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09 January 2008 @ 09:39 pm
Chapters of Spoiled for Choice  
Title: Spoiled for Choice
Author:
x_los 
Rating: NC-17 as a series
Pairing(s): Young!First/Simm!Master, Young!Second/Simm!Master, Young!Third/Simm!Master. (series all Doctors/Simm!Master and implied Theta/Koschei)
Chapter: Prequel and 1, 2 and 3/12
Summary: In the third year of the Master’s reign, he perfects Laz Labs technology. The Doctor as a box of chocolates.
Chapter Summaries: First puts up with the Master's dissociative breakdowns. Second and the Master tour the facilities, grab lots of breakfast, and explore the painful properties of sea glass with an option on Japanese lacquered tables. The sources of the Doctor’s docility are explored. Third and the Master do some science, then do some Mind!Sex, remember the erotic potential of sentient phone cords and reassess the tragic fate of Theta’s childhood puppy at the tender mercies of Ushas.





Prequel: The Master Plays Favorites



    In the third year of the Doctor’s captivity aboard the Valliant the planet Arcadia falls again (or for the first time, depending on who’s watching), this time to the Master’s new Time Lord Empire, and the Master perfects the Laz Labs technology. He watches the Doctor gasping, struggling against all the laws of their people’s biology, spooling back through his own regenerations, into different bodies and their accompanying personalities at the touch of his hand.

    He adores the power, the sweet rictus of pain on the Doctor’s face. He slides the years back and forth to suit his own vanity. He makes his lover young and old in accordance with his mood. More practically, he needs his Doctors young and strong enough to suit his purposes. He can’t force a regeneration not yet created, but why would he need to when he has such an embarrassment of choice already?

    The Master takes all of them, paying special attention to those he never had opportunity to. He’s not afraid of the Doctor in any of his bodies, even the ones that might be able to physically overpower him. The Doctor, bless him, isn’t stupid. This wouldn’t be any fun if he were.

    The Doctor knows that there are impeccable cascading security systems just waiting to make him regret leaving their bedroom. An array of plans will take everyone involved down with them should the Master not maintain them. In the last three years he has taught the Doctor the price of defiance in an exchange rate of dead humans and lost places.

    The Master permits certain incarnations of his lover the liberty of verbal disloyalty because it suits them, and he is a generous master. But there are others he requires to never utter a word against him, who he punishes when they don’t gush out a cascade of pleas and endearments, when their eyes have a flicker of doubt or a lack of devotion.

    He develops preferences—what he likes to do with which, how long it’s permissible to keep him in any particular form. Though the Doctor is assured in brutal, physical terms that each version of him attracts the Master’s interest and attention, the Master plays favorites.


Chapter One: The Doctor, as Himself



    The Doctor’s first body, always young, ever Theta, is treated excessively well, and there’s love in the gentle way the Master presses him down on the bed. At first the Master seems saner those nights, or at least drugged calm by nostalgia. The mania of the Master’s madness is stripped away, the harsh exterior gone. But the Doctor realizes this only serves to reveal the miasma at the other Time Lord’s seriously troubled core.

    Even like this, the Master’s not all that much more forgiving. He won’t hurt the Doctor’s first body, but he’ll make the Doctor’s subsequent transformed forms feel the brunt of Theta’s disgusted look or failure to acquiesce readily enough to his lover’s whims.

    The Doctor feels as if he’s playing the role of himself age 16, and it’s a demanding one. He’s an exaggeration, all fond whimsy, awed respect and brimming, impregnable devotion to his Koschei. The Master corrects his performance until it matches his memory, until the Doctor is brighter and truer and more than he had been even in the moment.

    The Doctor wakes up to find himself being taken sedately. An early morning, brisk encounter, as if they may have to rush off to lecture or risk failing String Physics. Again.

    “Knew you wouldn’t mind,” The Master laughs, actually sounding pleased rather than the various shades of mad the Doctor has learned to associate with the Master’s laughter over their last centuries. As if it might matter if he did mind. His left hip is anchored by the Master’s left hand and he can feel, gently, fingers clenching and unclenching the bit of muscle there. A hand twinning through his blonde hair.

    He knows what to do. What the Master wants. He throws his arms around the Master’s neck, nuzzling up against the graceful column, so sensitive to their kind.

    “Koschei, harder,” with gusto, as if he hasn’t played this role as thoroughly as a Broadway star after the show’s run years, “Mmm. Please, please, love, more.” He squirms under the thrusts like the overly energetic boy he was.

    Inspired to generosity, the Master’s hand leaves the silky mess of hair. After a long, slide over the body beneath it, catching at those bright lips and demanding the suction of the wet heat within, and after running a seductive line over the neck that makes the Doctor gasp and reconsider to what extent actors become their parts, there’s a hand on his cock, stroking the Doctor away from feeling like a set piece in a reenactment, into a world where he never left, and this gentleness never dissipated so thoroughly he couldn’t believe it had ever been, and everything is true.

    The Doctor had tried, just once, all pleading voice and big wet eyes in the afterglow, to use the influence this body had over the Master to rein in his actions. He wasn’t above that now. All that resulted was a silent, stone-faced Master storming out without even bothering to dress and returning seconds later with Lucy Saxon. He’d calmly shot her (with a banal, human gun, no less) and left, locking the Doctor in the bedroom with her corpse for two days.

    When the Master had returned he’d had his men clear out the body and comforted his poor little Theta as soon as the door had swished shut (and there was no one to see this, the vulnerable corner of his madness, but the Doctor himself), rocking him. Making sure he was alright before, with the entitlement of a man unused to leaving his toy alone even a few hours, comfort-fucking the Doctor’s stressed, tired, hungry body into unconsciousness. The Master had never articulated a word of warning, as if it might break the spell of this body. After that he’d never needed to.

    One day the Master asks how the Doctor could not have recognized him in the Death Zone, all those years ago, with his old man’s eyes.

    “I knew,” he admitted, though really, through a stolen body, generations apart? The Master was asking quite a lot. Still, he had known. The Master casually invades his mind to check up on the claim, and the Doctor tries not to stiffen up and see it as a rape, because it wasn’t always, and the Master will feel his mental reticence and get quietly, poisonously angry, and he’s missed this enough to imagine himself willing. Upon confirming that yes, the Doctor had known him, had merely pretended not to out of shame, embarrassment and a fond wish it wasn’t really him, the Master chuckled in satisfaction.

