Title: What Rassilon Hath Joined Together...
Rating: NC-17. Really NC-17.
Summary: Utter crack. After Five Doctors, the Doctor fails to escape Responsibility and, to add insult to injury, is presented with a long-outstanding marriage contract.
A/N: edited request for best_enemies
Betas: deborah_judge kicked the crap out of it, gritsinmisery found me typos and a title.
He’d first picked the habit up when the Doctor had been trapped on Earth, but by now watching the Doctor from across the room at parties had become something of a tradition for him. Or a bad habit—the Master never could separate his routines from his vices.
The Master lingered in the corners like a sleek black spider, not because he wasn’t socially adept (up until bodies began to pile up, people tended to quite like the Master, and sometimes even then), but because he didn’t want to be seen. There the Doctor would stand, chatting lazily. He moved like he knew he was on display: relaxed, unguarded, perfectly coiffed— none of which he could afford to be during the Master’s usual encounters with him.
The Master’s fingers would curl hard around his wineglass as the Doctor threw his elegant throat back in a laugh. The Doctor would bare that vulnerable column to someone who wasn’t the Master, as if he had the right to offer himself like that to strangers. At parties the Master could watch him laugh like he used to, open and young again, but with someone who wasn’t him. The sound would be merry rather than limited to the derisive, short bursts the Doctor allowed himself in the course of their current misadventures, or the cruel, rolling, emasculating chuckles he gave in the Master’s nightmares. The voyeuristic pleasures of watching the Doctor stung him even as they enthralled him.
But acting the deranged stalker at his own engagement party was more than a little ridiculous. The Doctor, looking young and vulnerable in Gallifreyan marriage robes, ran a hand through the back of his tussled blonde hair and practically twitched his way out of a conversation with Chancellor Flavia. The Doctor managed to back up into one of the refreshment tables as she attempted to make him see the necessity of overhauling the planetary budget to mark his ascension, nearly upsetting the punch bowl. The Doctor looked as if he’d rather leap into the Death Zone again than contemplate tax reform. Snickering at his high dither, the Master took some pity on him and walked over, wrapping an arm around the Doctor’s waist.
“I believe my betrothed would rather tend to his responsibilities after all of this is settled,” the Master said politely enough, but with the sort of steeliness that Flavia couldn’t easily pass off as a mere suggestion. “I’d like a private word with him, if you don’t mind.”
Flavia raised an eyebrow at his curt, obvious dismissal, but something amused played at the right corner of her lip. Smothering a snicker she retreated over to where the other council members were pillaging the high towers of puff pastries, which some wit had dyed in the bright greens and violets of the happy couples’ Houses’ traditional colors. It looked like a mound of trampled Mardi Gras streamers had been clumped unappetizingly on a plate. The council members seemed to lack the Master’s aesthetic scruples. They noshed like the professional event-goers they were.
The Doctor didn’t remove himself from the circle of the Master’s arm, but turned to look up at him balefully.
“I can’t believe our parents did this to us. This must be some sort of mistake, or conspiracy, or elaborate, unfunny practical joke. My father might well have signed anything put in front of him, he was so absent-minded, but my mother would never have consented.” The Doctor ranted, but it was patently obvious he was exhausted. His bid to flee the justice of the Time Lords avec human companions had ended no more successfully than his second regeneration’s attempt at the same.
In one day the Doctor had lost his little pets to memory wipes, been installed as President (kicking, screaming and sulking all the way), and, to his horror, been presented with a marriage contract drawn up by the heads of House Oakden and House Lungburrow with some very definite words on the subject of his immediate matrimonial obligations. The demented Rassilon, when consulted, had decided the Master’s punishment was subordinate to the previous marriage agreement. He had also specified that an attempt to slink out of wedded bliss on the Master’s part would result in more physical tortures.
“My mother would have. And she probably talked yours into it. Or won a bet. Or they got drunk and thought it’d be hilarious. Those two should never have been allowed to befriend each other.” The Master pursed his lips sourly at the thought of his mother’s endless mascinations. There was no one more devious than That Woman. She’d probably planned this while he and Theta were in their cradles and cheerfully neglected to tell him for centuries, either because the contract had yet to come to maturity (it was one of the more complicated contracts either of them could remember ever having seen, and it came to fruition when both were ‘of age,’ here to be interpreted as well into their regenerative cycles) and she didn’t want to worry him unduly, or because he’d missed more Mother’s Days than either of them could count. Theirs was a family that believed in vengeance as a positive virtue.
