Fic: To The Bone (adult)
Sep. 23rd, 2008 05:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bagheera_sanFast and dirty PWP. And another foray into the strange and frightening lands of New Who fic. And, um, Christmas fic. But the explodey Doctor Who kind of Christmas.
Title: To The Bone
Rating: porn
Pairing: Ten/Simm!Master
Prompt: Re-entry
Warnings: violence
Summary: The Master returns from the dead. The Doctor is less than over-joyed.
With a hiss, the red head of an ever-lasting match slid over the paper and flickered to life. The Doctor held the tiny match until he felt the flame burn the cusps of his fingers, and for a moment after that. Then he dropped it onto the puddle of gasoline on the floor. Trails of fire ran across the room, up the mountains of cardboard boxes and towards the tall Christmas tree in the centre of the basement warehouse of ToyTopia Inc. Tinsel and green plastic needles lit up like one huge candle, and for a short while, all the red and gold baubles shone beautifully among the inferno. There was a screeching and rustling form the boxes, small robots bursting from their plastic wrappers, twitching and shuffling in their death throes. All the doll-sized but no less deadly Daleks and Cybermen started to melt.
The acrid smoke finally reached the smoke detectors, and the fire alarm, barely audible above the roar of the fire, began to wail. The Doctor ducked out of the warehouse and closed the metal doors behind him before the first drops of water began to fall.
"Merry Christmas," he whispered to himself, because there was no one else to listen. He had saved that stupid Earth holiday again, and come Christmas Eve, ten thousand British children would be safe but unhappy because their presents hadn't arrived. He felt no measure of triumph, though. Only a bitter taste in his mouth, like burning plastic.
There was still time before the whole building burned down. The Doctor turned towards the staircase and started to jog up the stairs to the upper floors of ToyTopia Inc. With each step he felt the anger coil more tightly in his chest. It was time to have a word with the man behind this all. He hoped, somewhere deep inside, that he would find a monster instead of a man sitting in Mr Nicholas Santos' chair.
The further up the Doctor got, the nicer the corridors and office doors became, and the more tasteful the Christmas decoration. In the top floor, there was only a cream carpet, soft under his feet, and mirrored glass doors with the round company logo embossed in gold. It looked a bit like a highly stylized snow-flake inside a circle, with an oddly familiar fractal design. Behind the door at the end of the corridor, the Doctor could make out the flickering orange light of a genuine fireplace. He noticed that the alarm wasn't audible up here, instead the soft notes of Silent Night whispered with mocking sweetness in the air.
His brown coat flapping behind him, the Doctor strode towards the fire-shine. The office was locked, but a flick of his sonic screwdriver took care of that.
Inside it was almost dark except for the golden glow of the fire, reflected by the large glass panes of the floor-to-ceiling window front, showing the vast, glittering cityscape of London at night-time. There was just enough light to make out the shadowy figure of a man in a dark suit reaching inside a wall safe.
Santos wasn't very tall, but he reacted with lightning reflexes. Before the Doctor could utter a single angry word, Santos had pulled a big metal suitcase from the safe, spun around on his heels and thrust the suitcase at the Doctor with enough force to send him reeling for long enough that Santos slipped through the office door, which the Doctor was still holding open.
"Thanks," he called over his shoulder as he raced along the corridor, back the way the Doctor had come. His voice had a pitch to it – not fear, but manic glee. A madman, and a murderous one at that. And judging by his reflexes, perhaps not a human.
"No," the Doctor ground out and rushed after him.
Santos was heading for the stairs, and he got there before the Doctor. He took the last dark flight of stairs up – he was trying to get to the roof. A helipad, or some other kind of getaway, the Doctor guessed, and lunged forward, grabbing the man's ankle. Santos yelped and fell forward onto his face, scrabbling at the stairs. He kicked and got lucky: the sole of his expensive Italian leather shoe hit the Doctor's cheek hard, sending him crashing against the metal railing of the stairs.
