The Doctor walked on, stopped, and then promptly shook his head as if to clear his mind of the sight that seemed more illusionary than anything else. He slowly executed a sort of double-take, pausing in the doorway he had just passed in order to get a good look.
And yes. There was a sheet held up in a tent-like fashion, in the center of the living room.
“Uhm,” he said, brow furrowing as he stepped forward. He gave a little hop between steps, something that was almost feline in its skittish caution. He leaned forward to peek, and see if he could not find an entrance into the structure.
“Hello?” He asked.
There was a rustle, and then a charmingly round face peeked out from under the fabric. He put on a debonair, political grin.
“Hello,” said the man under the sheet.
The Doctor reeled back a little, then proceeded to frown. “Master!” he said, in a voice that should have been scolding, but came out more incredulous and curious than anything else. “What are you doing with that sheet?”
“Do you like it?” the face grinned. It ducked back under the sheet and a few short moments later, he rolled out from under the fabric. He lied supine, stomach turned comfortably up toward the Doctor as the smile continued to linger and never once falter. “It took me ages. It was such a fuss to figure out how to make it stand up like a circus tent, instead of one of those silly devices humans use for woodland excursions.”
“What? No, Master, I mean—”
“Do you remember those? Circuses? I first arrived to earth and there was a circus.” He nodded sagely, or as sagely as one could do with a wide grin on their face and their belly facing toward the ceiling.
The Doctor blinked, then crossed his arms. He put on his most serious, motherly face. “Master, why are you making a tent of that sheet?”
The Master blinked in turn, and then, as though it were obvious. “I am having a circus, of course.”
He reached to the corner of the sheet and pulled it up so that the Doctor could see. Underneath, stuffed animals had been arranged in rings made of Frisbees, and there was a trapeze set up with skewer sticks, yarn, and toothpicks. There were also a few scantily-clad Barbies that were doing splits and other less-savory poses.
“… Master, I think you’re cracked.” The Doctor said, mildly, but he could not hide the playful curiosity in his eyes.
The Master grinned. “We have a special on admission, today. Doctors get in for a kiss.”
The Doctor didn’t take too terribly long to consider. A little bit of play and recklessness never did him too much harm. The Master cackled in response to the kiss before wrapping them both in the sheet and hiding the show underneath.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Prompt : Gifted
He had been a smart child. Intelligent. He took in information well, leaned how to apply it with the ease of someone who was notably astute. He would be knowledgeable, formidable, even genius, one day, if he worked hard enough at it. His foundations and his background gave him the best of opportunities and there was no doubt he would enter among the elite of the Time Lords.
Koschei was all of these things.
But he was never gifted.
In ways, Theta Sigma made him look like an idiot child. Whereas Koschei was deductive, a meticulous designer, Theta was an improviser. He took in information and managed to sort through the important things, and the ones that were less so – that was the way he said it, at least. He failed near every quiz ever handed to him, and anything vaguely mathematic or quantitative came out with a similar standard.
But his level of thinking had always been something beyond the other students. He was imaginative, something that Time Lords scoffed at and severely lacked, for the most part. He was a master of puzzles. He did more than put two and two together; he figured out ways to divide the pieces into wholes on their own, and make the outcome into five, six, infinity.
He sometimes broke the rules to do so, but between Koschei’s grounded and prestigious air and the young boy’s improvisational brilliance, the two managed pretty well.
So the two were not fast friends, not by any means. Koschei was a loner, was deductive and quiet and constantly analyzing the world around him to set a floor plan in his head. He was constantly looking for ways to navigate and to walk the correct pathways to get where he needed to go.
Theta was a step ahead of him; he analyzed everything around him to pull the information from it. He needed no idea of direction. He simply went forward and made up the ground plan as he went. Sometimes Koschei would have sworn that this boy could simply walk about and the world would follow with him.