“Well, your mother was a bit, er, calculating, at times, but my mother was—”
“A completely daft hippy, who would never have saddled her precious lambkin with such an elitist mark of the privileged position he was born into as an arranged marriage?” The Master raised an eyebrow at his fiancé.
“I was going to say ‘not very traditional.’’” The Doctor sulked. “And when I married it was a rather Schismatic Omegan Reform affair. We just said a few words in front of a justice and were done.”
“That was a short-term marriage. And she wasn’t from a high House,” the Master pointed out, “You’re from a Rassilonate line and Oakden is the oldest of the Capitoline Houses. We’re well into the realm of Rasilionate High Orthodoxy. Frankly I’m surprised they haven’t broken out—” he stopped, looking down at the Doctor’s half full glass. A deep purple liquid sloshed around the sides ominously when the Doctor fiddled with the stem. “Doctor—”
“Hm?” The Doctor looked up, blue eyes already a bit dilated. The Master cursed himself and the Doctor. He should have known there was something amiss with how comfortably the Doctor was accommodated in the Master’s hold. The Master was unsurprised to note that of its own volition his hand had migrated to the Doctor’s hip, and his thumb was tracing little circles in the fabric. He might as well be pausing intermittently to bellow ‘Mine!’ to everyone in the room. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to remove the offending hand.
“How many glasses of that have you had?” The Master tried to note things like the Doctor’s pulse, his rate of respiration, and not the way his small pink tongue darted out to lick his soft, plump lips as he pronounced “Four, I think? As you can imagine I’m not exactly at my most composed.” The Doctor’s wry, self-depreciating grin seemed to have too much teeth to it, and to last a second too long.
“Oh Doctor honestly, do you know nothing about these ceremonies? Xeno-sociology is your forte, but, presented with your own cultures’ marriage rituals, you’re completely at sea.” The Master hissed through his teeth, getting a bit panicked.
“I told you I didn’t! I’d appreciate it if you saw fit to tell me the specifics you’re apparently so enamored of rather than just enjoying my ignorance!” The Doctor glared at him. “An elder from my House gave me this and told me to drink up. She was very hospitable. She must’ve seen that I was nervous. It was terribly kind of her to offer me a little wine.”
“That’s not just wine, you innocent, trusting little idiot, you’re thoroughly drugged!” The Master reigned in his irritation and chuckled darkly. “They give that to you to make the evening go smoothly. It takes time to metabolize—you’ll make it through the ceremony presentably sober, and then you’ll be overwhelmed entirely by fermented Schlenk nectar.”
The Doctor, shocked, spit up the juice in his mouth in a fountain-like arc. Other guests turned to stare, bemused, as their new president, blushing profusely, fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed his mouth. The Doctor’s face was vermillion with embarrassment.
The Doctor turned to hiss quietly at his intended. “Is there nothing I can do to neutralize it?”
The Master snorted. “Thousands of generations of Time Lords have been drugged with that concoction, sometimes forcibly before the Grand Event, and you believe you’re the first to think of seeking an antidote? Typical. Of course there isn’t an antidote. That’s why they use it, Doctor. I thought if you were offered any then at least your suspicious nature would prevail and you’d decline. You might have gotten away with that, as President.”
“And why didn’t they give you any, hm?” The Doctor challenged.
“Well, darling,” the Master’s tone was mockingly doting, “Possibly they’re making some assumptions about which of us will have greater use for his coherence this evening.”
The Doctor was not impressed with the Master’s ‘all Gallifrey thinks I’m the top here’ theory. “You poured yours out in one of the potted plants, didn’t you?”
“The potting soil around the fichus proved remarkably porous, if you’d like to dispose of the rest of yours. Not that it’ll do you much good at this point. Four glasses?” The Master clucked disparagingly, giving the Doctor a long up and down look. “You’re going to effectively be a cat in heat.”
“Dammit. How do you know so much about Double-High-House-Permanent weddings, anyway?” The Doctor’s tone set new standards in ‘accusing.’
The Master gave him a certain closed, hard look and didn’t deign to answer. “With a wedding this important to the state, they’re probably going to use one of the older bridal suites as well.”
“And those are what, drafty?” The Doctor snapped.
The Master grinned, tight, ironic and ruthless. “Self-sealing until morning. And even then, they only let you free if you’ve produced sufficient Juno Waves. The locking mechanism will correspond to psychic energy of that frequency alone. Gallifrey used to take its dynastic marriages very seriously. There’s nothing anyone can do from the outside—on rare occasions people have died in the rooms out of sheer stubborn refusal to copulate. Their bodies remain there to this day, trapped together in death as they refused to be in life. Romantic, isn’t it? And incidentally, I’ve no idea how to replicate Juno Waves outside of actually consummating this.”
