Something Darker
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: #058 - Hold
Claim: The Time War
Table: Here
Spoilers: Season 3 Finale
Warning: graphic rape (?), dark
Characters/Pairing: Simm!Master/Doctor (10), TARDIS/Doctor
Summary: Sequel to The Empty Air. Life on the TARDIS, some years later. Yes, it is possible to envy a phone box.
Note: Not sure about this story... I wrote it in one sitting, which is a good thing given my temporary lack of energy but I think it sucks a little.
Anyway, this is the most graphic part in the series. The following stories will be harmless in comparison - though still rated NC-17. And even darker. Something to look forward to... Not!
The Master is not yet ruler of the universe. But he is working on that.
His army of Toclafane swarmed across half of the Milkyway, occupied a thousand worlds. They don’t need his guidance anymore, but the Master prefers to show himself to them every now and then, to remind them who they belong to. And every now and then he leads them himself and with them as his faithful soldiers takes over another planet, causes the fall of another civilisation.
This is his ultimate triumph. Never before has he been this powerful, and he hasn’t yet reached the end of his ambitions. Never before has he enjoyed himself so much.
It is, however, rather exhausting from time to time, this taking over of the universe. Every now and then the Master therefore takes the time to relax, quietly enjoying himself in private. Right now he’s lying comfortably on his large bed in the TARDIS. As monstrous and vicious the ships now looks, his bedroom is nothing but cosy and elegant.
The light is dim and the air has precisely the right temperature - the Master is naked, stretched out on his back, enjoying the feeling of long, skilled fingers massaging his feet. His eyes are closed and he concentrates on the movement of hands that are slowly wandering upwards, working the tension from his lower legs, the back of his knees and then his thighs exactly the way he likes it. Soon the hands slide even higher and the Master gives a content sigh as another, better kind of tension fills him.
Finger brush over his balls just briefly, then the long-fingered hands take hold of his hips. The Master sighs again, in anticipation, just before the tip of his half hard cock is engulfed by soft lips. The lips slide down and a soft, wet tongue circles around the head of his penis, worries at the very tip for a few seconds before sliding down as well as the Master is taken even deeper into that warm, wet mouth. It takes effort now to remain still but he has quite a lot of self-control.
Control is what he excels at.
A moment of consideration as his cock hits the hard palatal. Tempting to slide all the way in and feel a tight throat constrict around him, driven by the vain instinct to breathe, but no. Not now.
He doesn’t have to say anything. Through the bond of tenure connecting them the Doctor always knows what he wants him to do. His lips press closely around the long hard shaft as he slowly withdraws. He’s become good at this.
The other man resumes massaging his master at the shoulders. The Master laughs softly at the feeling of his enemy’s hands on his neck, completely and utterly unable to squeeze.
The bond makes it hard for the Doctor to resist the Master’s orders, and so all he has to do when he chooses no to is let his body act on its own, in a way. Opening his eyes and looking into the Doctor’s the Master can see that his mind is somewhere else, somewhere far from here. He considers slapping him, hard, to draw him back to reality but decides that it’s not worth the effort. It’s not like the Doctor could ever truly leave him.
The other’s lips are wet and taste of the Master’s pre-come as he leans down to kiss him. The Master simply parts his own lips to let the Doctor’s tongue slip into his mouth, lets him do everything today. After a second, though, he finds himself responding almost on instinct.
It would be easy to close his eyes now and be back on Gallifrey, lying in the red grass, kissing Theta beneath the orange sky and imagine his smile - but he's never liked Gallifrey all that much and looking at the resigned despair in the Doctor’s eyes is ever so much better.
One year back the other Time Lord has still fought him at times like this, made the Master take him by force every time he felt like it, but then, on a day the Master still treasures in his memory, he gave up his resistance when it came to sex. Gave up any resistance when it came to things that wouldn’t hurt anyone else. The Master still can’t make him kill even a trapped and injured rabbit - he tried - and he can’t stop him from trying to help where he could, but that he doesn’t mind. It is too beautiful a thing anyway, watching the Doctor lying at his feet, screaming and crying as another world dies before his eyes.
Sometimes the Master takes him without using the bond to ensure his cooperation, allowing the Doctor to struggle and fight and try to get away. Every now and then he succeeds, and though the Master is left unfulfilled and in a bad mood he always accepts his defeat and doesn’t force himself on the Doctor that day. He does, however, gain some satisfaction by beating the other man unconscious, and taking his time with it. There is an extra room for that in the TARDIS, with shackles to chain the Doctor down should he feel like it and a closet full of tools and toys the Master is rather fond of.
One day the Doctor will learn that resistance is a bad thing even when it is possible. Whenever the Master wants him then he will just lay back and spread his legs for him. But that day is still to come - the Doctor is stubborn as he always was, making him fight hard for every small victory, and the Master wouldn’t have it any other way.
Now, using the bond to force his will onto his slave he can relax and let the Doctor work on relaxing him even more. When the Doctor reaches for the tube of lube on the bed table the Master grabs his wrist, digging his nails hard into the thin, uneven scar. The gesture is added to by the sharp glare he sends the other’s way, but his warning is unnecessary - the Doctor’s understood the first time. He won’t meet his eyes. So his master lets him go and the Doctor goes back to work. When hands slick with lube begin to move over his cock and balls the Master let’s himself sink deeper into the soft mattress, not holding back a small moan, but he doesn’t close his eyes.