It was funny, in a way. Koschei was smart. He was beyond smart. He was top of his class and by far among the most studious. It is strange that he never put two and two together, when Theta was a step ahead of him and the world followed after him.
But where Koschei looked at books and knew what other people knew, Theta looked at the stars and knew too little.
Three years later Koschei becomes the Master. He breaks over a gifted boy and, like the rest of the world, he follows after.
Koschei was all of these things.
But he was never gifted.
In ways, Theta Sigma made him look like an idiot child. Whereas Koschei was deductive, a meticulous designer, Theta was an improviser. He took in information and managed to sort through the important things, and the ones that were less so – that was the way he said it, at least. He failed near every quiz ever handed to him, and anything vaguely mathematic or quantitative came out with a similar standard.
But his level of thinking had always been something beyond the other students. He was imaginative, something that Time Lords scoffed at and severely lacked, for the most part. He was a master of puzzles. He did more than put two and two together; he figured out ways to divide the pieces into wholes on their own, and make the outcome into five, six, infinity.
He sometimes broke the rules to do so, but between Koschei’s grounded and prestigious air and the young boy’s improvisational brilliance, the two managed pretty well.
So the two were not fast friends, not by any means. Koschei was a loner, was deductive and quiet and constantly analyzing the world around him to set a floor plan in his head. He was constantly looking for ways to navigate and to walk the correct pathways to get where he needed to go.
Theta was a step ahead of him; he analyzed everything around him to pull the information from it. He needed no idea of direction. He simply went forward and made up the ground plan as he went. Sometimes Koschei would have sworn that this boy could simply walk about and the world would follow with him.
It was funny, in a way. Koschei was smart. He was beyond smart. He was top of his class and by far among the most studious. It is strange that he never put two and two together, when Theta was a step ahead of him and the world followed after him.
But where Koschei looked at books and knew what other people knew, Theta looked at the stars and knew too little.
Three years later Koschei becomes the Master. He breaks over a gifted boy and, like the rest of the world, he follows after.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Prompt : Feline
He wakes up and immediately, something is wrong.
Well. Wrong was not the perfect word for it. Something was off, more like on, but not in the correct way, more in the pleasant and unusual way. He was rather confused.
He had woken up a few brief moments ago and the more that he moseys casually into consciousness, the more the Master becomes aware that he is curled around the Doctor. In bed.
Naked.
He blinks, then mentally reels back to try to pin the events of the night before. There had been wine. He could still taste something like cabernet in the back of his mouth, and also something that tasted rather like the Doctor’s kisses. They had kissed. That was right. They had kissed and there had been candles that must have been left burning on the dinner table when they came upstairs and—
Ah.
Of course. That was what had happened.
For a very brief moment he is unsure whether to be embarrassed by the intimate embrace or pleased by the way they were curled around one another in a feline fashion. The latter of the two options begins to win out when, upon leaning his head against the tousled, curled hair of the Doctor, he discovers the Doctor to be purring.
Not profusely or anything. It is a quiet little sound, just strong enough to be felt more than heard. The Master blinks and he tilts his head – then has to huff to blow his hair off of his forehead. Damn the Doctor for not letting him slick it back, but he had seemed quite convinced that hair gel would taste like old couch cushions.
He is not sure how the Doctor knows what hair gel or couch cushions would taste like. He is not even sure why tasting would be an issue when it came to hair, but in retrospect, he could see how accidents might happen with all the… snuffling.
For lack of a better word, snuffling.
The Doctor turns a little, giving a gentle little sound between the purring that was rather like a kittenish mewl. The Master pauses, then relents to curling a bit more about him.
It was only ten o’clock. He could suffer to cuddle a while longer.
Well. Wrong was not the perfect word for it. Something was off, more like on, but not in the correct way, more in the pleasant and unusual way. He was rather confused.
He had woken up a few brief moments ago and the more that he moseys casually into consciousness, the more the Master becomes aware that he is curled around the Doctor. In bed.
