for just_fck_me: Seduction AND the R/S Kink Meme
For the R/S kink meme, which requested Master/Lucy/Doctor threesome. Kink, um ... mindfuck.
"But seduction isn’t making someone do what they don’t want to do. Seduction is enticing someone into doing what they secretly want to do already." - Waiter Rant
The Master likes human holidays.
On the Thanksgiving (they settled the Valiant over Plymouth Rock), he had a whole meal prepared and insisted the entire crew---including the Joneses and the Doctor---sit down to eat. To make sure they did eat, he starved them for three days beforehand. The meat at the meal---shown in a diagram about halfway through---had been carved from various sections of Jack's body.
"What? Aren't you thankful for a friend that can regrow that thigh muscle?"
For Christmas, he gave everyone ridiculous presents, made Lucy and Francine kiss under the mistletoe, and showed the Doctor that he did know what the term "Children's eyes all aglow" meant by dropping a nuclear bomb on Australia.
Boxing Day involved a boxing ring, and New Years' Day involved involuntary intoxication to ring in a Time Lord year.
Today is Valentine's Day.
The Doctor knows this because Barry White has been streaming through the speakers since 3am, and the Doctor has been de-aged to look in "a romancing mood" before being dropped into a cell in the Valiant. A large room with a large cage in the middle that had been adorned in red satin heart-shaped pillows.
Around 8am, he was presented with a prostitute from London that could've been Rose's twin. She looked starving and terrified even as she tried to seduce him, and the Doctor let her sleep on the pillows while he leaned against the metal bars of the cell, enjoying the strength of a young back. He couldn't be interested less in "gifts" from the Master, especially when they're only there for his amusement.
She was then removed around 2, after the guard inquired in an embarrassed voice if he'd "had enough time", and the Doctor has been left alone since then. The Doctor doesn't know what's been going on with the Joneses (he dreads to think), or what will happen to Hannah, or what might happen next.
After all, the Master likes to savor every one of the 24 hours in a holiday.
It's about 8pm when the fifteenth repetition of "Let's Get It On" switches over to a classical, jazzy ballad. The sudden change in music is followed by the buzz of the camera in the cell turning towards the Doctor again. That's the only downfall to the Master destroying all human technology below; they can't replace the faulty, buzzy motors in what he's using up above. The Master is always watching, the Doctor figures, but that little movement is a good indicator, to him, that something is about to happen next.
It does, of course.
Lucy steps down the dark hall towards the cell, clad only in a very skimpy lace negligee. She has a glass of wine in one hand, a pair of handcuffs in the other, and a set of large fabric shears under her arm. Her makeup is dark and smoky and a little smudged on one side, probably trying to cover up another dark bruise by her eyebrow.
The Doctor wants, very badly, to hate Lucy. He watched her dance over the world as it burned, watched her laugh at Jack's torture. But all the same, he can't help but think that somehow, she's a prisoner like he is. Trapped only because she can't bear the thought of leaving the Master.
The Doctor does understand that. His best enemy, his oldest friend. In some ways, his only friend. Even the pain and the torture doesn't end that. Even though he hasn't seen the Master apart from the moving camera lens since January 15th. Even though the Master's favorite torture is leaving the Doctor alone. He still knows who the Master is.
"Here to help me cut up these ridiculous pillows?" the Doctor asks flatly.
She reaches into her small cleavage and pulls out the key to the cell. He straightens and gets to his feet as she steps inside. Even from across the cell, even with the scented candles and heart-shaped potpourri everywhere, she still smells like the Master. There's no doubt in his mind where she was right before coming here just from her smell, even if her mussed-up hair and askew clothing didn't give it away.
"If he's trying to make me feel embarrassed because I didn't, it's not going to work," he says, sitting back down on one of the cushions.
"He just wants to make you happy," Lucy says, in a voice that is very practiced and so very for the camera. "Wants you to appreciate Earth's romantic time of year."