    “How long will you love me?” It’s their old question, and any other but the original answer would not only get someone else killed, it would be a lie. And he gives a Gallifreyan word for forever, which means immutable for a given period, here specified as the duration of his days.

    “Liar.” Koshei smiles like the bits of broken glass on the beaches no one goes to. “But I’ll help you. I’ll help you tell the truth.” He slides into the Doctor again. “I’ll make you believe.”






Chapter Two: Mornings After




    Now he is dark haired and blue eyed and rather funnier. In the strange, untried youth of this body he is whip thin and a bit awkward. He’s bruised severely, and he sits gingerly, offering the Master a wry, polite smile every time he shifts and catches at a little splinter of pain. This is punishment for having been insufficiently grateful for yesterday’s excursion.

    The Master had taken him down planet-side with a familiar teleport bracelet to show him the proposed sites for the new Citadel. These days the bracelet’s been modified and streamlined so that its use is only marked by a slightly uncomfortable pop of displacement. The Doctor tried hard not to think of Martha, whose small, brave wrist had carried the bracelet and with it so much responsibility. The air around Siberian plants they’re examining is bitterly cold. He is half Gallifreyan and can handle the wind chill, but he missed this regeneration’s fur jacket. Though he supposed it would be too big for this younger form of the body.

    “In the Alps for the mountains, do you think? Or where London used to be, you do love it so much.” the Master spits this with thick sarcasm, but returns to absorption with the project with one of his lilting shifts of mood.

    All the humans have been shipped off to the slave colonies. The planet is clean of them, reserved for what the Master calls the Reclamation Project. Earth seems empty and desolate without their chatter. The Doctor has trouble remembering the comfort of the humans’ many minds skittering across the back of his awareness. So absolute is the silence that it seems to stretch into the past and conceivable future, making it hard to remember the peaceful anonymity of a crowd. In his new life he is always singular and observed. It hurts to be in a world of two, when he’s so ashamed of the things he’s done.

    “Of course we’d have to clear out those nasty wolf packs I’ve heard rumors of, but the remaining Toclafane would be delighted. Sweet little things, closest I ever came to understanding your obsession with the species.” All the little details of conquest, observed and managed. The Master likes his detailed plans. The Master’s consistency soothes the Doctor like a security blanket. “Rearguard duty just isn’t for them. They’ve a galaxy out there to win for me, almost cruel to coop this regiment up. They do love their work.”

    The vegetation of Earth has all been burned off. In the distance a massive, spider-like agricultural combine seeds the soil (the Doctor cannot even call it earth in this sense, not even in his mind). The Doctor knows logically that the combine is scattering what will become dense fields of thick red grass, and that it will smell like old-Earth apples and not like the ashes he imagines he can taste. The Doctor knows that he will be brought to see the grass, and the coral trees as they begin to grow in earnest.

    The Master plans to permanently alter the atmosphere, like his own Christmas excitation for Donna (who, brave, loud, giddy when the mood took her, too good for this new world, must be dead by now), only on a horrible scale. There will always be snow on the mountains. The Doctor will be unable to do anything but love New Gallifrey the instant he sees it. Like a father to his child. And he’d rather be blind than ever have to see it. How dare he love this spoiled world, what good has his love ever done anyone?

    “What do you think Doctor?” The Master’s tone is sharp, he’s asked before while the Doctor was caught ruminating. “Are you even capable of paying attention? I would have thought you’d care, since this is your mess we’re cleaning up.” The Master circles him for a more direct confrontation, grabbing his lapels to address a remark, then sheathing his menace in a coy smile. “Where do you fancy our Citadel?”

    “Are you playing Rassilon and Omega, like when we were children?” He has the memories of his fifth regeneration to tell him how that story ended. “Look how well that turned out the first time.” His tone is falsely bright and cheery, and his smile is somewhat clownish, though to the Master he knows it will seem mocking. The humans are gone and he’s not seen Jack in months. He feels less vulnerable without them around for the Master to use against him, and his old ruthless streak stirs almost imperceptibly.

    “Anyway, how should I know anything about your new world order?” The Doctor’s voice is bemused and clueless, just to annoy the Master. “I do rely on your intellect. I haven’t the faintest notion. You did so well valiantly defending the last Gallifrey, I’m sure you’ll know just how to manage this one.”

    The Master’s eyes narrow into dangerous little slits.

    “Play stupid, Doctor. A clown and an idiot. You’d like to think you’re pretending.” He cocks an eyebrow, face expanding into a luxurious grin, breathing out accusations in a low, sweet tone. “Couldn’t think of a way to save Gallifrey, couldn’t out think me, standing here now at my pleasure in a body that got itself killed long ago? Be as smug as you dare, Doctor.” He begins to walk back to the reactors he wanted to inspect, knowing the Doctor will follow him because he has nowhere else to go and couldn’t survive long on the decimated Earth alone.

    The Master turns with a final note, “I think a ship of slaves will experience a rather violent engine malfunction before they reach reassignment on Alpha Centauri because of you indecisiveness and, ohh, I don’t know,” The Master waves his hand impatiently, “Recklessness. Let’s go with recklessness. Got a nice sound to it, doesn’t it? Bit of a rippy noise. And if you happen to think of the screams sucked out of them by decompression and the families too tired to cry when the accident’s announced before you bitch and whimper all over the glory I’ve created here, so much the better.” The Doctor buttons up his fuming because it won’t solve anything. He’s just so angry with himself for not knowing better than this.

    The Master swivels away again. “You never could see the scope of things. Limited, miserable, sanctimonious Doctor. You might have appreciated that I bothered to let you planetside at all. But noooooooo, meet the dazzling future with tired snarking and ingratitude. Crap date, you just see if I call you back.”

    He returns with the Master to the Valliant, where the Master makes him regret ruining their first trip down to what will become the capital of his new Empire more personally. Those humans may have lived, the Master could say anything, make any number of empty threats, how could the Doctor tell? But now he knows he is no less vulnerable for the privacy of the empty, echoing Valliant.

    But the Master pretends that he forgets slights quickly, and deprives the Doctor of any lasting pride he might have felt in defiance. The next morning Master leans back, observing him from across their surprisingly civilized breakfast table.