Naked.
He blinks, then mentally reels back to try to pin the events of the night before. There had been wine. He could still taste something like cabernet in the back of his mouth, and also something that tasted rather like the Doctor’s kisses. They had kissed. That was right. They had kissed and there had been candles that must have been left burning on the dinner table when they came upstairs and—
Ah.
Of course. That was what had happened.
For a very brief moment he is unsure whether to be embarrassed by the intimate embrace or pleased by the way they were curled around one another in a feline fashion. The latter of the two options begins to win out when, upon leaning his head against the tousled, curled hair of the Doctor, he discovers the Doctor to be purring.
Not profusely or anything. It is a quiet little sound, just strong enough to be felt more than heard. The Master blinks and he tilts his head – then has to huff to blow his hair off of his forehead. Damn the Doctor for not letting him slick it back, but he had seemed quite convinced that hair gel would taste like old couch cushions.
He is not sure how the Doctor knows what hair gel or couch cushions would taste like. He is not even sure why tasting would be an issue when it came to hair, but in retrospect, he could see how accidents might happen with all the… snuffling.
For lack of a better word, snuffling.
The Doctor turns a little, giving a gentle little sound between the purring that was rather like a kittenish mewl. The Master pauses, then relents to curling a bit more about him.
It was only ten o’clock. He could suffer to cuddle a while longer.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Prompt : Physical
The Doctor holds out his hand and for a long moment, the Master honestly does not know what to do. He looks up to those pale eyes and for a moment, he thinks about sneering at him. But he remembers that even when he refused to take his hand, the last time, he could do no such thing.
Never, he had said.
How much did he really mean that?
He looks back to the Doctor’s hand and he tilts his head, as if summing it up.
The Doctor waits a long moment. Something in his eyes seems to waver and his palm falls maybe half an inch.
And then it is simply there. The Master has hardly taken a breath, hardly has time to catch up with what he has done, much less bring his mind to attention and fill the blank moments between when he had looked up to those pale eyes and when he had suddenly found himself holding the Doctor’s hand.
It was just a pinpoint of physical contact. Their arms were stretched out between them and in space, in mind, they were so far apart from each other. But he had not refused the offer this time.
The Doctor hesitates, then says quietly, “Thank you.”
He nods, slowly. A minute passes in relative silence. Then, finally, he tells him.
“I need my hand back.” He hesitates, then adds, “But I am not letting go.”
This seems to satisfy the shorter man, and that is good. It will be better if they can pass each other with acknowledgement, no matter how stiff the interaction may be.
They let go and the Master realizes that maybe he does not want to die, after all. Not quite yet.
…
The first time he kisses his cheek, it comes to mean something like a quiet “thank you”. The Doctor had been kind enough – perhaps brave enough – to finally tell the Master that he needed his hair combed a different way. That, in this ugly body he had been given, the hair slicked back by water and wax only emphasized his apparent lack of appreciable visage.
He had done it in such a quiet way, offering to comb his hair. And the Master had been suspicious, but had finally given in. The days here were long, and without travels or schemes or possibilities of death, life seemed relatively plain.
So they passed the time. And when he was permitted to look, he did so with utmost solemnity.
“It looks better this way, does it.”
“It looks fine.” The Doctor had put out, cautiously.
He scoffed. The Doctor hesitated before holding out his comb tentatively.
“You can change it, if you want.”
The Master had said nothing. It was a simple matter to kiss his cheek and leave, and at that point, who really needed words for the whole affair?
…
One day he is horrendously curious and when they stand, nearly touching, he unravels the Doctor’s necktie and loosens his collar. He opens it up to reveal the skin of his throat. And then he leaves, says nothing more about it.
He never even touched skin, to see him.
…
Their first kisses are had in quiet corners at night, when no-one would think to look, and where no-one could see with their eyes. The touch is almost overwhelming, the Master has not had his own sensations for so long.