Sex is not a natural urge for his kind, but that doesn’t mean it’s not pleasant and fun to do. He still wouldn’t do it quite as often, he supposes, if the Doctor wouldn’t so very much hate the way he uses him for is own pleasure.
After finishing his preparation the Doctor takes his position over the Master and slowly lowers himself onto his rock-hard cock. The Master hisses softly as he sinks deeper and deeper into that deliciously tight body. He watches the Doctor intently: his body tenses as he impales himself on the other man, but he keeps his head down, refusing to meet his eyes.
‘Look at me!’ the Master thinks and reluctantly the Doctor obeys. Discomfort and humiliation are written all over his face. The Master smiles and pats his bare thigh. Other than that he keeps still, while the Doctor is moving up and down his shaft at increasing speed. Only when nearing release begins the Master to thrust into him, unwilling to suppress his body’s reactions any longer. He comes inside his fuck-doll, relishing, as always, the thought of his semen in the Doctor’s body.
Sinking back into the pillows he finally closes his eyes, allowing himself to drift away. Above him the Doctor remains impaled on his penis like the Master wants him to. Trembling with the effort of keeping his uncomfortable position and not sitting fully on his master’s balls he can do nothing but wait as the Master nabs, occasionally thrusting shallowly.
While never truly deeply asleep it takes a while for him to rise from the dozing state he’s fallen into. The Master stretches his limbs with a content yawn before even opening his eyes. Then he takes hold of the Doctor’s arms, then his shoulders, pulling himself up until he’s sitting on his bed with the Doctor on his lap. His fingers run over the other’s back, nails scratching over old and not so old scars. He likes to mark his possessions.
Over and over.
One hand suddenly grabs the Doctor’s hair and yanks his head back brutally, baring his throat. His teeth work at the sensitive skin, biting down hard, adding to the colourful map of bruises and scratches while his hips thrust roughly until a faint whimper escapes the Doctor’s throat. The Master smiles, and nips at his neck, feeling the other’s pulses race beneath his lips.
Then he pushes the Doctor down so he’s lying on his back and starts ramming into him as hard as possible, rocking the thin body further and further backwards with the sheer force of it while his nails and teeth claw and bite at his skin. When he’s done he simply allows himself to fall fully onto his Doctor and is deeply asleep within seconds.
He wakes up a few hours later to discover that under him the Doctor is asleep as well. Admiring the fresh marks he left on the pale skin he considers taking him again but decides not to. Instead he finally slides out and leaves for a shower.
When he returns the Doctor is awake and already dressed. Everything the Master lets him wear these days is either very tight or so wide that it takes no effort at all to get him out of it. Today’s outfit is of the first variant.
“Take it off,” the Master orders. The Doctor’s frown shows a hint of irritation and the Master knows he still has a lot of work to do.
“Why?” his slave wants to know even as he takes off his shirt.
“I want you run around naked today, that’s why,” the Master grumbles. “How are you feeling?”
If the question surprises the Doctor he doesn’t show it.
“I’m hungry,” he answers.
“Well, you know what to do about that.”
The Doctor grimaces and doesn’t say anything.
On the floor of the kitchen is a bowl of food waiting for the Doctor and has been for a few weeks. The bond leaves the Doctor two choices: Either eat from it like a dog or not at all. Sooner or later though, the Master will have to eliminate the second alternative, since he doesn’t want to lose the Doctor to starvation.
It reminds him of something. Ordering the Doctor to sit down on the bed he takes a narrow collar from the drawer of his bed table and fastens it around the other Time Lord’s neck, just a tiny little bit too tight.
“That’s all you get to wear today,” he explains. “Aren’t you going to thank me?”
Conflicting emotions run over the Doctor’s face and for one second it looks as if he’d refuse the order. But he isn’t one to waste strength for something this banal, not anymore.
“Thank you, Master,” he says hoarsely, the collar cutting off much of his air. The he gets up, pulls the Master close and presses a long kiss to his lips before walking out of the room without any further comment.
And the Master stares after him open mouthed. His fingers move to his lips almost on their own, touching where the Doctor kissed him. That has not been an order. The Doctor never before kissed him of his own free will.
A slight smile plays at the Master’s lips. This is just another kind of defiance, he knows, but one he can certainly live with.
-
“What is that?”
The slight horror in the Doctor’s voice makes the Master smirk. The other man is referring to the chair in the console room, right beside the cage that surrounds the console - or rather to the newest addition to it.
The chair has been created solely for the Doctor. It allows him to directly connect with what has become of his beloved ship, something occasionally necessary the way things are. Like now. The chair is long and tipped over, forcing whoever sits down on in into a half-lying position. The Doctor hates it, hates what it does to him, and the little improvement the Master has added surely will not make him change his opinion.
Actually it is just a string of wires that serve no particular purpose anymore after the Master has violated the TARDIS and turned her into something new. A rather thick string, rather stiff as well. The Master has securely tied the lose ends together and created a hole in the seat for it to fit through. He could have found countless things to better serve this purpose but it was a spontaneous idea that came to him looking at that string, so here it is.
To answer the Doctor’s question he could say many things. Something about attitude and punishment, something about reminding him who his Master is while he is at work. The honest answer would be ‘I was bored and wanted to cause you a little additional pain today because I enjoy seeing you suffer and the sight of trails of blood running down your legs.’ He doesn’t say that but the Doctor can probably guess.
