid closed. ‘Look at me,’ the Master said softly, and added another finger, smirking when the Doctor opened his eyes. ‘You want this, don’t you? You want me.’ He knew, he knew, but he wanted to hear it again, would never tire of hearing it.
And when the Doctor whispered, ‘Yes,’ that was it. With a little trickiness in aligning them both - highly inconvenient - he slipped himself down, as excruciatingly slowly as he could, onto the Doctor.
He watched in fascination, wishing for the first time he could look inside the Doctor’s mind, see it all from the inside. Now, of all times, was the one time the Doctor might not resist. But he couldn’t: too much in his own head he didn’t want the Doctor to see, so he was left watching his face flicker and twitch, too far gone and too far tangled, conflicted, to show anything coherent.
He loved the Doctor like this.
He teased him, moving as slowly as possible until the burn lightened, and then decided it was time. Time for their finale. Picking up speed, shifting to find the right angle - was the Doctor even aware of this, aware of anything outside his pretty little head?
The Doctor began to mutter, words too low and quick to make sense but soon resolving themselves: ‘Just take it off, let this be about us, just us, only us, please, Master…’
How sweet. A work of art, truly. As if he was going to give up his prize now. It wasn’t just them, could never be just them. They were Time Lords; they spread their conflict across the universe.
‘I don’t do soppy,’ the Master said, laughing, and felt the moment coming, leaned in towards it. ‘Do you remember?’ he asked, knowing instinctively, as he always had, what to say to draw the Doctor out. ‘When we were young. Remember, Doctor. Theta.’
Leaning as close as he could, he whispered the Doctor’s real name, slowly, drawing it out. And that did it; he felt the Doctor tense, felt him come.
And the look on his face when he did was something the Master would never forget.
Coming down from the high, he watched, entranced, slowing down time again to get every detail in, fixed in his mind, feasting on the pain. The Doctor’s eyes began to fill slowly with tears, and he laughed. ‘There,’ he said. ‘It’s all over now.’
‘How many? How many dead?’
‘No idea.’ Better left up to his imagination. It was happening, right now, right outside the window, and he wanted to see it. More importantly, he wanted the Doctor to see it. He pulled back and off the Doctor, smiling as the other man closed his eyes, turned his head away, and kept his eyes mostly on the Doctor’s face as he undid the restraints, one by one.
The Doctor responded by curling himself tightly into a ball. ‘Oh, no you don’t,’ he said, pulling the Doctor out of it. He went along with everything the Master did to him, getting to his feet and walking to the window without a protest, pliable as clay, and the Master felt an electrified thrill at the thought that he might have actually broken him.
Spread out at their feet was the Earth, all those little humans like ants, and a great, spreading cloud from the explosion dominating the land. The Master barely paid it any attention, focussing on the Doctor, his hearts lighter than that had been in a very long time.
He wrapped his arms around the Doctor’s waist, and the Doctor didn’t resist him.
La Grande Mort (Doctor's POV)