“Master?” The Doctor asks, and he sounds worried by the way the Master has just shivered.
“Shut up.” He replies. He kisses the Doctor and his mind is confused, but his body is sighing with relief in response. He never wants to forget what it is like to touch.
…
Watching physicians strip him of his clothes to check his pulses, his hearts, his pressure, his lungs, his ribs, his everything – that he had hated. It became almost worse than the fear that, if he were to look at his body, he would find it falling apart underneath him.
The first time they sit in front of each other, chests exposed, both are too enamored and simultaneously modest to say a thing about it.
But he brings a hand to brush his fingertips over the Doctor’s chest, and he thinks some day, he might like to kiss beyond his lips alone.
…
Their bodies feel completely right together.
His body is shuddering and the memory of pleasure amounts to nothing, in comparison to this. They are breathing together and moving together, and he has an incredible, reverent respect for the Doctor’s body. In a strange way, it makes perfect sense, how much he wanted to possess this.
The pleasure all but crashes through them and the smell of sweat and musk lingers between them. They share exhausted kisses, touching lips and everywhere else, just to reacquaint.
He keeps his fingertips brushing against the Doctor’s arms and back and shoulders and neck long after the smaller man falls into a peaceful, exhausted rest. His fingertips are tracing patterns that in some language, must mean something like “I love you”.
He has never learned such a language, but if he could learn it here, against the Doctor’s skin, he might not mind trying to learn to speak it.
…
He keeps looking, hoping to find a letter that says thank you, or I am sorry, or gives some explanation. He finds no such thing and he does not need such a thing to know.
The Doctor has left, and he is not coming back.
He thinks it appropriate, really. First he had collapsed, body-under-mind. Strange how now he stands, collapsing heart under the muscles that still remember how the man had felt in his arms.
The Doctor will not return to this place, he knows it. But he leaves a small note on his bed, anyway. If not just because the physical act of doing so feels better than nothing. And his body needs something so much that he is willing – happy – to take it.
…
Doctor
I am not letting go.
The Master
Never, he had said.
How much did he really mean that?
He looks back to the Doctor’s hand and he tilts his head, as if summing it up.
The Doctor waits a long moment. Something in his eyes seems to waver and his palm falls maybe half an inch.
And then it is simply there. The Master has hardly taken a breath, hardly has time to catch up with what he has done, much less bring his mind to attention and fill the blank moments between when he had looked up to those pale eyes and when he had suddenly found himself holding the Doctor’s hand.
It was just a pinpoint of physical contact. Their arms were stretched out between them and in space, in mind, they were so far apart from each other. But he had not refused the offer this time.
The Doctor hesitates, then says quietly, “Thank you.”
He nods, slowly. A minute passes in relative silence. Then, finally, he tells him.
“I need my hand back.” He hesitates, then adds, “But I am not letting go.”
This seems to satisfy the shorter man, and that is good. It will be better if they can pass each other with acknowledgement, no matter how stiff the interaction may be.
They let go and the Master realizes that maybe he does not want to die, after all. Not quite yet.
…
The first time he kisses his cheek, it comes to mean something like a quiet “thank you”. The Doctor had been kind enough – perhaps brave enough – to finally tell the Master that he needed his hair combed a different way. That, in this ugly body he had been given, the hair slicked back by water and wax only emphasized his apparent lack of appreciable visage.
He had done it in such a quiet way, offering to comb his hair. And the Master had been suspicious, but had finally given in. The days here were long, and without travels or schemes or possibilities of death, life seemed relatively plain.
So they passed the time. And when he was permitted to look, he did so with utmost solemnity.
“It looks better this way, does it.”
“It looks fine.” The Doctor had put out, cautiously.
He scoffed. The Doctor hesitated before holding out his comb tentatively.
“You can change it, if you want.”
The Master had said nothing. It was a simple matter to kiss his cheek and leave, and at that point, who really needed words for the whole affair?