Since the Doctor wears nothing but a loose black shirt it doesn’t take long to get him out of his clothes. The Master thinks about letting him suck him off first, but no. First things first, there’s always time for that later.
Since the chair is rather high the Master simply lifts the unhappy Doctor by the waist and lowers him onto the hard end of the string. He gives a startled scream as it enters him as it is uneven and scratchy, not meant to be pushed into anyone’s body. The Doctor begins to struggle instinctively, biting his lips as the Master pushes him down. The thing is longer and thicker, not to mention a lot harder than his cock, but the Doctor has had toys of similar size pushed into him often enough so the Master figures it will be okay.
Even after the restraints close around the Doctor’s arms and legs the way they always do he squirms and writhes in his seat, trying to find a position that is at least bearable.
There is another movement and then thin wires are pushed trough holes in the back of the chair, and even though he can’t see it the Master knows that they are right now moving along the Doctor’s spine, searching for the right points. He can tell they found them when the Doctor buckles in his restraints, crying out as the wires push into his body to connect directly with his nervous system and his brain.
Many years back, when the Master stole the TARDIS from him, the Doctor fixed the coordinates, and when the Master reformed the ship into a paradox-machine those fixed coordinates became part of it - even the Doctor couldn’t change it anymore. By connecting with the ship like this, though, they can make her go wherever they want.
It’s not just the fact that it is a highly unpleasant experience that makes the Master leave it to the Doctor every time - With him it simply wouldn’t work. Even though he stole her and transformed her the TARDIS is still technically the Doctor’s ship, bound to him in a way even the Time Lords didn’t fully understand. Only he can connect with her this way, and every time he is forced to he’s confronted with the dark and twisted thing the Master has turned her into. The first time he was nearly hysterical after the Master and the ship released him, scared beyond words by whatever he saw.
Through the bond the Master receives but an echo of it, but it’s enough to make her do his will. He just has to order it and through the Doctor the order goes straight to the ship. There is no way to resist in this case - the TARDIS belongs to the Doctor but the Doctor belongs to the Master and so the TARDIS belongs to the Master as well as long as she is directly connected to her owner.
It’s also enough to get a vague idea of the true nature of his creation, and that’s enough to make him shiver. He can imagine why the Doctor, who loved his ship, would be so devastated.
Sweat covers the Doctor’s forehead and he is paler than usual while he unwillingly helps the Master and the paradox-machine create a way to the Andromeda-galaxy, a tunnel in space and time, open long enough for a fleet of Toclafane to follow. They have played around in the Milkyway long enough. Time to move on.
They have just finished their work as the Doctor arches and screams in agony. It takes the Master by surprise, pulling him back to reality at once.
“Stop it!” the Doctor cries out. “Please!”
“Stop what?” the Master asks in confusion. He’s doing nothing.
Then a movement seen out of the corner of his eye catches his attention. The thick string of wire he has the Doctor impaled upon is very long and on the other end still connected to the console. It’s moving slightly. The Master looks closer. Indeed: Ever so slowly the string is moving forward, pushing itself deeper and deeper into the Doctor’s body. Now that’s interesting. He’s seen the ship acting on its own often enough but this is new.
He doesn’t know when exactly it started and so can’t tell how deep it already is, but it’s in any case deeper than can be good for the Doctor. Fascinated the Master lies a hand on the other’s flat stomach and - there! He can feel it, moving inside the Doctor’s body, still pushing deeper, slowly but steadily.
The Doctor has stopped screaming. Instead he’s gasping for breath, his face white as a sheet.
“Please,” he whispers again. “Make it stop…”
The TARDIS is still bound to him, but he can’t control her anymore. As long as he is the Master’s slave the Master is the only one whose orders she has to obey - especially now that she clearly doesn’t want to stop. Just to see if she would the Master makes her withdraw a few centimetres and, seeming reluctant, she does. As soon as he lets her the string moves forward again, faster now. Only when it reaches the point where it has been before does it slow down.
Pressing his hand down a little harder the Master follows the movement. It’s too deep, much too deep. It’s impossible to enter a body that far in a straight line, but the string is flexible and does twist and turn its way forward. Still, it’s not that flexible, and right now it is probably more or less stirring and rearranging the Doctor’s insides. His agony is hardly a surprise.
The Master has not expected something like this to happen, but maybe he should have. Through the bond with the Doctor he feels her often enough, a dark, shadowy presence at the back of his mind, but somehow he’s always refused to look too closely at the monster he created, a powerful and insane being chained to him through such a fragile link. He does look now, tries to read what he receives from her and it makes sense, everything. The Doctor loved his TARDIS and the TARDIS loved him. Now that love has been twisted into something darker. The need to protect and keep is now the need to hurt and dominate and possess, not at all unlike the Master’s own desire. The TARDIS doesn’t belong to the Doctor anymore, he belongs to her. And now she wants to show him. Wants to move inside him, wants to hurt him and prove his complete helplessness. Wants him to feel every millimetre of her as she pushes deeper.
Since she’s still connected to his mind the Master can only guess what of this the Doctor is feeling.
“Please!” he repeats, his voice almost inaudible. “It’s killing me.”
“Don’t be stupid,” the Master replies. “She’d never. She knows exactly how far she can go. And she will stop not one second earlier.” The last he adds with a grin. He’s certain of it. The ship wants to hurt the Doctor, not kill him. She needs him as much as the Master does.
