Archive of Our Own ^beta

It had been such a good idea in his head, and it was his idea, even if it sprang from some offhanded comment the Doctor had made. The Doctor had balked of course, looked practically scandalized, though the Master tended to think it was less that he didn’t like the suggestion, and more that he did. If the Doctor didn’t take the bait, it was almost worth it just for that dumbstruck expression.

“What? You… what?” The Doctor asked. The Master watched his eyes scrunch, head tilted just a bit to the side, obviously trying to work out what sort of scheme this could possibly play into. He was also obviously coming up with nothing, which was just as well. Being stuck on the TARDIS was captivity if an oddly gentle form of it, and it left him with little better to do than to screw with the Doctor’s head.

“I didn’t stutter,” The Master replied smoothly, unable to decide if the Doctor’s hesitance was more annoying or humiliating. Well, it would have been humiliating if he cared a whit what the Doctor thought of him. He didn’t, so that was off the table entirely.

“No, I heard you…” The Doctor murmured, still looking at him like something was remiss. It was hardly a new expression, and the Master was practically immune by now.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, like you haven’t thought about it,” the Master practically purred, and there, there it was, the way the Doctor’s eyes opened just a smidgen wider. He hedged a bit, but eventually gave in, as this regeneration seemed so very prone to doing.

And that was how the Master ended up splayed out and naked, ankles and wrists lashed to the Doctor’s bed. For all his supposed misgivings, the Doctor kept staring, fingers settling just a bit longer over the bindings than was absolutely necessary. He probably even thought he was in control of the situation, and good. Here the Doctor had said the Master had no subtlety, but this was subtle, wasn’t it?

The bindings seemed loose, loose enough at least to wriggle in a bit, and that was comforting. Not that he’d need to get away, not when the Doctor would be practically eating out of his hand, but it was prudent to keep tabs on the situation anyway. He might have thought beyond that, to what if he couldn’t, but the Doctor was staring at him, perched at the foot of the bed between his ankles.

“You can’t tell me you’re just planning to sit there all night,” The Master muttered. Much as he planned to rub it in the Doctor’s face later, his remarkably subtle ability to be in control, even like this, it was going to be awfully tedious if he had to orchestrate it all. The Doctor was already stretching out though, like he planned to crawl up the Master’s body, and that was good, much better than the disconcertingly vulnerable feeling of simply being on display.

The Doctor didn’t say anything, but his arms brushed against the Master’s calves, the linen of his shirt soft and woefully disconnected. The Master lifted his head awkwardly, watching for a moment before he muttered, “You’re wearing too many clothes.”

“I was getting around to it,” the Doctor huffed, and for a moment the Master thought that was the end of it. The Doctor got up though, a longsuffering sigh seeping past his lips as he loosened his tie, tugging it off from around his neck. The shirt was next, each button popping to reveal a bit more of the Doctor’s chest, down to where the shirt tucked into his pinstriped slacks. The rest were shed with a shimmy of hips and that was better. If he had to be naked for this, the Doctor damn well better be too.

The Master relaxed after that, after the bed dipped and the Doctor was hovering over him, intent and warm. There was something enthralling about being the center of such brilliant focus, however fleetingly he might be allowed to remain there. The Doctor dipped his head, lips brushing over the Master’s, only to retreat when the Master tried to deepen the kiss. That wouldn’t do at all.

He made a face, but the Doctor seemed to ignore it and tried again. Soft lips pulled at the Master’s, languid and easy and with none of the urgency the Master craved. He grumbled against the Doctor’s mouth, “You’ve got me all trussed up and you just want to make out?”

“You don’t like it?” The words were muffled against his skin, kisses peppering his jaw. The Doctor’s tongue flicked against his pulse, and that was good, that could stay. Of course it didn’t, and straining to be closer only made the Doctor pull away.

“You have absolutely no creativity if you’re going to squander an opportunity like this,” The Master goaded. That should work. He waited expectantly for the Doctor to take the bait, to be led along. He could only groan when the Doctor really did ignore his complaints this time.

The Doctor pulled back to look at him, eyebrows drawn up and he just knew the git was laughing at him. There were more kisses, and the Doctor had the audacity to sound amused as he spoke between them. “I think… You are rather missing… The point.”

“I can’t miss the point. It was my idea,” the Master countered petulantly.

“Yes, but you’re still trying to order me around, and you’re not exactly in much of a position to force the issue,” The Doctor pointed out very mildly. The Master was on the urge of being angry, of demanding to be released and done with this particular game, but there were lips and tongue and teeth on his neck, and his mouth felt like glue, only a low moan escaping his lips.

If the Doctor would just do that, this actually had some potential. There was sharp pressure, the scrape of teeth over flesh, and the Master closed his eyes, straining into it. Alright, he would concede it took more effort, but obviously the Doctor was bending to his whims, tied up or not. He didn’t even notice he was gloating until the Doctor stopped again, lips maddeningly gentle against the junction of his throat.

