Title: To the Quick
Author: Jo Masters
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sex (frottage and intecrural) and some naughty language.
Other characters: The Brigadier makes a cameo appearance.
Trigger warnings: Although I didn’t intend this to be a fic involving dubious consent, parts of it could be read as dub-con.
Summary: Just what were those swords doing in the Master’s prison, anyway?
Every member of UNIT regardless of rank, station, or time served, knew one thing about the mysterious Doctor who kept to his lab and kept to himself: he was, in the words of Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart, “a bit of an odd duck.” Nonetheless, when the odd duck in question requested the delivery of several swords to the Master’s island prison, UNIT—as a unit— turned all eyes to the Brigadier for an explanation.
Lethbridge-Stewart read the Doctor’s request (written in his rather sloppy penmanship) over in silence before rolling his eyes. “Oh, for goodness’ sake. I know the old man must have his fun, but this is getting absurd.” But he stamped the request approved, anyway.
The six swords—two pairs of rapiers and one pair of sabres—was shipped over that very day as Lethbridge-Stewart tried to console himself with the knowledge that if the Doctor ended up decapitating the prisoner during a more than usually enthusiastic bout of foreplay he, and not Lethbridge-Stewart himself, would have to fill out the paperwork.
“Really, old chap. Is that the best you can do?” The Doctor asked as he parried a blow in a manner his opponent would have described on any day as “nonchalant.”
“Hardly—sporting of you to taunt an opponent,” the Master fired back as he struck again.
Once again, the Doctor parried easily. “Oh, I think it quite sporting, seeing as you were not only top of our class, but a student of the Dardi School—reputedly, anyway.”
The Master gritted his teeth and tried his best not to wheeze as he struck again. No matter how rigorously he structured his calisthenics regimen, or how many times he went through the motions of rowing, the confines of his prison did not permit the rigorous forms of exercise to which he was accustomed. He had grown both slow and—oh, how it pained him to admit—soft during his months of confinement. His technique was not what it had been, and he was, indeed, losing, and losing dreadfully.
“What’s the matter?” The Doctor asked as he sidestepped another blow. “Cat got your tongue? Or are you simply out of breath? Oh, do try to keep up, Master! We’ve only been at this bout a few minutes. Surely you aren’t that out of shape.”
“Well,” the Master snarled as he struck again, “seeing as you’ve been bringing me raspberry cordials by the boatload, Doctor, you’re hardly an innocent bystander.”
“True,” the Doctor said as he parried again. “But you see, my dear fellow, I like a bit of paunch on you. More to hold onto when I’m in the throes of ecstasy.”
He sidestepped another blow, twirled, and slapped the Master across the backside with the flat of his blade.
“Doctor!” The Master cried. His free hand immediately moved to his stinging rear. The foil fell to the floor as the Master clutched at the tattered fabric. The Doctor had thoroughly slashed it—all the way to his briefs!
“This was my favorite Gucci! Do you know how beastly difficult it is to find a dignified, high-quality suit now that everyone enjoys dressing like a ruffian?! ”
The Doctor shrugged and touched the point of his rapier to the Master’s breastbone. “Touche.”
“Doctor,” the Master tried not to whine as he held up his hands. “This isn’t fair. The rules specify no damage to an opponent, and certainly no hitting below the belt.”
“I think you’re confused, my dear fellow. In the first case, I have not damaged you, only put you in need of a highly-skilled tailor. In the second, you are mistaking Marozzo for the Marquis of Queensbury. Though, if you would prefer pugilism, you need only say so. We both have ample training and ability—though yours, I fear, is somewhat questionable.”
The Master tried to prevent himself from blushing with anger. The heat along his neck and shoulders informed him that he had failed spectacularly.
“I demand a rematch,” he said.
The Doctor shook his and clicked his tongue. “My dear Master. Of course you do. Yet our rules—rules which you agreed to, I might add—specify that we will have no rematches unless one of us makes an unauthorized move. As I have demonstrated, sufficiently, that this has not happened, you have lost this bout. And Master?” He trailed the tip of his sword down the Master’s chest. “I do demand my forfeit.”
The Master touched the tip of his tongue to his upper lip and glared at the Doctor, who merely chuckled good-naturedly and put his rapier aside.
“Now, now. Don’t look so sullen. If I’m not mistaken, you quite enjoy losing,” he said as he twined his fingers through the Master’s. “Just as much as you enjoy winning, I think. And you will remember, I hope, that I take my own losses graciously and without complaint.”
