syncopath | but none of 'em were home inside the catacomb (for twood

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but none of 'em were home inside the catacomb (for twood_rose)

He had no way of knowing how long he had been in the dark; it was a funny thing, perhaps, but even a Time Lord must concede (as much as it might personally gall him) that death is timeless by its very nature. Still, he remembered everything.

When he awoke, groggily, the first thing he did was clap a hand to his neck, expecting a mark or a hole where the persistent memory of pain told him it should be. There was nothing. A ghost feeling. He blinked twice and sat up.

The room was dim, dusty and unused, and the small sink in the corner rattled ominously before spitting out water of some unsavory color, but there was comfort, egregiously tiny as it may be, in washing up as best he could. He surveyed his surroundings again. Besides the mattress he'd woken up on (and who had placed him there?) the room boasted nothing else.

He knew when he was, but not where. Or why. Not for the first time, he wondered if it might not be a prison.

The Master took panicked strides toward the door, fully expecting it not to open when he yanked on the handle roughly, and almost falling backwards when he was proven wrong.

A maze of hallways spread itself before him, each equally dim and dusty as the room behind. As the Master began to walk, it became obvious what he'd somehow known from the moment he opened the door. It wasn't a prison.

It was a ruin.

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The utterance of his name was almost too much for the Master to bear. He allowed his eyes to close, and buried his face in her hair. He touched his lips gently to her scalp, before beginning to trail a series of kisses down toward her neck, each more insistent than the last.

Her breath hitched, and a small, soft sound slipped from her lips. She closed her eyes, and let one hand drift up to gently touch his cheek, her fingertips ghosting over his skin.

The Master paused again, his eyes snapping open, as Rose touched his face. His hand on her back shot up almost irritably to grab her offending wrist as he pulled back. He stared at her, not really sure why he'd done it, and breathing more rapidly than one might expect for the level of activity he'd just been engaged in.

She yelped, half in surprise, half in pain. She stared back at him, her body tense. He seemed like a snake wound up to strike if provoked, and she had no idea how to get away without provoking.

"I'm sorry..."

Her apology, the heady mix of fear and pain, his own frustration-- the combination was paradoxically alluring. The Master relaxed his grip on her wrist until he was holding it with gentle firmness, feeling still very much in control, and closed the distance again, murmuring into her hair.

"Why are you sorry?" He very much needed to hear it.

"Touching you like that," she murmured. "It bothered you. I don't know why. I didn't mean to, but it did."

She swallowed, closed her eyes, and slowly nuzzled up against him. She wanted to touch him, but would wait until he gave her clear indication it was okay.

The Master smirked against her hair, even as he spoke in consolatory tones. "It's alright, Rose. I forgive you."

He smoothed back her hair from her neck, and kissed her there, just a bare graze of the skin with lips and teeth.

She drew a breath, held it for a long moment, trembled slightly, then let it out with a very soft moan.

"May I kiss you?" she whispered.

The Master looked at her with a steady, almost benevolent gaze, enjoying this far too much.

"You may," he said softly.

She opened her eyes to look into his, again for a long moment, before her gaze drifted down to his mouth. She leaned forward, and kissed him, her lips gentle against his.

He returned the kiss, made it a game of sorts to be just as gentle as she was-- anything to keep his mind off the thrum-thrum-thrumming that seemed to reverberate in every cell in his body, insisting that he take her. Tear her down. Hurt her to satisfy it.

Because then he'd lose control, make things quick-- and that wasn't nearly as much fun.

He wanted to savor this.

His gentleness allowed her to be bold, and with a small sound she pressed closer, deepening the kiss. His feel, his taste... it brought back memories in a flood; strong, heady memories that made her mind reel.

The sounds Rose was making nearly undoing his concentration, the Master squeezed her shoulder and wrist, pulling her even closer to him, and slipped his tongue between her lips, almost tentatively.

Although this had happened before, this seemed something altogether new between them-- unfamiliar ground, and not just in the literal sense.

In a way it fascinated him. In another, it scared him to death.