The string stops moving for a second, then, suddenly, jerks forward. The Master raises his eyebrows, still not sure what to make of all this. He’s just seen the ship thrust into her pilot and that is something he’s not expected to witness when he got up in the morning.
The Doctor has no air to scream.
Eventually the movement stops. The Doctor is crying silently, gasping for air, and the Master reaches down, between his legs, feels for where the string enters his body. His fingers run over the tight ring of muscle, stretched wide, but not wider than it has been once or twice before. Just out of curiosity, and to remind the TARDIS whose toy she is playing with he presses one finger inside with effort and feels the flesh tear. There’s blood on his fingers when he withdraws his hand.
He’s just beginning to wonder if he should have made that string even thicker when the ship reacts to his thoughts. There is a slight, hardly visible movement and it takes the Master a moment to realise that the TARDIS has just added a few more wires to the bundle, increasing its size. The Doctor is whimpering helplessly and the Master feels an irrational jealousy of the ship for it is much deeper inside him than he can ever get.
Following an impulse he climbs onto the Doctor and sits on his stomach, making him struggle for breath even more. His eyes are closed but the Master knows he’s still conscious - the TARDIS is making sure of that.
Just as he wishes it the string he vaguely feels under him begins to twist slightly, never enough to endanger the Doctor’s life, as one thing neither of them can force him to do is regenerate. The Master feels the movement between his own legs, against his cock, and suddenly wants nothing more than to push into the Doctor himself. Not the best idea, since the place is already occupied.
Another idea, similar but better. The Master climbs off, then moves the position of the chair until the Doctor is lying flat on his back. He removes the last element of the chair, the one supporting his head and it falls back. The Doctor’s eyes snap open. He stares at the Master pleadingly, unable to speak. The Master, in return, smirks and unzips his pants.
The position forces the Doctor’s mouth open anyway but the Master mentally forbids him to bite down in addition, as the other man doesn’t seem very coherent and rational at the moment. Then he slips his cock inside, feeling the Doctor struggle for air around him until he slides down his throat, blocking it. The windpipe constricting around him is not a new feeling but one he always enjoys - especially now that the Doctor is impaled deeper than ever before, occasionally buckling and jerking in his restrains. Getting raped at the same time by his beloved ship and a man who’s once been his friend, a long time ago.
Suddenly overcome by an anger even more irrational than his jealousy toward the phone box the Master begins to thrust, every now and then pulling out enough to allow a strangled breath. The string, he can see, is moving again, almost imitating his actions. Eventually the Master comes, shooting his seed deep down into the Doctor’s throat, making him gag as he pulls out. After a moment of consideration he reattaches the headpiece of the chair. The Doctor is staring at him again, looking so impossibly young and vulnerable. His lips move, soundlessly forming the words ‘Help me’ over and over again. That is something new as well, something to be treasured. He really must be in exceptional agony, and the Master can’t forget that the TARDIS is still in his mind - impossible to tell what she is doing there.
There’s come on his face and it suits him. The Master’s come, as it should be.
Only now does he notice that while he’s been busy fucking the Doctor’s throat a number of thin wires have wrapped around the Doctor’s limbs, penetrating his skin at various places to run beneath it. He frowns. Not enough that the ship is taking his personal slave - he allowed that since it’s hard to make the Doctor suffer this much without killing his friends - now it’s marking him on the outside as well, and that’s going just a little too far.
“Stop that now!” he snaps, barely realising he’s saying it out loud. The TADRIS has the impudence to resist his order for a few seconds, wanting to keep the Doctor where he is, drawing him into herself while being inside him. But eventually she complies, withdrawing the wires from under his skin before she begins to pull the thick string out. It takes even longer than getting inside, and the Master knows she’s on the way back repairing some of the damage she caused, to keep the Doctor from bleeding to death. He appreciates the effort but can hardy fight his impatience and the urge to just grab that string and jerk it out himself.
The Doctor is still gasping and whimpering, pathetic little noises that would have fuelled the Master’s desire had they been caused by him. There’s a lot of blood dripping to the floor beneath the chair. It falls through the grate onto the machinery below and the Master wonders if the TARDIS absorbs it, if she enjoys the taste. He’s created this thing but it’s beginning to creep him out a little.
At the very last the restraints snap open and the thin wires withdraw from the Doctor’s spine and skull. He passes out the moment the Master lifts him out of his chair.
-
The spot of blood on the white sheets is still getting lager and the Master wonders. He knows the Doctor will not bleed to death. Time Lords can take a lot of blood loss, and the TARDIS has calculated precisely. This will weaken the Doctor extremely but it will not kill him. Now the Master wonders if this is her getting back at him for spoiling her fun - for some time he will have to be very careful with the Doctor. It’ll be a while until he can once again use him the way he likes to.
The other man is deadly pale, completely still and hardly even breathing. The Master touches his temples and tries to reach into his mind but there’s nothing; the Doctor is deeply unconscious, but weather that is her doing as well or simply the pain, shock and blood loss taking their toll on his body the Master can not tell.
He’s taken care of the small wounds the thin wires caused. Now the Doctor hangs limply in his arms like a broken doll as the Master drags him a bit higher, so he’s properly lying on the bed. He usually sleeps on the floor - only when the Master falls asleep after sex does he get the chance of sleeping in a bed, but right now the Master feels generous (and unwilling to let him go).
Drawing the covers over the both of them the Master leans against the Doctor to listen to his uneven heartbeats, and closes his eyes. But it takes a long time for sleep to find him.
