extryn: (twissy)
[personal profile] extryn
Title: Adonis
Author: extryn
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Tenth Doctor/Simm!Master
Genre: Year That Never Was, angst, darkfic, pwp, possibly crack
Length: 10 K
Warnings: Non-con (or maybe dub-con if you really squint), BDSM, fisting, anal, and Hello Kitty. Not joking.

The night before Japan burns, the Master celebrates. The Doctor is tired of resisting.

It's shame he feels when he's cut loose, left to hit the floor, the kind that is an abyss he's losing himself to. There's pain screaming at him from every corner that's just another responsibility chasing after him. An illusion is fading in and out, down there in the black, where if he sinks deep enough there's a release and there's nothing outside, but he's already lost it just out of reach.

He's dragged across the carpet by his bloodied wrists and onto the bed where it's soft and garish, things like sight and sound and the smell of it crushing, suffocating, but there's nowhere left to run. The light is blotted out by the Master leaning over him, hands pinned against something hard—it's his skin, his bare fingers, and they don't feel soft but they smart and smear the blood around.

His legs are pried apart and there's resistance everywhere, at his hands and wrists and his thighs are stiff and rusted in place, but it always gives in the end, the air and rough fabric of suit over the agony that is his arousal are just too real to be anything but ripping a hole through him. His knees up near his head and cuffs fastening around his ankles, it's a great, gaping tear, straight down the seams of him, it pulls all in the wrong directions and it hurts in ways that won't hide him. Instead he feels exposed, so, so exposed, the Master scraping nails down the backs of his thighs, hot and too sharp, the Master dragging his tongue in a thick, slow lick over his balls and all the way back up. He knows it's almost a scream when he hears it come from his mouth and this time the abyss is spilling out too, but the Master sees it and gives no mercy.

The moments when there's no contact at all are even worse. He reaches off to the side and the room swims back in even when his eyes are closed, in awareness made acute by pain and need. The crackle of a foil sachet, dip of the mattress, angles of the wall and floor; sensations made too sharp and remind him that they exist, that they're his and so he exists. There's too much to remember to do anything but forget himself.

A cold, slick finger pushes inside him, then another, too perfunctory to be for anybody's comfort but the Master's. Bitter experience should make him grateful and he's not, still not when the fingers are gone and the tip of the Master's length is there instead, when he forces his way inside in two rough thrusts and it hurts but doesn't split him apart. It's a quick, using fuck that doesn't care about finesse or delivery, that manages to breach closer than anybody else could ever get and still so distant, when he just needs the Master, needs it to be just them just once. The Master is buried balls-deep in him and there is so much that separates it from him, traps him and isolates him. It's too raw, too empty for any kind of pleasure, too far away for any kind of escape, but the Master's enjoying it and his rhythm soon stutters. He needs to hold on, needs to have just this moment from him, to feel anything of him, but he's spread and held in place and the Master pulls out like always and there's a stiff gasp, wetness on his skin. To have something of the Master left within him is still beneath his privilege. He can feel why.
The sudden loss makes him ache harder, desperately painful and still not enough to fill the voids that are all him and not enough anything, anything else. He moans to avoid the oath of words before the need implodes inside him, breaks more of him apart.

Even through the hazy quiet the Master pays attention, just long enough to eye him dismissively. 'Need some help with that?'

Because, of course, he can't keep losing unless it's always a competition. Because, this time, having nothing left to lose has its attractions and he's not there yet, it's 'Yes,' that he chokes, it's 'Master,' that doesn't make it past a breath (but it doesn't have to be said) when two fingers and thumb close around him.
It feels so unbelievably good, so delicately, luxuriously good. The sensation is saccharine, sweet-tainted by memories too long cherished to justify as anything but rose-tinted with age. The slide of his fingers is gentle and deft; it chases away the sharpness of sensation after so long untouched with drawn-out waves of pleasure. The Master is right; this could be good, so good. He leans into it as much as he is allowed though he doesn't find the pressure he needs, just these feather-light spreading sparks that douse out the pain. It feels like a gift, but to accept is to choose, and he's so sick of making choices. He half expects it to be false, to feel nails or teeth and lose it all, but the Master is crueller than that and leaves him with the truth that he enjoys this, because he's his own biggest lie he could be made to face.

The fingertips of one hand scrape lower, along taut skin and tease at his entrance with all the precision and attention that was denied him before.

'But it's not what you want, is it?' whispers the Master, breath warm over his erection.

He admits it with a twitch of his hips, pushes back because this is good in a different, unavoidable way. Fingers press inside him, coarse, deliberately intimate; the Master's eyes locked on the wince that twitches briefly on his face. Somewhere there's communication, one-sided and in a language as dead as their own, but he holds onto it just the same, encourages the intrusion.

The Master pries him open steadily and relentlessly, keenly focussed on his every reaction. He'll keep going, twisting and tearing until he gets one - he doesn't hold back. It's personal, every sensation and thought laid bare before it's captured by the Master's gaze boring down his own, the Master's attention undivided to exposing him inch by inch and laying claim to everything he finds there.

The hand around him gives an almost unbearably firm squeeze and then withdraws entirely, tears open another packet of lubricant and as it returns a third finger wedges against the others.