…
One day he is horrendously curious and when they stand, nearly touching, he unravels the Doctor’s necktie and loosens his collar. He opens it up to reveal the skin of his throat. And then he leaves, says nothing more about it.
He never even touched skin, to see him.
…
Their first kisses are had in quiet corners at night, when no-one would think to look, and where no-one could see with their eyes. The touch is almost overwhelming, the Master has not had his own sensations for so long.
“Master?” The Doctor asks, and he sounds worried by the way the Master has just shivered.
“Shut up.” He replies. He kisses the Doctor and his mind is confused, but his body is sighing with relief in response. He never wants to forget what it is like to touch.
…
Watching physicians strip him of his clothes to check his pulses, his hearts, his pressure, his lungs, his ribs, his everything – that he had hated. It became almost worse than the fear that, if he were to look at his body, he would find it falling apart underneath him.
The first time they sit in front of each other, chests exposed, both are too enamored and simultaneously modest to say a thing about it.
But he brings a hand to brush his fingertips over the Doctor’s chest, and he thinks some day, he might like to kiss beyond his lips alone.
…
Their bodies feel completely right together.
His body is shuddering and the memory of pleasure amounts to nothing, in comparison to this. They are breathing together and moving together, and he has an incredible, reverent respect for the Doctor’s body. In a strange way, it makes perfect sense, how much he wanted to possess this.
The pleasure all but crashes through them and the smell of sweat and musk lingers between them. They share exhausted kisses, touching lips and everywhere else, just to reacquaint.
He keeps his fingertips brushing against the Doctor’s arms and back and shoulders and neck long after the smaller man falls into a peaceful, exhausted rest. His fingertips are tracing patterns that in some language, must mean something like “I love you”.
He has never learned such a language, but if he could learn it here, against the Doctor’s skin, he might not mind trying to learn to speak it.
…
He keeps looking, hoping to find a letter that says thank you, or I am sorry, or gives some explanation. He finds no such thing and he does not need such a thing to know.
The Doctor has left, and he is not coming back.
He thinks it appropriate, really. First he had collapsed, body-under-mind. Strange how now he stands, collapsing heart under the muscles that still remember how the man had felt in his arms.
The Doctor will not return to this place, he knows it. But he leaves a small note on his bed, anyway. If not just because the physical act of doing so feels better than nothing. And his body needs something so much that he is willing – happy – to take it.
…
Doctor
I am not letting go.
The Master
Prompt : Coldness
It was his most attractive feature, at this juncture. A bit unfortunate; he had been a handsome man, before. Different bodies, bodies that had been his own; his appearance harsh and severe and angular, and all those things that a man of cold disposition would be like to own. He remembers it so well. He remembers what it felt like, what it was, being handsome.
They had extracted him from the TARDIS and he had come back in a body that was, for all intents and purposes, nearly the same as the American’s that he had possessed in the first place. The first day alive, free to roam, he had looked in a mirror and he had seen himself. He touched his hands to his cheeks and felt the roughness of wretched complexion and several-day’s-worth stubble. He had turned his face to watch the curve of his face and he had decided quite promptly that he was quite ugly.
It was also then that he decided the best aspect of him, now, was that his face had retained its coldness. He turned his eyes and he tried to find something in them. He felt everything – a great amount of uncertainty, a bit of fear, a lot of anger. He felt cold. He looked cold. He looked hard and he looked untouchable and he decided that if he had lost most of his dignity and his suavity along the way – at least he still had this.
A single glare could put people off.
That was the hope. That was the thought, at least.
…
“You look so angry, always.”
And the comment takes him by surprise. He turns his eyes to the Doctor and he says, quite assuredly, “I do not.”
“Well.” The Doctor looks away, and the curls of his hair shift across his cheeks. The shorter wisps touch his forehead and temple and block the Master’s sight of those pale blue eyes. “That is my best guess. You used to smile, Master.”