The Master was unusually truthful in his blunt assessment of their mutual predicament. Juno Waves were a psychic byproduct of two telepathic beings achieving a very specific sort of satisfaction. The spillover from that mutual psychic buildup could only be derived from acts that brought them both off together—parallel play wasn’t going to cut it. And with the amount of drugs coursing through the Doctor’s blood he was going to be gagging for something more interactive.
“Listen, I know you don’t want to be married anymore than I do. But when the time comes it seems I’ll be unable to be of much use.” The Doctor put a hand on the Master’s elbow. “I’ve no intention of dying in some far-fetched matchmaking scheme, and I can’t imagine that after all you’ve done to survive that you wish to die like this. There’s nothing for it. I know you loathe me, but we can make our escapes as soon as all the furor’s died down. Do what you must.”
The Doctor arrested the Master’s piercing eyes with his wide, resigned blue ones. “But please, try and be a little—” the Doctor swallowed, “I haven’t—in this body. Well. I haven’t. So if you could put what you feel for me aside and try and leave me capable of making a good escape, I would consider myself in your debt.”
The Master nodded. This, he supposed, was irony. He’d had self-indulgent youthful (and then not so youthful) fantasies of marrying the Doctor. The Doctor begging him to be gentle with him on their wedding night had indeed featured in some of his more ludicrous, egotistical flights of fancy. But in all of those the Doctor hadn’t been objecting to the premise proper. The Master could safely say he had never imagined anything like this.
The ceremony passed with surprising grace. There had been a moment, when the Doctor promised to deliver himself completely into the Master’s keeping, when the Doctor had looked up and met the Master’s eyes. Their gazes had connected just as the Doctor pronounced the Master’s full given name, and then his earned title. The Doctor had squeezed his hand—nervous, the Master supposed—and swallowed. The Master had wanted to laugh, because this was how he’d imagined this, when they were young men.
Gallifreyan marriage robes did not have ridiculous collars. They were made of something strong and silky. They left the neck bare, almost exposing the shoulders. Marriage was one of the few times it was acceptable to reveal the sensual, sensitive flesh in public—one was, after all, embarking on a profound intimacy, and such an exposure served to visually mark that. The Doctor’s robes were an inky black with a deep green trim just broad enough to invite a thumb to stoke down the stripe. The Master’s were identical, with an amethyst border. The Master cursed himself for an idiot for noting that the Doctor’s robes flattered him, like a bright jewel on dark matting.
The Master had always been attracted to the ritual of it all. The snob in him had liked the idea of such an elaborate confirmation of their status, or better yet their individual importance. The romantic had favored the permanence and security of the commitment. He’d even thought the deadly intensity of the bridal chambers poetic, as a youth.
He’d wanted to propose to Theta when they were twenty, but he had been dickering around with it, confused as to the proper order of things. Before he proposed he’d thought he should tell Theta he was in love with him, so it didn’t all come as a random shock. But perhaps before the confession of undying ardor they should start casually dating. Though how that would be different from spending all their time together, as they already did, was hard to say. Or should Koschei first profess a simple attraction? That seemed awfully ingenuine to Koschei. It really would have been more convenient if he could have gone through this in the normal steps, but Koschei had woken up one morning madly in love with his best friend, and he had to work with what he had.
Before he could properly plot out a course of action Theta had come back from a survey trip to the costal cities with a girlfriend who he insisted was ‘really quite a blast,’ who he was convinced Koschei ‘would just love.’ In one of Theta’s typical whirlwind decisions, he quickly became engaged to her, and by the way, would Koschei stand up with him? There was really no one he’d rather have there.
“But are you in love with her?” Koschei had sputtered, feeling like someone had taken the amalgamation of all of his nightmares and decided to bring them to life.
“Oh, she’s great!” Theta had smiled absently, “We get along really well. You know my House is one of those that requires production of an heir in the first century? You’re so lucky yours is relaxed on that, if nothing else. I figure I might as well get that out of the way, and she and I are companionable! I might grow to love her, you know.” Theta had given him a furtive look that, to the Master, seemed guilty. “In fact I hope to. It happens in a lot of cases. And it’s not like—” he’d cleared his throat. “Well. I can’t think of any reason why I shouldn’t fall in love with her.”