She offers him the wine.
He glares at her.
She offers it again, her eyes a little wide and desperate.
The camera moves.
The Doctor sighs, takes the drink, but he's not about to drink it. He was a fool to drink the poisoned water at New Years'. He's learned his lesson. But Lucy looks pleased, and she curls up next to him on the cushion. The satin squeaks as she moves on it, trying to get comfortable. The Doctor wants to figure out what the game is, but the smell of the Master on her is so distracting, as is the sour-sweet scent of her pheromone-laced skin.
"Have you been having a good holiday?" she asks. It's not scripted, but she knows she needs to make conversation. Why? Only the Master knows that.
"It'd be better if I could have a walk outside."
The camera moves again.
She laughs. It's hollow and tinny.
"Don't be silly." She slaps his arm. "We're very high up. You'd fall."
He looks down where she slapped him like he'd been touched by something very slimy and very disgusting.
She cringes. "Do you like your wine?"
"I'm not drinking it."
"You should."
"I'm not going to."
"No, no, I’m sorry." The sudden voice at the other end of the room, just outside the barred cell, startles them both. It's the Master, hands on his hips. "This simply isn't working. Lucy. You're too far away. Doctor, drink that wine and look like you're comfortable."
The Doctor gets to his feet quickly and races to the side of the barred cage where the Master is. The Master's hair is wet and his suit is pressed and clean. He doesn't look an inch out of place and he doesn't smell like anything but soap. It's embarrassing, how quickly and greedily the Doctor takes in the look and smell of his old enemy.
"I'm not playing your game," the Doctor snaps, slamming his hands against the bars.
"Of course you are," the Master replies, tilting his head to the side and grinning that pearly-perfect smile. "I know because I designed this game board and I've got all the pieces. No point in not playing."
"Stop it. Stop this."
"Would you rather be aged up and back in your tent?" the Master asks, stepping towards the cage until he's very nearly nose-to-nose with the Doctor. His breath smells faintly of very fine scotch.
The Doctor's reply is instantaneous. "Yes."
"Tough. This is my planet, my holiday, you'll take the gifts I give you." The Master steps back and begins the circle the cage, and the Doctor feels his chest tighten. He's about to leave again. He always leaves.
"You don't realize the things I do for you," the Master says, punctuating his points with slaps to the bars. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a prostitute who wasn't already killed by some hungry mob looking for someone to blame? And that resemblance! The one who got away and all that. Well, hardly Romana, but she'll do."
He stops on the other end of the cell, near Lucy. She hasn't moved, she doesn't look like she's going to. The Doctor imagines she might stay there until she passed out from exhaustion, just because she knows that's where the Master wants her to be. The Master crouches down next to her and touches her hair. She arches back into the touch, a reaction more from practice than ecstasy, the Doctor imagines.
The Doctor steps back over to them and crouches down, at eye level with the Master.
"It doesn't have to be like this." It's an old, tired plea. He's said it so many times and the Master has ignored it each time. He's asked him to stop, he's asked him to let them fight away from Earth, he's asked…well, for anything. Anything but this.
The Master is focused entirely on Lucy. He trails a finger down her ear to her throat and she gasps in reply. Her sudden arousal is sharp and palatable; from this close the Doctor can taste it on the back of his tongue. Perhaps that's why the Master wants her; she reacts perfectly to his every movement. Or perhaps he's trained her to be like this.
"They're so fragile," the Master says, his voice a low rumble. Fascinated with the woman he's touching (the toy he's playing with). "The slightest change in their environment changes everything about their body chemistry. They tense, they loosen, they dry up, they moisten." The last words are said with a decidedly lewd grin. "I see why you find them so fascinating."
The Doctor puts his hands to the bars and leans over. "Then stop killing them. Please." He takes a breath. "Master, please."
