Alternatives, Ten/Simm!Master, R (Vehicles)
Pairing: Ten/Simm!Master
Challenge: 11 Vehicles
Rating: hard R
Warnings: Angst, sexage (as the term was coined in the writing process), and a nervous author.
Spoilers: Up to and Including “Journey’s End”
Alternatives
He tumbles into a deep sleep, still wet from the rain, still aching from the intensity of his emotions he will not name as sorrow or loneliness, and he dreams.
(It’s not really a dream, but a conversation. When things fall apart, there is always his ship to piece him back together. The Doctor and his TARDIS, forever riding the winds of an Oncoming Storm. She’s there for him at the snap of his fingers. Connected. Always and forever.)
“You’ve a nasty habit of standing out in the rain when you’re miserable.”
He’s suddenly standing in the console room, dressed as he was when he fell asleep - wet, barefoot, and hurting. His pain is his best accessory - and staring at a clear image of the Master. The Master’s voice is as warm and smooth as he remembers it. The Doctor blinks, and convinces himself that speakers carried the voice, and projectors carried the image. This is a dream, or a message, and not a particularly kind one.
“Stop that,” he chides, hoping to fall into the darkness of a revitalizing slumber with nothing but maps of stars to keep him company.
“That is exactly what I was going to tell you, Doctor. You’ll catch your death in those wet clothes.”
“Please. Just stop. I’ve had enough loss for one day, and I’d appreciate not being reminded of any past losses.” He feels the beginnings of a particularly nasty knot between his shoulders begin to form. The way he is hunched over the console and tensed might have some part in the formation of the discomfort.
“You think I’m part of your clunker of a ship?” From the corner of his eye, the Doctor sees his foot tapping impatiently on the grating.
“What else would you be?”
“I, for one, enjoy the alternatives. A ghost, perhaps. Here to haunt you for all eternity. Maybe I’m a holographic projection from my own TARDIS, and I’ve come to gloat that I’ve found a way back into the land of the living, still retaining this fabulously young body. I could be part of your subconscious, but that would open doors that even I am not willing to touch. Of course, I could really be here in the flesh, and you could just be imagining the light crackling around me, my voice just a bit unrealistic. You always thought what you wanted to and didn’t care what anyone else had to say. So you think I’m a part of your ship, that’s fine. But I know the truth, and I know you’re not going to ask what the truth is. Where does that leave us then?”
The Doctor shuts his eyes, mentally pinches himself to wake. “Just stop talking, please.”
“You always did love the sound of my voice. Tell me, does it hurt? Not the loss. I frankly couldn’t care less if your whole beloved planet disappeared. Having me here. Does that hurt?”
It takes him a while to gather the words, the ones that weren’t “Master” or “please”, but eventually he crouches even lower over the console almost as if speaking directly to her, and answers. “Do you want it to?”
“Yes.” The Master answered without preamble.
“Then no. It doesn’t hurt.” He wonders why the TARDIS is giving him this. Of all the images to soothe him to sleep, of all the things to make him forget a little longer. He’s cold and he is wet, and he is angry.
The small snort of laughter is just as warm and smooth as the Master's words. The Doctor’s eyes automatically close, and his hands loosen around the edge of the console. “You’re lying. You can’t even look at me.”
He focuses on the weight of his wet trousers and soaked trainers. He follows the droplets from his scalp, down his neck and back, his throat, his jaw. He thinks about the next place he would like to visit. He never did make it Barcelona. He should need a new suit, as well. Christmas time always kept him busy. Maybe he could catch a true snowfall for once.
“Why don’t I just move over, then? Wouldn’t that be easier? I do hate talking to your back. I’d much rather look in your eyes and watch the realization slowly dawn that I am in control.”
The Doctor straightens, the knowledge of him dreaming falling from his hands like sand. If he loses too much, it will be too real. The TARDIS knows this. That is why she’s taking it away. She wants him to give in, just for once, and . . . and what?
The crackling image of the Master clarifies step by step as he approaches the console panel next to the Doctor. “That’s better, don’t you think? I can see the pity in your eyes already!” The Master smiles. The Doctor can only feel the weight of his clothes getting heavier.