Winded, the Doctor let go of Santos' ankle. The other man got to his feet quickly and with a breathless laugh started running again. Ignoring the taste of blood in his mouth, the Doctor pulled himself up by the railing. His long legs gave him the definite advantage, and besides, he was fuelled by a deep, cold, irrational fury, stronger than whatever drove this madman. It wasn't just the fact that this man would have murdered children on Christmas for no good reason at all – it was the war, and Rose on Bad Wolf Bay, the Master dying in his arms and his hands on Donna's face, stealing her mind, Martha walking out of his TARDIS and the Daleks, the Cybermen, all the times things slipped through his fingers like ashes and dust.
"You won't get away," he shouted, and caught Santos' arm, twisting it back and up against Santos' back. Santos grunted in pain and surprise, and the Doctor shoved him forward towards the door leading out onto the roof. He didn't have his strength under control, and shoved harder than he should have. The door gave way and sent them both toppling onto the concrete of the helipad.
"Ow," Santos said in a muffled voice, his face pressed against the concrete. The Doctor was still twisting his arm, and now sat up to press his knee against the small of Santos' Armani-clad back. "Fuck, get off me."
"Is it a game to you?" the Doctor demanded. "Cops and robbers? I'm not the police. I'm far, far worse than that."
"Yes, yes." It sounded as if the man was rolling his eyes. "All the monsters wet their knickers when they see you."
The Doctor froze, then flinched back and let go as if he had burnt his fingers. Santos sat up and turned around, sitting on the wet concrete and grinning a bloodied grin. His hair was sticking up and his cheeks flushed. The Master gave a small, shaky wave, wriggling his fingers. "Hey. Glad to see me?"
*
The Doctor didn't move. He stared at the Master with that same blank expression, as if he had completely lost it. His eyes were darker, as dark as anything the Master had ever seen, as dark as the dark at the end of the universe. Not once had the Doctor looked at him like this during the paradox year, not even when he had been burning with the light of Archangel. With such terrible, bleak, unforgiving blankness. Slowly, inch by inch, his features became a mask of fury.
The Master lifted his hands. "It's me, the Master! Don't I get a hug? A smile? A little one at least?"
The Doctor punched him in the face.
The blow knocked the Master to the side. The Doctor didn't do a lot of punching, and he wasn't terribly strong, but sheer surprise sent the Master sprawling. The Master drew himself up on his elbow and touched his broken lip. He blinked and stared up at the Doctor in confusion as the Doctor rose to his feet.
"You hit me," the Master accused when he recovered his wits. "That's not fair!"
He found himself hauled to his feet by his tie, gasping as the Doctor pushed him back against the concrete frame of the door.
"Fair." The Doctor's voice was quiet. Quiet was scarier than loud. The Master had always known that, but now he felt it. He hardly noticed that the Doctor's grip on his collar was choking him. There was just that quiet, horrible voice. "You lied. You pretended."
The Master smiled. He was sane enough to know that it wasn't a good idea, but not sane enough to care. With the shock fading, a vicious thrill started to seep through his veins. "And you believed me."
"I built a funeral pyre."
"You cried like a little girl."
"Shut up." An order, ice-cold. The Doctor pushed him harder against the concrete, leaning onto him. With one hand he still twisted the Master's collar and tie, with the other he reached up. The Master turned his head, protecting himself instinctively, but the Doctor didn't strike. He ran his fingers down the side of the Master's face, his forehead, his cheek, the line of his jaw, and then pressed them against the Master's pulse. He didn't say anything.
No 'I forgive you'.
No whispered, desperate invocation of his name.
Just his fingers on the Master's pulse.
The Master's eyes widened. His lips moved in protest, but the Doctor was still close to crushing his windpipe. The Doctor's eyes were nearly closed. He wasn't looking at the Master, just listening. There was only that double heartbeat for him. Just a life, a statistic. The Master was reduced to a small, frail, living body. Something the Doctor was nearly killing with need as he cradled it in his hands.
In a surge of primal, thrashing fear the Master kicked and squirmed. The Doctor let go of him, but only to spin him around. Pinned face-first to the rough, cold wall, the Master felt the Doctor's lips against the back of his neck, just above his collar. They were cold, colder than the whipping wind.
"It's over," the Doctor said. "I have you."
The Master shivered. It felt as if his brain overloaded and short-circuited under the weight of these words, and they frightened him as much as they aroused him. He was scared, and he didn't want to fight. The Doctor's hands were flat against his chest, then running down, stopping at the Master's belt.
