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Precious and Few Are the Moments That You and Your Own Worst Enemy Share

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It’s only natural that they would lie together, all wrapped up in one another, the Master’s arms around Missy, Missy’s leg across the Master’s hips.

They’re not sleeping, but they rest like this, quiet, full of themselves, whispering to each other of things only they can understand. They’ve appropriated a room in the rustic farmhouse, to which they’ve dragged a pallet and made a sort of nest. Their jackets are draped neatly on the backs of side-by-side chairs.

He isn't allowed to touch himself when they're like this, but he does it anyway. She rolls her eyes with an exasperated huff of an exhalation, turns away or gets up and leaves the bed altogether, goes to stand by the window, the line described by her spine and neck just one more wear-softened curve against the long rises and falls of the hills in the distance.

She paces sometimes, moving around the room. It’s his own old restlessness infecting her, or the memory of it. She steps and stops, steps and stops. The rhythm lulls him until he works himself into a stupor over the familiarity of it, languid strokes in a loose, drowsy fist.

He drifts between the contentment of a far distant past and the strange happiness of the present. His eyes focus on Missy, on the figure she cuts; her skirts, like robes, fill the doorway. The Doctor’s on the other side of the open door, so close to her she has to tilt her head to talk to him.

She isn’t letting him in, but then...she isn’t exactly sending him away, either. They’ve pitched their voices so that the Master can’t hear what they’re saying, and neither can he tell whether her hands on his chest are resting there or there to preserve the distance between them. She brushes his left flank, and he flinches, his face fighting with itself. They exchange words. The Doctor grabs Missy’s upper arm; Missy tenses, her body an arch; he hesitates, relaxes his fingers, drops them to her elbow, her waist, her hip.

The Master, in the corner, grips himself harder, fully awake now.

Missy tugs at a lapel like she’s trying to smooth the permanent rumples out of the shirt. She reaches up to touch the Doctor’s jaw, tentative, and the Master swallows the dry sharpness suddenly in his throat. Her caress comes to rest instead on the border between collar and neck, her thumb on his Adam’s apple above the button, where it is narrowly exposed. The Master can just discern the dark ovals of Missy’s nails like blemishes against the Doctor’s skin.

Scratch him!, he thinks, but she doesn’t.

Instead, the Doctor leans down, bowing to rest his head on hers. Both her hands seem to fly free for a moment, birds startled before settling again. They land on his, hanging lax by his side. The Master can no longer see their faces, but he sees the Doctor shudder…

...which is very good…

...he squeezes the head of his cock, biting back the sound that would remind them of his presence.

Missy makes enough space to take the Doctor’s injured hand in her hands. She turns it over and traces a line down the centre of the palm to the vulnerable underside of his wrist. She works the bandage until it comes undone, unwrapping, unwinding.

The Master wraps his fingers around his shaft, underhand, rubbing himself in an answering, accelerating vibrato. Matching himself to the Doctor’s agitated breath.

He could heal his own wounds, the Master knows, with a mere thought. The bandage is there to remind him not to, to remind him that to stop the hurt would be to release something worse that he doesn’t want, not yet. Missy drops the end of the bandage and touches his palm--now bare--again.

The something sparks, instantly alight. It glimmers between them, reassuring and menacing.

The noise that erupts, the choir of sirens, comes from deep inside all three of them, heard with something other than the ear. It seems, when Missy and the Master both cry the Doctor’s name, sudden with involuntary feeling, that there is a third voice calling it, calling to him. Calling for everyone.

The Master groans with abandon, all the better to enjoy the flood of energy and endorphins, the thrumming brightness between the Doctor and his future self, too far away for him to touch and too reactive for them to accept, the live wire they’re holding and trying to forget. But it doesn’t matter anymore, because he pumps hard, staring at them, and as they turn belatedly to him he’s already getting off, aiming the mess onto Missy’s side of the bed, laughing. He doesn’t know which he’s more pleased at: Missy’s exclamation, or the Doctor’s.

He’s always trying to find his way into their cozy tête-à-tête.

The Master catches him lingering in the hallway, spying. He happens to have Missy backed up against a post at the time; she can’t see that the Doctor is there, and the Master takes care not to give him away. He’s toying with the buttons on her shirt, dipping his head to mouth the spot where her jaw meets her neck, and the other one where her ear, delicate shell, as they say, meets the dark mass of her hair.

He’s yet to coax a kiss out of her--he thinks that if he tried, she would probably bite him.

He reaches into her shirt to trace his thumb over the top of her corset. This will be his body, one day, his breasts tucked carefully into that rigid infrastructure. He wishes he could weigh one in his hand. He wants to make a nipple harden to his touch and know that one day he’ll feel it, his skin tight with memory and anticipation.

He wonders if the Doctor has ever touched her like this. Does this Doctor, with his cuffs over his knuckles, who comes apart when she rests her fingers in his palm, have it in him to touch her, skin to skin, at all? He wants to know. He needs to know. Would he taste him on her and in her, if he could kiss her, now, while he’s right over there, unwilling to interfere?

Seventy years isn’t an eternity, but it’s nothing to scoff at. Surely, in that time, they must have. Surely, incarceration with the Doctor must come with that consolation. Surely.

Missy pets the hair at the nape of his neck, smoothing the short strands between her fingers. He imagines as she cups his head and he slides his mouth to the places his hands have just been that she is recovering her memories as he’s making them, one hot sharp point of connection at a time. He’s trying to remind her of who she is, because she seems to have forgotten.