“I suppose you can’t.” Koschei had seethed, stalking off. When Theta brought his impending marriage up again, as tentatively as if he were waiting for Koschei to say some word of objection, Koschei’s words lodged in his throat. He couldn’t beg only to be denied in favor of some twit of a girl, couldn’t humiliate himself in the face of Theta’s apathy, his terrifying sympathy. Koschei refused to explain himself, and said not only was he not going to do service as Theta’s best friend, he was unwilling to even attend the ceremony. Theta was hurt, as much by Koschei’s failure to talk about it as by his absence. He seemed to have been hoping for some other reaction. What had Theta expected, Koschei had wondered with a sneer, his enthusiastic approval of this idiocy? Koschei told himself he stayed away because the idea of taking up with some random low-caste girl was foolish and far beneath Theta, but he knew it was because he couldn’t bear to watch.
He arrived back in the city the day after to find it done. Days dawned exactly as they had before, with no commiseration for the great upheaval in Koschei’s life. Theta was as attentive, as dear to him as ever—but it was false and poisoned now. Koschei couldn’t help being quietly furious, with the sort of seeping anger that fed on Theta’s continued kindness and grew ever more bitter for it. He turned all their conversations after Theta had dared go through with the scheme into sharp, brittle near-fights. And yet Koschei couldn’t bring himself to stay away. He seemed determined to cause them both the maximum amount of pain with the fewest possible words: a vicious equation he perfected as Theta’s marriage wore on.
He never even said more than a clipped sentence at a time to Theta’s bride in all the years of their union. He never once looked her in the eye for fear of giving away with a careless glance how deeply he envied her, how pathetically he wished for her place in her husband’s bed, for the easy, uncomplicated fondness between her and Theta, for the child that drew Theta even further away from him to be of his blood instead of hers. Koschei and Theta’s friendship hadn’t ever really recovered from Theta’s little jaunt into matrimony—they hadn’t been able to properly talk even after Theta and his wife had decided to take the out clause in their contract and part amiably after the successful rearing of a son.
The Master and the Doctor’s current predicament was decidedly not one of those casual arrangements intended to be temporary. This was marriage proper: pan-regenerational, steeped in ceremony, enduring to the point of being nigh impossible to legally dissolve. A priest in robes dripping with metallic embroidery asked the Master, centuries older than the first time he’d wanted this and, he sometimes thought, not terribly much wiser, if he was willing to undertake the responsibility of loving the Doctor completely and exclusively, with all his faults and advantages, until all their names and all their doings were obliterated from the memory of the universe. If he would be kept, captivated, by the Doctor in turn. As if I have a choice, the Master thought bitterly. He snapped out a terse agreement.
The drug kicked in with a vengeance halfway down the hall back to the bedroom, leaving the Doctor giggling and pawing at the Master, with their security escort tactfully ignoring their new President’s altered state.
The Doctor stumbled onto the ancient four-poster in the center of the room and the Master was prodded into the chamber after him. The door slid shut behind them, removing all chance for escape. Feverishly writhing, the Doctor began to claw off his robes, bucking his hips appetizingly in an effort to shimmy them off him. The Master stalked the perimeter of the bed like a predator, trailing his hands across the spindles. He took the oil placed prominently on the bedside table and played with the cap as he watched the Doctor finish stripping himself and lie there, chest heaving in the center of the blue comforter.
“Better,” the Doctor breathed, staring up at the draping white canopy. With sudden decision he turned his head towards the Master. His curtain of blonde hair almost obscured his black dilated eyes. “Please,” he whispered, thrusting up into the unfulfilling air, “Please, Master.”
The Master couldn’t help shivering a little. Over the phone, across the room, sneering, pleading, sweet tempered and foul—the Doctor saying his name always made him hard. And to have this needy tone, and the accompanying visual—almost without thinking about it, the Master stepped out of his clothing and took a bit of the oil onto his fingers. The Doctor squirmed further back on the bed as the Master kneeled between his legs.
The Master circled the Doctor’s anus very lightly with a greased fingertip. The Doctor tried to slide down and push him in.
“Ah ah ah,” the Master whispered, “You wanted gentle. You said so. I’m going to take you slowly.”
“Fuck me,” the Doctor pleaded, his voice a whine.