The tone of his words causes the Master to sigh in pleasure. "I like it when you beg, Doctor," he purrs. He moves his hand out of the cell and his wrist brushes the Doctor's. He grins again. Always the same grin.
But his voice changes. No longer the purr, now he's back to the manic child. "So! I've given you a gift. I realize those running shoes at Christmas weren't really what you wanted, so I've decided to make it up to you."
This can't be good.
"Lucy."
As if on cue, Lucy sits up and slaps the handcuffs over the Doctor's wrist, then attaches them to the bar he was leaning on. "What?" He turns around sharply, and Lucy straddles him, knocking his legs to the ground and his backside to the cushion he'd been leaning over.
"Now that he's all attached, you'll need the scissors to undress him, Lucy," the Master says.
"Stop it!" the Doctor barks, struggling to push Lucy away with his free arm. She leans over and begins kissing and biting his neck, which would be pleasant---no, no, it wouldn't. This is very, very unpleasant.
The Master's arm reaches through the bars again and grabs the Doctor's free wrist, bringing it upwards and locking it securely against the bars with a fresh set of handcuffs. The Doctor struggles, but the metal bites into his wrists and he finds that he's not in a position to move.
"Don't worry," the Master coos from just behind his ear, his scotch-laden breath against his skin raising the hair on the back of the Doctor's neck. "I've got the whole world, Doctor. I can share her with you for one night. Just tonight."
The Doctor tries to turn his head to face the Master, but from how his arms are spread against the bars, he can't seem to see him. "What do you want?"
Lucy picks the fabric shears and steps over to the Doctor's feet. She straddles his calf and starts working. She slides the cold, sharp shears against his skin as she cuts upwards, slowly. The shears make a rusty gliding noise as she works upwards.
"Why do you always have to make this about me? It's about you, Doctor. You just don't know how to let go." The Master's voice has lowered to somewhere around the back of the Doctor's neck, where the sensitive nerves bunch together on a Gallifreyan. Against his better wishes, the warmth of the Master's breath against that area makes his back arch against the bars. The Master's arm snakes around the Doctor's body and he presses his hand against his left heart.
"You just need to calm down. Breathe, Doctor. Breathe." The Master's hand curls and points. "Jacket first, Lucy. No need to be impatient."
Lucy nods, then obediently turns around and begins to cut through the Doctor's jacket, starting at the left sleeve. She's slicing away at his identity, the last thing of his that is actually his. And he can't stop her.
He hates her. He hates the Master. He hates this. He hates the way that Lucy's hips grind against his while she works to cut up his shirt and peel it away from his chest and he hates the way his body reacts when she brushes her mouth against his jaw. When she tugs his shirt off completely, the cold of the bars is startling, but not quite as much as the cold of the Master's fingertips, tracing just next to his spine.
Lucy goes back to work on his trousers.
"She's a bit like you, you know," the Master says. The Doctor wants to think that the Master's just saying that, but the likelihood that it's been pulled right from his mind is a lot higher.
"Yes, bit like you," the Master continues. "Never got along with her family, wanted more than she was offered. Looked up at the stars and wanted to travel. I don't know why you two can't just get along."
"We're incompatible," the Doctor says, taking in a breath as the shears move up past his inner thigh. "She does know how to work that, right---"
"Incompatible? No, Doctor, you two are more than compatible. I should know, after all." That familiar breath is against his ear. "You're both mine."
Lucy's hand with the shears is true, and she manages to undress the Doctor completely without removing any body parts in the process. She then grins a slow, practiced grin before straddling his hips. He's frustratingly and painfully aroused, only more frustrating because he knows it's what the Master wants. And if it's a game he plays with the Master, it's a game where they oppose each other completely. And the Doctor is losing.
But this whole year has felt like losing.
"We're both his," Lucy says, and her voice doesn't sound quite so tinny and far away. She sounds almost like she's talking to the Doctor, not just reading pre-planned words. She presses her hands to his chest; thin warm palms just above his hearts.
