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There Lingers Still

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"Rory!" the Doctor shouts, bursting out of the stag cake. "I have to tell you about-- oh good heavens."

"Doctor?" the Master asks.

"Who?" the Master's human friends all ask. Also, "What the hell?" and "I thought we ordered a girl?" and "Did we get Lucy's cake or something?"

"Master?" the Doctor repeats, above the rising din. "What? What?"

"Have you regenerated?" the Master asks. "Have you regenerated from cake?"

"Yes," the Doctor admits, "And no, but I mean-- wait, why would you even ask that? You can actually die from cake?"

"It's been known to happen," the Master admits, a trifle defensively. "But really, Doctor, what are you doing in my cake? I didn't expect your arrival for-- months, really."

"Yeah, I shouldn't be here. The old girl must have skipped a time track, funny thing, probably couldn't've gotten her to do it on purpose for all the tea in china. What time is it? Your hair's still-- I mean, you're still, you're Harry. Harold. Harold Saxon, that's so cute, did I ever tell you that? Harold Saxon. But no, I really shouldn't be here." The Doctor takes a deep breath, ruffles his hair, peers at the cake surrounding his little cardboard hiding tube. "How do I get out?"

"How did you even get in?" the Master asks.

"Um, there were these chairs? And some wire, I rigged up a quick teleport and it was a bit of a squeeze. These things happen. Unfortunate... things." The Doctor gingerly tests the cake, hoping it will have turned into one of those cheap cardboard cakes that he can just smash his way through, but no, it's still a real cake, an enormous extravagant palace of a cake, done up in tiers upon tiers of blue icing roses and ribbons and suchlike. The writing on it-- which he probably should have read beforehand-- says CONGRATULATIONS HARRY in edible ball bearings, which is really just completely unfair. The Doctor's never had anyone wish him congratulations in edible ball bearings, no matter how hard he's hinted.

"Are you naked?" The Master asks. He's got a nasty little grin on his face.

"I said it was a bit of a squeeze," the Doctor snaps. "I admit that I might not have been planning strictly long-term, but I was in a hurry. Now, are you going to try to kill me if I destroy your stupid cake or not?"

"Nope," the Master says, gesturing grandly. "Go right ahead."

"You're too kind," the Doctor says, mustering up every bit of dignity this gangly, floppy, much-too-young and much-too-naked body of his possesses, and flounders majestically out of the cake. Icing goes everywhere, spattering across the floor, squishing between his, well, his appendages, smearing up his arms and chest. When he finally makes it to the ground, the entire stag party applauds. The Master's dirty grin has spread into a gale-force filthy leer.

"Oh, thank you," the Doctor says. He tries to wipe an icing rose off his chest, and only succeeds in smearing it around.

The Master catches his wrist, and the Doctor freezes. He hadn't realized the Master had gotten so... close.

Their eyes lock.

"Everyone out," the Master says, and snaps his fingers. The humans snigger and cat-call and elbow at each other as they slouch off, everyone clearly writing the whole situation off as someone else's little joke, and the last one out of the room swings the door closed behind him, and then it is very quiet, just the two of them.

"You're covered in icing," the Master says. He's so very, very close. His leer hasn't abated one bit.

"I noticed," the Doctor manages, backing nervously away. "What with... being covered in icing. Yes. Sorry."

"Oh, it's no trouble at all," the Master remarks, and then licks the pad of the Doctor's thumb. The Doctor's only had this thumb for a few weeks now and the way heat pours through his system under the wet slide of the Master's tongue against the flesh of it simply isn't fair.

His back hits the door as his knees go wobbly. The Master chuckles, and pins him up against the wood with his hips, grabbing his other wrist up when he tries to catch the doorknob. He's still a good deal shorter than the Doctor and this only serves to his advantage when he laves his way along the curve of the Doctor's neck, lingering, with horrible tenderness, along the racing pulse of his throat.

"I think I quite like icing," he rumbles, grinding his trousers against the Doctor's bare, somewhat sticky flesh.