The Master released his breath. "Say my name."
It was a plea in the disguise of an order. A desperate bid for recognition. The Doctor didn't reply. He was working open the Master's belt, kissing his neck. The Master felt himself shrink to human proportions, dwindle to a nameless nothing. Closing his eyes, the Master let go. Let go of his name, of the floodgates of his mind, of the four-beat thunder of his hearts – two, the right number, true-bred Gallifrey, down to the brand of Rassilon in his cells – let go of time, of history, of his own lust and need and terror in a last defiant wave of This Is Me.
*
Two things were happening at once, and the Doctor was controlling neither. The Master's mind flashed around him like an electric storm, a maelstrom of memories and knowledge without rhyme or reason. First there was Gallifrey, burnt orange and silver, blades of grass and dust in the air, all of it fluttering around the Doctor like fireflies in the dark, the whispers of childhood that he could reach for but not grasp.
At the same time the Doctor felt hair brush against his cheek, which was wet, silky but short hair, like a paint brush against his skin. And he smelt – not Gallifrey, but the sting of aftershave and washing detergent, Earth smells. He touched soft skin, a very faint trail of hair below the Master's navel, running down. No belt, no trousers, he had pushed them down –
In his mind he got the second-hand cuts of old pain, the slashes of unforgotten slights, both deliberate and merely careless. It felt like being cut off, like tearing life-lines. Being homeless, hopeless, half of himself. He clutched at the feeling, because this was it, this was how he felt, this was life after the war. But when he touched the feelings, felt them vibrating under his fingers, he realised that there was no symmetry: this wasn't how the war felt to the Master, this was no shared agony. This was how it had felt to be left behind, how the years of lonely exile had felt for the Master.
Outside himself, with his real eyes, the Doctor saw much simpler things without thinking. The small, pale globes of the Master's arse, half covered by his shirt, which slid up and bared more skin when the Master pushed back his hips, moving willingly against the Doctor. The Master's face, one cheek pressed against the wall, eyes squeezed shut, sweating. "Fuck me," the Master said, voice raw, "do it already."
The Doctor shuddered, felt the years wash over him where their minds flowed into each other. The fights, the arguments, the moves of their games, like the mechanics of heaven. Each time they touched, catalogued in vivid Technicolor. Their memories matched perfectly on this account. Each time they spoke quietly, seriously to each other. Each time they made each other laugh while they fought. The wild, vicious joy of matching wits and skill and the bone-grinding grief of losing even, especially, when they won. Solid memories, true memories, hurting memories, no wispy cobwebs of childhood and wishful nostalgia. Their friendship was a loss that had always been true, long before the war.
And it mattered more, because they both still lived.
Abruptly, the wash of mental contact cut off as the Doctor reached this realisation. In there here and now, the Master bucked under his hands and made a horrid little noise, half stifled cry, half keening moan of pain when the Doctor pushed into him. The friction and the clenching tightness around his cock left the Doctor panting for a moment. The Doctor felt the cold wind, and other impressions of the night: the distant scent of smoke, the wail of sirens, shouts and traffic drifting up from the light-filled valleys of the streets. Earth, harsh and cold and true.
His fingers hurt where they dug into the Master's hips. He jaws hurt from clenching them. Groaning, he drew back and then thrust in deeper. Something gave, the Master stiffened, then went pliant with a broken moan. A sticky warmth coated the Doctor's cock and he knew it was blood which would still be there when they were done. It was better somehow than the metaphorical blood of thousands. Cleaner. Suddenly, the Doctor's head felt very clear. He kept fucking the Master in small hard thrusts, watching his face. Lines of pain drew into a smile as the Master, too, opened his eyes, looking back at him. It was a soft, ecstatic smile, swimming on pain and endorphins and a healthy dose of joyful madness. The Doctor felt it, too.
"Aren't you happy now?" the Master asked breathlessly.
A wave of raw pleasure. "Evil. Toys. On Christmas," the Doctor panted.
"Yeah. Just for you." A happy grin from the Master even as his eyes rolled back. "Fuck me harder."
He did, until the Master whimpered with each thrust and arched back, coming loudly while the Doctor rode him through it. Finished, the Master simply went limp, no longer cooperating and muttered deep, rolling, loving monosyllables somewhere at the back of his throat.