The Master wanted very much to remind him that, on the contrary, he typically did not, as losing graciously necessitated acceptance, or at the very least polite unwillingness to thwart another’s carefully-laid out plans—whether those plans involved conquest of a global or carnal nature. However, the Doctor chose that particular moment to thwart the lecture itself by bowing his head and licking the Master’s neck in a most distracting manner.
“Unfair,” the Master informed him, unable to hide his shiver.
“Oh, yes. How careless of me. We really ought to do this in a much more comfortable location. Your bedroom? Unless you’d enjoy it on the table. Then again, in front of that television screen…we wouldn’t want anyone looking in and finding you in flagrante delicto, would we?”
“Doctor! Must you be so vulgar?”
“Given how delectably you startle when I do? Yes, old chap, I fear I must.”
The Master was about to tell him that enjoying sexual congress did not necessitate throwing decorum to the wind and speaking like a guttersnipe when the Doctor stopped him with a deep and thoroughly obscene kiss that sucked the words and the air from his mouth and the indignation from his mind.
“Well,” the Doctor whispered, and oh, oh, one clever hand was on his hip and the other in his graying hair. “Are you going to come—either to bed or otherwise?”
The Master knew he was positively scarlet now, from his scalp to his shoulders. Nonetheless, he managed to nod weakly.
“Then, shall we?” The Doctor offered one velvet-clad arm, the twinkle in his eye anything but innocent.
Trying his best to scowl at his lover, the Master took his arm and followed the Doctor into the bedroom.
The room was larger than his sitting room, its decoration Spartan yet opulent. The Master had requested and been granted (through the Doctor’s intercession, he highly suspected), heavy burgundy curtains, a mahogany bedroom set, and ivory linens. As the Doctor eased him onto the large bed, the Master pondered the wisdom behind the last of these. The quality was exquisite, but they really did show every mark.
A kiss against his neck followed by a long and lascivious lick broke off his musing.
“Enjoyed that, did you, old man?” The Doctor chuckled as he opened the Master’s jacket.
The Master thought it best to kiss his lover’s fingers in lieu of an answer.
“None of that now.” The Doctor flicked him across the swell of his nose. “To the victor belongs the spoils, as they say.”
“Dash it all, man! Don’t I at least get to touch you?”
“All in good time, my dear Master. Sit up now.” The Doctor kissed him almost tenderly and removed his jacket as the Master obeyed.
“Hang it up, won’t you? I won’t have my clothing further degraded today, either due to a fit of passion or carelessness.”
“I can certainly appreciate that,” the Doctor said as he carefully unbuttoned the Master’s shirt. “Sorry about your trousers. I’ll have them mended.”
“Oh, you’re not a bit sorry, and they are quite beyond repair, Doctor—or is your sartorial knowledge really that limited?”
“Hardly as specific as yours, undoubtedly, but hope does spring eternal, I’ve found.”
“Hmp. Well, see that it doesn’t happen again, please.”
The Doctor carefully finished undressing him and, true to his word, hung each item in the wardrobe. The Master crawled under the sheet and pulled it up to his chest and watched with growing appreciation as the Doctor divested himself of his own (ridiculous, in his opinion) shoes, ruffled shirt, burgundy smoking jacket, black trousers, and underthings—which he (carelessly) left piled at the foot of the bed.
“It’s no wonder you are so reckless with my attire,” the Master quipped as the Doctor climbed into bed. “Can you even be trusted to use a hanger?”
“When a delectable man is lying here entirely naked? Your incarceration has either made you the victim of overweening modesty or blasted your common sense at the root.”
The Doctor kissed him with a ferocity that made his toes curl. “Come here, you beautiful thing.”
They began in the Master’s second favorite position: his thigh draped over the Doctor’s hip as his lover rubbed against him while ravaging his neck with kisses and bites hard enough to bruise. As it was with all Time Lords, this was the most sensitive area on the Master’s person, and Doctor’s passion—and the knowledge that he would have to wear his higher-collared jackets for at least a week to conceal the evidence—only excited the Master further.
“You seem very enthusiastic,” the Doctor teased as the Master clawed at his back.
“On-on the contrary,” his lover panted. “I’m not enjoying a moment of it.”
“I see. Then perhaps I ought to work harder.”
The Master yelped as the Doctor rolled him onto his right side. “Top leg up, Master, foot to the bed,” he whispered before nipping his lover’s ear.
As he complied, the Master did not bite back a moan of pure, unashamed pleasure.
“You’re becoming quite a wanton, I see,” the Doctor said as he spooned up behind him, and before the Master could think of something scathing to say, his prick was pressed between his thighs.
“Curse you,” the Master moaned. This was his favorite position.
“I see. Shall I stop, then?”
His lover snarled and pressed his rear against the Doctor’s stomach. “Do and, so help me, I will shoot you or run you through.”
