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best_enemiesAnother spawn of the Anon meme!
Title: Projection
Rating: R
Pairing: Delgado!Master/Three, one-sided
Length: 880 words
Note: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
x_los for betaing this!
Summary: [set between "Frontier in Space" and "The Deadly Assassin"] This preoccupation with death is becoming a little unhealthy.
In the bright light of day, the Master's eyesight is dimming. All flavours are blurring into one grey, ashen taste, and time's sound, the river eternal, is thundering deafeningly as if it has reached one final waterfall. But in his mind everything is still as it should be: ordered, focused and clear.
He has tested his blood for all manners of poison, radiation and infections, but his body is uncontaminated, and he would certainly notice a psychic intrusion. Besides, Time Lords have a formidable immune system that can deal with almost anything short of fatal wounds and old age, so the Master isn't too worried. Probably it's just one of those psychophysiologic side-effects of being in his final regeneration. The thirteenth is notoriously unstable. He'll overcome this inconvenient illness eventually and then he'll return to more fruitful pursuits, but while he recovers, he sees little point in not indulging himself with a pleasant fantasy once in a while.
Usually he starts with a visual. Simple key images, no need to be elaborate in the privacy of his mind. The Doctor on his knees, in various states of mind - defiant, spitting accusations, or with a sly, haughty smile. Sometimes just desperate and dishevelled, begging the Master for his life, for a touch, for a kiss, for forgiveness, for a mere glance in his direction. Begging, like the Master did to save his own life from Chronos. Begging the Doctor not to let him die. No. It should be the Doctor who's on his knees and begging. The Master imagines him bound. Gagged perhaps, or blindfolded. "May I?" he asks the Doctor, with absolute power over him, and begins to undress him.
A taste of the Doctor's skin. A taste of wine and smoke, savoured while he contemplates the Doctor, who is unaware that he's being watched, from across a roomful of people. A taste of fear that he kisses from the Doctor's trembling lips before untying him – the taste of the Doctor's fear is a memory, and not a comfortable one. It makes his stomach clench with his own remembered terror, which tastes far too similar. No. He concentrates on better, finer things, dreams instead of memories. The taste of laughter, shared in a kiss. He leans in for more, and the Doctor withdraws. Laughs at him, hard, cold. "You don't honestly think I ever would, do you?"
He strikes the Doctor with the back of his hand and feels himself slipping. No, that wasn't what he came for. He wants. This is his. He sees blood trickling from the Doctor's lower lip, grey eyes widening in surprise. Blood blossoms on the Doctor's shirt, a gunshot wound. He falls to the ground.
Furiously, the Master rips at the mental image, tears it apart, refuses to flee it. Remoulds it into something else. The Doctor, sprawled on a cot in a barren cell, staring insolently up at him. His face is bruised where someone hit him, an artful, decorative sort of bruise. He looks bored, then hopeful when the Master unlocks the cell. The Doctor jumps almost eagerly at the command to follow him.
The Doctor on a bed. Tied to a bed. Naked, not a drop of blood on him. There's sweat on his skin, though, a sheen of it in the low light, and he keeps squirming. Let it be fear or desire or both, since the two so rarely come separately. "Touch me," the Doctor says. His voice breaks on the plea. No, it would be an order. A husky dare. "Come on, Master, join me."
Emboldened, the Master lets himself feel the details, the texture of the sheets as he settles on the bed, the scent of the Doctor's arousal, so similar to the Master's own. He touches soft curls, lets a fingertip brush over the ridge of teeth in a parted mouth, pins the bound man down with his weight, kisses the Doctor's neck. No, the Doctor's skin shouldn't be so cold. Warmer. A smell like incense, almost charred, tickles his nose. He sucks at the sensitive skin of the Doctor's neck, but the kiss tastes of burnt meat. The bruise he leaves behind turns black. The blackness spreads. He covers it with his hands, his hands on the Doctor's throat, squeezing, and suddenly it is the Master who is pressed into the sheets and bound, and the Doctor above him, inside him, strangling him firmly and expertly, fucking him with hard strokes, at last kissing the Master's cold, black lips.
The Master opens his eyes, trembling, but not from his release. The darkness around him is hazy, greying at the edges. Even the night is losing its colours. His skin feels too tight, his bones ache as if they're turning to stones then dust.
He wipes the sweat from his forehead, chuckling weakly. This preoccupation with death is becoming a little unhealthy. When this illness is over, he really has to go and find out if the Doctor regenerated into a new body. Ever since the Master shot him, he can't help wondering. But there's no need to worry about the Doctor, because unlike the Master, he's nowhere near the final of his regenerations. The Doctor still has lives to give before he dies.