"Shush," the Doctor murmured. He pumped his hips mindlessly, needing release. He wasn't holding back, but something inside him was still unwinding, building up. He changed the angle of his thrusts, held the Master tighter in place, watched him go silent and glassy-eyed, open-mouthed as he took the Doctor in as deep as their position allowed. The Doctor felt raw now, so much he had to bite his lower lip; for the Master it had to be worse.
They'd still feel it tomorrow. They'd still be alive and hurting.
"Master," the Doctor said, the word unfolding on his lips as he came.
*
They lay sprawling next to each other on the cold concrete. They were both exhausted, mentally rather than physically. What the Master had done, throwing all of himself at the Doctor, was insane and stupid and possibly deadly. It was also something he didn't like to do , since it left him stripped to the bone. But it had served its purpose. The Doctor had acknowledged him.
For a short while after the sex, the Doctor looked befuddled, trying to get his bearings. Fuck and run, that was him, and his brain was already changing gears. But the Master was faster. Despite the protests of his roughly used body, he was up and snapped a pair of handcuffs around the Doctor's right wrist and a metal pipe on the roof before the Doctor could stop him.
"What – "
The Master patted the Doctor's cheek. "This was just the beginning, Doctor. A little greeting to let you know that I'm back."
"But the – "
"Toy Daleks?" The Master laughed. "Just a little warm-up game to keep you entertained on another of these long, lonely Earth holidays. Though I sent one to Torchwood as an early Christmas present. Let's hope it's the freak who opens the package and not one of his human hangers-on."
The Doctor glared, but then sagged against the cuffs. If he had been about to say something sappy and embarrassing, then what the Master had just said had doused his enthusiasm. The Master nodded in satisfaction. Then, on a whim, he tipped up the Doctor's chin and kissed him hard enough to drive away the darkness from the Doctor's features. "We're going to have so much fun," he purred, and got up to limp towards the helicopter.
Half-way there, he turned around and tossed the Doctor his sonic. "Oh, I almost forgot. I think the building's burning. You should make a run for it."
As the helicopter's blades started chopping through the air, there was a smile on the Doctor's sad features. Just a small one.
Title: To The Bone
Rating: porn
Pairing: Ten/Simm!Master
Prompt: Re-entry
Warnings: violence
Summary: The Master returns from the dead. The Doctor is less than over-joyed.
With a hiss, the red head of an ever-lasting match slid over the paper and flickered to life. The Doctor held the tiny match until he felt the flame burn the cusps of his fingers, and for a moment after that. Then he dropped it onto the puddle of gasoline on the floor. Trails of fire ran across the room, up the mountains of cardboard boxes and towards the tall Christmas tree in the centre of the basement warehouse of ToyTopia Inc. Tinsel and green plastic needles lit up like one huge candle, and for a short while, all the red and gold baubles shone beautifully among the inferno. There was a screeching and rustling form the boxes, small robots bursting from their plastic wrappers, twitching and shuffling in their death throes. All the doll-sized but no less deadly Daleks and Cybermen started to melt.
The acrid smoke finally reached the smoke detectors, and the fire alarm, barely audible above the roar of the fire, began to wail. The Doctor ducked out of the warehouse and closed the metal doors behind him before the first drops of water began to fall.
"Merry Christmas," he whispered to himself, because there was no one else to listen. He had saved that stupid Earth holiday again, and come Christmas Eve, ten thousand British children would be safe but unhappy because their presents hadn't arrived. He felt no measure of triumph, though. Only a bitter taste in his mouth, like burning plastic.
There was still time before the whole building burned down. The Doctor turned towards the staircase and started to jog up the stairs to the upper floors of ToyTopia Inc. With each step he felt the anger coil more tightly in his chest. It was time to have a word with the man behind this all. He hoped, somewhere deep inside, that he would find a monster instead of a man sitting in Mr Nicholas Santos' chair.
