filthy/gorgeous

torture.

Mon, 20 Aug 2007 00:20:46 GMT

Author: biroid.
Written For: moogle62.
Title: Torture.
Pairing: Master/Doctor.
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: "I'll open your lips, one way or another."
Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who, despite the disturbing presence of a Dalek in a cardigan on this desk.
Warnings: Non-con, the odd bad word and emotional boo-boos.

Burn.

"How does it feel, Doctor?"

Pressing the heel of his shoe into the Doctor's shoulder, the Master kicked the limp body onto its back. He stood like a hunter, foot on his pray and weapon in his hand; the laser screwdriver had proved its worth many times over, and he'd yet to grow bored of turning it on both of his captives. Between them, the Doctor and the Captain had suffered every setting on the Master's plaything. Jack had experienced an inhuman heart rate, enough to wear the organ to little more than dust, and even a disruption of his involuntary processes. His lungs had forgotten to breathe, his immune system had forgotten to fight, and his cells had forgotten to grow. The Doctor's treatment, on the other hand, had been far less experimental - he had suffered nothing but simple torture.

"Had enough? Feel like spilling a few beans?" Grinding his heel deeper into his rival's shoulder, the Master noted the wince that crossed his face was nothing short of exhausted. The reinstatement of his youth was a process that drained energy like no other, but it wasn't just his body that sustained the damage - the Doctor's mind was drained, pained and worn. One look into his half-hidden brown eyes told the Master everything, and a broad smile crossed his thin lips. There was only so much a Time Lord could take. Even the Doctor would have a breaking point.

"Evidently, Doctor, you don't understand how this works," Removing his foot and pacing away, the Master settled himself rather happily into a chair that had been pulled up for him by a guard, "This isn't going to go away if you can out-stubborn me. Earth is mine, and keeping your gums hushed isn't going to change that. You've lost, my friend - you lost the moment you laid eyes on me," As the Master spoke, he began to feel around in the inside pocket of his jacket, eventually exchanging the laser screwdriver for a slender silver tube, "So it would be wise to unbutton your pout and give your tongue a wee wag. Tell me what you said to her, Doctor, or this isn't going to end pleasantly."

With his thumb, the Master uncapped the tube and a bold flame shot up at once. A lighter. Nothing more.

"Actually, it isn't going to end pleasantly anyway. As much as I'd love to offer you a get out of jail free card for snitching, I think I'll carry on with the torture and the screaming and the ending your lives. It's incredibly fun," A wild look of incredulous amusement wrapped his features as the Master took what seemed to be a cigarette from the pocket of a passing guard and pushed it between his lips, tearing his eyes away from the pathetic limp figure on the ground to light up. He could feel the Doctor's woebegone eyes on him, and so made a great show of taking a drag. Once it was removed from his mouth, he rolled it between his thumb and forefinger almost thoughtfully.

"But don't worry, Doctor - you keep yourself shut. I'll open your lips, one way or another." In one swift movement, the cigarette changed hands and was pressed down into what was showing of the Doctor's ankle. A violent start was given by the Time Lord on the floor, but no sound came from his lips. Searing heat burnt through his skin but he remained deathly quiet, his eyes fixed on the Master's twisted expression. It was an expression that was only to grow more twisted, more vicious as the burn elicited no cry.

With a dark growl, the Master threw the cigarette carelessly to his left and stood, pushing the Doctor back onto his stomach with a hard, well-placed shove of his heel. He then strode towards the lift, pausing only to leave one of the armed guard with his final wishes.

"Get him ready."

Darkness.

The darkness was absolute. It smothered everything in its wake. The bridge had become a hermetically sealed room that contained nothing but darkness and stale air; the windows were sheathed by thick metal plating and the doors were utterly impregnable. No amount of brute force would move anything in the room, not least because everything had been taken out of it. It was nothing but empty space, sheer blackness and fear, fear that darted closer with every step into the unknown he took. It brushed past his shoulder blades and forced a shiver down his spine. Darkness smothered everything, but fear consumed it. And oh, how it scared him.

The Doctor had tasted fear on many occasions. He knew what it was like to have both hearts hammering against his ribcage whilst fate curled just out of his control, working in its proverbially mysterious ways. He had feared for the lives of so many people on so many occasions; he'd feared for friends, for enemies, for ships and for planets. And yet, amidst all of this fear, there were very few times he'd feared solely for himself; it felt selfish, it felt greedy, but it gripped the depths of his mind with a cold fist and refused to let go.