"We're the same," she says.
"We are not the same," the Doctor counters her. "And not just because of our state of dress."
She smiles suddenly, and it's not the same as the perfectly-designed coy grins. He thinks that maybe, just maybe, she actually thought what he said was funny and reacted. It would be a change.
And he can't help but think that her smile, her real smile, is actually quite lovely.
Her eyes flick upwards, behind him. Asking permission of the Master, of course, for whatever she had planned next. Apparently, he gives it, because she leans forward and presses her mouth to the Doctor's. It's a slow, warm kiss, her tongue prodding against his lips as her hand curls in his hair. Her kiss is firm but passionate and her warmth seems to pour from her into him.
He doesn't kiss back. He's not playing this game. He's not.
The Master's voice purrs in his ear. "I give you permission, too, Doctor. Kiss her."
The Doctor doesn't want to react to that, but he does. He finds himself kissing her back desperately, deeply. His tongue duels with hers and he takes her lip between his teeth. She moans into his mouth and grinds against his arousal with her thigh. She arches her back up and slips her negligee down before offering her breast to his mouth. He thinks that he doesn't want to continue, but he does. And maybe he's lonely. And maybe they are the same. And maybe there's something to the fact that the Master just gave him permission.
Maybe there's something to the fact that the Master just gave him something.
Her fingers tug against the Doctor's hair as she controls another kiss, but she doesn't touch the back of his neck. That area is reserved only for the cold hand of the man watching. The Master traces small circles at first, then as their kiss becomes more intense, he twists more complicated designs into the Doctor's sensitive skin, a series of Fibonacci numbers repeated over and over until the Doctor can't help but cry out into Lucy's mouth.
The Doctor feels the Master's breath against his cheek and he turns involuntarily to meet his mouth as well, but the way he's chained up and the position of the bars make even looking at his enemy impossible.
"Fuck her," he instructs. The vulgarity of the word startles the Doctor, but not so much as the quiet, trembling way the Master speaks. It's a way the Master has spoken to him before, but not in a very, very long time.
Lucy moves aside and removes her knickers, then straddles the Doctor again. All thoughts of protesting are gone as she leans down to kiss him and he raises his hips off of the cushion to meet her. She's slick and warm and smells like human sex and the Master and it shouldn't be an arousing combination, he thinks, but it is. She murmurs against his mouth and he moans in response.
The Master digs his fingernails into the back of the Doctor's neck and he's so overloaded with sensation he nearly screams.
She leans up and locks her hands with his around the bars and begins to grind against him. She has the same cuff marks on her wrists that the Doctor is earning and he thinks maybe she's right. Maybe they are the same. Her body is thin and lithe and when she moves her stomach seems to ripple in and out fluidly, her body creating warm friction around him. She clenches around him, crying out in pleasure, and he feels his body follow suit.
He chokes out a name that sounds like 'Lucy', but the Master's hand takes his neck in a hold and he knows that's not the name his captor wants him to call out. Not after all this.
"Say my name," he growls. The vibration from his voice seems to rock the Doctor to his core.
He wants to be contrary, but he can't. "Master." Lucy moves above him again and he feels himself crash to completion, spilling inside his enemy's wife with his name on his lips.
The Doctor shudders, his body lowering down from the adrenaline and pheromone high.
The Master chuckles and moves away from the Doctor. The Doctor's back feels cold without the Master there, like someone's ripped away his blanket during a snowstorm.
Lucy slides off of the Doctor and walks towards the door of the cage. The Master opens the door and wraps an arm around her waist. He grins that twisted grin back to the Doctor.
"Happy Valentine's Day," he says. "I'll have Jack come by to uncuff you and clean you up a little later, yes?"
The Doctor opens his mouth to protest, but the two of them turn swiftly and leave. No explanations. No more games tonight. Nothing. Just wham-bam-thank-you-mister. Then gone.