December 02, 2007
Prompt: #058 - Hold
Claim: The Time War
Table: Here
Spoilers: Season 3 Finale
Warning: graphic rape (?), dark
Characters/Pairing: Simm!Master/Doctor (10), TARDIS/Doctor
Summary: Sequel to The Empty Air. Life on the TARDIS, some years later. Yes, it is possible to envy a phone box.
Note: Not sure about this story... I wrote it in one sitting, which is a good thing given my temporary lack of energy but I think it sucks a little.
Anyway, this is the most graphic part in the series. The following stories will be harmless in comparison - though still rated NC-17. And even darker. Something to look forward to... Not!
The Master is not yet ruler of the universe. But he is working on that.
His army of Toclafane swarmed across half of the Milkyway, occupied a thousand worlds. They don’t need his guidance anymore, but the Master prefers to show himself to them every now and then, to remind them who they belong to. And every now and then he leads them himself and with them as his faithful soldiers takes over another planet, causes the fall of another civilisation.
This is his ultimate triumph. Never before has he been this powerful, and he hasn’t yet reached the end of his ambitions. Never before has he enjoyed himself so much.
It is, however, rather exhausting from time to time, this taking over of the universe. Every now and then the Master therefore takes the time to relax, quietly enjoying himself in private. Right now he’s lying comfortably on his large bed in the TARDIS. As monstrous and vicious the ships now looks, his bedroom is nothing but cosy and elegant.
The light is dim and the air has precisely the right temperature - the Master is naked, stretched out on his back, enjoying the feeling of long, skilled fingers massaging his feet. His eyes are closed and he concentrates on the movement of hands that are slowly wandering upwards, working the tension from his lower legs, the back of his knees and then his thighs exactly the way he likes it. Soon the hands slide even higher and the Master gives a content sigh as another, better kind of tension fills him.
Finger brush over his balls just briefly, then the long-fingered hands take hold of his hips. The Master sighs again, in anticipation, just before the tip of his half hard cock is engulfed by soft lips. The lips slide down and a soft, wet tongue circles around the head of his penis, worries at the very tip for a few seconds before sliding down as well as the Master is taken even deeper into that warm, wet mouth. It takes effort now to remain still but he has quite a lot of self-control.
Control is what he excels at.
A moment of consideration as his cock hits the hard palatal. Tempting to slide all the way in and feel a tight throat constrict around him, driven by the vain instinct to breathe, but no. Not now.
He doesn’t have to say anything. Through the bond of tenure connecting them the Doctor always knows what he wants him to do. His lips press closely around the long hard shaft as he slowly withdraws. He’s become good at this.
The other man resumes massaging his master at the shoulders. The Master laughs softly at the feeling of his enemy’s hands on his neck, completely and utterly unable to squeeze.
The bond makes it hard for the Doctor to resist the Master’s orders, and so all he has to do when he chooses no to is let his body act on its own, in a way. Opening his eyes and looking into the Doctor’s the Master can see that his mind is somewhere else, somewhere far from here. He considers slapping him, hard, to draw him back to reality but decides that it’s not worth the effort. It’s not like the Doctor could ever truly leave him.
The other’s lips are wet and taste of the Master’s pre-come as he leans down to kiss him. The Master simply parts his own lips to let the Doctor’s tongue slip into his mouth, lets him do everything today. After a second, though, he finds himself responding almost on instinct.
It would be easy to close his eyes now and be back on Gallifrey, lying in the red grass, kissing Theta beneath the orange sky and imagine his smile - but he's never liked Gallifrey all that much and looking at the resigned despair in the Doctor’s eyes is ever so much better.
One year back the other Time Lord has still fought him at times like this, made the Master take him by force every time he felt like it, but then, on a day the Master still treasures in his memory, he gave up his resistance when it came to sex. Gave up any resistance when it came to things that wouldn’t hurt anyone else. The Master still can’t make him kill even a trapped and injured rabbit - he tried - and he can’t stop him from trying to help where he could, but that he doesn’t mind. It is too beautiful a thing anyway, watching the Doctor lying at his feet, screaming and crying as another world dies before his eyes.
Sometimes the Master takes him without using the bond to ensure his cooperation, allowing the Doctor to struggle and fight and try to get away. Every now and then he succeeds, and though the Master is left unfulfilled and in a bad mood he always accepts his defeat and doesn’t force himself on the Doctor that day. He does, however, gain some satisfaction by beating the other man unconscious, and taking his time with it. There is an extra room for that in the TARDIS, with shackles to chain the Doctor down should he feel like it and a closet full of tools and toys the Master is rather fond of.
One day the Doctor will learn that resistance is a bad thing even when it is possible. Whenever the Master wants him then he will just lay back and spread his legs for him. But that day is still to come - the Doctor is stubborn as he always was, making him fight hard for every small victory, and the Master wouldn’t have it any other way.
Now, using the bond to force his will onto his slave he can relax and let the Doctor work on relaxing him even more. When the Doctor reaches for the tube of lube on the bed table the Master grabs his wrist, digging his nails hard into the thin, uneven scar. The gesture is added to by the sharp glare he sends the other’s way, but his warning is unnecessary - the Doctor’s understood the first time. He won’t meet his eyes. So his master lets him go and the Doctor goes back to work. When hands slick with lube begin to move over his cock and balls the Master let’s himself sink deeper into the soft mattress, not holding back a small moan, but he doesn’t close his eyes.