As he sat against a wall, knees pressed tightly against his bare chest, the Doctor knew that he was scared. In a room that was rapidly running out of air, a room that was being heated by his own body, the goose bumps that rose enough to sting his arms had no other reason to be there; he wasn't cold and he wasn't suffering with any affliction. Despite the attempts made by the Time Lord to block the emotion out, to regain some sort of control over his senses, the goose bumps stayed firmly in place. They crawled over his skin and pulled his hair erect so strongly that a wince occasionally crossed the Doctor's drawn face.

Not that anybody could see.

Now and again, the door at the far end of the room would open, a crack of light filtering through for just a second before it was slammed shut again. The sudden intensity of that light burnt his eyes every time it came, yet - as far as he could tell - nobody ever looked in on him. Nobody ever spoke or made their presence known. Nobody ever surveyed the state he was in. The split second of brightness was, as he'd fathomed, nothing more than an attempt to kill his hope, make him think that nobody was coming. It was designed to make him think he'd live out the rest of his regenerations against that one wall.

One of his hearts was rapidly being hoodwinked by a deep sense of despair; everything but helplessness, every emotion, feeling and urge, had long since been numbed. Even pain, from the violent agony he suffered every time the laser screwdriver was turned on him to the stinging of the goose bumps, was not what it could have been. What had kept him silence throughout his interrogation hadn't been quite enough to keep his hope strong, as doubt made that one heart beat so very fast. What ifs clouded every thought he tried not to have.

Then again, the other side of him - his other heart - was filled with a feeling that was indestructible. No matter what happened, no matter how faithless the Master was intent on making him feel, he knew he had to pull through. Martha was down on Earth, no doubt fighting to uphold her side of the mission. She was fighting to save him, and he was - in turn - fighting to save Earth. If he gave in, he would have failed her. Her and humankind. It was that thought, and that thought alone, which slowed his second heart into an almost relaxed state. It calmed him.

A sudden, metallic slamming sound disturbed the still darkness and the Doctor raised his heavy head just in time to witness the heavy door being swung outwards. Blinding light filled the entire room within seconds, burning the image of the doorframe into his mind. He raised his arm as quickly as his drained body would allow in an attempt to shield his eyes, but he could still see it. He could still see the white light, the bright glare. It was agonizing, but the feeling was numbed. It hurt and yet... it didn't, and that distressed him far more than anything else the Master had done. He could no longer feel.

Burying his head in his knees, the Doctor shied away like a child would, both of his slender hands grasping viciously at the strands of his hair. And as he hid, as he curled into himself and crudely attempted to make himself experience something in its entirety, he could have sworn he'd heard somebody laughing.

Blood.

"I told you,"

While breathing heavy words into the ear of the other, the Master's lips brushed against his cheek and caught the taste of salt on the skin. The Doctor's hair was matted with perspiration and a thin stream of red drizzled down from his scalp, but the Master fancied the salt came from tears rather than blood or sweat. Unwinding his fingers from the Doctor's hair, he allowed the Time Lord's temple to hit the dark wooden table with a sickening thump before thrusting roughly and eliciting a weak, pitiful struggle. With his hands bound behind his back and his body no longer under his full control, it was all the Doctor could manage.

The table against which he was pinned was low, low enough to bruise his pelvis every time he was ground forwards and low enough to graze his limp cock. The Master had no interest in exciting him. The Master had no interest in doing anything other than proving he was right. And, as the Doctor's body was jarred by another brutal thrust, he had never been more desperate to stop that proof from surfacing. To give in, to give the Master his proof, would be to allow his rival deep into his mind. He couldn't endanger Earth, endanger Martha, because he wasn't strong enough--

A moan, a guttural sound that the Doctor hadn't thought himself capable of making, broke past the Doctor's gritted teeth and accompanied an expression contorted in pain. It hurt. With the Master's nails suddenly embedding themselves in his hips and an unrelenting erection being pushed ever deeper inside him, he hadn't been able to contain himself. However, that wasn't the only surprise his body had in store for him; it had broken a seal, and his teeth couldn't pin his lip for the sudden onslaught of tortured cries that tumbled from his mouth.

"I told you!"