But the Doctor shouldn't be too surprised, he thinks. After all, the Master's favorite torture is leaving the Doctor alone.
Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 3,425
"But seduction isn’t making someone do what they don’t want to do. Seduction is enticing someone into doing what they secretly want to do already." - Waiter Rant
The Master likes human holidays.
On the Thanksgiving (they settled the Valiant over Plymouth Rock), he had a whole meal prepared and insisted the entire crew---including the Joneses and the Doctor---sit down to eat. To make sure they did eat, he starved them for three days beforehand. The meat at the meal---shown in a diagram about halfway through---had been carved from various sections of Jack's body.
"What? Aren't you thankful for a friend that can regrow that thigh muscle?"
For Christmas, he gave everyone ridiculous presents, made Lucy and Francine kiss under the mistletoe, and showed the Doctor that he did know what the term "Children's eyes all aglow" meant by dropping a nuclear bomb on Australia.
Boxing Day involved a boxing ring, and New Years' Day involved involuntary intoxication to ring in a Time Lord year.
Today is Valentine's Day.
The Doctor knows this because Barry White has been streaming through the speakers since 3am, and the Doctor has been de-aged to look in "a romancing mood" before being dropped into a cell in the Valiant. A large room with a large cage in the middle that had been adorned in red satin heart-shaped pillows.
Around 8am, he was presented with a prostitute from London that could've been Rose's twin. She looked starving and terrified even as she tried to seduce him, and the Doctor let her sleep on the pillows while he leaned against the metal bars of the cell, enjoying the strength of a young back. He couldn't be interested less in "gifts" from the Master, especially when they're only there for his amusement.
She was then removed around 2, after the guard inquired in an embarrassed voice if he'd "had enough time", and the Doctor has been left alone since then. The Doctor doesn't know what's been going on with the Joneses (he dreads to think), or what will happen to Hannah, or what might happen next.
After all, the Master likes to savor every one of the 24 hours in a holiday.
It's about 8pm when the fifteenth repetition of "Let's Get It On" switches over to a classical, jazzy ballad. The sudden change in music is followed by the buzz of the camera in the cell turning towards the Doctor again. That's the only downfall to the Master destroying all human technology below; they can't replace the faulty, buzzy motors in what he's using up above. The Master is always watching, the Doctor figures, but that little movement is a good indicator, to him, that something is about to happen next.
It does, of course.
Lucy steps down the dark hall towards the cell, clad only in a very skimpy lace negligee. She has a glass of wine in one hand, a pair of handcuffs in the other, and a set of large fabric shears under her arm. Her makeup is dark and smoky and a little smudged on one side, probably trying to cover up another dark bruise by her eyebrow.
The Doctor wants, very badly, to hate Lucy. He watched her dance over the world as it burned, watched her laugh at Jack's torture. But all the same, he can't help but think that somehow, she's a prisoner like he is. Trapped only because she can't bear the thought of leaving the Master.
The Doctor does understand that. His best enemy, his oldest friend. In some ways, his only friend. Even the pain and the torture doesn't end that. Even though he hasn't seen the Master apart from the moving camera lens since January 15th. Even though the Master's favorite torture is leaving the Doctor alone. He still knows who the Master is.
"Here to help me cut up these ridiculous pillows?" the Doctor asks flatly.
She reaches into her small cleavage and pulls out the key to the cell. He straightens and gets to his feet as she steps inside. Even from across the cell, even with the scented candles and heart-shaped potpourri everywhere, she still smells like the Master. There's no doubt in his mind where she was right before coming here just from her smell, even if her mussed-up hair and askew clothing didn't give it away.
"If he's trying to make me feel embarrassed because I didn't, it's not going to work," he says, sitting back down on one of the cushions.
"He just wants to make you happy," Lucy says, in a voice that is very practiced and so very for the camera. "Wants you to appreciate Earth's romantic time of year."
She offers him the wine.
He glares at her.
She offers it again, her eyes a little wide and desperate.