“You’re not real,” he clings to the last grains of proverbial sand.
“Any option you choose to believe, Doctor, I am real enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“What do you want?”
“Don’t answer my question with a question.” The Doctor holds up a finger and takes a step back. “Just . . . move on to the next. Don’t bring him into this.”
The Master tilts his head in a way that has always been him. The Doctor cannot imagine the TARDIS moving this way. “When I’m in the room, don’t you forget about everyone else?”
The Doctor’s silence serves as his answer.
“You’d drop everything for me. Just to look at me. To listen to me.”
Hadn’t it been enough? Hadn’t today been enough?
“You’re at the point now when you want to give everything up, when you want someone to take care of you. You want me to take care of you. I know what you need. Say it. Say you have nothing left. You are in such a deplorable state that you’ve need of me. However I got here, I am here now, and I will take advantage of that fact. I will take advantage of you.”
The Doctor throws his head back, cringing as the cold water soaks his collar thoroughly, and grinds his teeth in anger. “I don’t want to play games! Just stop it, please! I’m asking you for the last time!”
The Master is completely unfazed. “Are you speaking to me or your outdated mode of transportation?”
The Doctor glares. “Whichever is listening.”
He takes the glimmering glee in the Master’s eyes for the crackle of the projection. The Doctor tugs at his collar. His toes squish in his shoes.
“Go on then,” the Master said. “Take it off.”
“What? Did you not just hear me? I said stop.”
“I heard you. Did you hear me?”
There are maps of stars in the Master’s eyes, if he looks deep enough. The Doctor recognizes Kasterborous straight away. His hearts catch in his chest. He can feel the sharp edges of the last grain of sand in his hand, metaphorically, of course. This is the challenge. Walk away and take everything, or stay and forget for a little while. She’s never steered him wrong in the past. He watches the passive mask of the Master’s face as he lets go.
It’s a sensory assault, surrendering yourself to an illusion, a dream, a conversation of infinite Time and Space, if still relative in dimensions. Suddenly, the Doctor can see the crisp press of the Master’s suit, can hear the Master tapping out the confounded rhythm of the drums, can feel the beating of his two hearts against his palm, can smell the mixture of sweat, aftershave and time, can taste it on his tongue.
His eyes happen to be on the Master’s mouth as his lips slowly curl into a bemused smile. The Doctor wets his own lips, somehow dry despite the damp state of the rest of his body. The Master is silent, waiting. The hand on his chest is strange, but lately he can’t find anything normal about that hand of his. There is the vague recollection of swords clashing and the color blue, when the Master’s own hand softly curls around his tie. The Doctor brings his eyes up to meet his face to find the mask still in place. It always disconcerted him that he could never see what the Master was thinking, even more so that he’d always been exhilarated by the unknown.
It’s not really him, his own voice echoes in the back of his mind as nimble fingers undo the knot of his tie and skirt around his collar to remove the strip of fabric. But he’s real enough.
Like a child, he stands still as the Master undoes his shirt, his trousers, his shoelaces. As he returns his attention to the Doctor’s torso, removing the shirt from his shoulders, the Master steps forward, the Doctor backward and the space around them shifts into the corridor. The Doctor steps out of his shoes easily. Another step backward and space compresses and retracts around them once more further down the corridor. The Master’s hands on the waist of his trousers tug downward, and the Doctor falls with him. He lands on his back on his bed where he is simultaneously sleeping, dreaming, and speaking. The Master is above him, still dressed to the nines, still stoic.
“You look like a drowned rat,” he speaks after a while. The only sound to fill the space is the Doctor’s quiet breathing. “Or perhaps, a drowned spider. A drowned baby spider.”
“Don’t.”
“I was just speaking my mind. No law against that. I should know. I was Prime Minister once.” His face breaks out into a grin. This isn’t what the Doctor had wanted.
“I know what you wanted,” the Master cuts in, his manner suddenly changed. “What you’ve always wanted.”