The Master swallowed. “In time,” he promised, slicking oil all over his hands, which he held above the Doctor’s exposed erection so that the excess dripped down to drizzle all over the hot flesh. He slid a finger into the Doctor and savored the Doctor’s harsh suck of breath, his hugely wide eyes. The Doctor hadn’t been joking or exaggerating his modesty. The Master himself was larger in his current body than he’d ever previously been. The Doctor was tight as a vice. This was going to be something of a challenge. He added another finger, letting the Doctor’s kittenish mewls encourage him.
It felt delightfully dirty, so satisfyingly wicked—debauching some golden fairy tale prince. There was something about this current Doctor’s body. This form was so young, so particularly enticing. Or perhaps the Master’s own level of lust this time around was at fault. For centuries he’d wanted the Doctor to sit at his right hand as they ruled the universe. Of course he’d construed them as lovers in all his plans. He’d envisioned the Doctor coming to him inexorably after the Master presented him with the universe as a gift. But now his visions of making the Doctor his co-conquerer didn’t seem to get them much past the bedroom of their citadel. Previously when he’d thought things like “I could fuck the Doctor for days running” it had been obvious hyperbole. Now if felt disturbingly like a simple statement of fact.
He added a third finger, massaging the Doctor open for himself gently. It was going to take a while to get the blond properly accustomed to such an intrusion, and the Master wanted to take all the time necessary. He was determined that something in this painful farce of a marriage ceremony would turn out as he’d wanted.
He entered the Doctor slowly. The Doctor’s eyes went so big and dark that only the faintest ring of blue was visible around the deep black wells of the pupils. The Doctor’s mouth opened, gaping, and his hands fluttered uselessly up to the Master’s shoulders. He shook slightly, unable to really move, impaled as he was on the Master’s hard, thick length. The Master grinned down at him and brushed the sweat soaked blonde strands away from his eyes.
“Ready?” He wanted to add some endearment, but held back in case the Doctor properly remembered this in the morning. The Doctor’s mouth moved in a meaningless shape, and the Master started to move, gliding in and out with long, dragging strokes that filled and emptied the Doctor completely. He slow fucked him for some minutes, relaxing the Doctor to the point that more than torturously restrained movement could be possible without hurting him. Drugged and unaccustomed to such an intrusion, the Doctor was incapable of doing much more than lying down and taking the Master.
When the Master was fully in again he ran a hand down the Doctor’s panting, shivering torso. “Pretty,” the Master commented, almost to himself, entranced by the gold-sheen of the Doctor’s sweat-shining skin against the peacock blue bed linens and captivated by the hard rose color of the Doctor’s lovely blood-flushed cock, with its bright, wet head. Unable to resist the Master reached a hand down and played with the length of him a bit, amused and turned on by the sharp series of little breaths he got in return. He drew himself out and the Doctor clutched at his neck in protest, dragging his nails lightly across the Master’s sensitive skin, clueless with lust.
Gasping under those sharp little nails, the Master gave in to his compulsion. He groaned and slammed himself in, chuckling as the Doctor shrieked and bit his lower lip hard. The Master leaned down close and whispered. “Do you want it like that?”
The Doctor moaned something, very far gone. “I need more than that,” the Master held absolutely still.
“Mmhm.” The Doctor nodded tentatively, face fever-bright.
“You’ll be sore,” the Master warned, “You’re going to feel it for days. You won’t be able to walk out of here and immediately forget this ever happened.”
“Give it to me,” the Doctor squirmed ever so slightly on the massive length in him, breath catching a bit as he moved, yet still begging for more of it, “Please, please, Master, just—”
The Master held back his own moan at all that lovely pleading and took him harder, making him gasp and then making him scream as the Doctor loosened to the point where the Master could really pound into him. He avoided anything truly damaging—as per his request, the Doctor would be able to escape just fine. A slight limp shouldn’t incapacitate him too terribly.
“Master,” the Doctor babbled as the Master lifted the Doctor’s hips up and angled his thrusts so as to grind him down into the mattress, “Mm, god, Master, Master, oooh—”
“That’s right,” the Master praised breathlessly, “Scream for me. Let me hear you. God I knew you’d be noisy in bed.” The Doctor came with a little yelp and seized up tight, his muscles spasming. The Master’s eyes nearly crossed and he choked out his orgasm with a groan. The Doctor fell asleep immediately, with only a contented little sigh to mark it. The Master couldn’t keep himself from finishing up with shallow, nabbing thrusts to empty himself completely into his insufferably good little husband.
