The Doctor shivers against cold marble, the airship silent and still in the dark of the night. The Master’s fingers ghost along his bare sides, careful and sure. His skin prickles, his muscles weak from the de-ageing process.
He leans into the touch against good sense and the danger measured in the racing of his pulses. He can’t help it.
The Master’s breaths are warm and carry with them an amused hum. He can feel them settle across his cheeks, in the shell of his ear. And even as the Master strips away the last of his clothing, even as far beneath them he carries out Earth’s slaughter, he can imagine it’s the same man he fell in love with, he can imagine he wants this.
(He’s done worse things.)