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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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.

Again she shivered, that sound of longing even louder now. She wanted to help him unhook her bra, or touch his cheek, or his hair. Instead she stood perfectly still, submitting to him, waiting for his command.

Her shivers galvanizing him somewhat, the Master rushed through the last hook of the brassiere, sliding the straps off of her arms and tossing the undergarment aside impatiently. He cupped both of her breasts in his hands, running his thumbs lightly over the nipples as he had done during their last encounter, and watched her reaction.

"Undo my tie," he directed softly, not ceasing his movements.

"Oh..."

Her breath hitched, and she bit her lip, moaning soft and low. At his command, her eyes fluttered open, and she nodded. She reached for his tie, and her fingers brushed the skin of his neck as they closed around the silk knot, and began to slide it down.

He'd told her to do it; still, when she touched his neck with her hands, pulled at his tie, the Master involuntarily swallowed. His own hands stopped for a fraction of a second before resuming, his thumbs moving in slow, lazy circles, barely grazing her nipples now.

"Good girl," he managed.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Once the knot was undone, she pulled the tie slowly from his neck, then swallowed.

"May I unbutton your coat?"

The Master nodded once in assent. She'd earned some points, he supposed, by following orders thus far. And if she continued to follow his orders, soon she would no longer have the opportunity to use her hands as freely. "You may."

He carefully took the tie from Rose, one hand still scribing light patterns on a breast.

She let him take the tie, and let her hands drift down to his buttons. One by one she unfastened them, her eyes never leaving his, her breath slipping quickly in and out over her lips.

He watched her unbutton his coat impassively, all the while inexplicably feeling as if he could run away, far and fast. Perhaps he should.

But it's the Doctor who's good at running. I am good at hiding. Hiding in plain sight, if you knew where to look, the proverbial snake in the grass. And she was stripping him of his camouflage...

"Stop," he said abruptly, with a sort of shakiness in his voice, and he placed his hands over hers.

She frowned slightly, concerned.

"Is something wrong? Are you okay?"

She turned her hands to gently hold his.

The Master closed his eyes briefly, and inhaled deeply once before snapping them back open, as if he had a sudden headache and was marshaling his strength. The urge to tear his hands out of hers and flee was paramount.

Instead of doing so, or at the very least answering her question, he attacked her mouth with his in a quite unexpected kiss, pushing her backwards against a nearby pillar and crushing her body with his own.

"MMGHFF!" she yelped in surprise, as her back hit the pillar. Her eyes were wide with shock for a moment... and then closed as she kissed him back, just as hard, wrapping her arms around him. She was trapped against the pillar, but it was clear that as much as she could, she was giving as good as she was getting.

The Master couldn't help but emit a tiny moan as Rose embraced him, held him there fast, trapping him just as he'd trapped her. Teeth began to enter the equation, and he bit her lower lip hard as he ground against her, trying his hardest to win a game that did not, technically, exist.

There was a small, metal ring jutting from a crack near the top of the pillar just above Rose's head, likely some sort of reinforcing bar exposed and twisted when the bridge had collapsed in on itself, and the Master's gaze snapped to it.

Leaning into Rose further, deepening the kiss, he reached behind his back for one of her wrists, his other looping the tie through the ring.

She groaned as his teeth closed hard on her lip, and flexed her hips to grind back against him just as firmly. The slow erotic battle that they were engaged in so occupied her attention that she didn't notice his hand going for her wrist, nor the other reaching up to position the tie.

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