The camera moves.
The Doctor sighs, takes the drink, but he's not about to drink it. He was a fool to drink the poisoned water at New Years'. He's learned his lesson. But Lucy looks pleased, and she curls up next to him on the cushion. The satin squeaks as she moves on it, trying to get comfortable. The Doctor wants to figure out what the game is, but the smell of the Master on her is so distracting, as is the sour-sweet scent of her pheromone-laced skin.
"Have you been having a good holiday?" she asks. It's not scripted, but she knows she needs to make conversation. Why? Only the Master knows that.
"It'd be better if I could have a walk outside."
The camera moves again.
She laughs. It's hollow and tinny.
"Don't be silly." She slaps his arm. "We're very high up. You'd fall."
He looks down where she slapped him like he'd been touched by something very slimy and very disgusting.
She cringes. "Do you like your wine?"
"I'm not drinking it."
"You should."
"I'm not going to."
"No, no, I’m sorry." The sudden voice at the other end of the room, just outside the barred cell, startles them both. It's the Master, hands on his hips. "This simply isn't working. Lucy. You're too far away. Doctor, drink that wine and look like you're comfortable."
The Doctor gets to his feet quickly and races to the side of the barred cage where the Master is. The Master's hair is wet and his suit is pressed and clean. He doesn't look an inch out of place and he doesn't smell like anything but soap. It's embarrassing, how quickly and greedily the Doctor takes in the look and smell of his old enemy.
"I'm not playing your game," the Doctor snaps, slamming his hands against the bars.
"Of course you are," the Master replies, tilting his head to the side and grinning that pearly-perfect smile. "I know because I designed this game board and I've got all the pieces. No point in not playing."
"Stop it. Stop this."
"Would you rather be aged up and back in your tent?" the Master asks, stepping towards the cage until he's very nearly nose-to-nose with the Doctor. His breath smells faintly of very fine scotch.
The Doctor's reply is instantaneous. "Yes."
"Tough. This is my planet, my holiday, you'll take the gifts I give you." The Master steps back and begins the circle the cage, and the Doctor feels his chest tighten. He's about to leave again. He always leaves.
"You don't realize the things I do for you," the Master says, punctuating his points with slaps to the bars. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a prostitute who wasn't already killed by some hungry mob looking for someone to blame? And that resemblance! The one who got away and all that. Well, hardly Romana, but she'll do."
He stops on the other end of the cell, near Lucy. She hasn't moved, she doesn't look like she's going to. The Doctor imagines she might stay there until she passed out from exhaustion, just because she knows that's where the Master wants her to be. The Master crouches down next to her and touches her hair. She arches back into the touch, a reaction more from practice than ecstasy, the Doctor imagines.
The Doctor steps back over to them and crouches down, at eye level with the Master.
"It doesn't have to be like this." It's an old, tired plea. He's said it so many times and the Master has ignored it each time. He's asked him to stop, he's asked him to let them fight away from Earth, he's asked…well, for anything. Anything but this.
The Master is focused entirely on Lucy. He trails a finger down her ear to her throat and she gasps in reply. Her sudden arousal is sharp and palatable; from this close the Doctor can taste it on the back of his tongue. Perhaps that's why the Master wants her; she reacts perfectly to his every movement. Or perhaps he's trained her to be like this.
"They're so fragile," the Master says, his voice a low rumble. Fascinated with the woman he's touching (the toy he's playing with). "The slightest change in their environment changes everything about their body chemistry. They tense, they loosen, they dry up, they moisten." The last words are said with a decidedly lewd grin. "I see why you find them so fascinating."
The Doctor puts his hands to the bars and leans over. "Then stop killing them. Please." He takes a breath. "Master, please."
The tone of his words causes the Master to sigh in pleasure. "I like it when you beg, Doctor," he purrs. He moves his hand out of the cell and his wrist brushes the Doctor's. He grins again. Always the same grin.