"I-- oh," the Doctor gasps, melting a bit, "Well, then, if you-- if you must--"

The Master had never touched him, not like this, not once, all those aching lonely awful days aboard the Valiant. Not once. It was as if-- as if he knew. Did he? Time is in flux, true, and is never more flux-y than around the last two Time Lords, one of whom possesses a particularly indulgent TARDIS and the other-- at certain points-- a particularly ingenious paradox device. He could right now be the reason why he'd never been-- why they'd never-- but then again, this could all be so many shadows against the wall.

The Master smells of humans, and clean linen and expensive cologne and underneath all that-- and the sharp cloying scent of cake and icing-- he smells of himself, of them. He's right, in a way no language has a word for anymore, and the way he breathes the Doctor in between those maddening slow licks along his chest, down his stomach, can only mean that he feels it too, that awful relentless longing for the things they can never-- can't ever, ever have--

The Master reads the thought through his skin, and pulls back to grin wickedly. "Doctor, I do believe you've been pining. How perfectly delightful!"

"Please," he begs, breaking, "Master, please--"

The Master huffs out a laugh against the Doctor's flushed erection, and then gives it an obscenely chaste, mocking little nuzzle that has the Doctor's eyes rolling back in his head.

"How long's it been, Doctor?" the Master teases him, letting go of the Doctor's wrists to dance his fingers, featherlight, across his thighs, his balls, "Since you let anyone touch you? Since you let anyone have you?"

"A while." The Doctor gasps, squirms. "A long while."

"Since me?"

He fists his own fingers through the Master's short, dark hair. "A very long while."

The Master gives a delighted shiver, his eyes positively smoldering, and the Doctor looks down at him, kneeling neatly at his feet, and can only think of fire.

"Oh," the Master says, "Oh, my dearest Doctor, you're so beautiful."

He brings his hands up to lace around the Doctor's cock and whatever clever response the Doctor might have made is neatly strangled out of him. There's frosting everywhere still, smooth and a little sticky against his skin and he bucks, shamelessly, up into the Master's attention.

"Be mine, Doctor, really," the Master says softly, coaxing at him, pressing, smooth and a little sticky, into his mind, "The whole universe, all of it, I'm going to have it and I'd share it, with you, you know I would, I would love to. Even after everything you've done to me I'd still have you, we could still be--"

"I can't," the Doctor says, and shuts him sharply out of his mind. "You can't ask me that, you know you can't. Please don't ask me that."

"Why not?" The Master demands. His fingers turn cruel against the Doctor's cock, pressing too tightly. "If at first you don't succeed--"

"Stop it!" the Doctor warns, trying to twist free, "You know I can't-- we can't--"

"No," the Master growls, grabbing his thighs, holding him still, "no, you don't get to tell me what I can't do--"  and he swallows down the Doctor's cock in one quick, furious move. The Doctor yelps and barely braces himself against the door in time before he is flooded with sensation, with heat and wetness and a hint of teeth and the smell of cake and the all-consuming ball of madness that is the Master, using pleasure like he uses everything else: like a weapon, and a deadly one.

His arse hits the floor, and the Master's hands dig bruises into his waist, and he moans like the universe's cheapest whore when the Doctor gets a really good grip on his hair to buck up into his throat and he's lost, he's completely lost, because he wants this, he's always wanted this, always wanted almost enough to drown out how much he knows he shouldn't--

"Master," he's babbling, insanely, "Master, Master, oh, please, Master--"

"Be mine," the Master growls, disengaging his mouth for the briefest of moments, "be mine, forever."

"Yes," the Doctor gasps, desperately thrusting up into nothing, "Yes, yes, I will, Master, I will--"

The Master huffs out a low, animal noise of victory and takes him in his mouth again, and it is a painfully short time before he's wringing a climax out of the Doctor, swallowing down his seed with greedy, triumphant lust. When he's coaxed every last bit aftershock out that the Doctor can stand, when the Doctor is hoarse and wordless and spent on the floor, twitching dazedly, only then does he raise his head again and look the Doctor in the face.

"I win," the Master gloats, all teeth and fire. "You're mine, Doctor, always and forever you are mine."

The Doctor presses his fingers against the Master's smile, as if he could keep it, and gives him one in return.

"You win," he says. He gathers himself up, reaches behind him.

The door clicks open like a gunshot.

"No," the Master says, his eyes going wide. His hand reaches out for Doctor--

--and the Doctor rolls to his feet, as smoothly as if he'd never been touched, and runs.