The Doctor closes the bedroom door behind him and turns. His face bears the expression of a man resigned to something inevitable, but there's a flash, just a flash, of some deeper, more complicated emotion in his eyes. The Master isn't sure which he finds more exciting.
"So," he says. "Alone at last." He flashes the Doctor what he happens to know is a magnificent, charming smile.
The Doctor leans against the wall, his posture far too casual to truly be anything of the kind. His eyes flicker from the Master's face to the bed behind him, and back. "Some people might regard it as a little desperate, taking hostages just to get a date."
Interesting. He'd rather anticipated the Doctor pretending not to understand what "come to me, alone, or your companions will suffer" actually means this time, despite the large, bed-shaped hint. But all right. They can skip that game tonight and go all the sooner to the main event. He trails his fingers along the knob of the bedpost. "Would you have come if I'd merely asked?"
The Doctor straightens up, looks at the ceiling. He seems to be genuinely thinking about it. "Yes," he says finally. "Yes, I would."
The nearly whispered words send an unexpected thrill through him, and not one that he welcomes. It should not matter to him whether the Doctor would have come here of his own free will; that isn't the point of the exercise. Not quite. "Ah, but then it would have been on your own terms. You'd have come thinking we could... What's a good word? Connect. Yes, connect. You'd tell yourself that here was a perfect opportunity to talk me out of my wicked ways. And then you could go away with a new best friend to ease your lonely, existential angst. Or, much more likely, with a warm sense of sanctimonious self-righteousness over how nobly you tried to redeem your poor, misguided countryman, even if he simply wouldn't listen." He walks forward as he speaks, until his body is inches from the Doctor's, and breathes his next words into the Doctor's ear. "You see, I don't want you to come for you. I want you to come for me."
The Doctor doesn't move, doesn't flinch, but the Master can sense the tension in his body, can hear the sound of him swallowing before he speaks, and he finds it sweet. "I came for them," the Doctor says.
"Yes," he purrs, "but I manipulated you into it." He steps back, flashes a wide, bright grin. "That never stops being fun."
The Doctor tilts his head and looks into the Master's eyes. The Master can see thoughts flashing through that complex, eccentric brain: calculations, evaluations... Well, not literally, not yet, but he wonders whether, if they hold this gaze long enough, if the Doctor fails to put up enough of a fight, he might not catch a naked glimpse of the Doctor's mind. He licks his lips at the thought.
The Doctor breaks eye contact first, tilting his face ceiling-ward again, and makes a slow, disgusted noise. "Is that really what you want? Sex? It seems a bit... tawdry, doesn't it? A bit sordid." He rolls that last word around in his mouth, as if he's tasting the syllables before letting them go. "Not really worthy of you. Frankly, I'm sort of hoping you're going to tell me it's all part of some ridiculously convoluted plan to, I dunno, take over the universe? Universal domination via shagging... No, wait. I take that back. That's really not something I want to think about." He affects a hopeful expression. "I don't suppose it's part of some elaborate plan to kill me?"
"But I don't want to kill you," the Master says, patiently. "Not any more. You know that thing I said a moment ago, about the manipulation? It's hard to do with people who are dead. I've come to enjoy the idea of you existing." He moves forward again, closer to the Doctor. "Of having you around to challenge me. To thwart me. You see? I've grown as a person. I'm capable of admitting it now." The Doctor's eyes widen at that, and he takes advantage of that off-balance moment to press himself against the Doctor, to press the Doctor against the wall. "And what I want now," he says, "is a good." He thrusts his hips against the Doctor's. "Hard." His hand comes up to tangle in the Doctor's hair. "Thwarting." The Doctor gasps, and the Master seizes the opportunity, biting hard at the Doctor's lips.
The Doctor groans, and the Master feels a surge of gloating triumph. He has him now. He has him. "Oh, hell. I suppose we are the last two Time Lords in the universe." Unexpectedly, the Doctor's face softens, and his voice takes on a trembling, vulnerable note. "And it was good once, wasn't it? Such a long time ago. Do you remember?" He raises a hand, gently, to stroke the Master's face. The Master slaps it away. His sense of triumph is fading into... something. Something he doesn't want to think about.