The TARDIS hums in a different tone. He hasn’t reason to, but somehow the Doctor feels scared, trapped. If he’s quiet enough, he can hear the Master’s rhythm within the beeps and blips of his old ship. He uses his arms to lift himself up and drag himself further up the bed. He needs to sit up, to breathe. The Master ends up smiling into his stomach.
“Demanding, aren’t we?” The Doctor shivers as the Masters lips flutter over his navel. “Soon enough, dear.”
He twitches when the Master’s tongue dips into the sensitive crevice. “Why the hurry? You’ve still got your socks on! Not to mention these disaster of a pair of shorts.”
“They were a gift.”
“From who? Someone who hates you? I don’t remembering honoring Christmas the last time we were together.”
“Jackie.” There is a flash of everyone gathered around the console, laughing and smiling, and that, he will admit, hurts.
“Stop that,” The Master coos, collapsing on his side next to the Doctor’s own prone form. “Tell your Master what he can do to make it better.”
The Doctor looks away.
“No? Well, I suppose I will just have to act in your best interest, then.”
He still does not know what the Master is thinking, he will never know because one moment the soft face with the imprint of Kasterborous is twinkling in front of his eyes, and the next it disappears, stripping the socks off his feet and using a blanket to dry the remainder of the water from his hair, his neck, his shoulders. He thought for sure the Master would have - No. It’s a silly thought.
The blanket crumples on the floor next to the Doctor. He turns to look at it, and he finds that it is his suit. He recalls being tiny, just a small thimble of a man, and fighting his way out of that heap.
“I told you you’d catch your death. Stop thinking.” His breath ghosts across his cheek, his words fall into his ear. “ Let me think for you.”
He thinks to himself, for a moment, weighing his options. A voice in the back of his head reminds him that it is just a conversation. She only wants to help. Sighing, the Doctor relents, “Just do it.”
The Master considers him a moment, the stars in his eyes shifting as if orbiting something greater, then turns the Doctor’s cheek and presses their lips together. They are both still for a long while.
The feel of the Master’s lips against his own is foreign. These lips have never touched before. He thinks of another kiss, on a beach, in another dimension, and suddenly he is furious. He is not supposed to be thinking. He grunts in annoyance and moves his initiating a proper kiss, forcing the Master’s mouth open, and slipping his tongue inside for just a taste of what it used to mean to be together.
The Master smirks against his mouth and there it is, the tiniest movement of his lips, an answering flick of his tongue. The Doctor pulls away, swallowing what he'd been able to gather. “I told you,” his voice is hoarse, “I’m in no mood for games.”
“Sorry, dear. You entered the game the second you started kissing me.”
“But you kissed me first.” It’s a weak defense, but it is his only one.
"No I didn’t. I pressed my lips against you. You stuck your tongue down my throat. There’s a difference. A desperate difference. A difference, Doctor," the Master swings his legs around his hips and shifts his weight so that he is hovering above him once more, "that, as your precious humans would say, gets me hot. However, the question remains," the Master lowers his head, "Do you want to win?"
The Master hand slips inside the waistband of his shorts at the same moment his lips close over his own. It is the perfect balance of sensation, one the Doctor has to lose himself to in order to fully appreciate. He lets his eyes close and his body relax. He will forget. He will only feel. Sensation, emotion, exploitation, is something the Master is quite good at. The Doctor plucks out each individual action that results in the whimper behind his throat: the Master sucks on his bottom lip enough to bruise; his palm presses against his groin, retarding more than relieving; the Master’s tongue skirts along his teeth, breaks through and tangles with the Doctor’s own; his hand squeezes, making the Doctor gasp and moan; the Master swallows the sounds, grunting back but refraining from any other reaction.
Salt. Words. The DoctorDonna. The Doctor fervently kisses the Master between words. Time. Age. Regret. His hands grip the Master’s shoulders. Dalig ulv Stranden. Valiant. Osterhagen. He breathes in almost pain as he hardens, ignored, against the Master’s hand. TARDIS. Kasterborous. Kos-
Without warning, the Master rips himself away from his mouth, squeezes his hand even tighter. The Doctor bucks his hips, tasting blood when he bites his swollen lip. “Say it,” he hisses into the Doctor’s ear. “Beg for me.”
