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It's not easy to defend oneself against a rapier with a fruit knife, but the Doctor can try. He can't thrust, he can barely parry; but what he can do is to duck around the Master, run deeper into the TARDIS with the Master's laughter following at his heels. It's better to challenge him in engine rooms crowded with heavy machinery, the Doctor reasons, hoping the darkness and the heat will tire the Master out soon enough.

There's less room for complex manoeuvres in a room like this ("Should've known this rust-bucket still has parts that operate on steam!"), so the Master's flourishes become smaller and nastier, bringing him closer to the Doctor. A few quick slashes later, the Doctor's jacket and tie are in tatters, and the Doctor deflects another attack by throwing the remains of his jacket in the Master's face.

The Master smiles and uses the jacket to wipe sweat from his face. "Very amusing."

The Doctor leans against a pipe, catching his breath. "Tell me, does this actually help the drums?"

The Master tosses his own jacket aside, rolling up his shirtsleeves. "It passes the time." He flexes his knees and gets into position. "En garde."

The Doctor taps the point of the Master's blade with his fruit knife. "Why fencing in particular?" The Master lunges, and misses, the Doctor spinning around past him, mouth brushing the Master's ear. "Is it the exercise?"

The Master snarls, turns towards him and the Doctor dances back, the Master's footsteps mimicing his movements, steady and graceful on the oil-stained floor. "No?" the Doctor offers, weaving with his knife. "Is it the mathematics?"

The Master pretends to aim for the Doctor's left, catching the Doctor off-guard, nicking his right wrist instead. The Master lets out a huffing laugh and brings the tip of the blade to his mouth, as if to kiss it. "No." His tongue flicks out, licking off the small smear of artron-rich blood. "It's the inevitable victory."

The Doctor groans and rolls his eyes, bunching up his sleeve to staunch the bleeding. "You said that when we were sixteen."

The Master brings the point of his sword to the Doctor's throat and raises his eyebrows. "And I was right."

The Doctor steps back and shakes his head. He remembers--just as well as the Master does--how their fencing practice usually ended. He runs his knife down the blade of the Master's sword, lazily. "I seem to recall you rather enjoyed losing."

The Master tilts his head and glares. "Wrong." He lunges at the Doctor again, pinning him against a pillar, his sword across the Doctor's throat, his voice husky with exertion. "I want, as they say"--and he licks the Doctor's mouth--"satisfaction."

The Doctor smiles, their faces so close that his eyes can't focus. He tugs at the back of the Master's shirt with his knife, the fabric tearing easily. He dips the fingers of one hand underneath the Master's waistband, stroking his hip. "To the victor the spoils, and all that?"

The Master pulls back and narrows his eyes. "Very good."

The Doctor glances at the blade still pressed against his throat, then back at the Master. "Shouldn't we take this to the bedroom?"

The Master tuts, bringing his sword down, pausing to undo the Doctor's trousers with it. "Nonsense." He gives the Doctor's cock a condescending pat, then kicks at one of the oil cans littering the floor.

"Improvise, Doctor. It's what you're good at."


Sure, it's a bit uncomfortable, but the Doctor doesn't really care. Not when the Master's leaning against the wall in front of him, sweat running down the hollow of his back, moaning as the Doctor's cock sinks inside his arse. The Master rocks back hungrily, rotating his hips, his breath coming in short gasps. The Doctor knows the Master would rather die than beg for more, so he keeps his movements slow, teasing, sometimes even pulling all the way out, fucking the cleft of the Master's buttocks, and bends to lick at the sweat-drenched hair on the nape of the Master's neck. "I thought it was the winner who went on top."

The Master hisses, turning around, wrestling the Doctor down onto the floor, his grip slipping with the sweat and oil. He lets out a low, satisfied chuckle as he manages to sink back down onto the Doctor's cock, holding him in place, his hands splayed on the Doctor's chest. "Better."

The Doctor groans, bracing his thighs against the Master's back, pushing up as much as he can and the Master groans back and squeezes--fuck, it's brilliant, they should do this more often--

And then the Doctor's fruit knife is, inexplicably (or perhaps, all too predictably) in the Master's hand, and the Master has that look in his eyes.

"Oh, no. Come on. Can't we just--"

The Master grins, pressing the blade against the Doctor's lower lip. "I'm not going to kill you."

"That's what you always sa--fuck!" the Doctor pulls back with a cry as the Master cuts his lip, the artron energy glowing faintly in the dark. The Doctor stares up at him, confused, when the Master cuts his own lip in turn, squeezes his thighs around the Doctor and bends down to kiss him. The artron fizzes in the Doctor's mouth, making him shiver and twist under the Master's weight. When the Master slides his own blood-stained tongue into the Doctor's mouth the energy sparks, twines with the Master's, generating sharp heat, making the Doctor sob into the Master's mouth.

//It's been a long time since we did this, Doctor. I, however, haven't forgotten.//

//Fuck.// The Doctor's hips lift up, and he sucks the Master's tongue in deeper.

//Insightful as ever.// The Master swirls his tongue across the roof of the Doctor's mouth. //Do you want to come?//


The Master bites the Doctor's tongue, bites, and it's too much, he spills over--the pain, the artron rush searing through him, the Master moving on his cock, not stopping, riding it out. The Doctor breaks the kiss, shouting, fingers digging into the Master's thighs, coming and coming, feeling his own come drip down his balls and the vibrations of the Master's laughter, and he still can't stop moving, his whole body shuddering underneath the Master's.

When his head clears, the Master is tapping a rhythm against his chest, glancing pointedly at his own cock, then back at the Doctor.

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"Mm." The Doctor grins and wraps his hand around the Master's cock. "C'mere."

The Master moves to straddle the Doctor's shoulders and slaps his cock against the Doctor's chin. "Get to work."

The Doctor strokes the Master's buttocks, pressing soft kisses on the Master's balls, on his inner thighs. The Master groans, balancing himself on all fours. "Don't tell me you've forgotten how to suck cock as well--"

"All in good time." The Doctor sucks on two of his fingers, wetting them with saliva and still-sparkling blood, and pushes them inside the Master's arse. The Master yelps, nearly falling on his face. The Doctor chuckles, wrapping his lips around the Master's cock, lapping at the head with his tongue, artron sparking from his tongue into the slit, the Master keening and swearing, his arse clenching around the Doctor's fingers.


The Doctor pushes a third finger in, licking up and down the Master's cock. "Yeah?"

"Don't. Stop."

The Doctor gives the Master's cock a particularily wet, hard suck, groaning with satisfaction as it leaves his mouth with a pop. "This is why I suggested the bedroom, y'know. I could just lay you down and do this for hours--" he curls his fingers, pushing them in deeper.

"I said, don't stop--ah--" the Master rocks back on the Doctor's hand, his cock dripping and smearing the Doctor's lips "--don't you dare fucking stop--"

The Doctor takes the Master's cock in as deep as he can, sticking his tongue out to touch the Master's balls as he slips in a fourth finger and tugs. The Master yells at the top of his voice, snapping his hips, shoving his cock down the Doctor's throat as he comes. The Doctor keeps moving his fingers, even if he's gagging and choking on the Master's come, coaxing out every last drop.

He knows the Master hates cuddling, so he lays the Master down and licks his way up his body, nipping at the skin, loving the way the Master twitches and shivers despite himself after orgasm. This is also a good opportunity for him to seize the rapier and throw it out of arm's reach, then lay down over the Master before he can protest. The Master's glare tells him his expression must be approaching 100% Smug Twat, which is just perfect, considering.

"There. Satisfaction, as requested."

"Quite. I fucking hated that suit. Pinstripes are so 2006."