It was hardly official, by any means. He had promised him once to always be with him, and when he had first said it, it had been the sort of thing a careless child would say. It was the thing an adolescent who had little to no idea of life, much less a lifetime, much less infinite numbers of them, could ever comprehend.
But once, he had been called Koschei, and once, he had promised another person these things that he did not yet understand.
Funny what happens. They had gotten close and they had gotten to love each other to the point that they were quick to forgive and easy to overlook everything that had started to go wrong. The insanity turned him romantic. His reservation died down around this boy and his words became so open and honest that what had started as a mindless adolescent devotion took a turn for a tender, intimate connection.
He promised him forever. He used words that had more nuances than most languages had characters. He promised him love, possession, submission, dedication, always – forever. And he had called him mine. My Theta. My love.
Just a few years prior he had made fun of marriage. It was a foreign tradition, a ceremony that owned too much levity to be taken seriously. He had scoffed at the scripted words each person was meant to say, and then and there, he had turned around and made a vow as it should be, individualized and honest and entirely possible.
Promise to stay with you. Promise to hold you and to hold myself. Swear to let you in and to bring myself out to meet you. Swear to go with you, or to wait for you. Mostly I promise I will be the one who meets you, when you leave to come back. I will always wait for you.
And things twisted so much from there.
They were older now, pursuing higher studies, starting work in the assistant and studying sort of way. And their relationship got closer and simultaneously got strained. He was getting worse. His head pounded sometimes and sometimes, his lover would cry after their lovemaking. And he would kiss the places where nails had come to tear at skin, or where hands had been held high over head and strained too hard. He apologized and he kissed him and it was always so tender, afterward, that they could pretend nothing was wrong.
Theta is off more and more, and for longer, to study or to do the things that he does, that he is becoming more and more secretive about. One night after a few days not seeing each other except in the middle of the night, when one or the other crawled in bed with their partner, and nearly two weeks without connecting bodies, Koschei tells Theta that he loves him, and he renews his vows.
They make love and it is tender, and perfect. They pull away shuddering and he kisses Theta’s cheeks, and he does not know why his partner is shaking so terribly.
Theta is gone the next morning and he does not come back that day.
Nor the day after.
Nor the day after that.
And he manages to keep himself afloat, for a while. He gets more work and more studying done than ever, constantly keeping his mind busy to distract himself from the slight sound of drums, and from the loneliness he feels when he lies down to sleep.
Sometimes he even writes letters that he cannot send. They start off sweet, loving, hopeful.
By the end of the first year, they are quietly desperate.
Three years later he writes a last letter on a scrap of note that reads:
Dear Theta,
I love you. I need you.
Please come home.
And not long after this, he breaks from the waiting.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Prompt : Draping
He looks up to the sky and he feels quiet inside. For a few precious moments he forgets about the people who have held him to this place and about the pain of living again, and the anger about all that had transpired. For a moment, he forgets about everything except the fact that the sky has stars, all of which are far away and none of which matter.
It is strange, but for a moment he remembers again why it had seemed such an appealing idea to settle down. The stars could be seen from here. But nothing up there necessarily mattered.
He looks down and the inclination is almost tender. He is almost not jealous of the stars that had stolen his man away and driven him to anger, to pain and to jealousy. He almost smiles at him.
But he sees the Doctor looking at the sky and he sees tears on his cheeks and suddenly he honestly forgets everything. His brows furrow and belie the way his hearts just twisted.
“…what?”
The Doctor takes a shaky little breath and he brings a hand up to his own face, to wipe the tears away with his fingers pressed flat to his cheek. He shakes his head and he tries to smile.
“I am so scared,” he says.
The Master’s brows furrow, and he looks up to the stars again. For a half of an instant he feels jealous again, as he has for so many years. But it fades quickly, and is replaced with that quiet, grounded feeling that that he has gotten so often, lately. He nods.
“Ah.”
He looks back to the shorter man, trying to watch his eyes. He hesitates upon the realization that the last shudder was not exactly a sob, and he tilts his head.
“Cold?”