“Well, that’s hardly a threat. I might like the second of those. Your swordsmanship is very impressive, after all.” He pushed his hips forward and ran a long finger down the Master’s shaft. “And your sabre a truly impressive feat of craftsmanship.”
“Don’t be crude.”
“Oh, but you like it.” The Doctor thrust again, and the Master cried out as their cocks rubbed together. “You pretend to be proper and decorous with your formal language, your cigars, and your properly pressed suits, but we both know you secretly enjoy be scandalized, and what you really want, my dear Master, more than you want to win in any contest against me, is a good, hard rogering.”
“Sorry, you’re right. That was inappropriate, please excuse me.” The Doctor thrust harder. “I meant to say that what you really want is a good, hard¬fucking.”
The Master shrieked in outrage and bucked against the Doctor’s chest.
“Oh, yes. You quite liked that.” The Doctor licked up his neck and bit roughly right where flesh met jaw line, eliciting another scream from the Master. “Oh, that is a lovely sound,” he said. “But not so lovely as that prim, full mouth of yours saying objectionable things. What are you, Master?”
The Doctor bit him again. “Oh, no. You won’t get out of it that easily. The truth is, for all your propriety, you’re a dirty little sodomite, aren’t you?” When the Master remained silent, the Doctor clicked his tongue and slapped him soundly across one firm hip. “Come on! It’s just me. No one else need know your secret.”
The Master swallowed. “I’m a dirty little sodomite.”
The Doctor slapped him again. “Sorry, old chap. Couldn’t quite make that out. This regeneration’s hearing has never been the best.”
“I’m a dirty little sodomite.”
“No, I’m afraid that won’t do, either.”
“I’m a dirty little sodomite!”
The Doctor slapped him a third time, threw his arm over the Master’s waist and returned to thrusting. “And what-what do you like your Doctor to do to you?”
“You know perfectly well!”
“Oh, but I want you to say it.”
Another bite against his neck. The Master shivered. “I enjoy carnal embrace—”
Another bite. “No.”
“Sexual congress.” The Master screamed as the Doctor thrust harder.
“No, still not right. Do stop being-mh, stubborn, old chap. It frustrates me, and from the looks of you, you’re sexually frustrated enough for the pair of us. Still not going to say what you really think? Hm. Very well, I’ll tell you. You, my dear Master, enjoy being fucked. Until you’re too sore to move. Until you’re too spent to deny that you want it. Until I wipe that cold, smug smirk from your otherwise attractive face. Until—”
He pressed a kiss against the Master’s ear. “Until,” he repeated, “we both know that you are completely and utterly mine. Well?”
The Doctor thrust harder and rained kisses against his shoulders.
“No,” the Master repeated, and then, softly. “Yes.”
“Not good enough,” the Doctor all but sang out before slapping him again.
The Master felt his entire body stiffen. “All right,” he whispered. “All right, Doctor. You win. I like it. I like being--fucked. Please. Please don’t stop.”
The Doctor smiled against his lover’s neck. “Well, I suppose that will do.”
And he fucked the Master until the other Time Lord came, writhing, screaming, swearing and quite beyond both control and propriety. The Doctor’s own orgasm wasn’t far behind.
As his lover slumped against him, the Master closed his eyes and breathed deeply, willing his hearts to slow and his mind to clear. The latter was difficult to do, as the stickiness between his thighs made him feel both pleased and deliciously debauched.
“Now,” he said, when he finally managed to calm down. “Are you satisfied with your forfeit, Doctor?”
“Yes. You performed admirably.”
“Good. Then I take it I am free to make a demand of you?”
“If you wish.”
The Master took a breath. “Hold me,” he wanted to say. “Let me fall asleep that way. I’ve been defeated by you, ravished by you, and I’ve debased myself for you. This was not the first time, and Rassilon knows it will not be the last. But there is one thing I want you to say to me, Doctor. Just one thing. And I needn’t cajole and coerce you into saying it, because it isn’t like goading me into saying rude words. Because it isn’t a game. Not to me.”
Instead he said, “See that you don’t disturb the guards on your way out in the morning, won’t you? I’ve quite enough trouble with the guards nosing about in my privacy as it is.”
“Well, if that’s all,” the Doctor said slowly, and was it the Master’s imagination, or did he sound less enthusiastic than he had all night.
“Yes.” But the Master turned and nestled into his arms anyway. The Doctor didn’t say another word, and soon his breath came slow and even in sleep.
The Master’s eyes stayed open for a very, very long time.
The Keller Process--of Love
- To the Quick (Three/Delgado!Master), NC-17