The further up the Doctor got, the nicer the corridors and office doors became, and the more tasteful the Christmas decoration. In the top floor, there was only a cream carpet, soft under his feet, and mirrored glass doors with the round company logo embossed in gold. It looked a bit like a highly stylized snow-flake inside a circle, with an oddly familiar fractal design. Behind the door at the end of the corridor, the Doctor could make out the flickering orange light of a genuine fireplace. He noticed that the alarm wasn't audible up here, instead the soft notes of Silent Night whispered with mocking sweetness in the air.
His brown coat flapping behind him, the Doctor strode towards the fire-shine. The office was locked, but a flick of his sonic screwdriver took care of that.
Inside it was almost dark except for the golden glow of the fire, reflected by the large glass panes of the floor-to-ceiling window front, showing the vast, glittering cityscape of London at night-time. There was just enough light to make out the shadowy figure of a man in a dark suit reaching inside a wall safe.
Santos wasn't very tall, but he reacted with lightning reflexes. Before the Doctor could utter a single angry word, Santos had pulled a big metal suitcase from the safe, spun around on his heels and thrust the suitcase at the Doctor with enough force to send him reeling for long enough that Santos slipped through the office door, which the Doctor was still holding open.
"Thanks," he called over his shoulder as he raced along the corridor, back the way the Doctor had come. His voice had a pitch to it – not fear, but manic glee. A madman, and a murderous one at that. And judging by his reflexes, perhaps not a human.
"No," the Doctor ground out and rushed after him.
Santos was heading for the stairs, and he got there before the Doctor. He took the last dark flight of stairs up – he was trying to get to the roof. A helipad, or some other kind of getaway, the Doctor guessed, and lunged forward, grabbing the man's ankle. Santos yelped and fell forward onto his face, scrabbling at the stairs. He kicked and got lucky: the sole of his expensive Italian leather shoe hit the Doctor's cheek hard, sending him crashing against the metal railing of the stairs.
Winded, the Doctor let go of Santos' ankle. The other man got to his feet quickly and with a breathless laugh started running again. Ignoring the taste of blood in his mouth, the Doctor pulled himself up by the railing. His long legs gave him the definite advantage, and besides, he was fuelled by a deep, cold, irrational fury, stronger than whatever drove this madman. It wasn't just the fact that this man would have murdered children on Christmas for no good reason at all – it was the war, and Rose on Bad Wolf Bay, the Master dying in his arms and his hands on Donna's face, stealing her mind, Martha walking out of his TARDIS and the Daleks, the Cybermen, all the times things slipped through his fingers like ashes and dust.
"You won't get away," he shouted, and caught Santos' arm, twisting it back and up against Santos' back. Santos grunted in pain and surprise, and the Doctor shoved him forward towards the door leading out onto the roof. He didn't have his strength under control, and shoved harder than he should have. The door gave way and sent them both toppling onto the concrete of the helipad.
"Ow," Santos said in a muffled voice, his face pressed against the concrete. The Doctor was still twisting his arm, and now sat up to press his knee against the small of Santos' Armani-clad back. "Fuck, get off me."
"Is it a game to you?" the Doctor demanded. "Cops and robbers? I'm not the police. I'm far, far worse than that."
"Yes, yes." It sounded as if the man was rolling his eyes. "All the monsters wet their knickers when they see you."
The Doctor froze, then flinched back and let go as if he had burnt his fingers. Santos sat up and turned around, sitting on the wet concrete and grinning a bloodied grin. His hair was sticking up and his cheeks flushed. The Master gave a small, shaky wave, wriggling his fingers. "Hey. Glad to see me?"
*
The Doctor didn't move. He stared at the Master with that same blank expression, as if he had completely lost it. His eyes were darker, as dark as anything the Master had ever seen, as dark as the dark at the end of the universe. Not once had the Doctor looked at him like this during the paradox year, not even when he had been burning with the light of Archangel. With such terrible, bleak, unforgiving blankness. Slowly, inch by inch, his features became a mask of fury.
The Master lifted his hands. "It's me, the Master! Don't I get a hug? A smile? A little one at least?"
The Doctor punched him in the face.
The blow knocked the Master to the side. The Doctor didn't do a lot of punching, and he wasn't terribly strong, but sheer surprise sent the Master sprawling. The Master drew himself up on his elbow and touched his broken lip. He blinked and stared up at the Doctor in confusion as the Doctor rose to his feet.