“A little,” the Doctor admits, but he does not take his eyes off of the stars. Slowly, the Master inclines his head to watch the stars; the glance is there for but a second before he watches at the Doctor’s cheeks, instead. There are fresh tears there.
He sighs, shaking his head. He shrugs off his outer robe and drapes it lightly over the Doctor’s shoulders.
The Doctor looks at him, but he does not flinch, and the Master only hesitates so much before letting the fabric linger there. His hands settle on the Doctor’s shoulders and the smaller man opens his mouth to interject.
“Won’t you be--?”
“Just take it,” he tells him, and his voice is quiet enough to be gentle.
It is strange, but for a moment he remembers again why it had seemed such an appealing idea to settle down. The stars could be seen from here. But nothing up there necessarily mattered.
He looks down and the inclination is almost tender. He is almost not jealous of the stars that had stolen his man away and driven him to anger, to pain and to jealousy. He almost smiles at him.
But he sees the Doctor looking at the sky and he sees tears on his cheeks and suddenly he honestly forgets everything. His brows furrow and belie the way his hearts just twisted.
“…what?”
The Doctor takes a shaky little breath and he brings a hand up to his own face, to wipe the tears away with his fingers pressed flat to his cheek. He shakes his head and he tries to smile.
“I am so scared,” he says.
The Master’s brows furrow, and he looks up to the stars again. For a half of an instant he feels jealous again, as he has for so many years. But it fades quickly, and is replaced with that quiet, grounded feeling that that he has gotten so often, lately. He nods.
“Ah.”
He looks back to the shorter man, trying to watch his eyes. He hesitates upon the realization that the last shudder was not exactly a sob, and he tilts his head.
“Cold?”
“A little,” the Doctor admits, but he does not take his eyes off of the stars. Slowly, the Master inclines his head to watch the stars; the glance is there for but a second before he watches at the Doctor’s cheeks, instead. There are fresh tears there.
He sighs, shaking his head. He shrugs off his outer robe and drapes it lightly over the Doctor’s shoulders.
The Doctor looks at him, but he does not flinch, and the Master only hesitates so much before letting the fabric linger there. His hands settle on the Doctor’s shoulders and the smaller man opens his mouth to interject.
“Won’t you be--?”
“Just take it,” he tells him, and his voice is quiet enough to be gentle.
Prompt :Indignantly
He was self-righteous enough that indignation was next to a norm. Childish behavior, fanciful whims, playful indulgences – such things were beyond his pride. If a thing did not serve him, there was little chance for him appreciating it. The exception to the rule, of course, being if the thing challenged him.
And even then, he might still find cause to feel indignantly.
Then it doesn’t make sense. He watches the windows sometimes when he knows that no-one is watching him, and when he knows the Doctor cannot see him. Sometimes he simply stands on the grasses and looks up toward the skies, and sometimes he sits cross-legged so that dirt adorns the seat of his trousers, and sometimes he even runs barefoot as though he were a child again. None of these things present anything resembling modesty or dignity but at a certain point, it stopped mattering so very much.
In the meantime, the physicians make fewer and fewer appointments to check upon his body. His second heart stopped once. There had been a great affair about it and they had approached him with that frantic and even calm that was so characteristic of the Time Lords. They had made him live and put him back into captivity and they had watched him more closely than ever, for a time.
He decided that day that they hated him. He was becoming more and more sure that he did not want to die – not even if he would never wake up and never have to die, again – but the day they saved his life, he hated them. He stopped answering their questions and they had to pry his mind open or tie him down on the few appointments that followed, but he would allow them nothing. These people who thought they could decide his life – he gave them nothing.
It takes time. He does not reveal himself at first, but he slowly slips closer to the windows.
And there was another day, a quiet little night. He does not like to sleep, to start, but he was kept up by a sound he had heard, one that was so distant and unfamiliar to him that he felt the urge to search it out.
The Doctor had never seen the Master in the doorway of his room. He would have had no way of knowing what the Master had seen that night. And in all great honesty, the Master had left only a few seconds to watch the goings-ons.
He did not think the Doctor would like it, to know that this broken man, this old man, this man who had died too many times—he thinks, the Doctor would not like to know, that the Master had seen him crying for his captivity.