“You idiot, don’t stop! That was good,” The Master complained, squirming in the ropes.

“You’re doing it again,” the Doctor murmured, mouth tickling the Master’s skin.

The Master huffed, trying to glare at the Doctor, though he could only see the spiky tufts of his hair. “Doing what?”

“Thinking you’re in charge. You know, I might even do what you want if you’d just ask,” The Doctor murmured good naturedly, mouthing at the shell of his ear. It was pleasant and distracting and not at all what he thought the Doctor ought to be doing.

The Master tried to jerk his head away, just to get his thoughts collected. “I was asking.”

“No. That was ordering, or trying to. Asking tends to be a great deal more polite.” The Doctor leaned in, nipping at his lip briefly. He grinned cheekily at the Master, adding, “Or breathy and desperate.”

No. No, he wasn’t going to be asking for anything. He scowled at the Doctor, who damnably took it all in stride, nibbling at the column of the Master’s throat, tongue swiping over a collar bone. Well, that was fine too. The Master hadn’t lost. He had a perfectly serviceably contingency plan.

Under other circumstances he might have appreciated the Doctor practically worshiping him, fingers and mouth sliding reverently over his skin. Right now, it was just a convenient distraction because, if the Doctor was distracted lapping at his rib cage, he wasn’t watching the Master work his way free of the ropes. He wouldn’t even know what hit him until the Master had him pinned, and then he’d have no choice at all but to listen.

The Master yanked at one wrist, twisting his hand a bit in the ropes. He’d assumed the Doctor must be rubbish at tying, what with the slight give in the bindings, but this… was unexpected. Each pull only drew the rope tighter.

Well, that was inconvenient, but not insurmountable. It had to be some sort of fluke. He was in charge of the situation, he was, and he’d just have to start with the other wrist. Again, he tried. Again, the ropes grew tighter, and the Doctor’s mouth across his belly was warm and tender and unreasonably terrifying.

He struggled again, more openly than before, twisting on the bed sheets. He was naked. Naked and trapped, and the realization came down on him, swift and suffocating. The Doctor had only been sickeningly sweet, hadn’t even done anything, but he could. He could and the Master couldn’t even get away, and the horror of it made his stomach lurch, even more so for the tiny prickle of pleasure at the back of his mind, the way his body swayed and gave trustingly in under the Doctor’s mouth.

No. No. No. It wasn’t supposed to be like that. He was going to be in charge. He was going to bend even the Doctor’s affections to his will. Instead he was trapped and laid bare, and he loathed them both for his error, yanking furiously at the ropes. Distantly, he was aware he had only to ask and he’d be free, that the Doctor had only been good to him, hadn’t even had the decency to give him something rational to panic over. The Master hated him for that, jaw set, eyes squeezed shut as he struggled to bend the ropes to his will.

“Nononoletmeout!” He didn’t realize he’d made a sound, so lost was he in his own head. He must have looked something awful because even the Doctor seemed distraught when he finally dared to look. The bindings gave like they were nothing, the Doctor’s cool hands smoothing over his sore wrists, but he couldn’t bear it, yanking all his limbs in until he was a ball in the center of the bed. His voice felt hoarse, his throat rough, though he was certain he would not have stooped to screaming.

“It’s alright. You’re alright,” The Doctor was whispering to him, and he might’ve still looked alarmed, but the Master couldn’t bear to look. Fingers crept over his shoulder and he trembled, but couldn’t quite pull away. They spread across his shoulder blade, swept down his spine, and the Doctor was curled around him, a buffer from a storm of his own making.

It wasn’t alright, not really. The Doctor always lied about those things anyway, but his voice was soothing, and so the Master let him talk. He could always be angry later. Heaven knew they had plenty of time for it. In the meantime, he could only shake, for the fear of captivity that meant something, for the way his stomach had jumped at the prospect, some traitorous part of himself enjoying that.

He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that. He cursed and loved the Doctor who, for all his cheek, all his sanctimony, didn’t mock his fear when it was real. There were hands in his hair, grounding and safe, and the Master didn’t like to think about that either, even as he pressed his face into the Doctor’s chest.

The Master settled on refusing to acknowledge any of the incident had been good. It was some sort of quirk, some malfunction between body and mind, of course. He wanted nothing less than to be in charge because he was the Master, and he would not be subject to someone else’s whims. He jerked away, just on principle.

The Doctor was curled around him, in some strange form of penance that involved whispered apologies and rather a lot of petting. It was idiotic, and the Master fully intended to pull away, to sulk in peace and regroup. It was the Doctor’s fault anyway, the misconstrued ropes, the kisses and sickening gentleness of it all, and no wonder the whole thing had been a disaster.

He ought to kick the Doctor, worse than that even, if he were honest. There were nails across his shoulders though, soothing and nice. He liked that, it could stay, and he supposed the Doctor too since he was attached to said nails. The Master scowled against the Doctor’s chest, just daring him to say a word. It still didn’t mean he’d lost. It just meant the opportunity to come up with another plan…