"You hit me," the Master accused when he recovered his wits. "That's not fair!"
He found himself hauled to his feet by his tie, gasping as the Doctor pushed him back against the concrete frame of the door.
"Fair." The Doctor's voice was quiet. Quiet was scarier than loud. The Master had always known that, but now he felt it. He hardly noticed that the Doctor's grip on his collar was choking him. There was just that quiet, horrible voice. "You lied. You pretended."
The Master smiled. He was sane enough to know that it wasn't a good idea, but not sane enough to care. With the shock fading, a vicious thrill started to seep through his veins. "And you believed me."
"I built a funeral pyre."
"You cried like a little girl."
"Shut up." An order, ice-cold. The Doctor pushed him harder against the concrete, leaning onto him. With one hand he still twisted the Master's collar and tie, with the other he reached up. The Master turned his head, protecting himself instinctively, but the Doctor didn't strike. He ran his fingers down the side of the Master's face, his forehead, his cheek, the line of his jaw, and then pressed them against the Master's pulse. He didn't say anything.
No 'I forgive you'.
No whispered, desperate invocation of his name.
Just his fingers on the Master's pulse.
The Master's eyes widened. His lips moved in protest, but the Doctor was still close to crushing his windpipe. The Doctor's eyes were nearly closed. He wasn't looking at the Master, just listening. There was only that double heartbeat for him. Just a life, a statistic. The Master was reduced to a small, frail, living body. Something the Doctor was nearly killing with need as he cradled it in his hands.
In a surge of primal, thrashing fear the Master kicked and squirmed. The Doctor let go of him, but only to spin him around. Pinned face-first to the rough, cold wall, the Master felt the Doctor's lips against the back of his neck, just above his collar. They were cold, colder than the whipping wind.
"It's over," the Doctor said. "I have you."
The Master shivered. It felt as if his brain overloaded and short-circuited under the weight of these words, and they frightened him as much as they aroused him. He was scared, and he didn't want to fight. The Doctor's hands were flat against his chest, then running down, stopping at the Master's belt.
The Master released his breath. "Say my name."
It was a plea in the disguise of an order. A desperate bid for recognition. The Doctor didn't reply. He was working open the Master's belt, kissing his neck. The Master felt himself shrink to human proportions, dwindle to a nameless nothing. Closing his eyes, the Master let go. Let go of his name, of the floodgates of his mind, of the four-beat thunder of his hearts – two, the right number, true-bred Gallifrey, down to the brand of Rassilon in his cells – let go of time, of history, of his own lust and need and terror in a last defiant wave of This Is Me.
*
Two things were happening at once, and the Doctor was controlling neither. The Master's mind flashed around him like an electric storm, a maelstrom of memories and knowledge without rhyme or reason. First there was Gallifrey, burnt orange and silver, blades of grass and dust in the air, all of it fluttering around the Doctor like fireflies in the dark, the whispers of childhood that he could reach for but not grasp.
At the same time the Doctor felt hair brush against his cheek, which was wet, silky but short hair, like a paint brush against his skin. And he smelt – not Gallifrey, but the sting of aftershave and washing detergent, Earth smells. He touched soft skin, a very faint trail of hair below the Master's navel, running down. No belt, no trousers, he had pushed them down –
In his mind he got the second-hand cuts of old pain, the slashes of unforgotten slights, both deliberate and merely careless. It felt like being cut off, like tearing life-lines. Being homeless, hopeless, half of himself. He clutched at the feeling, because this was it, this was how he felt, this was life after the war. But when he touched the feelings, felt them vibrating under his fingers, he realised that there was no symmetry: this wasn't how the war felt to the Master, this was no shared agony. This was how it had felt to be left behind, how the years of lonely exile had felt for the Master.
Outside himself, with his real eyes, the Doctor saw much simpler things without thinking. The small, pale globes of the Master's arse, half covered by his shirt, which slid up and bared more skin when the Master pushed back his hips, moving willingly against the Doctor. The Master's face, one cheek pressed against the wall, eyes squeezed shut, sweating. "Fuck me," the Master said, voice raw, "do it already."