It is not long after that, that the Master comes as far out as the patio. Never far enough to be seen.
Except once. There is one day that he stands out on the patio and the Doctor is running, laughing, and he tries to reconcile the day that he saw the Doctor crying with this moment. The shorter man turns and pauses as he notices the Master’s eyes meeting his own.
The Master stands there for a second. He hardly feels it within himself to do so, but his chin tilts and his eyes narrow above an indignant little sneer. He turns away.
And he will never be able to explain it. But he returns the next day and for all the indignation, he stands and he watches the Doctor smile.
And even then, he might still find cause to feel indignantly.
Then it doesn’t make sense. He watches the windows sometimes when he knows that no-one is watching him, and when he knows the Doctor cannot see him. Sometimes he simply stands on the grasses and looks up toward the skies, and sometimes he sits cross-legged so that dirt adorns the seat of his trousers, and sometimes he even runs barefoot as though he were a child again. None of these things present anything resembling modesty or dignity but at a certain point, it stopped mattering so very much.
In the meantime, the physicians make fewer and fewer appointments to check upon his body. His second heart stopped once. There had been a great affair about it and they had approached him with that frantic and even calm that was so characteristic of the Time Lords. They had made him live and put him back into captivity and they had watched him more closely than ever, for a time.
He decided that day that they hated him. He was becoming more and more sure that he did not want to die – not even if he would never wake up and never have to die, again – but the day they saved his life, he hated them. He stopped answering their questions and they had to pry his mind open or tie him down on the few appointments that followed, but he would allow them nothing. These people who thought they could decide his life – he gave them nothing.
It takes time. He does not reveal himself at first, but he slowly slips closer to the windows.
And there was another day, a quiet little night. He does not like to sleep, to start, but he was kept up by a sound he had heard, one that was so distant and unfamiliar to him that he felt the urge to search it out.
The Doctor had never seen the Master in the doorway of his room. He would have had no way of knowing what the Master had seen that night. And in all great honesty, the Master had left only a few seconds to watch the goings-ons.
He did not think the Doctor would like it, to know that this broken man, this old man, this man who had died too many times—he thinks, the Doctor would not like to know, that the Master had seen him crying for his captivity.
It is not long after that, that the Master comes as far out as the patio. Never far enough to be seen.
Except once. There is one day that he stands out on the patio and the Doctor is running, laughing, and he tries to reconcile the day that he saw the Doctor crying with this moment. The shorter man turns and pauses as he notices the Master’s eyes meeting his own.
The Master stands there for a second. He hardly feels it within himself to do so, but his chin tilts and his eyes narrow above an indignant little sneer. He turns away.
And he will never be able to explain it. But he returns the next day and for all the indignation, he stands and he watches the Doctor smile.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
excerpt 003
working title: prologue
They resurrected him for little more than to foil the order of Skaro.
There would be no war today, but the undercurrent lurked. Everyone could feel it. The very sensation lingered in the corner of every mind, affecting everyone from the central cities outward to the provinces. Tensions had begun to rise and it was only a matter of time, now, until the species would realize what had been done to prevent them.
Someone once had been asked to step up and stop the development of the ruthless race before they could even come about, but he could only delay the inevitable. Lines already were drawn and the Time Lords knew that at any day, the truth could be found and the entirety of existence could come crashing down.
There was no war yet, and there would be no war today. Tensions could carry out in all their prideful and petty dealings, be it with lies or life. His was just another in the balance.
The denizens of Skaro had allowed him that much, perhaps in that last gesture of what optimists would call humanity, and realists call appeasement. They had passed on a message following his death, concerning where his remains were to be taken. The Daleks were not yet the Daleks entirely, and though mercy was fading from their vocabulary, diplomacy had survived until this point. So they could kill a criminal but what was done with him would be left to the people. Tensions could rise. No one could be guaranteed to win. No one wanted a war yet.
His final wish had been that the Doctor would take his remains back to Gallifrey. So when he did – unwittingly, taking not even the ashes but only the inkling – they had torn apart the TARDIS to get him.