She met his tongue with hers, again with a soft moan. Her own embrace tightened, and one hand drifted up his back and slid into his hair.

It was something new, but like the Master she couldn't quite put her finger on what made it so. Unlike him, and perhaps ironically, she wasn't scared. She trusted him. The Doctor had told her never to do so, but she couldn't help it, really. That sense of connection ran deep.

The taste was familiarly indescribable, the Master thought, as their tongues joined and parted in their own strange sort of coitus. Much different from Lucy's, tainted with madness, self-defeat-- Rose was electric, a taste of myriad possibilities, of some primordial spark he'd never sensed before in a human. Perhaps it was some after-effect of her taking in the vortex energy from the TARDIS; perhaps she was forever changed by it, and the thought of tapping into that energy filled him with a deep, deep longing.

Before he could ponder it further, however, he felt her hand snake into his hair, and almost absentmindedly moved his own free hand to grasp her arm, breaking the kiss to whisper in her ear.

"Now. Didn't we have an agreement?" And holding her there, he nipped her earlobe before moving down to her collarbone.

She gasped, at the squeeze of his hand, his breath on her ear, his teeth on her earlobe.

"Yes," she moaned. "Yes..."

She swallowed.

"I'm sorry..."

He made no reply to her apology beyond mouthing at her collarbone through the fabric of her clothing. Clavicles, he thought. They are called clavicles. Despite the clunky, plodding, dreary-dull nature of most words from Earth-based languages, he had always enjoyed that one.

And it didn't take you long to discover the delicious sound they make when they snap, the drums seemed to whisper.

The Master squeezed both of her wrists again as he straightened to come face-to-face with Rose once again. His lips barely brushed hers as he spoke.

"Will you do as I tell you?"

Her thoughts raced. Giving the Master such control... now that scared her, as well it should. It was dangerous...

"Yes," she found herself whispering, and shivered. "Yes, I will."

The Master closed his eyes briefly and smiled at the thrill of fear that seemed to run through the girl. His lips still quite close to Rose's, he continued in that same soft, firm voice.

"Remove your shirt," he commanded, slowly bringing Rose's arms back to her sides and releasing them.

She nodded, just once, just barely, and as he released her arms she reached for the hem of her shirt. In one smooth motion she drew it over her head, then let it drop beside her.

"Good?" she whispered, and shyly raised her eyes to his.

The Master stared at her for another long moment, much the way an art critic might evaluate a painting. In fact, only a gleam in his eyes might have given away his utter satisfaction at Rose-- the Doctor's Rose-- obeying his whims. Stripping down and laying herself bare at his word.

She looked so much more fragile now, here in the open air, under the dusk that would stretch on for centuries, the only barrier now her brassiere. He toyed with the strap on one shoulder and lifted his eyes to hers.

"It suits you," he finally said, sliding the strap down her shoulder slightly.

She kept her eyes on his, breathing a little faster, sighing at his touch. She was fragile, vulnerable, but it was a paradoxical sort of thing. She hoped that by opening herself up, he would be able to do the same, become vulnerable to her, and she would be able to reach him, heal him.

The Master appeared blissfully unaware of Rose's intentions-- or if he was, he was paying the danger of his own vulnerability no heed. Her shoulder now bare, he began to trace his lips down it to the swell of her breast, teasing the skin with his teeth every now and again in a small bite calculated to be just short of painful. Wouldn't do to scare her off again. Not now, when her offer, her self-sacrifice to the dark, was so intriguing.

She sighed, closed her eyes, and made a soft sound of longing each time his teeth grazed her skin. She wanted so badly to touch him, stroke his hair, that her body nearly tingled with the restraint.

"What now, Master?" she whispered.

"I believe we both know what comes next, Rose."

The Master's mouth had reached her breast, finally, and his tongue began to circle her nipple through the brassiere, wetting the fabric. Meanwhile his hands had found their way to her upper back and the clasp of the brassiere, and he began to unhook it slowly, one catch at a time.

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