He pulled out of the Doctor and went to the small washroom to clean himself up. He positioned himself in a chair by the hearth, hoping to avoid the temptation to indulge himself and molest the sleeping Doctor. They’d released more than enough energy to pacify the room, he was sure. Unfortunately the chair in question presented him with a tempting tableaux: the sprawled, unconscious Doctor, who in his sleep rolled over and snuggled into the covers, presenting the Master with a prime view of his ass. Steeling himself against the desire to slide into the other Time Lord and do it all over again, the Master shut his eyes against the sight and succumbed to fitful sleep.
It couldn’t have been more than a few hours when the Master’s eyes snapped open. He looked over and saw the Doctor, carefully easing himself into a standing position on the floor, clutching a post for support. The Master opened his mouth to greet him, not knowing what to say but feeling it was necessary to say something after that. The Doctor looked up at him, and the Master could see that he was still very heavily drugged, and quite possibly half asleep as well.
The Doctor walked over to him and slid onto the Master’s naked lap. He ground their sleep-refreshed erections together, bending in to catch the Master’s lips in an artless, open kiss. He drew back and bounced impatiently on the Master’s thighs. Confused but not stupid, the Master held his cock by the base with one hand and the Doctor immediately rose up and slid down it. Throwing back his head and making small wanton noises, the Doctor made good use of having been well stretched in their last encounter to fuck himself on the Master’s cock.
The Doctor panted and mewled like a little animal, bouncing fast, hissing his satisfaction when the Master lifted his hips to slam into the Doctor’s in a sloppy, inexact rhythm. The Doctor paused occasionally between bouts of thrusting and swiveled his hips in hard little figure eights that made him gasp and tighten almost cruelly around the Master’s cock. His expression grew petulant, as if he couldn’t quite get himself off on his favorite toy and found it very frustrating.
The Master gaped at him in open-mouthed wonderment. Not a seduced, ruined child in his lap, this was a bad fairy or an incubus: completely in control, preternaturally beautiful and very, very demanding. Almost hungry for him. Feeling something close to obedient, the Master closed a large, hot hand around the Doctor’s cock and squeezed. The Doctor moaned and worked himself on the hardness inside him and the fingers encircling him, pushing back and forward from one to the other as if trying to escape the torturously good sensation and seek more of it in the same movement.
The Master stroked the Doctor to a climax and the Doctor, mouth a great big O, bounced a bit harder as he rode it out, again giving the Master that wonderful squeeze. The Master pushed the Doctor’s hips down and thrust his own up and shouted the other man’s name in helpless supplication as he came inside him. Then the Doctor slumped forward exhausted. He nuzzled drowsily and the Master’s head moved up to accommodate him, until the Doctor settled with his lips tucked into the crook of the Master’s neck. Not a terribly large bundle, his weight still pinned the Master down into the chair. The Master stroked the line of his spine tenderly, exploring the smooth, perfect skin until he too succumbed to sleep.
In the pre-dawn morning the inconveniently sober Doctor paced the room nervously. His damaged, tattered clothing fluttered around him as he walked—he’d put it on out of pride, but at this point it made a better enticing decoration than an effective covering. The Master stared at him in poorly concealed fascination, sitting fully clothed on the edge of the bed, and willed his hardness to subside. Luckily the Doctor was too embarrassed and agitated to notice either the look of naked want or the physical reaction his swishing back and forth worrying his lip in pained confusion wrought in the Master.
Now that he’d actually had the Doctor he was seriously worried he might be addicted. He couldn’t concentrate on escaping for more than thirty seconds at a time. He couldn’t stop thinking of all the things he wanted to try with the Doctor. He wanted that lovely, verbal mouth wrapped around his cock. He wanted to fuck the Doctor while the other Time Lord slept. Or to take him over a table. Or they could try handcuffs. And there was shower sex—tub sex—waterfall sex—any combination of water and sex deserved individual attention! They could see how quickly they could get off. And then when they’d recovered they could see how slowly.
He could take some sort of potency drug and have the Doctor ride him for a solid hour. They could have every kind of telepathic sex he knew of and then use their legendary inventiveness to formulate whole new varieties. They could experiment with toys. Even things he wasn’t particularly interested in appealed to the Master as they never had before. The Master really didn’t want to make an escape, he wanted to find a bedroom that wasn’t part death trap to do this in until the lack of food drove them out to eat. And then afterwards they could retreat back and fuck some more. And he’d thought he’d been obsessed with the Doctor before!
“I think I can sneak through when the guard changes,” the Doctor was planning aloud. The Master’s hand shot out and caught his wrist.
“No.” He said simply.
“What?” the Doctor was befuddled. “What do you mean ‘no?’”