When they found him it was nothing but a trace of mind and a hint of genetic strand that was not yet Time Lord. It took time and it took corruption, but the last wish was too interesting and the child too promising to let the ordinary laws bind him - and besides, the decision of Skaro could hold no power.
They would keep it a secret. The Master and his existence would be hidden and none outside a privileged circle would know about his fourteenth body.
He would be kept like an experiment, a curiosity. The resurrection went smoothly as it could go and the Master was Time Lord, again. He was to be confined. Studied, perhaps. An oddity along with the best of them.
And because the request had been so specific – the Doctor taking the Master home again – the suspicions of the Council had been piqued. The side excursion of domination of world and flesh held no interest to the hierarchy; one enemy asking the help of another was all the interest they needed.
Twenty one generations between the two of them and they were still children of Gallifrey, and were treated like such. It was like a time-out, a grounding – house arrest, they called it, for two disobedient if brilliant men. With the Doctor stripped of his TARDIS and the Master held to the spot, there was little to do except to make the two bickering children get along.
So they had put them together.
And so where everything else had gone wrong, some semblance of the Master’s genius still remained.
He had gotten his body. Gotten his lives back. And now he had even gotten the Doctor within his grasp, to do as he might please.
The last thing he remembers of his body is that it was coming apart at the cell.
They resurrected him for little more than to foil the order of Skaro.
There would be no war today, but the undercurrent lurked. Everyone could feel it. The very sensation lingered in the corner of every mind, affecting everyone from the central cities outward to the provinces. Tensions had begun to rise and it was only a matter of time, now, until the species would realize what had been done to prevent them.
Someone once had been asked to step up and stop the development of the ruthless race before they could even come about, but he could only delay the inevitable. Lines already were drawn and the Time Lords knew that at any day, the truth could be found and the entirety of existence could come crashing down.
There was no war yet, and there would be no war today. Tensions could carry out in all their prideful and petty dealings, be it with lies or life. His was just another in the balance.
The denizens of Skaro had allowed him that much, perhaps in that last gesture of what optimists would call humanity, and realists call appeasement. They had passed on a message following his death, concerning where his remains were to be taken. The Daleks were not yet the Daleks entirely, and though mercy was fading from their vocabulary, diplomacy had survived until this point. So they could kill a criminal but what was done with him would be left to the people. Tensions could rise. No one could be guaranteed to win. No one wanted a war yet.
His final wish had been that the Doctor would take his remains back to Gallifrey. So when he did – unwittingly, taking not even the ashes but only the inkling – they had torn apart the TARDIS to get him.
When they found him it was nothing but a trace of mind and a hint of genetic strand that was not yet Time Lord. It took time and it took corruption, but the last wish was too interesting and the child too promising to let the ordinary laws bind him - and besides, the decision of Skaro could hold no power.
They would keep it a secret. The Master and his existence would be hidden and none outside a privileged circle would know about his fourteenth body.
He would be kept like an experiment, a curiosity. The resurrection went smoothly as it could go and the Master was Time Lord, again. He was to be confined. Studied, perhaps. An oddity along with the best of them.
And because the request had been so specific – the Doctor taking the Master home again – the suspicions of the Council had been piqued. The side excursion of domination of world and flesh held no interest to the hierarchy; one enemy asking the help of another was all the interest they needed.
Twenty one generations between the two of them and they were still children of Gallifrey, and were treated like such. It was like a time-out, a grounding – house arrest, they called it, for two disobedient if brilliant men. With the Doctor stripped of his TARDIS and the Master held to the spot, there was little to do except to make the two bickering children get along.
So they had put them together.
And so where everything else had gone wrong, some semblance of the Master’s genius still remained.
He had gotten his body. Gotten his lives back. And now he had even gotten the Doctor within his grasp, to do as he might please.
...
The last thing he remembers of his body is that it was coming apart at the cell.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Catholic structure
Okay, so apparently the way it goes is:
Sin -> Confession -> Absolution -> Penance
Potentially also with "peace", if you want to include the whole "go in peace" bit that comes between being absolved of your sins and actually paying your penance. If it goes like that, I may want five parts. Three parts with a prologue and epilogue. I may also simply stick to four parts and avoid complications.