"This isn't about rekindling happy memories," he says, irritably. "Now. You are going to throw me on that bed, right now, and fuck my brains out." He points at it and smiles in a way that is not at all charming. "Or I am going to kill your friends. Slowly and, in Jack's case, repeatedly. You'd be amazed at the things I could think of to do to that fascinating abomination. By the time I'm finished, he might even come to like it."
Ah, there. There's the expression he's wanted to see. Hatred. Passionate hatred.
The Doctor snarls and shoves him onto the bed, throwing himself atop him. He pins the Master's arms above his head, and there's a deliciously surprising strength in his lanky new body.
"Is this what you want?" the Doctor hisses. "Is it?"
Oh, yes. "Not yet. But you're definitely on the right track."
The Doctor kisses him. Violently, bruisingly. Beautifully. He opens his mouth wide, wider, inviting the Doctor to thrust, to invade, to take. His hands twitch under the Doctor's grasp, and the Doctor clamps down harder. Hard enough to hurt. Perfect.
The Doctor pulls away at last, gasping for air. His body moves slightly against the Master's, sliding, adjusting, fitting them together. Lovely. But when his lips descend again, their movements are soft and gentle, and his tongue moves not to plunder, but to caress.
Disgusted, the Master snarls and whips his head away. "I am not your lover!" he shouts. "I'm your enemy! Don't forget it." His voice lowers, becomes something husky and cold. "You know who I am. I've killed billions. Trillions. And I've enjoyed it. I've laughed. I've maimed, tortured, stolen bodies. I tried to destroy Gallifrey myself once, do you remember? If you hadn't stopped me, there'd be more of us alive now. That's irony, don't you think?"
"Stop it," the Doctor croaks. If there was softness in his eyes a moment ago, it's gone now. Anger and pain are warring to replace it.
"Hate me," the Master whispers. "Hurt me. Take me."
"No." The word is a whisper, devoid of force.
"Yes!" He writhes beneath the Doctor and reaches out with his mind. He has only a tiny fraction of a moment before the Doctor's defenses close him out, but it is long enough to give him the sounds of laugher and screams, images of darkness blotting out the sky, an invitation to vengeance. A tide of emptiness, a surge of need.
The Doctor lets out a strangled cry of frustration, of anger... of lust. One hand shifts to clasp both the Master's wrists, hard enough to bruise. The other hand slides down and plunges into the Master's clothing. The Master stiffens, anticipating pleasure, pain, touch, but the Doctor merely fumbles in his pocket and emerges with his laser screwdriver.
The Doctor's eyes are wild, and the Master feels his own widening in response. It is possible he has underestimated the Doctor again. The laser driver is a tool, not a weapon, but it can very easily kill, and he wants to keep this body. He likes this body. Fear and arousal thrum through him, indistinguishable, exciting. He imagines the Doctor slitting his throat, ripping him open, imagines the look on his face, imagines regenerating in the middle of sex. "Please," he says breathily, and it's a plea, not to stop, but to do something.
The Doctor spins the control, flips the device on, brings a glowing, humming beam of energy down to the Master's body... and slits his clothing open, collar to crotch. Fabric smolders, shrivels and falls to tattered rags around him. The skin beneath burns faintly, sweetly. The device flips off again, clatters to the floor, and the Master lies there, exposed, looking up at the still-fully-clothed Doctor.
Relief replaces fear in the Master's mind, but the arousal only grows. He moans beneath the Doctor's gaze. This is it. This is the moment. Domination. Power. The Doctor understands. The Doctor is his.
"Doctor," he breathes.
"Master," comes the reply. And he fancies it's more than his name. It's a correction.
The Doctor's hand slides up to his own throat and yanks off his tie, never taking his eyes from the Master's. The expression on his face is painful, beautiful concentration, all of it focused on him.
A moment later, the Master's wrists are bound, tight enough to hurt, almost tight enough to cut off circulation. He nips at the Doctor's arm as it passes his face, catching skin, marking the Doctor with his teeth. The Doctor says nothing, makes no sound. The expression on his face never wavers.