    The Toclafane’s scouts brought in a few dozen domestibots from one of the bigger pleasure planets they’d subjected as a present for their Master. The Master’s destroyed more than one for mucking up some off-planet entrée, usually an intricate delicacy beyond the scope of their programming. The bots been updated with every food in the TARDIS matrix, and can’t poison the Time Lords without exploding at the thought.

    The Master likes a big, chaotic breakfast spread, at odds with his obsessively selective evening meals, with their courses and perfectly complementary wines. The domestibots don’t have the will to complain when the Master wants a fry up, pancakes, a load of bagels with all the toppings, mushy Gallifreyan cereal, Fruity Pebbles, and the chilled morning soup of Altazaria all served within ten minutes of his request. Frequently he doesn’t touch most of it, deciding what he wants when he can actually see it, picking at little bits like a bored, spastic magpie.

    Today he rubs his hands together with glee and takes a little portion of everything, OCD as ever, separating the foods by an inch apart so nothing touches, dolloping out portions in a radiating spiral, needing patterns and order fused with his whims.

    “This table’s lovely isn’t it? All inky dark and shiny.” The Master runs on, not needing the Doctor to comment, just buzzing with residual energy from having reopened every healed cut on the Doctor’s body with a sharp bit of sea glass last night. The Master had cooed over the long shard when he brought it home to the Doctor last week. He’d found it at random (serendipitously, he called it) on the beach in Hawaii, where the giant wave energy generators were being constructed. There’s almost nothing sharper than the glass created when lightening strikes sand—every bit of the sand fixed instantly into a ragged, atom-thin edge. The Master had mentioned this last night.

    He’d done it while dragging his mental nails through the Doctor’s memories of life as it was in this incarnation. The Doctor was still dizzy with confusion, probably wouldn’t remember his own past more or less correctly for a few days. Then weeks of sorting and processing to reconstruct what it was he had felt and thought important about those memories now, so many centuries later.

    All of this would of course be interrupted by the constant hum of the laser screwdriver and the agony, the confusion of being ripped through forms. He prayed for a solid week of being Theta, just to recover. He wondered if the torture would stop when the Master felt he was truly broken, or if it would continue on into infinity, purposeless, until he didn’t feel it, and then past that, until subjection to the Master’s will defined him.

    “Japanese lacquer.” The Doctor commented. Maybe the Master could respect skill, the beauty in objects if not in people. The Master was capable of regretting his actions, his wanton destructions. If he wasn’t, the Doctor didn’t have much to live for now.

    “We’ve got the last one in the universe, then.” The Master looks even more delighted. “How about that? If I took you on it, that’d just be poetry. It and you, the last and the last. There’s a unity that suggests the inescapable, well, doubly so for you.” The Master spreads a napkin across his lap with a quick flick of his writs, then smooths it down suggestively. “I know I said I wouldn’t call, but you know I was only teasing. Any plans this evening?” He raps his knuckles across the lacquered table, complete with a suggestive eyebrow waggle.

    “You know how I like pretty things. That glass is out of the picture though. Pity. Impossibly sharp, but that edge wears off pretty quickly. Speaking of, I’m changing your outfit after breakfast. You Number Two has lost it’s charm, sorry to say.” The Master is looking forward to watching the Doctor squirm through the meal, flinching from the glass wounds and the promised pain of the laser screwdriver. He wonders if those little twitches will make the food taste better.

    The Doctor has contained his annoyance at this abundance of food. He knows the human slaves are kept so close to starvation they can work but never rebel. He imagines he can feel their starvation, but sympathetically starving himself, as he tried to months ago, led to a human servant being disemboweled before him at table for his noncompliance. The Master threatened to kill another unless the Doctor tucked in, then watched him eat ravenously as the body cooled on the floor.

    The Doctor’s moralizing on the little things wore thin after he received confirmation of Martha’s death, as did his imperious silence, because it felt too much like death, and his silence hadn’t solved anything more than his speech. If every course of action proves useless then nothing means anything. Lucy told him that, whispered it for two days with dead eyes and a broken smile. Logically he’d known she was dead, this was her corpse, but the change escaped him, and he’d never felt closer to her.

    Martha had always been at risk when she jumped. It temporarily created enough of a disturbance to counter her perception filter. There’d been no other way for her to travel around the globe, spreading his plan. One day she’d jumped into a mass of patrolling Toclafane, and that had been the last of dear Martha Jones. He wished she’d shared Jamie and Zoe’s fate, remembering nothing of her time with him, but alive out there somewhere, maybe happier, more innocent, for never having traveled with him.

    "I used to have that atrocious haircut.” The Master’s speared a black pudding idly, more studying it than preparing to consume it, and looking up at the Doctor questioningly over the little lump. “Whatever possessed you? Have you no control over your regenerations?”

    The Doctor’s silent, and it’s spoiling the Master’s morning.

    “Talk,” he hisses, “Talk because you know that you’re happy to be here, with me, because it means you’re not alone, and you’re happy with anything I give you. Talk because you’re gagging to talk to me. Because you need me like you’ve always needed me.” The Doctor swallows.

    “Now,” The Master sallies, “I loathe your stupid hair.”

    “The Beatles were big when I visited Earth in my last body.” The Doctor insists. “This was clearly the best contemporary look.” The Master grins, because this kind of defiance is allowed, he likes this Doctor’s wit and he enjoys their trivial grousing, provided it doesn’t upset his plans.

    “Shut up and drink your tea,” the Master says, testing, probing a bit at the balance of power he demonstrated last night. And he smiles when the Doctor hurries to do so, and begins to tell the Doctor what they’ll be doing that day interrupted occasionally by the Doctor’s friendly, mocking asides, and allowing that, because this is the way they work. They’re finally, properly talking, as they might have long ago if someone hadn’t been too stubborn and proud. Not that he minds punishing the Doctor for his sins and retraining him for companionship. Or rather polishing up the Doctor’s innate potential.

    “Now have some salmon,” the Master suggests, knowing the Doctor despises salmon in all his forms the way he craves jelly babies indiscriminately. But the Doctor takes some without comment and eats it without a flicker of disdain, even looking up at him for approval, and the Master is so pleased with his progress he doesn’t even bother to cause that shuttle’s remote engine failure.





Spoiled for Choice
Chapter Three: Scientific Experiment



    He’s surprised by what his young third body looks like. His face has some character, but its edges are softened by youth. All he’s kept of the body he knows are sharp eyes and a general notion of similarity. He misses his confident, older body. He even yens for his dandy’s coats, though the Master rather encourages his dressing up in rich fabrics and expensively tailored cuts by only stocking these in the wardrobe.