Either way, bittersweet ending. Notes in the second to last page of Carson's notebook, for my own reference. Let's go. \o\
Sin -> Confession -> Absolution -> Penance
Potentially also with "peace", if you want to include the whole "go in peace" bit that comes between being absolved of your sins and actually paying your penance. If it goes like that, I may want five parts. Three parts with a prologue and epilogue. I may also simply stick to four parts and avoid complications.
Either way, bittersweet ending. Notes in the second to last page of Carson's notebook, for my own reference. Let's go. \o\
Saturday, January 8, 2011
excerpt 002
working title:penance
It is too intimate and activity for the sun to see. The stars, the suns of solar systems and galaxies millions of miles away - they were too far away to bear witness and, even then, he only permits his hands to work and eyes to search while shielded by walls and roof and dark windows. Sometimes it feels so spectacular that he feels he should close his eyes. He would close his eyes if he did not have to see everything.
The night gets too long sometimes. That is no surprise, it is nothing new - the night is long and the darkness is terrifying to someone who has died so many times already. He never knows if he will wake up. Sometimes he hardly even knows if he is awake to start, if he is not dreaming everything already.
This man - this one man - convinced him that this is no dream. He does not know when or how it happened, but somewhere along the way, when this man appeared, he knew he was not in any dream. With him, he could not even be in hell. He began seeking his company and, strangely, it seemed almost as if this strange and wonderful man was returning the gesture.
How ironic that it would be that man, the man who fixed people, the very Doctor he had intended to kill. He was never looking to be fixed and here was this man who, if he was not fixing anything, was at least giving him a reason to look forward to the nighttime.
He actually begins to look forward to the evening. It is the only time he feels comfortable actively pursuing the Doctor's company, now that that connection has been officially established.
The daytime takes a long time to pass, even if he lays there with his eyes open and tries to rest. He starts trying to find ways to occupy his mind when all else fails, and he gradually finds that if he can keep his hands busy, his eyes will follow.
He begins to find that he likes the white of paper and the way it reflects even the barest traces of light. He likes the way it is unassuming, blank, ready to be made into something beautiful or ugly or profound - anything that he wills it to be. He begins to pretend that he is like paper. That he can rewrite himself into something that is not all good, maybe even ugly, but something that someone could look at and marvel at. He likes the idea. He learns to draw and paint almost everything, from furniture to landscapes to still life. During the night when he does not see anyone, he sits there in the dark with his hands on the canvas, and he swirls colors in the way he can best imagine the sunrise. He paints the dawn until it touches the horizon, and he does not have to be so afraid anymore.
He and the Doctor visit more, gradually, and they progress from stunted quiet to gentle conversation. At some point - he is not sure when - he tells the Doctor how afraid he is of the neverending dark. The man is so kind about the matter that, that evening, he slips the best of his sunrise paintings under the door and the next time he dares to approach his room, he is rendered momentarily speechless by the presence of that painting on the wall.
It is hard to say exactly when he began sketching the Doctor, himself. The first time it was such a quiet affair; he had brought up candles and placed them in a way that it would not be so obvious that he was shedding light upon the paper. Light-colored eyes had been distracted, by words, by a book, by paintings - and he had taken the moment to sketch and observe the details of his face. It was so easy and natural to do that he thought nothing of it, when he began sketching him from memory.
In all honesty, it did not seem a fuss until a kiss became more than a kiss, more than even words. They had kissed before, few times with tender inclinations. It had even come to mean something. A kiss to the cheek was a thank you, to the lips was a silent, unspoken something that he would never repeat, not out loud, not after the first time he said it. He never expected to say it again, except with a gentle moment to touch lips together.
One strange night, it changes. Lips touch and touch again, and somehow a kiss against lips turns not to a kiss against cheek but wanders toward the edge of jaw. The words in his mind are not thank you nor I love you, but are strange and he does not know what to put to it. On this occasion, he had stopped, pulled away. He had smiled in that quiet, crooked way.
"May I sketch you, Doctor?"
So it is no longer a secret who he sketches, sometimes, but that is not the part that he must hide, anyway. He does not know what the kisses not-to-lips and not-to-cheek say, but putting words to the feeling was not high on his list of priorities. When he is alone, now, sometimes he closes his eyes to re-imagine it.