“You’re President of the entire planet. Here’s your chance to effect all those changes you’re always screaming need made for the sake of the galaxy. You’re a coward if you run from that because being tied down inconveniences you.” The Master blinked. He had no idea where in his lust-fogged brain that particular bit of logic had drifted in from, but he was willing to go with it.
The Doctor seemed actually to consider his words, but to be caught up on the personal aspect. “If I stay here we’ll stay married. And that’s hardly bearable, for either of us.” He tugged his arm out of the Master’s grasp. The Master, annoyed by his sneering dismissal and more than a little desperate not to lose him again, pushed his arm around the Doctor’s waist. He dragged the Doctor down into his lap, forced the Doctor to stop pacing and look at him, as he’d been unwilling or unable to do all morning.
“You’re staying.” He breathed, an inch away from the Doctor’s face. “You’re mine, and you’re staying.”
The Doctor’s eyes got tight. “I’m going to do whatever I want. I don’t know where you get off—”
“In you, lately,” the Master snapped, temper rising.
“—but I’m certainly neither yours nor anyone else’s, and in case you don’t remember—”
“Listen,” the Master hissed, pressing at the Doctor’s mind with an intensity of purpose that might have hypnotized a lesser creature just by sheer overflow of will, shaking the Doctor hard to emphasize his point, “You’re going to stay and be President and order all of Time Lord society to do your bidding. You’re going to be achingly good and responsible all day long. It’ll make you so very frustrated to be so terribly perfect all the time that you’ll rush home needing what only I can give you. Then you’re going to do my bidding—whatever I tell you to. I’ll even be being good too. I’ll help you with your arduous work. I’ll rejoin the Academy and accept my old Chair back. I’ll not so much as maim a single soul. And that good behavior is going to leave me deeply in need of release.”
The Doctor froze underneath his hands, and the Master swallowed, wanting to spew out all kinds of promises and declarations to keep the object of his obsessive devotion here with him, like this. Instead he tried a bribe, because he had more confidence that it might work. “Just think,” he traced the long line of the Doctor’s spine, “I’ll be here, trying to reign in my impulses for you. That means I won’t be out there in the cosmos, wreaking havoc. Can your over-sensitive conscience really afford for you not to try this?”
The Doctor looked floored, but quickly schooled his features. “Is this all some elaborate power play for you then?” He asked, seeming sad. “After all these centuries, do you care about me at all?”
The Master’s eyes flared wide before he drew a curtain over his emotion. He brushed a thumb over the Doctor’s chin. “Must you ask such stupid questions?” He tried to snap, but it came out soft, and he found himself rubbing the Doctor’s lip with that same treacherous thumb. The Doctor read more in his expression than the perversion of some barren desire to win. He half-understood, to his complete shock, what the Master wasn’t willing to admit to just yet.
The Doctor felt with dawning horror the irony of having tried to provoke jealousy in his best friend, with whom he’d been so besotted, so many centuries ago, by entering into a brief contract marriage. Perhaps his situation hadn’t been as hopeless as it had seemed to Theta then, through the eyes of youthful desperation. He might have tried to be more direct. Then again, given the look of things, they might both have been.
He’d never exactly stopped loving Koschei—it was more that he’d let that scar in his hearts be patched over by time, and sutured by the Master’s sins. Given time he could unravel his defenses and let himself be in love again. He could feel the echoes of it already, stirring in him, provoked by the Master’s touch, and by the other’s insistent unwillingness to lose him.
But the Doctor had learned whole lifetimes worth of lessons about the perils of trusting the Master. Hadn’t his very body, which the Master clung to now as if he were incapable of hurting it, been born out of his hatred for the Doctor? Unwilling to be taken in, to be devastated if this turned out to be just another ruse, almost unable to believe in the fantastic possibility of making a life together, the Doctor hid behind his last defense. “This is another of your tricks.” The Doctor’s jaw clenched and he retreated somewhere safe behind the hard shield of his distant, ice-blue eyes, somewhere the Master couldn’t reach him. “You despise me and I hate you—”
“Don’t you dare presume to tell me what I think!” The Master spat. Hurt by the apparent disgust the man still had for him, even after the best, most intimate sex of the Master’s life, the Master brought his hand down in three hard, percussive strikes on the Doctor’s ass. He didn’t really consider his action until his palm was ringing. The Doctor’s eyes flared wide open and he scooted away from the blows, right up into the Master’s torso, where the Master could feel the Doctor’s erection pressing up against him.