Title: Projection
Rating: R
Pairing: Delgado!Master/Three, one-sided
Length: 880 words
Note: Thanks to
x_los for betaing this!Summary: [set between "Frontier in Space" and "The Deadly Assassin"] This preoccupation with death is becoming a little unhealthy.
In the bright light of day, the Master's eyesight is dimming. All flavours are blurring into one grey, ashen taste, and time's sound, the river eternal, is thundering deafeningly as if it has reached one final waterfall. But in his mind everything is still as it should be: ordered, focused and clear.
He has tested his blood for all manners of poison, radiation and infections, but his body is uncontaminated, and he would certainly notice a psychic intrusion. Besides, Time Lords have a formidable immune system that can deal with almost anything short of fatal wounds and old age, so the Master isn't too worried. Probably it's just one of those psychophysiologic side-effects of being in his final regeneration. The thirteenth is notoriously unstable. He'll overcome this inconvenient illness eventually and then he'll return to more fruitful pursuits, but while he recovers, he sees little point in not indulging himself with a pleasant fantasy once in a while.
Usually he starts with a visual. Simple key images, no need to be elaborate in the privacy of his mind. The Doctor on his knees, in various states of mind - defiant, spitting accusations, or with a sly, haughty smile. Sometimes just desperate and dishevelled, begging the Master for his life, for a touch, for a kiss, for forgiveness, for a mere glance in his direction. Begging, like the Master did to save his own life from Chronos. Begging the Doctor not to let him die. No. It should be the Doctor who's on his knees and begging. The Master imagines him bound. Gagged perhaps, or blindfolded. "May I?" he asks the Doctor, with absolute power over him, and begins to undress him.
A taste of the Doctor's skin. A taste of wine and smoke, savoured while he contemplates the Doctor, who is unaware that he's being watched, from across a roomful of people. A taste of fear that he kisses from the Doctor's trembling lips before untying him – the taste of the Doctor's fear is a memory, and not a comfortable one. It makes his stomach clench with his own remembered terror, which tastes far too similar. No. He concentrates on better, finer things, dreams instead of memories. The taste of laughter, shared in a kiss. He leans in for more, and the Doctor withdraws. Laughs at him, hard, cold. "You don't honestly think I ever would, do you?"
He strikes the Doctor with the back of his hand and feels himself slipping. No, that wasn't what he came for. He wants. This is his. He sees blood trickling from the Doctor's lower lip, grey eyes widening in surprise. Blood blossoms on the Doctor's shirt, a gunshot wound. He falls to the ground.
Furiously, the Master rips at the mental image, tears it apart, refuses to flee it. Remoulds it into something else. The Doctor, sprawled on a cot in a barren cell, staring insolently up at him. His face is bruised where someone hit him, an artful, decorative sort of bruise. He looks bored, then hopeful when the Master unlocks the cell. The Doctor jumps almost eagerly at the command to follow him.
The Doctor on a bed. Tied to a bed. Naked, not a drop of blood on him. There's sweat on his skin, though, a sheen of it in the low light, and he keeps squirming. Let it be fear or desire or both, since the two so rarely come separately. "Touch me," the Doctor says. His voice breaks on the plea. No, it would be an order. A husky dare. "Come on, Master, join me."
Emboldened, the Master lets himself feel the details, the texture of the sheets as he settles on the bed, the scent of the Doctor's arousal, so similar to the Master's own. He touches soft curls, lets a fingertip brush over the ridge of teeth in a parted mouth, pins the bound man down with his weight, kisses the Doctor's neck. No, the Doctor's skin shouldn't be so cold. Warmer. A smell like incense, almost charred, tickles his nose. He sucks at the sensitive skin of the Doctor's neck, but the kiss tastes of burnt meat. The bruise he leaves behind turns black. The blackness spreads. He covers it with his hands, his hands on the Doctor's throat, squeezing, and suddenly it is the Master who is pressed into the sheets and bound, and the Doctor above him, inside him, strangling him firmly and expertly, fucking him with hard strokes, at last kissing the Master's cold, black lips.
The Master opens his eyes, trembling, but not from his release. The darkness around him is hazy, greying at the edges. Even the night is losing its colours. His skin feels too tight, his bones ache as if they're turning to stones then dust.
He wipes the sweat from his forehead, chuckling weakly. This preoccupation with death is becoming a little unhealthy. When this illness is over, he really has to go and find out if the Doctor regenerated into a new body. Ever since the Master shot him, he can't help wondering. But there's no need to worry about the Doctor, because unlike the Master, he's nowhere near the final of his regenerations. The Doctor still has lives to give before he dies.
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