Sometimes he begins to sketch and it rolls into such a fervor of charcoal and flying hands that he parts the paper panting and exhausted. Sometimes he struggles with the detail. Sometimes he watches the page and watches the formation of the curve of neck, of the tilt of head or the pose of hand and he becomes so focused on touching the paper, making the shapes tangible, that he puts the paper away feeling quivering and spent.
It takes him no time at all to realize how erotic it is, really. The realization that he is watching the details form under his hand as though he could touch the very model is no surprise to him. He hides it from the stars and suns themselves because the activity is truly too intimate. He thinks he might never touch the Doctor the way he did that once, like he could simply touch him all over.
He has no idea what he is trying to say. He begins to realize that kisses say nothing, but the way he touches skin on paper says the world over.
after-rant (notes): AU concept. Taken shortly post!1996 movie, featuring Eighth Doctor and Roberts!Master, resurrected as a Time Lord but out of context from the Time War. Not yet sure why he would be resurrected, outside of the context of the Time War.
I am thinking that this excerpt shall turn up being a section from a three-parter. Something like sin:confession:penance or something. Or absolution for the last part. Not entirely sure yet. ...could be the aftermath of sin? Sin as a prologue? confession:penance:absolution? ...It needs to sound catchier. :\
Unfortunately, "the aftermath of sin in three parts" sounds like a tap dance routine with smiling Gene Kelly's and musical extravaganza. Which this is kind of... not.
Random aside. Enjoy the rant and drabble, lovies. <3
It is too intimate and activity for the sun to see. The stars, the suns of solar systems and galaxies millions of miles away - they were too far away to bear witness and, even then, he only permits his hands to work and eyes to search while shielded by walls and roof and dark windows. Sometimes it feels so spectacular that he feels he should close his eyes. He would close his eyes if he did not have to see everything.
The night gets too long sometimes. That is no surprise, it is nothing new - the night is long and the darkness is terrifying to someone who has died so many times already. He never knows if he will wake up. Sometimes he hardly even knows if he is awake to start, if he is not dreaming everything already.
This man - this one man - convinced him that this is no dream. He does not know when or how it happened, but somewhere along the way, when this man appeared, he knew he was not in any dream. With him, he could not even be in hell. He began seeking his company and, strangely, it seemed almost as if this strange and wonderful man was returning the gesture.
How ironic that it would be that man, the man who fixed people, the very Doctor he had intended to kill. He was never looking to be fixed and here was this man who, if he was not fixing anything, was at least giving him a reason to look forward to the nighttime.
He actually begins to look forward to the evening. It is the only time he feels comfortable actively pursuing the Doctor's company, now that that connection has been officially established.
The daytime takes a long time to pass, even if he lays there with his eyes open and tries to rest. He starts trying to find ways to occupy his mind when all else fails, and he gradually finds that if he can keep his hands busy, his eyes will follow.
He begins to find that he likes the white of paper and the way it reflects even the barest traces of light. He likes the way it is unassuming, blank, ready to be made into something beautiful or ugly or profound - anything that he wills it to be. He begins to pretend that he is like paper. That he can rewrite himself into something that is not all good, maybe even ugly, but something that someone could look at and marvel at. He likes the idea. He learns to draw and paint almost everything, from furniture to landscapes to still life. During the night when he does not see anyone, he sits there in the dark with his hands on the canvas, and he swirls colors in the way he can best imagine the sunrise. He paints the dawn until it touches the horizon, and he does not have to be so afraid anymore.
He and the Doctor visit more, gradually, and they progress from stunted quiet to gentle conversation. At some point - he is not sure when - he tells the Doctor how afraid he is of the neverending dark. The man is so kind about the matter that, that evening, he slips the best of his sunrise paintings under the door and the next time he dares to approach his room, he is rendered momentarily speechless by the presence of that painting on the wall.