“I am not angry,” he repeats, and it is not exactly a lie. He is angry at those people outside but he has not seen them, lately. He got good at telling when they were lurking to watch or no, and they have not been around to observe for days. Even when he cannot see them, he can feel their minds, and he can feel there are no minds surrounding, here. Lately, he has not been angry.
It is stupid be to stuck here, but he has not been angry. Not recently, and certainly not at this man, for any particular reason.
The Doctor looks back though the corners of his eyes. He nods.
“If you say so, Master.”
Those eyes shift away and the Master waits a moment too long to scoff at him. He turns his eyes away and he stands, leaving the Doctor alone in the room.
He may not be angry, but he has no patience to deal with someone who cannot tell the difference between ice and fire.
…
The first time he holds the Doctor, the man surprises him.
“You are warm,” he tells him.
His brows furrow and he must confess, that in comparison to a frigid winter’s night, that is likely true.
With a start, the Master realizes that he can count the times on his hands, that he has felt physically cold. He looks down at the man snuggled in his arms for warmth.
His face does not change. His hands settle against the Doctor’s back and with the way his palms spread, he might just be pulling the smaller man closer than either have been in a long time, and safe like the Master is beginning to feel for the first time in a long, long while.
They had extracted him from the TARDIS and he had come back in a body that was, for all intents and purposes, nearly the same as the American’s that he had possessed in the first place. The first day alive, free to roam, he had looked in a mirror and he had seen himself. He touched his hands to his cheeks and felt the roughness of wretched complexion and several-day’s-worth stubble. He had turned his face to watch the curve of his face and he had decided quite promptly that he was quite ugly.
It was also then that he decided the best aspect of him, now, was that his face had retained its coldness. He turned his eyes and he tried to find something in them. He felt everything – a great amount of uncertainty, a bit of fear, a lot of anger. He felt cold. He looked cold. He looked hard and he looked untouchable and he decided that if he had lost most of his dignity and his suavity along the way – at least he still had this.
A single glare could put people off.
That was the hope. That was the thought, at least.
…
“You look so angry, always.”
And the comment takes him by surprise. He turns his eyes to the Doctor and he says, quite assuredly, “I do not.”
“Well.” The Doctor looks away, and the curls of his hair shift across his cheeks. The shorter wisps touch his forehead and temple and block the Master’s sight of those pale blue eyes. “That is my best guess. You used to smile, Master.”
“I am not angry,” he repeats, and it is not exactly a lie. He is angry at those people outside but he has not seen them, lately. He got good at telling when they were lurking to watch or no, and they have not been around to observe for days. Even when he cannot see them, he can feel their minds, and he can feel there are no minds surrounding, here. Lately, he has not been angry.
It is stupid be to stuck here, but he has not been angry. Not recently, and certainly not at this man, for any particular reason.
The Doctor looks back though the corners of his eyes. He nods.
“If you say so, Master.”
Those eyes shift away and the Master waits a moment too long to scoff at him. He turns his eyes away and he stands, leaving the Doctor alone in the room.
He may not be angry, but he has no patience to deal with someone who cannot tell the difference between ice and fire.
…
The first time he holds the Doctor, the man surprises him.
“You are warm,” he tells him.
His brows furrow and he must confess, that in comparison to a frigid winter’s night, that is likely true.
With a start, the Master realizes that he can count the times on his hands, that he has felt physically cold. He looks down at the man snuggled in his arms for warmth.
His face does not change. His hands settle against the Doctor’s back and with the way his palms spread, he might just be pulling the smaller man closer than either have been in a long time, and safe like the Master is beginning to feel for the first time in a long, long while.
Prompt : Intensive
Something about war had broken this man. He hates seeing it, sometimes – it is so strange to say that it was war that helped make him better. It is sad to say that he was a warrior going in, a softer man coming out.
