Doctor Who fic: Prevarication.
Title: Prevarication
Author: order_of_chaos
Pairing: Fifth Doctor/Ainley!Master
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 198
AN: Written for the best_enemies Table Challenge; prompt: closet. My table is here.
His celery’s missing, there’s dust clinging to the red and beige of his coat, and the rough wood of the closet door is unsympathetically and implacably locked behind him.
He’s not breathing; hasn’t been since the first touch of the Master’s hand on his shoulder, a hungry curl of fingers that stops short of demanding only by the barest of fractions.
Now is the time to run - tumbling himself helter-skelter into another adventure and not thinking about the Master until the next time he needs thwarting.
This time, he can’t do that.
Now is the time to feign surrender - to let the weight of the Master’s hand drop him to his knees, to steal back the upper hand by sapping the Master's control with teasing so endless it borders on cruelty.
He’s good at cruelty, sometimes. Far better than he likes.
The closet is small and dark and there’s no away to move to.
Now is the time to wait.
The Doctor shivers, the Master’s smirk heavy in his imagination; too close, too dangerous, too affectionate.
Maybe the TARDIS will let them out soon, and maybe she won’t. By this stage, he doesn’t know which he’s hoping for.
Author: order_of_chaos
Pairing: Fifth Doctor/Ainley!Master
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 198
AN: Written for the best_enemies Table Challenge; prompt: closet. My table is here.
His celery’s missing, there’s dust clinging to the red and beige of his coat, and the rough wood of the closet door is unsympathetically and implacably locked behind him.
He’s not breathing; hasn’t been since the first touch of the Master’s hand on his shoulder, a hungry curl of fingers that stops short of demanding only by the barest of fractions.
Now is the time to run - tumbling himself helter-skelter into another adventure and not thinking about the Master until the next time he needs thwarting.
This time, he can’t do that.
Now is the time to feign surrender - to let the weight of the Master’s hand drop him to his knees, to steal back the upper hand by sapping the Master's control with teasing so endless it borders on cruelty.
He’s good at cruelty, sometimes. Far better than he likes.
The closet is small and dark and there’s no away to move to.
Now is the time to wait.
The Doctor shivers, the Master’s smirk heavy in his imagination; too close, too dangerous, too affectionate.
Maybe the TARDIS will let them out soon, and maybe she won’t. By this stage, he doesn’t know which he’s hoping for.