Kink Meme Fill: Please

[heretherebefic.livejournal.com]

Title: Please
Pairing: Eleventh Doctor/Unspecified Master
Rating/Warnings: High PG. Slavery, non-sexual nonconsensual bondage.
Summary: Deanon from eleventy_kink because I made a mistake and wanted to edit it. Prompt: On a planet where slavery is legal, the Doctor is 'absolutely shocked when, at one of the market booths, he sees the Master, a psychic collar (which is why the Doctor didn't know he was alive) around his neck and completely submissive.' Full prompt (and unedited fill) here.

Everything about this is wrong.

He's kneeling, the collar around his neck is a dull grey that matches his eyes, his mouth is clamped tightly shut because he has not been spoken to, and it's so wrong.

"Master..." the Doctor whispers, his hearts still deciding whether they want to explode or simply stop altogether.

The Master doesn't even look up.

"I see you've taken an interest in #1971," comes a bright voice in the Doctor's ear, and he turns to see a cheerful man in what passes for a business suit in this era on this world.

The Doctor wants to shake him, shove him up against a wall and ask him where he gets off selling people, but he can't interfere. The revolution begins two weeks from now, and he isn't meant to show up in any big way until sometime during the middle of it all. He certainly doesn't inspire it.

Instead he says "Er, well, yes. He's very... nice. Looking. Er."

"Had quite a personality when we first got him. The collar's taken care of that..." The man lowers his voice, gesturing for the Doctor to lean in closer. "...but you can always take it off if you fancy a bit of fun, eh? Just be careful; he's not exactly what you'd call stable."

"Of course he's not; he's chained up with a psychic collar 'round his throat," the Doctor snaps, sidestepping the man and crouching down beside the Master.

'Chained up' is a bit of a creative liberty. His hands are tied behind his back. His arms are limp. He seems either unbothered by or resigned to his helplessness.

Wrong.

"Can you hear me?" the Doctor asks quietly.

The Master slowly drags his gaze up from the ground. There's no spark of recognition, no anger, no relief, nothing at all to suggest that he is now looking at his best enemy instead of the black dirt.

"Koschei?" the Doctor tries, and the Master tilts his head to the side.

The Doctor's hope is short-lived.

"Are you going to buy me?"

The Doctor feels ill. "Yes," he manages, his throat dry. "And then I'm going to rescue you."

"Oh." The Master sounds bored. "Roleplay."

"Wh - no."

"Go ahead and give him the money, then. I could do with a bit of fun."

"Listen, that's not - "

The stall owner has wandered over and is frowning in a way the Doctor doesn't like.

"He giving you trouble?"

Before the Doctor can say no, the man is pressing a button on a small black box and saying with a knowing wink, "This'll fix'im."

Electricity sparks along the outside of the collar, but it's only for show - the real attack is far worse. The Doctor can feel the waves of psychic pain from where he's standing. The Master flinches, and his voice breaks, the boredom replaced by desperation. "I'm sorry, Sir!" With a jolt, the Doctor realizes that he's talking to him. "I shouldn't have joked. I'll do whatever you want; I'm sorry; just please get me away from here."

"Don't - please don't call me 'sir'..."

"I won't, not if you don't want me to; I'm sorry. Take me home. Please, Master," says #1971, and something in the Doctor snaps.

The sonic screwdriver hums briefly, the psychic collar splits down the middle, and the Master falls face-down into the dirt, gasping and choking.

There's a shout behind them. The Doctor whirls around and growls at the panicking stall owner. "Don't. Move."

The man backs away, hands raised in surrender. One slave isn't worth a fight. He's got hundreds more.

Thousands more.

I can't interfere. Fixed points. Timestream-gobbling monsters. Sod it all.

The Master is struggling to stand, but his hands are still tied behind his back. The Doctor hauls him to his feet, refusing to avoid his eyes.

The Master continues gasping for breath, but now he's grinning. "What do you think? Bloody revolution?"

"Did you have to say bloody? And with vengeance as motivation? I'm not sure I can allow that."

"Surely, in this case, the end justifies the means?"

"That's a dangerous habit to form," the Doctor says mildly, but he turns the Master around and unties his hands. They're twitching, chafing against the rope, and somehow this lifts the Doctor's spirits.

The Master rubs his neck absently, grin still in place but somewhat subdued. "Thanks," he says, in a tone which implies that the Doctor had better damn well have heard him because he won't be saying it again. He prods the broken collar with his foot in a way that suggests he'd like to kick it at somebody. "Appalling device. The lowest form of weaponry."

"You killed a man with a plastic chair."

"That was creative. This is predictable and barbaric."

"Hm." The Doctor crosses his arms. "I'm going to go make sure the proprietor doesn't call any sort of authorities. Should you happen to run off while my back is turned and, say, start up a revolution, I suppose I'll only have got what's coming to me."

The Master touches his forehead briefly in a mock salute. "Until next time, Doctor."