Sex is not a natural urge for his kind, but that doesn’t mean it’s not pleasant and fun to do. He still wouldn’t do it quite as often, he supposes, if the Doctor wouldn’t so very much hate the way he uses him for is own pleasure.
After finishing his preparation the Doctor takes his position over the Master and slowly lowers himself onto his rock-hard cock. The Master hisses softly as he sinks deeper and deeper into that deliciously tight body. He watches the Doctor intently: his body tenses as he impales himself on the other man, but he keeps his head down, refusing to meet his eyes.
‘Look at me!’ the Master thinks and reluctantly the Doctor obeys. Discomfort and humiliation are written all over his face. The Master smiles and pats his bare thigh. Other than that he keeps still, while the Doctor is moving up and down his shaft at increasing speed. Only when nearing release begins the Master to thrust into him, unwilling to suppress his body’s reactions any longer. He comes inside his fuck-doll, relishing, as always, the thought of his semen in the Doctor’s body.
Sinking back into the pillows he finally closes his eyes, allowing himself to drift away. Above him the Doctor remains impaled on his penis like the Master wants him to. Trembling with the effort of keeping his uncomfortable position and not sitting fully on his master’s balls he can do nothing but wait as the Master nabs, occasionally thrusting shallowly.
While never truly deeply asleep it takes a while for him to rise from the dozing state he’s fallen into. The Master stretches his limbs with a content yawn before even opening his eyes. Then he takes hold of the Doctor’s arms, then his shoulders, pulling himself up until he’s sitting on his bed with the Doctor on his lap. His fingers run over the other’s back, nails scratching over old and not so old scars. He likes to mark his possessions.
Over and over.
One hand suddenly grabs the Doctor’s hair and yanks his head back brutally, baring his throat. His teeth work at the sensitive skin, biting down hard, adding to the colourful map of bruises and scratches while his hips thrust roughly until a faint whimper escapes the Doctor’s throat. The Master smiles, and nips at his neck, feeling the other’s pulses race beneath his lips.
Then he pushes the Doctor down so he’s lying on his back and starts ramming into him as hard as possible, rocking the thin body further and further backwards with the sheer force of it while his nails and teeth claw and bite at his skin. When he’s done he simply allows himself to fall fully onto his Doctor and is deeply asleep within seconds.
He wakes up a few hours later to discover that under him the Doctor is asleep as well. Admiring the fresh marks he left on the pale skin he considers taking him again but decides not to. Instead he finally slides out and leaves for a shower.
When he returns the Doctor is awake and already dressed. Everything the Master lets him wear these days is either very tight or so wide that it takes no effort at all to get him out of it. Today’s outfit is of the first variant.
“Take it off,” the Master orders. The Doctor’s frown shows a hint of irritation and the Master knows he still has a lot of work to do.
“Why?” his slave wants to know even as he takes off his shirt.
“I want you run around naked today, that’s why,” the Master grumbles. “How are you feeling?”
If the question surprises the Doctor he doesn’t show it.
“I’m hungry,” he answers.
“Well, you know what to do about that.”
The Doctor grimaces and doesn’t say anything.
On the floor of the kitchen is a bowl of food waiting for the Doctor and has been for a few weeks. The bond leaves the Doctor two choices: Either eat from it like a dog or not at all. Sooner or later though, the Master will have to eliminate the second alternative, since he doesn’t want to lose the Doctor to starvation.
It reminds him of something. Ordering the Doctor to sit down on the bed he takes a narrow collar from the drawer of his bed table and fastens it around the other Time Lord’s neck, just a tiny little bit too tight.
“That’s all you get to wear today,” he explains. “Aren’t you going to thank me?”
Conflicting emotions run over the Doctor’s face and for one second it looks as if he’d refuse the order. But he isn’t one to waste strength for something this banal, not anymore.
“Thank you, Master,” he says hoarsely, the collar cutting off much of his air. The he gets up, pulls the Master close and presses a long kiss to his lips before walking out of the room without any further comment.
And the Master stares after him open mouthed. His fingers move to his lips almost on their own, touching where the Doctor kissed him. That has not been an order. The Doctor never before kissed him of his own free will.
A slight smile plays at the Master’s lips. This is just another kind of defiance, he knows, but one he can certainly live with.
-
“What is that?”
The slight horror in the Doctor’s voice makes the Master smirk. The other man is referring to the chair in the console room, right beside the cage that surrounds the console - or rather to the newest addition to it.
The chair has been created solely for the Doctor. It allows him to directly connect with what has become of his beloved ship, something occasionally necessary the way things are. Like now. The chair is long and tipped over, forcing whoever sits down on in into a half-lying position. The Doctor hates it, hates what it does to him, and the little improvement the Master has added surely will not make him change his opinion.
Actually it is just a string of wires that serve no particular purpose anymore after the Master has violated the TARDIS and turned her into something new. A rather thick string, rather stiff as well. The Master has securely tied the lose ends together and created a hole in the seat for it to fit through. He could have found countless things to better serve this purpose but it was a spontaneous idea that came to him looking at that string, so here it is.
To answer the Doctor’s question he could say many things. Something about attitude and punishment, something about reminding him who his Master is while he is at work. The honest answer would be ‘I was bored and wanted to cause you a little additional pain today because I enjoy seeing you suffer and the sight of trails of blood running down your legs.’ He doesn’t say that but the Doctor can probably guess.