Suspiciously, the Master looked at the Doctor, who flushed, trembled lightly and said nothing. He raised a hand slowly. The Doctor closed his eyes and breathed. Didn’t offer a word of protest. The Master spanked him hard, and the Doctor let out a low moan from between his clenched teeth. The Doctor’s cock throbbed, twitching with the impact.
“Oooh, Doctor,” the Master breathed, “I had no idea.”
Touch had snapped the Doctor back to earth, and scramble for detachment as he might, he couldn’t find it in him to be remote in the face of this. The Master’s gaze was too telling, too full of blatant feeling to accommodate the Doctor’s distrust. The Doctor broke that searing look and turned his head back down. He offered himself up to the Master’s need, even as he admitted his own.
“Actually,” the Doctor wet his lips shyly, starring somewhere at the vicinity of the Master’s stomach, “Would you believe that until just this minute, neither did I?”
Wasting no further time on words, the Master scooted back on the bed and flipped the Doctor down, ass up and face in the comforter. He pulled the Doctor’s robes up and let a caressing hand explore the exposed flesh. The Doctor trembled under the Master’s touch, never knowing when the blow would fall, and positively squealed when a series of hard hits rained down on him. He squirmed into the Master’s lap, rubbing his hardness against the Master’s thigh.
“Are you going to leave me?” the Master asked, calmly.
“No,” the Doctor panted, “No.”
The Master aimed a blow where the flesh was starting to blossom red and wished for a paddle. Oh well—they could save that for later. “No what?”
And if I want you three times a night, you say?” He waited patiently, running a gentle, flat palm all over the Doctor’s ass.
“Yes, please, Master.” The Doctor whimpered into the duvet.
“Good boy,” the Master patted the red and white skin fondly, giving it one more smack for emphasis. This Doctor was so fragile—he burst blood vessels at the slightest abuse. The Master wasn’t ever going to be able to look at the cream and crimson cricket outfit again without finding it indecently suggestive of all the warm flesh underneath—all his for the taking. “Whenever and wherever I want it. Because you’re mine.”
The Doctor turned his head over his shoulder to face the Master, somehow managing to look serious sprawled naked in his lap. “I am.” He said, tone solemn. The Doctor managed a slight, serene smile.
A part of the Master wished he didn’t need the Doctor so much, that he had more leverage. That his body didn’t demand the Doctor’s with such insistence, and that he could be master of his own fate and the Doctor both. Trapped on Gallifrey for the foreseeable future as a model citizen—he couldn’t see the opportunity afforded them by this marriage as an uncomplicated boon.
The Master ran a meditative hand over the Doctor’s back, and his lover arched under his touch with exquisite obedience. He needed there to be more to the Doctor’s submission to him than martyrdom, and here it was: the Doctor’s reciprocal desire, spelled out in rising blood, bated breath, and gorgeous sound. Perhaps, the Master thought, this was worth living in a fixed point in spacetime as the Doctor’s titular political subordinate, and worth re-accepting a position he’d been disillusioned with full lifetimes ago. As long as the Doctor belonged to him. What wasn’t he willing to do for that?
“Hands and knees,” the Master commanded decisively with a hard swallow.
“I’m still sore from last time!” the Doctor protested even as he complied.
“Good,” the Master grinned lasciviously, daring to kiss the nape of the Doctor’s neck, and then, unable to help himself, turning it into a long lick of the line of the Doctor’s shoulder blade. “I want you to always be still sore from last time.”
But because he didn’t want the Doctor to be too sore, he smeared an obscene amount of oil into his palms, letting it drip all over the Doctor’s skin, and preparing him with it. He relished the broken little noises and breathy encouragements of the fully aware Doctor as he worked, thoroughly charmed by the Doctor’s acquiescence.
“What am I?” The Master panted as he slid in, expecting ‘my Master’ as a response.
“Husband,” the Doctor gasped, thrusting back onto the Master’s cock, “You’re—you’re my husband. I—I’m yours. Oh god. That feels—you’re so—”
The Master, eyes wide, was slain by the entirely unexpected eroticism of it. “Say it again,” he muttered, driving into the Doctor.
“Husband,” the Doctor gasped appreciatively, “My husband.”
“And the rest,” the Master growled, loving it.
“I’m yours. I’m entirely, completely yours, Master. I’m staying, I’m not going anywhere.”
“I think,” the Master changed their angle and laughed when the Doctor made one of the wild, demonstrative noises the Master liked so much, “I’m going to love marriage.”