The Master slammed his hips into the Doctor's shaking figure, his voice bordering on maniacal as he both laughed and sneered in the same three words. For a week, the Master had received nothing but silence. He'd exhausted and deprived his nemesis for seven days, and for seven days he'd heard labored breathing and feet against the cell's metal floor. He'd never doubted his ability to break the Doctor, however - they were too alike to be strangers to each other; the Master knew the Doctor's body, his mind, inside out. It was never a matter of if, merely a matter of when.

That when had finally arrived.

Pressing the sides of two fingers into the Doctor's mouth, the Master used the leverage to yank the other's head up as far as his spine would allow. The Doctor's teeth clinked sharply, rapidly against the ring that was restraining his tongue, and choking sounds worked their way out from beneath the fingers. Ignoring the gag reflex he could feel pushing at the back of the Doctor's throat, the Master dragged his tongue over the thin stream of blood that had leaked down to the Time Lord's jaw line before speaking in a calmer, triumphant tone.

"I told you I'd open your lips."

oh dear god.

Tue, 03 Jul 2007 20:14:56 GMT

asdfghj. torrential rains. just a tiny bit terrifying

on a slightly lighter note: the cover art for the house s3 dvd is brilliant. rsl seems to have some sort of eye disorder and i can't tell if chase is staring wistfully at house or at cameron.

my sweet prince.

Mon, 02 Jul 2007 23:29:14 GMT

Author: biroid.
Title: My Sweet Prince.
Pairing: Saxon/Lucy, Lucy/Lucy's right hand.
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: Friday evenings without a hero. Trip down memory lane, anybody?
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, etc. If I did, you'd know about it.
Warnings: Language & sex. Read on.

Without Harry, Friday evening was just another long, wearisome night.

Lucy Cole, with her wispy blond hair and pale, porcelain complexion, looked like the kind of girl who was used to spending her Fridays alone. She was far too delicate to ever be allowed out of her glass case. For the most part, she adhered to the stereotype and wasted away the start of her weekend by sitting in the manor's library and flickering through a tome or two. When her mind implored her to give up the game and grant it some rest, she ascended the two sets of winding staircases and bid various family members a good night before finally slipping into bed herself.

It was so rhythmic, so monotonous. Harry changed all of that.

Although many a man might expect a girl like her to be content with solitude and reading, Harold Saxon had never been happy to simply let her sit. She was a slice of the upper crust and he was an up-and-coming politician, yet they never acted their class when they met. Harry always remained smooth and charming, but something deep in his eyes changed. It gave her the proverbial 'weak at the knees feeling', although she went weak at every joint. She just fell into his arms, willing to do whatever he wished.

Stretched out like a rather proper cat upon the chaise longue, Lucy Cole glanced away from her book and bit mischievously at the side of her bottom lip. Memories, slightly specked with the dust of precisely one week, flooded her prim little mind. It brought a faint color to her cheeks. Her father hadn't yet approved of Harold, forbidding Lucy to meet with him until he'd declared his certainty that Saxon wouldn't violate his little girl.

In retrospect, the measures he'd taken were simply too little too late.

Harry had taken her out. She should never have gone with him, but he was just so hard to resist. He spoke with such confidence from beneath the balcony, proclaiming himself as her modern-day Romeo before coaxing her outside. It had been dark, the sun long set, but that didn't matter. Harry always had the best ideas, no matter how awkward the timing. He'd taken her out, taken her dancing.

It wasn't the first time she'd experienced his love for flamboyant music. When she'd first arrived at his flat, clutching the loose-leaf sheets of his autobiography, he'd wrenched the door open and dragged her inside before treating her to a snippet of his moves. The previous Friday, however, had been on a completely different level. The beat of the drums throbbed through the floor and the sea of faces pushed her against Harry's chest. He'd held her there. She never struggled.

Along her bitten lip, the smile grew as she remembered the night, and Lucy forced a little composure upon herself. She was in the family library, reading Titus Groan. She was not in a gentlemen's club, free to relive exactly what had happened that night. Neither was she drunk. Seeing as the rest of that particular evening had taken place with her common sense battered into a corner by alcohol, it wouldn't be fair to try and imitate it. Would it?

It hadn't just been the alcohol, though. She'd been giddy on the music and the man, swinging on his hand as they navigated through the cold streets of London. He'd been so warm, though, warm enough to cancel out the bitter winds. Harry had become a true gentleman once more, offering her his coat as they finally hailed down a black cab. Lucy had nestled into the black lapels for the most part of the journey, releasing her grip on it only when she felt the weight of his hand on her thigh.