It is hard to say exactly when he began sketching the Doctor, himself. The first time it was such a quiet affair; he had brought up candles and placed them in a way that it would not be so obvious that he was shedding light upon the paper. Light-colored eyes had been distracted, by words, by a book, by paintings - and he had taken the moment to sketch and observe the details of his face. It was so easy and natural to do that he thought nothing of it, when he began sketching him from memory.
In all honesty, it did not seem a fuss until a kiss became more than a kiss, more than even words. They had kissed before, few times with tender inclinations. It had even come to mean something. A kiss to the cheek was a thank you, to the lips was a silent, unspoken something that he would never repeat, not out loud, not after the first time he said it. He never expected to say it again, except with a gentle moment to touch lips together.
One strange night, it changes. Lips touch and touch again, and somehow a kiss against lips turns not to a kiss against cheek but wanders toward the edge of jaw. The words in his mind are not thank you nor I love you, but are strange and he does not know what to put to it. On this occasion, he had stopped, pulled away. He had smiled in that quiet, crooked way.
"May I sketch you, Doctor?"
So it is no longer a secret who he sketches, sometimes, but that is not the part that he must hide, anyway. He does not know what the kisses not-to-lips and not-to-cheek say, but putting words to the feeling was not high on his list of priorities. When he is alone, now, sometimes he closes his eyes to re-imagine it.
Sometimes he begins to sketch and it rolls into such a fervor of charcoal and flying hands that he parts the paper panting and exhausted. Sometimes he struggles with the detail. Sometimes he watches the page and watches the formation of the curve of neck, of the tilt of head or the pose of hand and he becomes so focused on touching the paper, making the shapes tangible, that he puts the paper away feeling quivering and spent.
It takes him no time at all to realize how erotic it is, really. The realization that he is watching the details form under his hand as though he could touch the very model is no surprise to him. He hides it from the stars and suns themselves because the activity is truly too intimate. He thinks he might never touch the Doctor the way he did that once, like he could simply touch him all over.
He has no idea what he is trying to say. He begins to realize that kisses say nothing, but the way he touches skin on paper says the world over.
after-rant (notes): AU concept. Taken shortly post!1996 movie, featuring Eighth Doctor and Roberts!Master, resurrected as a Time Lord but out of context from the Time War. Not yet sure why he would be resurrected, outside of the context of the Time War.
I am thinking that this excerpt shall turn up being a section from a three-parter. Something like sin:confession:penance or something. Or absolution for the last part. Not entirely sure yet. ...could be the aftermath of sin? Sin as a prologue? confession:penance:absolution? ...It needs to sound catchier. :\
Unfortunately, "the aftermath of sin in three parts" sounds like a tap dance routine with smiling Gene Kelly's and musical extravaganza. Which this is kind of... not.
Random aside. Enjoy the rant and drabble, lovies. <3
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
planning about planning.
...so my new theory is that, what actually needs to happen? Is that I separate out Raincheck from the different Lucy threads. Figure out what ACTUALLY needs to go in RC, figure out a completely different medium in which to put my Master/Luce stuff.
At this point I feel like I should just have a document composed of AU Doctor/Master drabbles, since Timelord!AmeriMaster makes little to no sense except in the context of a farking Time War. And even then it seems unlikely that they'd utilize the same body for his resurrection. Or that he'd get old and look like Derek Jacobi.
That aside, Saxon/9? Yeah. Even less sense. That's messing with the time stream right there. (and also messing with my heart, but that's a completely different story. Whoops. >>)
...and back to AmeriMaster, he sort of paints. Which makes even less sense, I guess. But darnit-- waiting for the sunrise. It's good stuff.
And one day I'll actually plan something.
At this point I feel like I should just have a document composed of AU Doctor/Master drabbles, since Timelord!AmeriMaster makes little to no sense except in the context of a farking Time War. And even then it seems unlikely that they'd utilize the same body for his resurrection. Or that he'd get old and look like Derek Jacobi.
That aside, Saxon/9? Yeah. Even less sense. That's messing with the time stream right there. (and also messing with my heart, but that's a completely different story. Whoops. >>)
...and back to AmeriMaster, he sort of paints. Which makes even less sense, I guess. But darnit-- waiting for the sunrise. It's good stuff.
And one day I'll actually plan something.
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