But his voice changes. No longer the purr, now he's back to the manic child. "So! I've given you a gift. I realize those running shoes at Christmas weren't really what you wanted, so I've decided to make it up to you."
This can't be good.
"Lucy."
As if on cue, Lucy sits up and slaps the handcuffs over the Doctor's wrist, then attaches them to the bar he was leaning on. "What?" He turns around sharply, and Lucy straddles him, knocking his legs to the ground and his backside to the cushion he'd been leaning over.
"Now that he's all attached, you'll need the scissors to undress him, Lucy," the Master says.
"Stop it!" the Doctor barks, struggling to push Lucy away with his free arm. She leans over and begins kissing and biting his neck, which would be pleasant---no, no, it wouldn't. This is very, very unpleasant.
The Master's arm reaches through the bars again and grabs the Doctor's free wrist, bringing it upwards and locking it securely against the bars with a fresh set of handcuffs. The Doctor struggles, but the metal bites into his wrists and he finds that he's not in a position to move.
"Don't worry," the Master coos from just behind his ear, his scotch-laden breath against his skin raising the hair on the back of the Doctor's neck. "I've got the whole world, Doctor. I can share her with you for one night. Just tonight."
The Doctor tries to turn his head to face the Master, but from how his arms are spread against the bars, he can't seem to see him. "What do you want?"
Lucy picks the fabric shears and steps over to the Doctor's feet. She straddles his calf and starts working. She slides the cold, sharp shears against his skin as she cuts upwards, slowly. The shears make a rusty gliding noise as she works upwards.
"Why do you always have to make this about me? It's about you, Doctor. You just don't know how to let go." The Master's voice has lowered to somewhere around the back of the Doctor's neck, where the sensitive nerves bunch together on a Gallifreyan. Against his better wishes, the warmth of the Master's breath against that area makes his back arch against the bars. The Master's arm snakes around the Doctor's body and he presses his hand against his left heart.
"You just need to calm down. Breathe, Doctor. Breathe." The Master's hand curls and points. "Jacket first, Lucy. No need to be impatient."
Lucy nods, then obediently turns around and begins to cut through the Doctor's jacket, starting at the left sleeve. She's slicing away at his identity, the last thing of his that is actually his. And he can't stop her.
He hates her. He hates the Master. He hates this. He hates the way that Lucy's hips grind against his while she works to cut up his shirt and peel it away from his chest and he hates the way his body reacts when she brushes her mouth against his jaw. When she tugs his shirt off completely, the cold of the bars is startling, but not quite as much as the cold of the Master's fingertips, tracing just next to his spine.
Lucy goes back to work on his trousers.
"She's a bit like you, you know," the Master says. The Doctor wants to think that the Master's just saying that, but the likelihood that it's been pulled right from his mind is a lot higher.
"Yes, bit like you," the Master continues. "Never got along with her family, wanted more than she was offered. Looked up at the stars and wanted to travel. I don't know why you two can't just get along."
"We're incompatible," the Doctor says, taking in a breath as the shears move up past his inner thigh. "She does know how to work that, right---"
"Incompatible? No, Doctor, you two are more than compatible. I should know, after all." That familiar breath is against his ear. "You're both mine."
Lucy's hand with the shears is true, and she manages to undress the Doctor completely without removing any body parts in the process. She then grins a slow, practiced grin before straddling his hips. He's frustratingly and painfully aroused, only more frustrating because he knows it's what the Master wants. And if it's a game he plays with the Master, it's a game where they oppose each other completely. And the Doctor is losing.
But this whole year has felt like losing.
"We're both his," Lucy says, and her voice doesn't sound quite so tinny and far away. She sounds almost like she's talking to the Doctor, not just reading pre-planned words. She presses her hands to his chest; thin warm palms just above his hearts.
"We're the same," she says.
"We are not the same," the Doctor counters her. "And not just because of our state of dress."