This man had been so gentle, and he flinches to think of what must have happened to light-colored eyes and softly curled hair and the quiet disposition that belonged to them. He hates to think what must have happened, that somehow he became tall and hard, caught between smiles and anger, always.
Their every interaction is a battle between intensity and tenderness. Their arguments are sharp and angry and fierce, each desperately trying to prove the other wrong in the way that only warriors fight for their beliefs. There are times when they break each other and when everything rises to such rage that the very bonds between them could be breaking. And these times, their love really is like a war.
And then the other side of the battle comes in. Sometimes they come to each other at night to beg forgiveness more than apologize. They gently kiss each other’s cheeks, eyelids, foreheads, chins, lips, everything. Sometimes they are simply desperate to know that each other is alive, because it reminds them both so much of war. Some nights, they cry each other to sleep.
They make love and he is surprised, at first. He never did expect the Doctor to approach anything with such a violent vigor, and once or twice he has to raise his hands to stop this man pressing him – suffocating him – against the wall. Sometimes the pulse of hips is fast – intensive – and everything is over in an instant. Everything ends before it has even begun, and they are breathless and spent and reeling. It is the sort of sex of one who needs, quickly, who takes what he can get because if they have each other for an instant, it is better than never having had each other.
Sometimes the Master makes him go slow. Sometimes his touches simply pet across chest and he does not move quickly when he is begged to. Sometimes their love is painful and slow and it ends in crying.
Once, he would have called it torture. Once he would have reveled in making the Doctor suffer, like this. But now, he is simply trying to teach him.
He thinks if they can make love and make it unlike war, maybe he can save this man.
This man had been so gentle, and he flinches to think of what must have happened to light-colored eyes and softly curled hair and the quiet disposition that belonged to them. He hates to think what must have happened, that somehow he became tall and hard, caught between smiles and anger, always.
Their every interaction is a battle between intensity and tenderness. Their arguments are sharp and angry and fierce, each desperately trying to prove the other wrong in the way that only warriors fight for their beliefs. There are times when they break each other and when everything rises to such rage that the very bonds between them could be breaking. And these times, their love really is like a war.
And then the other side of the battle comes in. Sometimes they come to each other at night to beg forgiveness more than apologize. They gently kiss each other’s cheeks, eyelids, foreheads, chins, lips, everything. Sometimes they are simply desperate to know that each other is alive, because it reminds them both so much of war. Some nights, they cry each other to sleep.
They make love and he is surprised, at first. He never did expect the Doctor to approach anything with such a violent vigor, and once or twice he has to raise his hands to stop this man pressing him – suffocating him – against the wall. Sometimes the pulse of hips is fast – intensive – and everything is over in an instant. Everything ends before it has even begun, and they are breathless and spent and reeling. It is the sort of sex of one who needs, quickly, who takes what he can get because if they have each other for an instant, it is better than never having had each other.
Sometimes the Master makes him go slow. Sometimes his touches simply pet across chest and he does not move quickly when he is begged to. Sometimes their love is painful and slow and it ends in crying.
Once, he would have called it torture. Once he would have reveled in making the Doctor suffer, like this. But now, he is simply trying to teach him.
He thinks if they can make love and make it unlike war, maybe he can save this man.
Prompt : Swoon
He was not exactly one for romantics, not in the sense that most people thought of it, anyway.
The Master was sparing with his words and polite if not cold in his conduct. He had a tendency to hold his chin up with the arrogance typical of one trained to think they were better than others around them. He was fast to criticize and quicker to contradict, when he could. He was intelligent, cool, poised, and very, very dangerous.
These things by no means excluded romanticism. But nor did romantics fall under his highest and most obvious priorities.
However… what had started as bitterness and determination and a step forward to prove how strong he was, how nothing could break him, had started to turn. What he had called resentment was proving to be a bit more like longing, what he had deemed greed was turning into something a bit like envy. And what he had named his foe and his rival and maybe, possibly, an enemy… he was starting to hold in a more and more tender light.