Duh-duh-duh-dum.

Drumming softly on the hem of her dress, a small, delicious smile had spread over his lips. He looked like the happiest cat, gorged on satisfied curiosity and proud to still be standing. That smile grew as they drew up to the manor; she could feel it widen against her neck as he pressed the ghost of a kiss against her collarbone. Up until that point in proceedings, she'd remained dignified, but composure soon slipped and a breath too ragged was drawn.

Up until that point in her memories, Lucy Cole had managed to refrain from getting too involved, but willpower soon slipped as she pressed the heel of her palm into her skin, the exact spot the drumming had taken place. The tapping seemed to have burnt into her subconscious as she could still feel tiny pinpricks of pressure in the beat Harry's fingers had made. It felt good. It felt like him.

As the cab had stopped fully, Harold Saxon had done the chivalrous thing, the thing that would have impressed her father if he'd been around to see. He'd walked her to the front door, kissed her once, briefly, on the cheek, then turned to leave. No silent propositions in his eyes, no hint of the desires he wanted her to fulfill. Ever the gentleman, Harry had simply strolled back along the grounds. Until she'd caught up with him, of course.

Left on that step, she felt a swell of emotion at how romantic and old-fashioned he was capable of being but also a surge of emptiness. As soon as he'd left her side, she'd felt lost, and had immediately started after him. It was a daft thing to do, running down purposely crooked paving slabs in heels, but she hadn't been able to help herself. She'd never been able to help herself, not where Harry was involved.

That was why she'd taken him inside. It was dangerous, what with her father's current feelings about Harold Saxon, but she just hadn't been able to help herself. She'd taken his hand once more and tugged him around corners, finding his soft giggles absolutely infectious. Harry always laughed at the most inappropriate of moments, but this wasn't his usual riotous cackle. It was much milder, much gentler.

A similar giggle escaped Lucy's lips as she remembered his mirth. He'd been so genuinely happy to be creeping up the stairs, but it didn't make her want to order him out of the house. Laughter on anybody else's lips at such a moment would have been seen, in her eyes anyway, as vulgar. They would have been laughing because they knew they'd won themselves a prize. Harry, however, was different. He was different from anybody else she'd ever met.

“Lucy!” The sharp voice of her memories interrupted reality and the youngest member of the household jumped to attention, eyes snapping open and hands groping for the book she'd since discarded. But no, it was just a memory. A thought, a near capture that had been avoided, and nothing more. She relaxed again, sinking back into the pillows and into her thoughts.

He'd continued giggling as he was pushed through the threshold. She simply leant against the door frame, completely breathless from the close encounter. She'd yet to even remove the coat, but already felt drained. The moment Harry had pressed her back against the door she'd been leaning on, however, a surge of sparks shot through her. It gave her a boost, a buzz, and there'd been an unmistakable note of hunger in the sound she'd uttered into his mouth.

It wasn't as though he hadn't tried to kiss her before. While tapping away on her Apple Mac, Lucy had noticed just how close he stood, how he spoke into her ear and brushed away the loose strands of her hair. On any such occasion, she could have just turned a quarter of an inch into him and he'd have got his way. She, however, had resisted. It would have been improper, no matter how hard Harold Saxon's touches got her heart beating.

He was dangerous. He was willing to flirt openly in a room full of news reporters, willing to disobey the strict orders of a nobleman, the father he should have been trying to impress, without a care in the world. Such trivial things never bothered him, and he laughed them all away. It was a dangerous habit, and it made him a very dangerous man. Such a trait should have deterred Lucy from ever letting him near her, but it did quite the opposite.

She'd pushed him down before he'd had a chance.

Crawling over his slender, weakly shaking body, she'd listened to his snickers of laughter while pulling at that sleek tie of his. For such a proper young girl, she had a surprising weakness for things she shouldn't have. Like Harry. Dangerous, powerful and forbidden, she'd fallen under his spell from the moment they met, but her immunity had been strong then. Gradually, he'd worn it down, finally touching on what she craved. That moment, right then, she'd craved his touch.

And she received it.