She smiles suddenly, and it's not the same as the perfectly-designed coy grins. He thinks that maybe, just maybe, she actually thought what he said was funny and reacted. It would be a change.
And he can't help but think that her smile, her real smile, is actually quite lovely.
Her eyes flick upwards, behind him. Asking permission of the Master, of course, for whatever she had planned next. Apparently, he gives it, because she leans forward and presses her mouth to the Doctor's. It's a slow, warm kiss, her tongue prodding against his lips as her hand curls in his hair. Her kiss is firm but passionate and her warmth seems to pour from her into him.
He doesn't kiss back. He's not playing this game. He's not.
The Master's voice purrs in his ear. "I give you permission, too, Doctor. Kiss her."
The Doctor doesn't want to react to that, but he does. He finds himself kissing her back desperately, deeply. His tongue duels with hers and he takes her lip between his teeth. She moans into his mouth and grinds against his arousal with her thigh. She arches her back up and slips her negligee down before offering her breast to his mouth. He thinks that he doesn't want to continue, but he does. And maybe he's lonely. And maybe they are the same. And maybe there's something to the fact that the Master just gave him permission.
Maybe there's something to the fact that the Master just gave him something.
Her fingers tug against the Doctor's hair as she controls another kiss, but she doesn't touch the back of his neck. That area is reserved only for the cold hand of the man watching. The Master traces small circles at first, then as their kiss becomes more intense, he twists more complicated designs into the Doctor's sensitive skin, a series of Fibonacci numbers repeated over and over until the Doctor can't help but cry out into Lucy's mouth.
The Doctor feels the Master's breath against his cheek and he turns involuntarily to meet his mouth as well, but the way he's chained up and the position of the bars make even looking at his enemy impossible.
"Fuck her," he instructs. The vulgarity of the word startles the Doctor, but not so much as the quiet, trembling way the Master speaks. It's a way the Master has spoken to him before, but not in a very, very long time.
Lucy moves aside and removes her knickers, then straddles the Doctor again. All thoughts of protesting are gone as she leans down to kiss him and he raises his hips off of the cushion to meet her. She's slick and warm and smells like human sex and the Master and it shouldn't be an arousing combination, he thinks, but it is. She murmurs against his mouth and he moans in response.
The Master digs his fingernails into the back of the Doctor's neck and he's so overloaded with sensation he nearly screams.
She leans up and locks her hands with his around the bars and begins to grind against him. She has the same cuff marks on her wrists that the Doctor is earning and he thinks maybe she's right. Maybe they are the same. Her body is thin and lithe and when she moves her stomach seems to ripple in and out fluidly, her body creating warm friction around him. She clenches around him, crying out in pleasure, and he feels his body follow suit.
He chokes out a name that sounds like 'Lucy', but the Master's hand takes his neck in a hold and he knows that's not the name his captor wants him to call out. Not after all this.
"Say my name," he growls. The vibration from his voice seems to rock the Doctor to his core.
He wants to be contrary, but he can't. "Master." Lucy moves above him again and he feels himself crash to completion, spilling inside his enemy's wife with his name on his lips.
The Doctor shudders, his body lowering down from the adrenaline and pheromone high.
The Master chuckles and moves away from the Doctor. The Doctor's back feels cold without the Master there, like someone's ripped away his blanket during a snowstorm.
Lucy slides off of the Doctor and walks towards the door of the cage. The Master opens the door and wraps an arm around her waist. He grins that twisted grin back to the Doctor.
"Happy Valentine's Day," he says. "I'll have Jack come by to uncuff you and clean you up a little later, yes?"
The Doctor opens his mouth to protest, but the two of them turn swiftly and leave. No explanations. No more games tonight. Nothing. Just wham-bam-thank-you-mister. Then gone.
But the Doctor shouldn't be too surprised, he thinks. After all, the Master's favorite torture is leaving the Doctor alone.
Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 3,425