Worst in Me
"You bring out the worst in me, Doctor."
That is the problem. It's always him—always the Doctor: challenging him, egging him on. He is the reason for everything the Master is. He is the cause.
He has clawed his way across time itself, and all for what? To have his plans ruined at the peak of their brilliance—to get a little attention from the busiest man in the universe.
You, Doctor—it's always you.
And everything he used to be, all of the things he stood for, all of the things that made so much sense he took them for granted, he has watched them all fall away, all in the pursuit of a man: all the while living in his shadow.
But he is the Master. Why take love when he could have notoriety? Why take loyalty in kinship, when loyalty in fear worked just as well? Every effort inched him closer to standing side by side with him.
That great, imbecile of a man.
The worst in him—the very, very worst.
Because he brings out the teeth, when lips and tongue and palms just can't do enough—never enough. Because he wants to hear it: the tiny little satisfaction that for once, for this one instance, he has brought the Doctor down to meet him.
Because he'll never rise to stand with the Doctor. He's not so pure, not so naïve.
But the Doctor, oh the Doctor—so corruptible. So deliciously taintable. Every crash of mouths is proof enough of that—paired with the way the Doctor arches against him and gasps out his name.
The way that, just for an instant, they move completely in tandem—four hearts becoming two hearts becoming just one—one beat, one pulse, to rival the clamour of the drums inside his head.
The Doctor's neck is pale and white and pure, and the Master just loves to dig his teeth in. Red looks so beautiful against that neck.
If you weren't so blue, my dear Doctor, I'd say red would be your color.
The Doctor's hands are careful caresses that rise up his sides and chase along his back. They whisper against his skin. They drive him mad—over the edge.
You, Doctor: always you.