The Doctor’s breath hitches as his boxers are pulled off and thrown to the floor.
“Tell me,” the Master reappears in his line of sight. The stars in his eyes are brighter than ever. His suit is wrinkled, his tie undone and collar loose. The Doctor can only stare up at him, his mouth agape and his hearts pulsing throughout his body. Surrender is a word that comes to his mind.
“No?” The Maser laughs, tilting his head to the side. “Maybe you can show me, then? Will you show me what you want?”
The Doctor realizes, when his shaking hand lifts off of the bed, that he is no longer in control of his own actions. Master, TARDIS, or lust, he cannot say, but he has lost control, for better or for worse.
“That’s it. Show me,” the Master encourages.
With his hand, his lucky hand, he slowly begins to stroke himself, trying to control his breath and not whimper from the relief.
The Master’s name escapes from his lips when the other Time Lord licks across his hand, deliberating not touching anything but his fingers, his wrist. The Master laughs again. “You’re doing just fine without me, Doctor.”
His hand is no longer slow, no longer steady. There is, however, a familiar four-beat rhythm in its frantic motions. It overtakes him. His eyes screw shut and the map of the stars in the back of his eyelids - Kasterborous, thanks to the Master - shrinks in on itself, tenses, tightens, stops entirely, then explodes with a fury of light.
His eyes snap open, his tongue catching on the Master’s name, and he bolts upright in bed, fully clothed and wet (but not just from rain.) The Doctor shakily brings himself to his feet, stopping to listen to the sounds of the TARDIS. His eyes dart around the darkened room. He feels strange, still out of breath.
“Master?” He calls, so unsure.
(Kasterborous, she supplied, because it is the star cluster which contains Gallifrey. All it used to mean is lost. It is Home now. She placed Kasterborous in his eyes because he was the last remnant of that safe, warm place everyone runs to. She gave him Home.)
He’s shaken and somewhat shaking, but the relief, the blessed relief, is there just underneath the surface.
“Thank you,” he whispers, gratefully sinking back into the mattress, ready to fall into a dreamless state of rest.
"You're welcome."
Challenge: 11 Vehicles
Rating: hard R
Warnings: Angst, sexage (as the term was coined in the writing process), and a nervous author.
Spoilers: Up to and Including “Journey’s End”
Alternatives
He tumbles into a deep sleep, still wet from the rain, still aching from the intensity of his emotions he will not name as sorrow or loneliness, and he dreams.
(It’s not really a dream, but a conversation. When things fall apart, there is always his ship to piece him back together. The Doctor and his TARDIS, forever riding the winds of an Oncoming Storm. She’s there for him at the snap of his fingers. Connected. Always and forever.)
“You’ve a nasty habit of standing out in the rain when you’re miserable.”
He’s suddenly standing in the console room, dressed as he was when he fell asleep - wet, barefoot, and hurting. His pain is his best accessory - and staring at a clear image of the Master. The Master’s voice is as warm and smooth as he remembers it. The Doctor blinks, and convinces himself that speakers carried the voice, and projectors carried the image. This is a dream, or a message, and not a particularly kind one.
“Stop that,” he chides, hoping to fall into the darkness of a revitalizing slumber with nothing but maps of stars to keep him company.
“That is exactly what I was going to tell you, Doctor. You’ll catch your death in those wet clothes.”
“Please. Just stop. I’ve had enough loss for one day, and I’d appreciate not being reminded of any past losses.” He feels the beginnings of a particularly nasty knot between his shoulders begin to form. The way he is hunched over the console and tensed might have some part in the formation of the discomfort.
“You think I’m part of your clunker of a ship?” From the corner of his eye, the Doctor sees his foot tapping impatiently on the grating.
“What else would you be?”
“I, for one, enjoy the alternatives. A ghost, perhaps. Here to haunt you for all eternity. Maybe I’m a holographic projection from my own TARDIS, and I’ve come to gloat that I’ve found a way back into the land of the living, still retaining this fabulously young body. I could be part of your subconscious, but that would open doors that even I am not willing to touch. Of course, I could really be here in the flesh, and you could just be imagining the light crackling around me, my voice just a bit unrealistic. You always thought what you wanted to and didn’t care what anyone else had to say. So you think I’m a part of your ship, that’s fine. But I know the truth, and I know you’re not going to ask what the truth is. Where does that leave us then?”