    He remembers that first year, his measurements in all his bodies being taken by a shaking, terrified tailor as the Master looked on, toying with his screwdriver and leering unrelentingly at his Doctor. The Doctor knows that this is one of his handsomer states. He should be grateful for that touch of dignity in his current position, when everything, even his biology, is at another’s mercy. It’s still jarring.

    He’s at the Master’s side in the Valliant’s anachronistically advanced laboratory, which really should have tipped off the humans before the infamous morning of their downfall. He watches as the other Time Lord meticulously adjusts the details on the Toclafane casing, streamlining the spheres’ exteriors to make them better able to handle the stresses of interstellar flight. Because this is where the Master wants him to be, he can’t do anything but watch. And the Doctor, whose instinct is always to aid, to improve, can’t watch without wanting to help, to do something. And can’t want anything these days without feeling a fair bit ill with self-loathing.

    He thinks of the Keller Machine, which had a certain brilliance before it got away from the Master, and realizes how much the Master’s grown since then. The Toclafane are not fueled by the mindless hungry need of the parasite within the Keller Machine. Their loyalty to the Master is primary, and should it ever waver, the Master could kill them all instantly.

    Their centralized consciousness has made them vulnerable to the psychic backdoor the Master established when he helped them craft their spheres and come back to their ancestral home. In a way, the Doctor realizes, he himself taught the Master to refine his plans through the spats of their younger days. He was the whetstone the Master honed himself on, and now the Master is slicing through the universe, returning to the Doctor every night to sharpen his edge.

    “Sulking doesn’t suit you. You seem to think so, and I hate to let any idiocy of yours go un-disabused.” The Master’s remark lands solidly in the middle of the Doctor’s haze of gloom, waking him up a bit, and the Doctor tosses his curly blonde hair irritably. “Shouldn’t you like to pick up a spanner and see to that layer of casing? It’s going to get done anyway, regardless of whether you assist me. It’d just go faster and we could go find something more entertaining to do.”

    The Doctor laughs at the absurdity of this, the very idea he’d be complicit in this madness, with the short, barking, condescending laugh he had in this regeneration. The Master automatically smacks him, then after a moment’s consideration hauls back and does it again a bit harder.

    “You know better than to laugh at me. Miseryguts. If you’re so unhappy here we’ll saddle up my Paradox Machine and go make some new friends. And we could get some lunch. We could try the famous delis of New Earth? Betcha we wouldn’t have to pay. It’s been aaaaages since I compression-eliminated anyone, let alone anyone in the service industry. That’d be precious. Wee little uniforms.” He chuckles at the Doctor’s expression of mounting anger as the blond Time Lord rubs at his abused jaw sullenly.

    “You spent this entire regeneration wanting off Earth, and what do you do when I offer you the galaxy? Reject it in favor of exile. Your stomach grumbles gratingly enough to distract me from my project and I propose the galaxy’s accompanying sandwiches, and you look like I’ve committed atrocious genetic experiments on your puppy. Someone doesn’t know what he wants.”

    The Master taps the spanner he’s been working with on the lab table in that inevitable rhythm. “And look at you here now, my concubine instead of my partner, here in the wake of our race’s passing, in the ashes of all things. Fewer people overall would have died if you’d said yes. We’d have responded to the threat of the Time War faster and more effectively than the council ever did- that’s whole systems preserved right there. The universe might be, even by your exacting standards, better off. We’d still have a home-planet at least. All that struggle leading you to the inexorable result.” The taping stills. “Was it worth it, Doctor? The resistance, and the suffering?”

    “It was,” the Doctor says with bald courage. “I can’t change the accidents of history or speak for anyone beyond myself. But struggle for one’s own view of the universe in the face of opposition and adversity? I thought you’d know the value of that. You’re utterly unprincipled, but you understand yourself at least well enough to know that you’re defined by your will.” The Master chooses not to answer, concentrating on manipulating the delicate little spanner deep in the wiring. Probably tuning the interface between the improved case and the sensor network, from what the Doctor could see.

    The Doctor remembered a lonely exile in which he’d waited, yearned for their next encounter. He’d been horrified at each atrocity, yet impressed despite himself with the Master’s will to break free of Gallifreyan convention, to survive, to push himself to the limits of his potential rather than moldering with their moribund people. Gallifrey had cast out them both, could never respect them, and in those days he’d told himself that he was no worse for their rejection. At least they both had the courage to actually live.

    Now his tenth regeneration might have wished that he had crawled back and begged pardon, just for the privilege of spending those lost centuries in the fleeting company of his own kind. Did that make him a weaker man, or a wiser one?

    The Master folds up the sides of the Toclafane case. Like trying to recreate an orange with its empty peel. The Doctor used to sob, jagged in his more vulnerable tenth body, over what had become of the humans, but now he soothed himself with the knowledge that there was nothing human left in those spheres but a bit of skin and the perverted memory of fighting against the dark. And he couldn’t mourn that. He was too tired. He may have been housed in a young body, but in this form he had an old man’s hearts.

    “Done,” the Master singsongs, smiling broadly at the Doctor, toying with the spanner, flipping it lazily between his fingers. He’s wearing his old black leather gloves, or ones very like them, ostensibly to protect his hands from the nasty sharp edges and chemicals inside the ball, should his grip slip. It never does.

    The Master’s regenerations have always had elegant, capable hands. When they were children Koshei had mastered the Traken violin. He would play for his best friend when he was bored, or when Theta pleaded sufficiently, always giving in with the indulgent air of spoiling him. The Doctor found himself staring at those hands now, remembering their exactitude, their precision. The Master catches him and favors him with a slight little smile, holding the (surprisingly light) empty Toclafane ball up in one hand for the Doctor to inspect. The Doctor suddenly realizes how close they’re sitting, and wonders which of them drifted closer to the other’s orbit.

    “Good, isn’t it?” The Master asks, breath ghosting across the gleaming metal, fogging it.

    “It’s the work of a scientific genius and nothing less. As you know.” He can’t deny that the Master has reached a new standard in cyber-organics. It would be petty to try. The Master’s smirk stretches under the praise, nearly freely given. “Whether it’s conscionable, however, is a different question.”