Since the Doctor wears nothing but a loose black shirt it doesn’t take long to get him out of his clothes. The Master thinks about letting him suck him off first, but no. First things first, there’s always time for that later.
Since the chair is rather high the Master simply lifts the unhappy Doctor by the waist and lowers him onto the hard end of the string. He gives a startled scream as it enters him as it is uneven and scratchy, not meant to be pushed into anyone’s body. The Doctor begins to struggle instinctively, biting his lips as the Master pushes him down. The thing is longer and thicker, not to mention a lot harder than his cock, but the Doctor has had toys of similar size pushed into him often enough so the Master figures it will be okay.
Even after the restraints close around the Doctor’s arms and legs the way they always do he squirms and writhes in his seat, trying to find a position that is at least bearable.
There is another movement and then thin wires are pushed trough holes in the back of the chair, and even though he can’t see it the Master knows that they are right now moving along the Doctor’s spine, searching for the right points. He can tell they found them when the Doctor buckles in his restraints, crying out as the wires push into his body to connect directly with his nervous system and his brain.
Many years back, when the Master stole the TARDIS from him, the Doctor fixed the coordinates, and when the Master reformed the ship into a paradox-machine those fixed coordinates became part of it - even the Doctor couldn’t change it anymore. By connecting with the ship like this, though, they can make her go wherever they want.
It’s not just the fact that it is a highly unpleasant experience that makes the Master leave it to the Doctor every time - With him it simply wouldn’t work. Even though he stole her and transformed her the TARDIS is still technically the Doctor’s ship, bound to him in a way even the Time Lords didn’t fully understand. Only he can connect with her this way, and every time he is forced to he’s confronted with the dark and twisted thing the Master has turned her into. The first time he was nearly hysterical after the Master and the ship released him, scared beyond words by whatever he saw.
Through the bond the Master receives but an echo of it, but it’s enough to make her do his will. He just has to order it and through the Doctor the order goes straight to the ship. There is no way to resist in this case - the TARDIS belongs to the Doctor but the Doctor belongs to the Master and so the TARDIS belongs to the Master as well as long as she is directly connected to her owner.
It’s also enough to get a vague idea of the true nature of his creation, and that’s enough to make him shiver. He can imagine why the Doctor, who loved his ship, would be so devastated.
Sweat covers the Doctor’s forehead and he is paler than usual while he unwillingly helps the Master and the paradox-machine create a way to the Andromeda-galaxy, a tunnel in space and time, open long enough for a fleet of Toclafane to follow. They have played around in the Milkyway long enough. Time to move on.
They have just finished their work as the Doctor arches and screams in agony. It takes the Master by surprise, pulling him back to reality at once.
“Stop it!” the Doctor cries out. “Please!”
“Stop what?” the Master asks in confusion. He’s doing nothing.
Then a movement seen out of the corner of his eye catches his attention. The thick string of wire he has the Doctor impaled upon is very long and on the other end still connected to the console. It’s moving slightly. The Master looks closer. Indeed: Ever so slowly the string is moving forward, pushing itself deeper and deeper into the Doctor’s body. Now that’s interesting. He’s seen the ship acting on its own often enough but this is new.
He doesn’t know when exactly it started and so can’t tell how deep it already is, but it’s in any case deeper than can be good for the Doctor. Fascinated the Master lies a hand on the other’s flat stomach and - there! He can feel it, moving inside the Doctor’s body, still pushing deeper, slowly but steadily.
The Doctor has stopped screaming. Instead he’s gasping for breath, his face white as a sheet.
“Please,” he whispers again. “Make it stop…”
The TARDIS is still bound to him, but he can’t control her anymore. As long as he is the Master’s slave the Master is the only one whose orders she has to obey - especially now that she clearly doesn’t want to stop. Just to see if she would the Master makes her withdraw a few centimetres and, seeming reluctant, she does. As soon as he lets her the string moves forward again, faster now. Only when it reaches the point where it has been before does it slow down.
Pressing his hand down a little harder the Master follows the movement. It’s too deep, much too deep. It’s impossible to enter a body that far in a straight line, but the string is flexible and does twist and turn its way forward. Still, it’s not that flexible, and right now it is probably more or less stirring and rearranging the Doctor’s insides. His agony is hardly a surprise.
The Master has not expected something like this to happen, but maybe he should have. Through the bond with the Doctor he feels her often enough, a dark, shadowy presence at the back of his mind, but somehow he’s always refused to look too closely at the monster he created, a powerful and insane being chained to him through such a fragile link. He does look now, tries to read what he receives from her and it makes sense, everything. The Doctor loved his TARDIS and the TARDIS loved him. Now that love has been twisted into something darker. The need to protect and keep is now the need to hurt and dominate and possess, not at all unlike the Master’s own desire. The TARDIS doesn’t belong to the Doctor anymore, he belongs to her. And now she wants to show him. Wants to move inside him, wants to hurt him and prove his complete helplessness. Wants him to feel every millimetre of her as she pushes deeper.
Since she’s still connected to his mind the Master can only guess what of this the Doctor is feeling.
“Please!” he repeats, his voice almost inaudible. “It’s killing me.”
“Don’t be stupid,” the Master replies. “She’d never. She knows exactly how far she can go. And she will stop not one second earlier.” The last he adds with a grin. He’s certain of it. The ship wants to hurt the Doctor, not kill him. She needs him as much as the Master does.