The Doctor shuts his eyes, mentally pinches himself to wake. “Just stop talking, please.”
“You always did love the sound of my voice. Tell me, does it hurt? Not the loss. I frankly couldn’t care less if your whole beloved planet disappeared. Having me here. Does that hurt?”
It takes him a while to gather the words, the ones that weren’t “Master” or “please”, but eventually he crouches even lower over the console almost as if speaking directly to her, and answers. “Do you want it to?”
“Yes.” The Master answered without preamble.
“Then no. It doesn’t hurt.” He wonders why the TARDIS is giving him this. Of all the images to soothe him to sleep, of all the things to make him forget a little longer. He’s cold and he is wet, and he is angry.
The small snort of laughter is just as warm and smooth as the Master's words. The Doctor’s eyes automatically close, and his hands loosen around the edge of the console. “You’re lying. You can’t even look at me.”
He focuses on the weight of his wet trousers and soaked trainers. He follows the droplets from his scalp, down his neck and back, his throat, his jaw. He thinks about the next place he would like to visit. He never did make it Barcelona. He should need a new suit, as well. Christmas time always kept him busy. Maybe he could catch a true snowfall for once.
“Why don’t I just move over, then? Wouldn’t that be easier? I do hate talking to your back. I’d much rather look in your eyes and watch the realization slowly dawn that I am in control.”
The Doctor straightens, the knowledge of him dreaming falling from his hands like sand. If he loses too much, it will be too real. The TARDIS knows this. That is why she’s taking it away. She wants him to give in, just for once, and . . . and what?
The crackling image of the Master clarifies step by step as he approaches the console panel next to the Doctor. “That’s better, don’t you think? I can see the pity in your eyes already!” The Master smiles. The Doctor can only feel the weight of his clothes getting heavier.
“You’re not real,” he clings to the last grains of proverbial sand.
“Any option you choose to believe, Doctor, I am real enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“What do you want?”
“Don’t answer my question with a question.” The Doctor holds up a finger and takes a step back. “Just . . . move on to the next. Don’t bring him into this.”
The Master tilts his head in a way that has always been him. The Doctor cannot imagine the TARDIS moving this way. “When I’m in the room, don’t you forget about everyone else?”
The Doctor’s silence serves as his answer.
“You’d drop everything for me. Just to look at me. To listen to me.”
Hadn’t it been enough? Hadn’t today been enough?
“You’re at the point now when you want to give everything up, when you want someone to take care of you. You want me to take care of you. I know what you need. Say it. Say you have nothing left. You are in such a deplorable state that you’ve need of me. However I got here, I am here now, and I will take advantage of that fact. I will take advantage of you.”
The Doctor throws his head back, cringing as the cold water soaks his collar thoroughly, and grinds his teeth in anger. “I don’t want to play games! Just stop it, please! I’m asking you for the last time!”
The Master is completely unfazed. “Are you speaking to me or your outdated mode of transportation?”
The Doctor glares. “Whichever is listening.”
He takes the glimmering glee in the Master’s eyes for the crackle of the projection. The Doctor tugs at his collar. His toes squish in his shoes.
“Go on then,” the Master said. “Take it off.”
“What? Did you not just hear me? I said stop.”
“I heard you. Did you hear me?”
There are maps of stars in the Master’s eyes, if he looks deep enough. The Doctor recognizes Kasterborous straight away. His hearts catch in his chest. He can feel the sharp edges of the last grain of sand in his hand, metaphorically, of course. This is the challenge. Walk away and take everything, or stay and forget for a little while. She’s never steered him wrong in the past. He watches the passive mask of the Master’s face as he lets go.
It’s a sensory assault, surrendering yourself to an illusion, a dream, a conversation of infinite Time and Space, if still relative in dimensions. Suddenly, the Doctor can see the crisp press of the Master’s suit, can hear the Master tapping out the confounded rhythm of the drums, can feel the beating of his two hearts against his palm, can smell the mixture of sweat, aftershave and time, can taste it on his tongue.