    “My conscience is quite elastic these days, my dear Doctor. How’s yours?” Without waiting for an answer, he jumps out of his lab chair and stretches like a cat, gently setting down the Toclafane ball and grabbing the Doctor by the hand in one motion. “We’re going to celebrate. You’re going to give me a bit of praise for my achievement.”

    “I rather thought I just did,” the Doctor reminds him.

    “And countered it with your nasty moralizing." The Master clucks his tongue. "Mixed messages, Doctor. And you can’t even tell me I’m a genius with your special blend of awe and terror and—I like how you used to shudder it through your tight morals like a prayer. Mmm, you couldn’t help but tell me. I like to hear it all matter-of-fact, don’t get me wrong,” He’d nearly gotten himself killed sticking around to hear the Doctor verbally suck him off over the Keller Machine debacle, after all, “but I know you’ve got a higher potential than that. No, you’re going to try again. Going to invent a whole new order of accolades.” The Master runs his hand down the Doctor’s lab coat and slips inside for a quick fondle. “Sing my praises.”

    The Master pulls him out of the lab, and the Doctor’s more than a little glad to leave that room, with its intellectual stimulation and quiet horrors, muted by distance and clean white walls. The Master is tapping his own rhythm into the Doctor’s wrist, making the Doctor feel if not hear it, a precursor to the Master’s physical and psychic invasions. A sort of promise that invades his will like hypnotism, but more subtle.

    They reach their bedroom, and it is their bedroom inescapably by now. The Master is loath to leave him for any length of time. He requires the Doctor as a constant companion, his constant audience. When the Master sleeps there’s no question of the Doctor leaving the bed for anything but the physical necessities, he’s been punished before for it. The Doctor doesn’t know whether the Master fears the Doctor’s capacity for sabotage or something else. He wonders if the Master dreams of the war, as his own eighth, ninth, and tenth bodies do so vividly and persistently.

    The Doctor knows he can be gruff and arrogant in this form. Normally he’d chafe at such restriction. But he’s beyond that now. In the desperate solitude of his mind, truer than any exile, he welcomes the connection.

    The flattery in the constant attention is almost too intensely sweet, even though the Doctor knows it’s boned with madness and a wrathful desire to hurt him that makes the Master cling too hard in his sleep, pressing need and pain into the Doctor’s ribs with fingers that clutch. And should he stir in the Master’s grasp in the short night observed by their kind, those fingers come alive and press him down into the bed, and the body they belong to stirs automatically to claim him, using whatever wetness is left in him from the requisite bout before bed to fuck him to still acquiescence. The Master, it seems, is never more tired than he is determined to remind the Doctor of his new position.

    The Master holds out his gloved hands to the Doctor, who obediently removes the leather and puts them on the bedside table. The Master walks him to the wall, pressing him up against it with his body, and holds his naked hands to the Doctor’s skull. He’s not yet stretching his telepathy, simply tapping his beat idly.


    “Remember in that prison when you wouldn’t so much as touch me? Sensible, cautious Doctor, couldn’t even take my hand?” Suddenly and brutally his mind is full of the Master, ghosting over that memory and chuckling harshly at it, the sound echoing inside his head. Then his mind is clouded with bright white daggers of pleasure, so much he has to bite his lower lip to keep from an undignified little squeal. This becomes a low, urgent strumming that goes straight to his groin and ghosts his mouth with imagined, exquisite tastes.


    He moves his arms to bat the Master off and pull him in closer and finds the Master’s not allowing him to do anything of the kind. He could fight the mental block if there weren’t so much else going on. As is it’s nearly impossible just to feel everything.

    “Beg me,” The Master’s tone is conversational, if a bit breathy, “To touch you. Tell me you’re sorry.” The Doctor grits his teeth, and while the Master’s Keller Machine might have destroyed his mind through fear, the Master himself is infinitely subtler. The mental connection adjusts to make use of the surface of his brain’s electrical energy, playing with the charges and spiking them painfully well whenever the Doctor trembles or leans up into him, as he can’t now stop himself from doing.


    “I’m sorry,” escapes from his mouth nearly unwittingly.


    “Mean it.” The Master readjusts the level of sensation carried by the Doctor’s spine, making it almost unbearably good when his hands grip harshly at the column, rubbing and twisting their way up and down only to do it over again, backwards and with a twist, even as he bites the Doctor’s sensitive neck.


    The Master remembers causing a phone wire to nearly strangle this neck to death over the phone, the Doctor’s choking, gasping noises squirming down the sentient line just for him, their author. With the Doctor’s respiratory bypass that could have gone on for a good while longer before he’d had to stop for fear of brining the fun to a halt. Damn he’d enjoyed that. Wanted to take him over his sad, primitive little lab table in exchange for his life. Pity he’d stolen the dematerialization circuit to bargain with instead. Such a perfect, if frustrating, adversary. ‘Oh well,’ he thought, pushing the small of the Doctor’s back forward to arch pleasantly against his groin, ‘All’s well that ends well.’


    “I’m sorry, please, please, let me in, have me, allow me touch to you.” He rewards the Doctor, gives him his hands back, and they clutch frantically that the Master, one shakily working towards a contact point, not that contact is a necessity now, but just to jump-start things on the Master’s end. He wants to open up the Master so that all of this can be shared, and the mental ecstasy the Master’s given him can flow between them, amplified by some of the Doctor’s own ideas. The Master catches his hand.

    “No.” It’s almost crushing. The Doctor feels one-sided and unwanted and alone. The Master knows because he’s rooting through the Doctor’s experiential mind with cheery impunity. “About time you got a taste of your own sanctimonious medicine.” The Master snickers at the Doctor’s pain. The Doctor doesn’t whimper, though he’d like to right about now. He thinks if he came to the Master for comfort he’d find nothing but distaste, and he can’t bear to have the suspicion confirmed. “Beg me to fuck you.”

    “Please, please, you can have-- I want you to-- Make me--” The Master shudders but doesn’t give.

    “Use my name.”

    “Master!” The Doctor sobs, “Master please!” The Master hands him a tube of cream and the Doctor rips at the lid, working the Master out of his clothes and slathering the man’s cock even as he sheds his own covering under the Master’s watchful gaze. He’s too far-gone to care that he’s playing handmaiden to his own destruction. The Master forces his way inside him, picking up the Doctor’s legs and wrapping them around him, using the wall for balance. He gasps as the Doctor enters his mind in turn. The Master doesn’t stop to adjust but shoves himself deeper, wanting more, craving overload and getting it.