He finds the exposure welcome. There's nowhere to hide against the invasive press of fingertips, that deep, overwhelming hitch of pleasure that makes him twitch more and harder when the Master just grazes his prostate and turns his moans broken and keening. The onslaught strips it down around him instead and that's what the Master wants; his loneliness, his guilt, his hope, his hatred. Even after everything that they've done, his need. He gives it all up to the only person who's ever wanted it, who wants all that he is and more still, all he won't let himself become. He doesn't need to pretend who he isn't, here. Oh, Rassilon, he wants to, but the Master will never let him, and he sobs because it feels so good he doesn't know how to go back.

They know each other so much better than they'll admit. The Master knows just how hard to curl his fingers to keep the Doctor well from orgasm but make his vision drop away. The second he can't run from it, he craves it; the intimacy, the familiarity, the last person he can steal it from. He yelps from a particularly fierce jab just there and then almost giggles, hysterically, at how his whole body lurches towards it and he forgets to breathe.

The Master knows far too well what he needs. He feels a clean edge of pain that flutters briefly and then there's a fourth finger stretching him wide, the fullness spreading all the way through him, choking him from within. Everything stops as he clenches, spasms around it, then he yields and lets it take him apart.
Each movement reams him further down, tugs at the bruised skin of his thighs as he twists and squirms away because he really can't, it's too much, when the Master rubs firmly where his skin is stretched thin and sensitive around his knuckles, slips the very tip of his thumb inside the space left each time his fingers pull back. The cuffs and the Master's hand, squeezing a warning around the base of him, hold him still, so instead he throws his head back like he's being dragged underwater and fighting to reach those final gasps that will save him.

The Master tucks his thumb inside and pulls, stretches him taut until his whine almost breaks into an airless scream, his other hand leaving to secure his hip against the mattress with nails and a bruising grip. Then he's pressing inwards, insistent, rending him apart with a searing pain that only grows worse. It tips over into agony for a sickening moment that the Master prolongs, watches him struggle beyond comprehension or endurance to accommodate the full width of his hand  until it's allowed to ease past, and inexorably he falls deeper around the Master until he's drawn tight around his wrist.

It's devastating. He loses control of thought to drown in the sensation, something that struggling only makes worse, that consumes and swallows him from the inside-out. The Master shifts within him, applies a hard pressure that overloads his nerves with pleasure, completely inescapable, and keeps it there. He won't relent, repeats it again and again in shallow, gradual movements that reduce him to nothing but those peaks of shattering pleasure and the relief when they ebb.
It drags on until stickiness is pooling down his groin and the pain crests through to a constant, amplifying ache, except those moments at the height of each movement that combine it with such intense pleasure it batters down every last synapse until he's overcome. Pressure builds deep within, where he can feel the solid angles of the Master's bones, filling him with the singular need to just give in and let it take him to release. It's unbearable but he has to withstand it, fights against each wave to keep hold of himself.

'Don't move,' instructs the Master, softly, cruelly. He demonstrates with a harsh tug that has the Doctor's whole body tense in racking, sudden pain.
He gasps a short breath and stops trying to twist away, suddenly fully aware that there are nicer ways to die. He concedes himself, just this once, there's nothing else he can do. He needs it, needs him, now, so undeniably, needs to give the Master everything even for a moment so somebody else will have it. Everything clamours for it. For so many reasons, he can't resist this. But it's that last one that offers just enough justification. He relinquishes his grip on that last, primal need for self preservation and willingly lets the Master take the right over his life and death.

He pushes back into each motion and lets it extinguish himself entire. It's so easy, now, and it hurts so, so much, and then that's all there is, the pain and the pleasure and he stops fighting them as they take him whole.

The Master leans in close. 'Let go for me, Doctor.'

And he does. He's coming, again and again with the world gone blinding white and nothing but the Master's name on his lips. For a brief, blissfully timeless moment, he's free. There's absolutely nothing. It's so short but while it lasts it goes on forever.

He doesn't want to come back. He's taken, anyway, back into pain with a renewed edge and a sick feeling he pushes away for the raw, splitting pain of the Master leaving him empty and gaping, for his blood rushing back to his fingertips like acid.

They lie; the Doctor curled against the front of the Master's suit, the Master with his head propped on one elbow and an unreadable expression on his face that is far away enough from malice for the Doctor not to mind. It only takes the Master's fingers carding roughly through his hair to push everything away again for good and fall less into sleep, so much as unconsciousness, those gold-dark eyes watching over him as he sinks.

When he wakes up, the first thing he does is stagger, aching, to the bathroom with the glass walls, where he's sick over and over again into the toilet.
He's naked, still, and picks his way over the debris on the floor to the door of the room where he finds his clothes in another neat little pile. He finds the Master, too, freshly-groomed and straightening his tie and can't meet his eyes without retching.

He dresses, as fast as his battered limbs will allow. His shirt smells of sweat and sex, stained with patches of his own blood. His fingers are almost numb and he can't move them to do up the buttons so he settles for closing the jacket over it instead.

The trip back to the Valiant is painful and slow. He doesn't think once that it might be the last time he ever sets foot on Japan until they're boarding the plane.

He's given back his suit and agonizingly aged back up. It's like being rewritten. The marks are gone and his jaw stops pounding, and though his fingers are still slow and clumsy he can feel them. He can't walk anymore for it to be an ordeal. He's been reset, and he can almost believe that, too.

It's not really rewritten. His cells have followed an undamaged template as they've mutated. But then, it's not really resetting, either.

When Japan burns, in a cloud that turns the skies red, he's almost grateful.
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