The hand beneath her dress, between her thighs. His usually warm palm made her shiver as he stroked her inner leg. His giggles had died away about then, replaced by a smirk. She could remember exactly how his fingers moved, what he did, and found herself breathing shakily at the same moment her memory did. The novel slipped to the floor as she caressed her own thigh, reliving the night.

What did he do then? Her mind, slowly misting over, didn't know, but her body certainly did. Running a forefinger lightly over the front of her satin underwear, she found herself playing two roles. She moaned, the noise low and quiet, just as it had been a week ago, but she wore Harry's smirk all the while. His fingers, not hers, slipped the silky material down just an inch, making Lucy's head loll back and Harry's smile widen.

There was something pressing into her leg, a pillow-- no, no, it was him. His heavy breath fell on her cheek as he ground against her hip, but the only thing she was particularly interested in was the sound of a belt buckle being loosened. She desperately wanted to reach out, but the fear of everything shattering if she did kept her arms where they were. He was close to her, very close, but her eyes remained shut.

So how could she see him? In her mind's eye, there he was, grinning like a jackal as he slowly hitched up her dress. His palm grated against her thigh as he leant forwards, quietly taunting her. He looked good, with his shirt hanging off his chest and a silk black tie pooled by his shoulder. His lips were parted, yet still grinning, and he was slowly drawing himself out from beneath her. The empty feeling she'd felt on the doorstep rose through in the depths of her stomach as his hand left her thigh, but it was quashed as he kissed her jaw.

Beneath him, Lucy didn't squirm. She arched into him, yes, but didn't squirm. Just waited.

“Oh, Harry...” She murmured, fingertips cascading down her lower abdomen. Her thumb clipped something good and slipped downwards just as he slipped into her; it made her moan through a bitten bottom lip, her futile attempt to make sure her sister wouldn't be interrupting, but Harry had other ideas. He thrust deeper into her, grinding against her stomach and giving her no hope in Hell of silencing herself. Lucy, going against everything she'd been taught in life, swore viciously as she called out his name,

“Fuck, Harry!”

In its wake, she could hear his laughter once more. It pleased him to hear her like that, so vulgar, so common. As she grasped his shoulder blades, fingers beneath the soft folds of what part of the shirt and jacket remained on his back, she uttered it again for his benefit. He liked it.

She could feel his cheek rubbing against his as he lowered his head, whispering in her ear. He sounded neither flustered nor rapt, although his sniggers were still evident. Louder. That's what he wanted. He was telling her to moan louder, harder, and ignore the others in the house. They wouldn't hear. It was all part of Harry's charm. He could have drugged them into stupors for all she cared.

She was saying the 'p' word. She was begging him. It struck something in him, as her nails were soon forced to uncurl and bury themselves into his back. She couldn't feel a drop of sweat there. He was barely reacting to the situation, speaking as he would to a boardroom. He asked her, clearly and concisely, what she wanted, and Lucy replied in a rushed, messy haste:

/You./

The memories reached the base of a final crescendo, she could feel them ending, but struggled to keep them going. She wanted to say 'slow down', but instead heard herself begging for more. She grasped at him tighter, using strength she didn't even know she had. Lucy could taste the climax and simply stopped fighting it.

Against the pillows, the petite form of Lucy Cole jerked up violently into her own hand, crying out the name of the man she was forbidden to see and wearing his trademark grin all the while.

Harry. Harry Saxon.

With Harry, Friday evenings were guaranteed to excite her.

love like winter.

Mon, 02 Jul 2007 02:41:51 GMT

Author: biroid.
Title: Love Like Winter.
Pairing: Master/Lucy.
Rating: R.
Summary: An evening in with the Saxons.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, etc. If I did, there would have been far more Saxon!love.
Warnings: Language, mild-ish sexual situations & a complete lack of sense in some parts. I blame the clock that reads 3:40 AM. You'll also have to excuse any glaring errors/typos. I have no beta, and, like I say: it's very late :)

The never-ending drumbeat.

Pounding through his head, rattling his thoughts and stopping them from ever blossoming. It disturbed his every waking moment, demanded his full concentration and beat a tattoo into the back of his mind if he foolishly tried to distract himself. It never stopped, never ceased, never dimmed nor faded. It was the constant of mathematics and sciences throughout the universe, the impossible and the improbable, the tribar and the blivet.