The Doctor shuddered, felt the years wash over him where their minds flowed into each other. The fights, the arguments, the moves of their games, like the mechanics of heaven. Each time they touched, catalogued in vivid Technicolor. Their memories matched perfectly on this account. Each time they spoke quietly, seriously to each other. Each time they made each other laugh while they fought. The wild, vicious joy of matching wits and skill and the bone-grinding grief of losing even, especially, when they won. Solid memories, true memories, hurting memories, no wispy cobwebs of childhood and wishful nostalgia. Their friendship was a loss that had always been true, long before the war.
And it mattered more, because they both still lived.
Abruptly, the wash of mental contact cut off as the Doctor reached this realisation. In there here and now, the Master bucked under his hands and made a horrid little noise, half stifled cry, half keening moan of pain when the Doctor pushed into him. The friction and the clenching tightness around his cock left the Doctor panting for a moment. The Doctor felt the cold wind, and other impressions of the night: the distant scent of smoke, the wail of sirens, shouts and traffic drifting up from the light-filled valleys of the streets. Earth, harsh and cold and true.
His fingers hurt where they dug into the Master's hips. He jaws hurt from clenching them. Groaning, he drew back and then thrust in deeper. Something gave, the Master stiffened, then went pliant with a broken moan. A sticky warmth coated the Doctor's cock and he knew it was blood which would still be there when they were done. It was better somehow than the metaphorical blood of thousands. Cleaner. Suddenly, the Doctor's head felt very clear. He kept fucking the Master in small hard thrusts, watching his face. Lines of pain drew into a smile as the Master, too, opened his eyes, looking back at him. It was a soft, ecstatic smile, swimming on pain and endorphins and a healthy dose of joyful madness. The Doctor felt it, too.
"Aren't you happy now?" the Master asked breathlessly.
A wave of raw pleasure. "Evil. Toys. On Christmas," the Doctor panted.
"Yeah. Just for you." A happy grin from the Master even as his eyes rolled back. "Fuck me harder."
He did, until the Master whimpered with each thrust and arched back, coming loudly while the Doctor rode him through it. Finished, the Master simply went limp, no longer cooperating and muttered deep, rolling, loving monosyllables somewhere at the back of his throat.
"Shush," the Doctor murmured. He pumped his hips mindlessly, needing release. He wasn't holding back, but something inside him was still unwinding, building up. He changed the angle of his thrusts, held the Master tighter in place, watched him go silent and glassy-eyed, open-mouthed as he took the Doctor in as deep as their position allowed. The Doctor felt raw now, so much he had to bite his lower lip; for the Master it had to be worse.
They'd still feel it tomorrow. They'd still be alive and hurting.
"Master," the Doctor said, the word unfolding on his lips as he came.
*
They lay sprawling next to each other on the cold concrete. They were both exhausted, mentally rather than physically. What the Master had done, throwing all of himself at the Doctor, was insane and stupid and possibly deadly. It was also something he didn't like to do , since it left him stripped to the bone. But it had served its purpose. The Doctor had acknowledged him.
For a short while after the sex, the Doctor looked befuddled, trying to get his bearings. Fuck and run, that was him, and his brain was already changing gears. But the Master was faster. Despite the protests of his roughly used body, he was up and snapped a pair of handcuffs around the Doctor's right wrist and a metal pipe on the roof before the Doctor could stop him.
"What – "
The Master patted the Doctor's cheek. "This was just the beginning, Doctor. A little greeting to let you know that I'm back."
"But the – "
"Toy Daleks?" The Master laughed. "Just a little warm-up game to keep you entertained on another of these long, lonely Earth holidays. Though I sent one to Torchwood as an early Christmas present. Let's hope it's the freak who opens the package and not one of his human hangers-on."
The Doctor glared, but then sagged against the cuffs. If he had been about to say something sappy and embarrassing, then what the Master had just said had doused his enthusiasm. The Master nodded in satisfaction. Then, on a whim, he tipped up the Doctor's chin and kissed him hard enough to drive away the darkness from the Doctor's features. "We're going to have so much fun," he purred, and got up to limp towards the helicopter.
Half-way there, he turned around and tossed the Doctor his sonic. "Oh, I almost forgot. I think the building's burning. You should make a run for it."
As the helicopter's blades started chopping through the air, there was a smile on the Doctor's sad features. Just a small one.