The string stops moving for a second, then, suddenly, jerks forward. The Master raises his eyebrows, still not sure what to make of all this. He’s just seen the ship thrust into her pilot and that is something he’s not expected to witness when he got up in the morning.
The Doctor has no air to scream.
Eventually the movement stops. The Doctor is crying silently, gasping for air, and the Master reaches down, between his legs, feels for where the string enters his body. His fingers run over the tight ring of muscle, stretched wide, but not wider than it has been once or twice before. Just out of curiosity, and to remind the TARDIS whose toy she is playing with he presses one finger inside with effort and feels the flesh tear. There’s blood on his fingers when he withdraws his hand.
He’s just beginning to wonder if he should have made that string even thicker when the ship reacts to his thoughts. There is a slight, hardly visible movement and it takes the Master a moment to realise that the TARDIS has just added a few more wires to the bundle, increasing its size. The Doctor is whimpering helplessly and the Master feels an irrational jealousy of the ship for it is much deeper inside him than he can ever get.
Following an impulse he climbs onto the Doctor and sits on his stomach, making him struggle for breath even more. His eyes are closed but the Master knows he’s still conscious - the TARDIS is making sure of that.
Just as he wishes it the string he vaguely feels under him begins to twist slightly, never enough to endanger the Doctor’s life, as one thing neither of them can force him to do is regenerate. The Master feels the movement between his own legs, against his cock, and suddenly wants nothing more than to push into the Doctor himself. Not the best idea, since the place is already occupied.
Another idea, similar but better. The Master climbs off, then moves the position of the chair until the Doctor is lying flat on his back. He removes the last element of the chair, the one supporting his head and it falls back. The Doctor’s eyes snap open. He stares at the Master pleadingly, unable to speak. The Master, in return, smirks and unzips his pants.
The position forces the Doctor’s mouth open anyway but the Master mentally forbids him to bite down in addition, as the other man doesn’t seem very coherent and rational at the moment. Then he slips his cock inside, feeling the Doctor struggle for air around him until he slides down his throat, blocking it. The windpipe constricting around him is not a new feeling but one he always enjoys - especially now that the Doctor is impaled deeper than ever before, occasionally buckling and jerking in his restrains. Getting raped at the same time by his beloved ship and a man who’s once been his friend, a long time ago.
Suddenly overcome by an anger even more irrational than his jealousy toward the phone box the Master begins to thrust, every now and then pulling out enough to allow a strangled breath. The string, he can see, is moving again, almost imitating his actions. Eventually the Master comes, shooting his seed deep down into the Doctor’s throat, making him gag as he pulls out. After a moment of consideration he reattaches the headpiece of the chair. The Doctor is staring at him again, looking so impossibly young and vulnerable. His lips move, soundlessly forming the words ‘Help me’ over and over again. That is something new as well, something to be treasured. He really must be in exceptional agony, and the Master can’t forget that the TARDIS is still in his mind - impossible to tell what she is doing there.
There’s come on his face and it suits him. The Master’s come, as it should be.
Only now does he notice that while he’s been busy fucking the Doctor’s throat a number of thin wires have wrapped around the Doctor’s limbs, penetrating his skin at various places to run beneath it. He frowns. Not enough that the ship is taking his personal slave - he allowed that since it’s hard to make the Doctor suffer this much without killing his friends - now it’s marking him on the outside as well, and that’s going just a little too far.
“Stop that now!” he snaps, barely realising he’s saying it out loud. The TADRIS has the impudence to resist his order for a few seconds, wanting to keep the Doctor where he is, drawing him into herself while being inside him. But eventually she complies, withdrawing the wires from under his skin before she begins to pull the thick string out. It takes even longer than getting inside, and the Master knows she’s on the way back repairing some of the damage she caused, to keep the Doctor from bleeding to death. He appreciates the effort but can hardy fight his impatience and the urge to just grab that string and jerk it out himself.
The Doctor is still gasping and whimpering, pathetic little noises that would have fuelled the Master’s desire had they been caused by him. There’s a lot of blood dripping to the floor beneath the chair. It falls through the grate onto the machinery below and the Master wonders if the TARDIS absorbs it, if she enjoys the taste. He’s created this thing but it’s beginning to creep him out a little.
At the very last the restraints snap open and the thin wires withdraw from the Doctor’s spine and skull. He passes out the moment the Master lifts him out of his chair.
-
The spot of blood on the white sheets is still getting lager and the Master wonders. He knows the Doctor will not bleed to death. Time Lords can take a lot of blood loss, and the TARDIS has calculated precisely. This will weaken the Doctor extremely but it will not kill him. Now the Master wonders if this is her getting back at him for spoiling her fun - for some time he will have to be very careful with the Doctor. It’ll be a while until he can once again use him the way he likes to.
The other man is deadly pale, completely still and hardly even breathing. The Master touches his temples and tries to reach into his mind but there’s nothing; the Doctor is deeply unconscious, but weather that is her doing as well or simply the pain, shock and blood loss taking their toll on his body the Master can not tell.
He’s taken care of the small wounds the thin wires caused. Now the Doctor hangs limply in his arms like a broken doll as the Master drags him a bit higher, so he’s properly lying on the bed. He usually sleeps on the floor - only when the Master falls asleep after sex does he get the chance of sleeping in a bed, but right now the Master feels generous (and unwilling to let him go).
Drawing the covers over the both of them the Master leans against the Doctor to listen to his uneven heartbeats, and closes his eyes. But it takes a long time for sleep to find him.
December 02, 2007