Ungentle hands reach beneath the Master's body and turn him over, scattering the rags and remnants of his clothing. He bucks his hips, kicks and writhes beneath the Doctor's grasp, under the Doctor's body, but it isn't a fight he's trying to win. This is what he's wanted the Doctor to learn: the joy of controlling another's body, of dominating another's desire.
The Doctor takes him, without warning, without preparation. Hard and painful and perfect. The Doctor's hands hold him down, thrusting him against the bed, loosening, thrusting again with the rhythm of his hips. The Doctor's nails dig into the Master's flesh. His teeth sink into the Master's shoulder, grunting breaths escaping between them to tingle hot against the Master's skin. Punishment for his sins. Reward for his patience. The dawn of a new era.
It goes on and on, the rhythm pounding inside him like drums, and when it reaches its crescendo, he screams the Doctor's name.
The Doctor lets out a shuddering sigh, like the blowing of the vortex winds or the exhalation of a dying man, then rolls off him, limp and spent. A moment goes by, and another, then he pulls the Master to him, the Master's head against his shoulder, the Master's still-bound hands trapped between their bodies. For a while, the Master is quiet, listening to the fourfold synchrony of their hearts and savoring the taste of fulfillment. Of victory.
"There," he says at last. "You see? How thin, how meaningless the line between the desire to interfere and the desire to control is. We're not very different, you and I. You understand it, too: the intoxication of power, the satisfaction of subjugation." He raises his face, presses his lips to the Doctor's ear. "You only had to find it in yourself." He twitches his hands, grinding the knot into the Doctor's flesh through the rumpled fabric of the shirt that still clings to his body. "And now you know. It's good, isn't it? And it only gets better."
"The humans have an old joke," the Doctor replies, his voice slow and quiet. "The masochist says, 'Hurt me!' And the sadist says, 'No.'" He touches the Master's hair, strokes his skin. "I'm no sadist. Master."
The sound of his name is at once tender and mocking, and it does something strange and unwelcome to his hearts. The Doctor reaches between them and unties the knot with a single, gentle tug. When the Master pulls back to look at his face, the expression that he sees there is pity.
"I must admit," the Doctor says, holding him close again, "it's a clever variation on your usual attempts to destroy me. Very psychologically profound. Turn me into the thing I hate, make me confront my dark side. It's very good." His voice is soft, his words something other than flippant. He sighs. "Problem is, I've already seen my dark side. Know all about it, in fact. And I know something else, too: I'm not you. Maybe theoretically I could be, but I'm not. And if you were about to propose that we run off together and rule the universe side-by-side, now that I've unleashed my inner domination-crazed maniac, well, I'm flattered, really, but it isn't going to happen."
The Master tries to answer, tries to think of a suitable sneering reply, but he feels... strangely wordless. Strangely empty. He digs numb fingers into the Doctor's arm, as if that alone will be sufficient to hold him here.
"It could still work the other way round, you know," the Doctor says, answering his silence. "You could join me. We could do this, instead of fighting. As often as you like." The Doctor's lips brush lightly against his. "Instead of having the universe, you could have me."
"Insufferable egotist," he says, to keep himself from killing the man, or telling him yes.
"Look who's talking!" The Doctor grins, and in that smile the Master sees... possibilities. The Doctor can forgive him. Can love him. Can own him.
Hatred seethes in his hearts.
He tears himself from the Doctor's embrace, snatches up the laser tool from its resting place on the floor, and holds it inches from the Doctor's eyes. "Get out," he rasps. "Get out before I kill you."
Unhurried, unafraid, the Doctor pulls his trousers up and fastens them carefully. "What about my companions?"
"They were freed the moment you walked in here." He sneers. "You see? You didn't do it for them."
The Doctor's eyes meet his for a moment, and whatever the Master sees inside them is no longer attractive. He stands slowly, his fingers plucking his discarded tie from the bed, thrusting it into a pocket. "Master," he says, reaching out a hand, a gentle, pleading note in his voice.
"I've changed my mind," the Master says. "I don't like it when you use my name. Come back here again, and I will kill you."
The Doctor nods, sadly, and steps towards the door.
The Master slams it behind him.