    He works the Doctor furiously, denied want and anger at this version of the Doctor bubbling up in him after centuries in which it was repressed in favor of other concerns but never forgotten. He feels the Doctor clench like he’s about to come and derails that nerve impulse in its tracks, because he’s no where near done with this, not even close to beating out of the Doctor all the satisfaction of their smothered opportunities.

    He can practically taste all the times the Doctor opposed him, mindlessly obstinate and cruel as a child. He rams his tongue into the Doctor’s mouth to erase the bitterness. Buried in the Doctor, who is mindlessly glad of his presence, he believes that this time he won’t lose. He won’t be left alone with the broken pieces of a plan. He’s whole and invincible.

    He jackknifes into the Doctor, who rolls beneath him like the oceans below, beautiful and shining and full of life and completely his. Feeling the pressure building he generously removes his mental finger from the nerve, and in a few strokes the whimpering Doctor’s body is shuddering through a climax while still squeezing him like the needy little thing the Doctor is, and this is bliss beyond anything.

Slowly he moves from the wall to the bed, still shakily cradling the Doctor, and collapses on top of him. He’d like to sleep, but even more he’d like a bit of a gloat.
    “You begged for it,” he reminds the man underneath him, whose body is still so intimately connected to his own. “Remember that, Doctor.”

    The Doctor doesn’t need the reminder. Of course the Master would have taken him anyway, eventually. And no one can hold out long against a telepath of the Master’s caliber. And there was the Master’s mood and the distant hostages to consider. But still. He’d begged. He’d given that away without even much of a fight.

    “I never thought I’d come to this.” Again, the Doctor adds with a private loathing.

    “Too proud,” The Master chastises him, too sated to mind the Doctor’s sniping, too secure in the body beneath him. “I never thought we wouldn’t.” Something suddenly comes to him, and he props his arms around the Doctor and sits up. “And to reiterate, the puppy thing was Ushas, and I’m shocked you accused me just because it ended up in my room. Maybe it was trying to come home and find you, ever think of that?”

    “I’ve said sorry for this before.”

    “Yes well,” the Master grumbles without much ill-will, “It’s just so classically her I was offended you’d even think it. My plans are always better than that.”

    “What, you were going to enlist hostile aliens to possess my puppy, order the puppy to kill and create enough of a disruption in the Academy that you could take over?” The Doctor raises an elegant eyebrow.

    The Master chuckles.

    “Didn’t even think of it. It’d have been funny though. Borusa would have been the first to fall to the death-puppy. Bitch dared flunk me in thermodynamic relations. Me!”

    “On second thought you actually should have.” The Doctor chose to be politic and not mention that, while brilliant, the Master should have studied for his thermodynamic relations final a bit harder the night before the exam, rather than opting to fuck his best friend a bit harder at said time. “It would have been a nobler end for poor Shakespeare and we wouldn’t have had to vacation in the Death Zone.”

    “What, and miss the hilarity of Cybamen hopscotch?”

    “This is an awfully strange conversation to be having while still, respectively, lodged in and impaled by someone.” The Doctor pointed out. “It truly speaks to your interest in the moment.”

    “Ooooh, you wanted a moment.” The Master smirked and moved around a bit inside the Doctor. “Come on then,” he squeezed the Doctor’s ass affectionately. “Let’s fuck like gentlemen.”



 
 
 
aralias: talking to yourselfaralias on January 20th, 2008 08:43 pm (UTC)
definitely brilliant. i think i prefer these three sections even more than the first ones (i read). some absolutely beautiful and insightful lines and the dialogue is PERFECT and brilliant in each of the doctor's incarnations and always with the master. i'm babbling now (rahter embarassing), but i haven't read i fic i've liked this much in a long time. it's fantastic.

*wanders off to find the rest*

x_losficx_losfic on January 20th, 2008 10:31 pm (UTC)
Thanks so, so much! I'm delighted you think the voice is good, and that you enjoyed the writing-stuffs. Hearing somebody enjoys those things in this fic really makes my day!
Pretty Arbitraryprettyarbitrary on February 22nd, 2008 06:05 pm (UTC)
Ever see a picture of a young Patrick Troughton? Smoking fox! That haircut did him no good service whatsoever.

Speaking of which: "I used to have that atrocious haircut." I assume that's meant to be 'hate.' I only mention it because it comes at a spot where it's a little disorienting.

My second time through the story so far, so that I can write some coherent reviews. The more I like a story, the longer my comments are likely to be so, um, this might go on for a while.

Your language is beautiful, elegant and evocative. Donna (who, brave, loud, giddy when the mood took her, too good for this new world, must be dead by now) is wonderful because not only is it grammatically correct (hooray for good use of parentheses!), it also sums Donna up so very well.

Even better, the voices for the Doctor's various incarnations are dead on. I can actually hear them in my head as I read. It's awesome to get inside the Doctor's head and see how there's a constant, unchanging core of him even while so much of him changes (and it's not just a show; in many ways he really is different people) between regenerations. You do that extremely well. And your characterizations of these regenerations is great. One was always so enigmatic, and here we see more of his relationship to the Master than of him. Two and his keen edges underneath the clownish, bumbling exterior. Three and his dignity, his surliness, the very Victorian gentleman scientist (the kinky sex fits right in ;) ).

Another thing that struck me: I have very seldom found a writer whose talent I'm able to trust to the point where I can rely on a change in a character's speech patterns as being deliberate. That adds an incredible extra dimension to the story, especially when it comes to the Master, who has so many different voices--and I'm not just talking about his regenerations. Intonation is absolutely a cue for him, and it's brilliant.

You know, it was this story (specifically, this sentence: "Crap date, you just see if I call you back.") that made me realize that the new Master is very much a response to the Doctor's erratic, slightly manic persona--that they'd really run with the idea of the Master as being a dark reflection of the Doctor. I'd never quite picked that up while watching the episodes, but I'm glad you brought it to my attention.

Speaking of the Master, you do a great job establishing the facets of his madness, especially the way he flings himself between chaos and order. The best part is how I get the sense that so often, it's not really the Master I'm seeing, but his insanity. But every so often, that gets stripped away and it really is the Master looking out of his eyes, and he's beautiful and brilliant and unbelievably even more terrifying than his instability could ever be (which has the laudable side effect of driving home how awful and frightening the insanity must be for him). Oh, it's no wonder they're obsessed with each other.