Which absolutely contradicted his need to bloody kill this man.
He blamed him. The Master blamed the Doctor. It was hardly rocket science; there had been a trust, it had been betrayed, he had suffered for it and he had little inclination that the Doctor had paid equally for such a betrayal. So the next part was obvious.
Find this man. Take all that cool intellect and anger, and bitterness and destroy the bastard, if he could not make him suffer.
When he finds him at last, though, the Master is stunned to be reminded so slightly of himself. To see a man who holds himself with poise and with dignity, who has regenerated at least once now. He is tall. He is cool. He is arrogant and you have to look hard to see any semblance of the playful boy he had once been.
He starts plans. He starts to muck things up and he starts using his genius and his mind and his own strength and slowly, he begins to see if he cannot attract the Doctor’s attention. See if the man can still not help but fix things, save people, and the like.
Imagine his delight when the Doctor falls right into the plans and suddenly, they are aware of each other, again. Very suddenly, the Master is elated. Not fulfilled – not until this man is dead and his – but they have knowledge of each other and suddenly, he is not quite so jealous of the stars.
They are angry at each other. The Doctor stares down his nose at him and the Master approaches him with the cool politeness that he would a stranger. Nothing is like it was. He is not Koschei and the Doctor is not Theta and they are not the people they were, back then. Trust is broken.
But gallivanting off after one another has its own romanticism to it. Regardless that this tall arrogant cold man that the Master thinks looks so much like him was once a boy, once a young soul who had swooned in his arms to private romantic games – regardless of what was lost.
It is not his highest and most obvious priority. But something about it could maybe be romantic.
The Master was sparing with his words and polite if not cold in his conduct. He had a tendency to hold his chin up with the arrogance typical of one trained to think they were better than others around them. He was fast to criticize and quicker to contradict, when he could. He was intelligent, cool, poised, and very, very dangerous.
These things by no means excluded romanticism. But nor did romantics fall under his highest and most obvious priorities.
However… what had started as bitterness and determination and a step forward to prove how strong he was, how nothing could break him, had started to turn. What he had called resentment was proving to be a bit more like longing, what he had deemed greed was turning into something a bit like envy. And what he had named his foe and his rival and maybe, possibly, an enemy… he was starting to hold in a more and more tender light.
Which absolutely contradicted his need to bloody kill this man.
He blamed him. The Master blamed the Doctor. It was hardly rocket science; there had been a trust, it had been betrayed, he had suffered for it and he had little inclination that the Doctor had paid equally for such a betrayal. So the next part was obvious.
Find this man. Take all that cool intellect and anger, and bitterness and destroy the bastard, if he could not make him suffer.
When he finds him at last, though, the Master is stunned to be reminded so slightly of himself. To see a man who holds himself with poise and with dignity, who has regenerated at least once now. He is tall. He is cool. He is arrogant and you have to look hard to see any semblance of the playful boy he had once been.
He starts plans. He starts to muck things up and he starts using his genius and his mind and his own strength and slowly, he begins to see if he cannot attract the Doctor’s attention. See if the man can still not help but fix things, save people, and the like.
Imagine his delight when the Doctor falls right into the plans and suddenly, they are aware of each other, again. Very suddenly, the Master is elated. Not fulfilled – not until this man is dead and his – but they have knowledge of each other and suddenly, he is not quite so jealous of the stars.
They are angry at each other. The Doctor stares down his nose at him and the Master approaches him with the cool politeness that he would a stranger. Nothing is like it was. He is not Koschei and the Doctor is not Theta and they are not the people they were, back then. Trust is broken.
But gallivanting off after one another has its own romanticism to it. Regardless that this tall arrogant cold man that the Master thinks looks so much like him was once a boy, once a young soul who had swooned in his arms to private romantic games – regardless of what was lost.
It is not his highest and most obvious priority. But something about it could maybe be romantic.
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