“Missy,” he says, formal and courteous and refusing to be anything but in command. “May I?”

Her acquiescence takes the form of a cooperative leg up on a desk, kitten heel wedged against its wooden lip. He ruches up the layers of her skirts, pushing them back to reveal the leather-bound length of her calf. Above the boot, her thigh is pale and taut.

The rustle by the door is the Doctor leaning against the jamb, peering around the corner. Or maybe it’s the sound of his fingers, wrapped around the wood, crushing the dry old fibres. The Master takes a moment to smile up at the Doctor over Missy’s body, beatific and cheesy. The Doctor starts, always caught by surprise, but the Master cocks his head at him, while Missy, who has so far been leaning back against the post looks down with a very impatient noise indeed.

So the Doctor stays hidden where he is and the Master bends to his task, his tongue having no purpose higher than the pleasure of his own self, however questionable her choices of late. He licks her until she’s shaking, banking every dip and circle. Her lower body pulses, thrusting, and he struggles to stay with her, his mouth now meeting empty air, now making contact again. So he reaches for her arse, to hold her close to him, and he wonders, he wonders--

He gets to his feet and puts himself inside her. She’s wet, and it’s simple, as though he’s always been there, which in a way, he supposes, he has. She starts to roll her hips, but he grinds her against the post, his hands on her shoulders.

“What does it feel like?”

He trails his mind through the most outer layers of hers, a breath against eyelashes, a hand just above the skin. Its currents push back, creating eddies.

The post, narrower than Missy’s back, digs abrupt edges into the hollows under the ledges of her scapulae. Arousal is arousal, but everything is so intimate for her, everything is gathered down to a point and also so deep as to be the inside of her entire body, everywhere at once.

“Is it like this, with him?,” he wants to know.

Beyond Missy’s shoulder, the Doctor inhales--the Master can see his chest catching, his mouth open.

And there is so much reluctance in Missy’s head, he skims over the surface of it, staying out of the places she doesn’t want him; sex with herself is fun, risqué, but mind-touch is not only dangerous, it’s profane.

(Which is why the Master desires it.)

He goes still while he listens for her answer, to keep himself in check.

“No,” she says into the waiting, the abated breath. “Yes. Somewhat, not entirely. You’ll see, one day.”

“I’d like to know now. If you won’t show me, then tell me.” He starts to move again, unhurried and thoughtful, his eyes on the Doctor’s while Missy’s flutter shut.

Two Time Lords stare across the room, neither breaking eye contact, the Time Lady between them an extension of one of them, to them.

“Oh...” Missy rocks against the Master, flexing her knee as though she’s pushing herself on a swing. “I know him, but I am you. Can you imagine being this polite, with him?”

The Master laughs. “I’d strangle him first. I’d chain him to a rock by the wrist and let him wither away in the sun, pining for me instead. He would accuse me of coming down with Tarkelian flu, I think.”

Missy frees her hands to run them down his lapels, just as she did the Doctor’s, but pulling them out of shape for the leverage. “The last time, I made him crawl; and--he made me beg. We broke three chairs, and I could hear him afterwards, echoing in my mind, every time he forgot not to think about me. It’s like it always was.”

He lets up on her, giving her room to slide along his cock. He imagines the Doctor on his hands and knees. He wants to picture him with Missy, kissing her skin like a supplicant, mouth reverent and eyes downcast. He wants to feel the Doctor inside her, and he wants the Doctor to know he’s feeling him inside her, remembering him with her; and now he thrusts, watching the Doctor watch him, watch them; as Missy tightens around him, her mind is still around his.

“But he doesn't, he can’’s like it always was. Like it never was. I would never fight you, dearest.”

When she comes she pulls him in to it (at least and at last!), to the long crest and continuance, bursting around and around and, again, around him, more colour and more, more of himself in her than he can hold. He clings to his own control because he isn’t ready, not yet. He grabs her by the waist, staggering through the bright lightheadedness, and she allows him to spin her around, like they’re on that roof, dancing under the drifting blossoms of seasonless ash. She braces her hands on the post to hold herself up at an angle, her skirts cascading down over her knees even as he pushes them out of his way.

He’s just deep enough when she opens her eyes to see the Doctor, a double exposure in their collective vision. And to feel the shock go through her like a cresting wave at the realisation that he’s been there all along.

The Doctor’s seen all of it, and he’s heard all of it, and although the Master will have to wait to find out what she means by it, the Doctor must know. The Master can see it on his face. The shockwave breaks on the reef of the Doctor’s expression, and undercurrents rush out and away, through them, imperative, irresistible, inexorable.

And now the Master comes like he’s been commanded to, like he hasn’t been waiting all along for this perfect moment. He has one hand on the coattails of Missy’s physical pleasure and another on the fascinating abashed resistance flushing through both of them. It swallows him, but he’s neat about it, and thorough, juddering through the last of it and letting the connection between them recede before he pulls out.

He leans in to murmur into Missy’s ear as she straightens and reaches up to fluff her hair and he tucks himself away.

“Was it good for me?”

He can’t help himself. He shoots a glance at the Doctor, showing off. The Doctor scowls. The Master can feel Missy straining towards him like a dog and restraining herself at the same time. It makes him wonder, again, what has transpired between these future versions to do such a thing to her. What has happened to create this inconceivable, unmistakeable self?

She might set herself loose, still. He rests his hand on her shoulder. She requires a firm signal. The Doctor drops his gaze; he turns his face from them. The Master kisses the lobe of Missy’s ear. The Doctor walks away, now, while they let him.