As for the story, it's hot and chilling and twisted and altogether vicious. God, the things the Master does to the Doctor. I'm fascinated by their relationship here, by how easily the Doctor seems to accept the rape and control. It's not like it doesn't bother him, but it gives a sense of his perspective: he can put up with this because he's used to the Master, because he's been through worse, because he considers himself to be in a fairly privileged position compared to all those poor slaves...and because he can be cold-blooded and ruthless, even with himself, when he has a good enough reason.

I've read other fics that address this approximate scenario--the "Master wins the day, Doctor gets enslaved" idea--but yours is, so far as I can tell, quite unique in that it's not actually over even when the Master has won. Even more than everything I already mentioned, I like yours best, because this rings true to me.

Finally, the sex scene: wow.
x_losficx_losfic on February 22nd, 2008 08:47 pm (UTC)
Ever see a picture of a young Patrick Troughton? Smoking fox! That haircut did him no good service whatsoever.

I had no notion! Really? Where is proof of such foxiness to be found?

I did go for have there, because baby!Koschei in The Sound of Drums was sporting Two's pudding bowl when he approached the Vortex, and I thought "Aw, their love is so aesthetically challenged." Also, unless he was (predictably) stalking, has he ever seen Two before? I mean, obv. not in episodes, but there's no reason he would have.

this might go on for a while.

Much like the endless fsking story in question...

the new Master is very much a response to the Doctor's erratic, slightly manic persona

It's interesting that you say that, because I've always thought of their regenerations as particularly well-paired. I mean, Delgado!Master and Third are such a couple, and Ainley!Master and Five are so complementary, so it always seems to me like there's synchronicity/theatrical doubling going on there, production-wise and in terms of character.


God, the things the Master does to the Doctor.

Well, checking out your lj rant on weird isolation in fic, which I so agreed with, I really did want this: the convention is deliberately used to evoke a victim/victimizer motif. It's intense and creepy and wrong-bad, and it's intended to be.

Rather than treating the isolation as anything productive, even for a couple already so inclined to an obsessive mental exclusion of other people as soon as the other enters the picture. Thankfully we get More People/other social relationships which are inherently comparatively healthy just b/c they are not This Relationship soonish, which will be both easier and harder to write.

Finally, the sex scene: wow.

Oh thank you, I get so worried over the sex scenes.

But thanks for a long, lovely review! It was so awesome to read!
Pretty Arbitraryprettyarbitrary on February 22nd, 2008 09:31 pm (UTC)
Oh, it's quite clear that this is one of those stories where the isolation is quite intentional. I mean, well. *looks at the Master* Yeah. Nothing unhealthy here. ;) So in this case it's not a problem for me at all.

In fact, it was this and a couple of other stories I've read recently that brought the point to my attention. I'd always known something bothered me about some fanfic, but when I saw some like this one where the concept was handled well, it became a lot clearer to me what I was responding to.
Pretty Arbitraryprettyarbitrary on February 22nd, 2008 09:35 pm (UTC)
Also: Oh yes, good point about the hair. I hadn't thought of that. :) How...unfortunate of them.
x_losficx_losfic on February 23rd, 2008 06:39 am (UTC)
Reviews From When I Was A Dumb Newb And Didn't Just Fake-Cut
Slash Lords Ch. 1


blinkidybah
2007-12-11 06:27 am UTC (link) Track This
I LOVE YOOOOOOOOU

x_los
2007-12-11 07:53 am UTC (link) Track This
Hahaha, thanks. Look at you with the first comment win!

vail_kagami
2007-12-11 01:25 pm UTC (link) Track This
Very original idea, and great writing and characterisation.
I like the Master's quiet madness.

x_los
2007-12-11 01:40 pm UTC (link) Track This
Thanks! I was afraid because I'm writing through chronologically. This is obviously the sap, ooc chapter because of which Doctor it is, and so people would have to start with the most disparate characterization to read their way through to a more typical Simm!Master. So it's a relief to hear that you didn't read it and go 'Eugh, I've read better Simm!Master by squids.'

(Reply to this)(Parent)

sarkywoman
2007-12-11 04:33 pm UTC (link) Track This
Brilliant idea (though I'll probably get a bit lost through some of the regenerations)

x_los
2007-12-11 05:24 pm UTC (link) Track This
Omg, do you know how hard second was to write? I had to watch reconstructions. So I'm with you on the lost thing. Thank you!
temporalgrace
2007-12-12 02:51 am UTC (link) Track This
I love this so much. The concept is brilliant and your writing is beautiful. I am so looking forward to the rest of the story.

x_los
2007-12-12 03:02 am UTC (link) Track This
Thanks so much, that's such an awesome thing to hear!


Dw Slash Ch. 1


fatal_labyrinth
2007-12-13 08:58 pm UTC (link) Track This
OMG THAT IS THE BEST FIC I HAVE EVER READ, HANDS DOWN YOU WIN BEST EVER! *DIES*

x_los
2007-12-13 10:28 pm UTC (link) Track This
That's like, seriously the nicest thing ever said by any one in the history of saying things. Wow. Thank you!

fatal_labyrinth
2007-12-14 08:50 pm UTC (link) Track This
Lol, and it's totally true! I was like wow this is good in the first capter, and I was glued from then onwards.... towards the end my mother was yelling at me to get off the PC and I was like, no way woman, I'm reading the greatest fic ever written!

x_los
2007-12-15 06:41 am UTC (link) Track This
*lol* You're adorable, and thanks.

bagheera_san
2007-12-13 09:09 pm UTC (link) Track This
This is great, and also very strange. I long very much for a happy (or, well, a not-too-bleak) ending, though, because it's also pretty painful to read. The differences between the three Doctors were well done, especially Two's and Three's personalities came through.

And it would be incredibly awesome to see the other Masters as well ;)

x_los
2007-12-13 11:00 pm UTC (link) Track This
Is it that painful? I was worried that I was wussing out writing this, it's not as dark as a lot of fic for this pairing. It makes you doubt your Master characterization if nothing truly terrible happens after everyone else does intense torture fic.I had to re-write it to make him nastier.

I know! And I miss them all! But writing 10 Doctors is such a stretch already that switching Masters would be too, too much. And it would overload the frail maybe-plot of this one.