It shouldn't have been. It beat at the inside of his skull like a caged animal, it shouldn't have and yet it did. Always and unfailingly, from dusk till dawn, it was there, yet that wasn't what disturbed him most. He could live with the pounding of a double beat in his head, one that was just out of sync with the hearts drumming away in his chest, if he could just find the reasoning behind it. Why was it there, and why did it inflict itself upon him so?

Rolling onto his left shoulder, the Master glanced at the ticking clock on the nightstand. One thirty six AM. He muttered it to himself once, twice, and then thrice before pushing himself flat onto his back and staring at the ceiling. Beside him, Lucy slept, a frown creasing her pretty little brow. Unlike in the old Earth movies, a smile didn't fall upon his lips as glanced over at her.

The drumming, however, intensified.

Wincing, the lines etching themselves deep into his forehead, the Master pressed both hands against his temples, trying to fight against the beat. It hurt. It burnt like a thousand suns and lasted just as long. Never ending, never ceasing, never resting. It was the beast, the beast of the pit and the beast of men that rose to torment, rose only to torture and to terrify before finally--

“Stop!” Slamming his arms down against the sheets that bound his body, the Master called out into the dark of the night. At once, he felt a jolt at his elbow, and his wife sat bolt upright. No light filtered through the drawn curtains, but he could see her form well enough. She was clutching the thin sheets to her chest, wide-eyed and startled by the noise that had awoke her from an otherwise peaceful slumber.

/For better or for worse, Lucy. You took me for better or for worse. I gave you the better, the stars and the beauty. Now you get the worst. You get the noise. You get the drumming, the lethal beat in the back of your mind./

“Harry?” She sounded fearful. He smirked. Her voice, her usually quiet, level voice was terrified of some unknown thing. She was terrified of him. He'd made her scared, made her paw at the bed in the hopes of finding his hand. She couldn't see nearly as well in the darkness and he could hear her breathing grow ragged and rapid as he moved his hand gently from her reach. She couldn't sense his presence. She didn't know he was there.

“Shh,” With a start, the Master sat up ever so slightly and pressed the palm of his hand against her bare arm. In a split second, he felt all the tension in her body drop away beneath that touch, his touch, and the smirk only grew. He was in control. He had power over her feelings, emotions and actions. He was the Master. A master. Her master.

“Shh, my love, I'm here.”

He didn't spit that term of endearment, nor did he try to savage her after uttering it. Instead, he allowed her to grasp his hand and squeezed her slender fingers gently. She breathed a sigh of relief, which he felt on his shoulder, and tried to fix a smile on her dainty lips. Although Lucy couldn't understand why she was trying to please her husband in utter darkness, he saw it clearly and released her hand to trace those lips.

“I like it when you smile,” A mutter, a distracted little mutter of a man with far greater things to be doing, dropped from his own lips as he stared straight into her eyes. And she felt it. With an absence of light and no indication to his actions, the Master knew she could feel his eyes roaming her soul. It disturbed her, and the shudder that fell through her slender body proved that. He was staring into her guarded secrets, the desires she never knew she had, and setting each one of them aflame.

“Keep smiling for me, Lucy. Don't stop smiling.”

She nodded, almost frantically, like that would rid her of the strange feeling. It was something that had been with her ever since she met the young, up-and-coming politician at a book signing. Harold Saxon, signing copies of his life story, had caught her eye through the crowded room. It'd been like he'd been searching for her, because a sudden hunger flared in his pupils. His hunger had still been there, five hours later, when the sick smile froze on his lips as he came, giggles rising in his throat after fucking her into the cheap hotel mattress.

Her Harry was insatiable. Hungry for sex, hungry for power, hungry for anything he could possibly get his hands on. And when somebody dared try to take it away? That was when her Harry stopped being so nice. He stopped touching her gently, stopped holding doors open for her and stroking away the golden wisps of her hair. That was when he pinned her beneath him, binding her wrists with the shackles of his hands. That was when he forced her, ordered her, commanded her. That was when he wasn't her Harry.

That was when he was the Master.

He was her diamond. He had so many faces, many of them she cared not to stare into. Some scared her. Some tormented her. And others? They unleashed butterflies in her stomach, they lavished her with gifts and compliments and they blocked out the rest of the universe. When held in that Harry's arm, nothing else mattered. Not her family, nor her friends, nor indeed the world. She didn't care, because he wanted her as much as she needed him.