His eyes happen to be on the Master’s mouth as his lips slowly curl into a bemused smile. The Doctor wets his own lips, somehow dry despite the damp state of the rest of his body. The Master is silent, waiting. The hand on his chest is strange, but lately he can’t find anything normal about that hand of his. There is the vague recollection of swords clashing and the color blue, when the Master’s own hand softly curls around his tie. The Doctor brings his eyes up to meet his face to find the mask still in place. It always disconcerted him that he could never see what the Master was thinking, even more so that he’d always been exhilarated by the unknown.
It’s not really him, his own voice echoes in the back of his mind as nimble fingers undo the knot of his tie and skirt around his collar to remove the strip of fabric. But he’s real enough.
Like a child, he stands still as the Master undoes his shirt, his trousers, his shoelaces. As he returns his attention to the Doctor’s torso, removing the shirt from his shoulders, the Master steps forward, the Doctor backward and the space around them shifts into the corridor. The Doctor steps out of his shoes easily. Another step backward and space compresses and retracts around them once more further down the corridor. The Master’s hands on the waist of his trousers tug downward, and the Doctor falls with him. He lands on his back on his bed where he is simultaneously sleeping, dreaming, and speaking. The Master is above him, still dressed to the nines, still stoic.
“You look like a drowned rat,” he speaks after a while. The only sound to fill the space is the Doctor’s quiet breathing. “Or perhaps, a drowned spider. A drowned baby spider.”
“Don’t.”
“I was just speaking my mind. No law against that. I should know. I was Prime Minister once.” His face breaks out into a grin. This isn’t what the Doctor had wanted.
“I know what you wanted,” the Master cuts in, his manner suddenly changed. “What you’ve always wanted.”
The TARDIS hums in a different tone. He hasn’t reason to, but somehow the Doctor feels scared, trapped. If he’s quiet enough, he can hear the Master’s rhythm within the beeps and blips of his old ship. He uses his arms to lift himself up and drag himself further up the bed. He needs to sit up, to breathe. The Master ends up smiling into his stomach.
“Demanding, aren’t we?” The Doctor shivers as the Masters lips flutter over his navel. “Soon enough, dear.”
He twitches when the Master’s tongue dips into the sensitive crevice. “Why the hurry? You’ve still got your socks on! Not to mention these disaster of a pair of shorts.”
“They were a gift.”
“From who? Someone who hates you? I don’t remembering honoring Christmas the last time we were together.”
“Jackie.” There is a flash of everyone gathered around the console, laughing and smiling, and that, he will admit, hurts.
“Stop that,” The Master coos, collapsing on his side next to the Doctor’s own prone form. “Tell your Master what he can do to make it better.”
The Doctor looks away.
“No? Well, I suppose I will just have to act in your best interest, then.”
He still does not know what the Master is thinking, he will never know because one moment the soft face with the imprint of Kasterborous is twinkling in front of his eyes, and the next it disappears, stripping the socks off his feet and using a blanket to dry the remainder of the water from his hair, his neck, his shoulders. He thought for sure the Master would have - No. It’s a silly thought.
The blanket crumples on the floor next to the Doctor. He turns to look at it, and he finds that it is his suit. He recalls being tiny, just a small thimble of a man, and fighting his way out of that heap.
“I told you you’d catch your death. Stop thinking.” His breath ghosts across his cheek, his words fall into his ear. “ Let me think for you.”
He thinks to himself, for a moment, weighing his options. A voice in the back of his head reminds him that it is just a conversation. She only wants to help. Sighing, the Doctor relents, “Just do it.”
The Master considers him a moment, the stars in his eyes shifting as if orbiting something greater, then turns the Doctor’s cheek and presses their lips together. They are both still for a long while.
The feel of the Master’s lips against his own is foreign. These lips have never touched before. He thinks of another kiss, on a beach, in another dimension, and suddenly he is furious. He is not supposed to be thinking. He grunts in annoyance and moves his initiating a proper kiss, forcing the Master’s mouth open, and slipping his tongue inside for just a taste of what it used to mean to be together.