But if you want previous Masters fic, do feel free to prompt me! That'd be a fun challenge, and I could try my best to fluff it up.

bagheera_san
2007-12-14 09:04 am UTC (link) Track This
Oh, it's not that I want fluff - the torture and Master characterization aren't all that dark (not for Simm!Master anyways), it's just that the Doctor's more or less hopeless situation makes me sad. I have a redemption kink, so I hoped at least some of the Doctors might get through to the Master - I'm still holding out hope for Ten!

x_los
2007-12-15 06:41 am UTC (link) Track This
I'm rethinking the mechanics of the ending based on this comment. You're a positive influence!

bagheera_san
2007-12-15 11:31 am UTC (link) Track This
Yay! I thought it'd be nicely symmetrical if your story went through all 10 regenerations until it came back to Ten and only he would bring it to an end/change the situation between them. I loved what you did with the First Doctor by making him exempt from the Master's wrath, and letting him hope that he might change the Master's mind, so maybe the latest Doctor could be special, too :)
x_losficx_losfic on February 23rd, 2008 06:40 am (UTC)
Re: Reviews From When I Was A Dumb Newb And Didn't Just Fake-Cut

sarkywoman
2007-12-13 11:30 pm UTC (link) Track This
'Let's fuck like gentlemen' is one of the best lines EVER.

x_los
2007-12-14 02:51 am UTC (link) Track This
I was like "too much?" But noooo.

temporalgrace
2007-12-14 01:35 am UTC (link) Track This
I don't know why you're not getting more reviews, because this is, seriously, an excellent, excellent fic.

I love the fact that the Master includes Fruity Pebbles as part of a balanced breakfast. Hee!

He was the whetstone the Master honed himself on, and now the Master is slicing through the universe, returning to the Doctor every night to sharpen his edge.
This line is gorgeously evil.

“It was,” the Doctor says with bald courage. “I can’t change the accidents of history or speak for anyone beyond myself. But struggle for one’s own view of the universe in the face of opposition and adversity? I thought you’d know the value of that. You’re utterly unprincipled, but you understand yourself at least well enough to know that you’re defined by your will.”
I can so hear Three's voice here. Lovely.

As to the earlier comment here, I'm not finding this too painful or dark. It's the Master. Chances are there's not going to be a happy ending -- well, maybe one that fits the Master's idea of a happy ending. And part of me is always cheering the Master on, even when he's being a complete bastard.

Squirming in anticipation of your Five chapter. And Eight. Why yes, I am shallow.

x_los
2007-12-14 03:38 am UTC (link) Track This
I don't know why you're not getting more reviews, because this is, seriously, an excellent, excellent fic.


I'm thinking people are mightily afeared of the crack nature of the concept and intimidated by the old!who. I want to tell them not the fear, but just to go watch Pertwee to realize they've been having phone sex for years, and it's a good thing. But I'm thinking quality over quantity, and this is kinda the uber-review right here. Nice and long and specific-- warms the cockles of the heart.

well, maybe one that fits the Master's idea of a happy ending.

I'm only really happy with the end if he's happy. But it's planned to get worse before it gets better.

Squirming in anticipation of your Five chapter. And Eight. Why yes, I am shallow.

Yeah there are definitely chapters I'm really looking forward to, and these are two of them. And there are chapters I kind of doubt my ability to write (cough SIX cough), but I should have thought of that before embarking on piloting the good ship CrackenFic, shouldn't I?

Five is proving a little harder than I'd thought, though, b/c there's just too many potential good things!

temporalgrace
2007-12-14 04:43 am UTC (link) Track This
And there are chapters I kind of doubt my ability to write (cough SIX cough)
I'm at a loss to even think how Simm!Master would respond to Six. Probably not well? Yikes.

Five is proving a little harder than I'd thought, though, b/c there's just too many potential good things!
YAY! Well, not yay about it being hard, yay about potential good things!

x_los
2007-12-14 05:12 am UTC (link) Track This
I'm at a loss to even think how Simm!Master would respond to Six. Probably not well? Yikes.

Not going to lie. I'm thinking ritualized coat destruction and a gag while he gets the crap kicked out of him for that time he trapped the Master on the fringes of the universe, with the Rani and Those Dinosaurs. God knows that was the worst vacation since a trip to Branson.

I should set up a tip line for what people think should happen to that coat, with most hilarious solution being chosen. 'Given to the biblical Joseph' being the current crack!contender.

marah_sarie
2007-12-14 07:44 pm UTC (link) Track This
Ooooh, I am liking this. The idea isn't crack, it is *awesome* (and it is very, very Simm!Master that he would want to possess the Doctor in all of his regenerations, especially the ones he didn't get to have the first time around.) Looking forward to the rest!

x_los
2007-12-15 06:39 am UTC (link) Track This
he would want to possess the Doctor in all of his regenerations,

I thought so too. And thanks so much!
edzel2edzel2 on February 7th, 2010 12:00 am (UTC)
Oh wow wow wow.... this was recc'd by Kolo on Gallifrey Base and I have to say I am in awe and wonder how on Earth I never discovered this before! I love the way you write, really love your Doctor and Master voices. I think I may just give up writing... fabulous. Sorry, this is pretty incoherent I know, but I'm kind of lost for words!
x_losfic: Tenx_losfic on February 7th, 2010 05:29 pm (UTC)
Oh this fic, *sigh* my dark shame. Thanks though--but give up writing for something from the period after I'd learned to write all in agreeing tenses, at least. :p
edzel2edzel2 on February 7th, 2010 05:47 pm (UTC)
LOL - I'm normally a pretty eagle-eyed proof-reader but I have to say in all honesty that I was so taken with the story and the dialogue that I didn't actually notice any conflicting tenses!!

I won't give up writing, of course - but you know that sinking feeling you get thinking about your own fic when you read someone else's and its so much better than yours... well, that's what yours did to me... but I still love it!
x_losficx_losfic on March 19th, 2010 09:38 am (UTC)
Oh no, I know you were kidding. And EVERYONE gets immense Writer's Jealousy, it's a /thing/: http://www.google.co.uk/search?q=jealousy+writers&ie=utf-8&oe=utf-8&aq=t&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&client=firefox-a , see? You Are Not Alone! :p
natsumi_chiannatsumi_chian on September 10th, 2012 02:05 pm (UTC)
omg this is so perfect, this. ;w;
I'm having so much feels over this fanfic right now OLOL
Really like how you wrote this, really good job.