“Harry,” He still allowed her to use that pathetic name. In many ways, it was endearing; she was still caught up in the memories of trysts and candlelit dinners with Harold Saxon while he drafted up another ingenious plot to become the master of all matter.

“Harry, what-- what are you doing?” Lucy, all fear dropping from her voice, sounded incredibly, if timidly, curious. He'd moved away from her, to the other side of the bed, and was pulling away the sheets to allow him to stand. When on his feet, he padded over to the other side of the room and pointedly ignored her questions.

He was playing with her, just as he always did. She was his rag doll, his blond porcelain beauty to twist around his little finger. She was the one with whom he shared his most beloved games. With her, he admitted his love before pushing her away in favor of the dark-haired masseuse. His mind told him he hated her when his body was tantalizingly close to hers. He swore to make her suffer everything that he had, swore to break her, shake her, hate her, take her over, and then he told her how he'd make her his empress in the new Time Lord empire.

The truth was, the Master did not know how he felt. He was reasonably certain that he was better off with her by his side, and fairly sure that his ego would feel less loved if she ever left, but that was it. Did he love her? Probably not. Did he want to love her? Debatable. Did he want to hurt her? Possibly.

If the Master had ever felt anything solid about Lucy Saxon, it was a good guess to say that it was sexual and nothing more. For such a primitive being, she was more beautiful than any woman he'd had the misfortune of bumping into. That was the only reason he'd smiled just a little more warmly, kissed her hand for a little longer, at that damn book signing. He'd needed a wife, but it never had to be her. She'd won him over with her glances and her touches, the way she always leant into him, how she always looked so needy when he brushed her thigh.

“I'll give you it all, Lucy,”

He had, of course, felt many less-solid feelings. He'd felt genuine urges to please her, to make sure she was happy. He adored seeing her smile and could think of nothing better than dressing her up and taking the last dance upon the bridge in the moonlight. These feelings, however, they came and went. They never remained for longer than a day. His emotions towards her were temperamental, and the most romantic evening he'd never dreamt up could turn into his own dark fantasy. He'd push her down and take her, despite the protests and the small, pleading words.

As this thumb clipped a small blue button just beneath the windowsill, the thick curtains parted and revealed the night in all it's glory. Stars seemed so close, close enough to be touched. Every so often, a metal orb would shoot by, on it's way to continue the destruction of the planet they hovered above. Behind him, the Master heard a small gasp, and Lucy Saxon soon joined him at the window. Unlike him, she'd chosen to cover herself with one of the sheets, and this sparked a small scowl from her husband as they gazed.

“I'll give you the universe. We'll rule it, all of it. Together.”

Turning to her, he grasped both of her hands, digging his clipped nails into the skin of her fingers. Again, she gasped, but this time from pain and surprise instead of awe. She dropped the sheet. He smiled. After spending a moment in silent stillness, he slipped his arms around her perfect waist and pressed her against the cool glass of the window. Another gasp, which amused him greatly. His trademark grin played about his thin lips as he stared into her bright eyes. She wanted him. He could sense it.

Taste, hear, see, smell, feel it. She wanted him.

“Harry,” Breathless, she was so breathless. From the fear he'd installed in her with his cry into the darkness, she was now begging for him as they were mere centimeters from that darkness. It was the same voice she'd used after he'd released the Toclafane, the same voice he'd prised from her again that evening when he told her the story, told her everything.

“Harry, please.”

“No.”

The reply was unexpected enough to silence even her breathing. 'No'? What did he mean by 'no'? He was never the one to refuse. Only she ever said 'no', but then it was brushed off like water from a duck's back. They didn't take notice of the word 'no'. So why?

“Harry--”

“No!” He cut her off sharply, pushing himself away and making a clear path to the bedroom door. “Can you hear it, Lucy? Can you hear the drumming? The rhythm that's in every living thing, that beats away in foursomes until death?”

Mutely, she shook her head, her eyes trained on his fingers. They were pressed against the wall, tapping out something. Duh-duh-duh-dum. Duh-duh-duh-dum. Duh-duh-duh-dum. He'd beat it against her thigh, he'd beat it against the coffee table and he'd beat it against his notes. She'd never once asked why he beat it.

“No...” He trailed off. Wrenching his hand away from the wall, the body of Harold Saxon left his wife in favor of the bridge, leaving her to murmur his name wistfully, longingly, as she gathered her sheet and slipped back into bed.