The Master smirks against his mouth and there it is, the tiniest movement of his lips, an answering flick of his tongue. The Doctor pulls away, swallowing what he'd been able to gather. “I told you,” his voice is hoarse, “I’m in no mood for games.”
“Sorry, dear. You entered the game the second you started kissing me.”
“But you kissed me first.” It’s a weak defense, but it is his only one.
"No I didn’t. I pressed my lips against you. You stuck your tongue down my throat. There’s a difference. A desperate difference. A difference, Doctor," the Master swings his legs around his hips and shifts his weight so that he is hovering above him once more, "that, as your precious humans would say, gets me hot. However, the question remains," the Master lowers his head, "Do you want to win?"
The Master hand slips inside the waistband of his shorts at the same moment his lips close over his own. It is the perfect balance of sensation, one the Doctor has to lose himself to in order to fully appreciate. He lets his eyes close and his body relax. He will forget. He will only feel. Sensation, emotion, exploitation, is something the Master is quite good at. The Doctor plucks out each individual action that results in the whimper behind his throat: the Master sucks on his bottom lip enough to bruise; his palm presses against his groin, retarding more than relieving; the Master’s tongue skirts along his teeth, breaks through and tangles with the Doctor’s own; his hand squeezes, making the Doctor gasp and moan; the Master swallows the sounds, grunting back but refraining from any other reaction.
Salt. Words. The DoctorDonna. The Doctor fervently kisses the Master between words. Time. Age. Regret. His hands grip the Master’s shoulders. Dalig ulv Stranden. Valiant. Osterhagen. He breathes in almost pain as he hardens, ignored, against the Master’s hand. TARDIS. Kasterborous. Kos-
Without warning, the Master rips himself away from his mouth, squeezes his hand even tighter. The Doctor bucks his hips, tasting blood when he bites his swollen lip. “Say it,” he hisses into the Doctor’s ear. “Beg for me.”
The Doctor’s breath hitches as his boxers are pulled off and thrown to the floor.
“Tell me,” the Master reappears in his line of sight. The stars in his eyes are brighter than ever. His suit is wrinkled, his tie undone and collar loose. The Doctor can only stare up at him, his mouth agape and his hearts pulsing throughout his body. Surrender is a word that comes to his mind.
“No?” The Maser laughs, tilting his head to the side. “Maybe you can show me, then? Will you show me what you want?”
The Doctor realizes, when his shaking hand lifts off of the bed, that he is no longer in control of his own actions. Master, TARDIS, or lust, he cannot say, but he has lost control, for better or for worse.
“That’s it. Show me,” the Master encourages.
With his hand, his lucky hand, he slowly begins to stroke himself, trying to control his breath and not whimper from the relief.
The Master’s name escapes from his lips when the other Time Lord licks across his hand, deliberating not touching anything but his fingers, his wrist. The Master laughs again. “You’re doing just fine without me, Doctor.”
His hand is no longer slow, no longer steady. There is, however, a familiar four-beat rhythm in its frantic motions. It overtakes him. His eyes screw shut and the map of the stars in the back of his eyelids - Kasterborous, thanks to the Master - shrinks in on itself, tenses, tightens, stops entirely, then explodes with a fury of light.
His eyes snap open, his tongue catching on the Master’s name, and he bolts upright in bed, fully clothed and wet (but not just from rain.) The Doctor shakily brings himself to his feet, stopping to listen to the sounds of the TARDIS. His eyes dart around the darkened room. He feels strange, still out of breath.
“Master?” He calls, so unsure.
(Kasterborous, she supplied, because it is the star cluster which contains Gallifrey. All it used to mean is lost. It is Home now. She placed Kasterborous in his eyes because he was the last remnant of that safe, warm place everyone runs to. She gave him Home.)
He’s shaken and somewhat shaking, but the relief, the blessed relief, is there just underneath the surface.
“Thank you,” he whispers, gratefully sinking back into the mattress, ready to fall into a dreamless state of rest.
"You're welcome."