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Lost Boys	By : Turkaholic Category: 1 through F > Doctor Who Views: 3820 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who, any of its characters or trademarks. I make no money from the writing of this fanfiction

Chapter List
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Chapter Eight
                The Master felt muscles clench around his fingers and closed his eyes momentarily. A thrill seemed to run through him: He let his mouth fall open in a blissful grin, releasing a loud breath.
                The Doctor was past questioning his own actions. He had maintained almost perfect control for so long; so sure that his defences couldn’t fall, and now he’d surrendered completely, to the one person he’d never wanted to.
                The Master’s fingers moved more roughly, the look on his face more intense as the Doctor began – second by second – to become more compliant; more vocal. He pushed down against the Master’s fingers, his hips jerking into thin air; every muscle in his body twitching in reaction to the Master’s attention. The Master basked in it like sunlight, tilting his head back to listen to the Doctor’s cries with a superior smugness on his face.
                “Enough…” hissed the Doctor suddenly. His muscles were burning, shaking through sheer overuse. The Master lowered his head once more to watch his face. “…Enough, pl-“
                The Doctor bit down hard on his tongue, stopping himself before he could finish the fatal word. It was too late.
                There was a pause. The Master blinked slowly and then raised an eyebrow, mocking.
                “What?”
                The Doctor’s chest rose and fell hard, his hearts beating painfully hard in panic. He opened his eyes wide, staring at the blank ceiling. “Nothing, I said nothing.” He blurted, the panic obvious in his voice.
                The other Timelord sat still briefly, then moved swiftly up the bed, his fingers still buried inside the Doctor. He sneered sadistically as he moved close to the other man’s face.
                “…Say it.” He snarled. The Doctor turned his face away and clamped his jaw shut pointedly. The Master’s eyes flashed. He rammed his fingers even deeper. The Doctor jerked, his face contorted with the effort of trying not to cry out.
                “Say it, Doctor.” The Master commanded. He curled his fingers upwards and dragged them down. The Doctor’s entire body quivered, his teeth showing as his face twisted but he remained silent. The Master snorted disdainfully. “You know, you were so quick to beg for the lives of your revolting little human friends,” he hissed, “it was rather sickening to watch, actually. And look at you now. It’s pathetic.”
                The Master’s fingers continued to massage as he spoke, each time more roughly and impatiently than before. The Doctor ground his teeth together in effort, twitching and writhing at the feel of the fingers. Eventually it became too much to bear. The taller Timelord’s jaw unclenched. Painfully aware of the Master’s eyes on his face, he panted, breathing out the word that had been threatening to explode from him.
                The hollow brown eyes of the Master lidded at the sound, letting out a sigh of satisfaction as he slid back. He pulled his fingers back out sharply. The Doctor could only hiss.
                For the first time, the Doctor found himself thankful for the small window. The Moon cut a slice across the bed, but his face was cast in shadow. He was glad of it: knowing that the Master could see the embarrassment and self-loathing in his face was more than he thought he could bear. Being held prisoner; being held in a cage so small when he was used to the whole of the universe was bearable. The Master’s gloating wasn’t.
                A pair of hands placed themselves on his chest, suddenly. The sensation made his muscles twitch, as though a spark of electric had run from finger to skin. The fingers dug in and began to claw downwards, over his stomach until they reached his hips. The Timelord felt the Master’s warmth against his legs and his hearts began to beat screamingly loud in his ears.
                The Master thrust forward with an animalistic grunt. The Doctor cried out sharply at the sudden impact and raised a hand to his own hair, clutching; yanking hard as he felt the Master press himself deep, pulling painfully at his hips as if testing to see how far he could reach. There was a sharp intake of breath as the Master leaned down over the other man, his eyes lidded as he watched the Doctor in interest: He writhed beneath him, clutching at his own hair, his head tilted back. A satisfied smile filtered briefly through the Master’s lust, and then he began to move.
                The Doctor’s body moved on its own, as though hundreds of years of pain and enmity had simply dissolved into nothing, and nothing had changed at all. He wrapped his legs around the Master’s waist, rocking his hips upwards at the other Timelord’s rough pace. The long fingers of his free hand slid up the Master’s arm and wrapped itself around the back of his neck. Every move of the Master’s hips made him moan, unable and no longer willing to stop himself.
                The Master’s eyes were lidded heavily, but they never once closed. He watched the Doctor throw back his head and moan, his voice shaking, louder and louder with each thrust. Suddenly the Doctor’s fingers slid up into his hair, pulling him downwards against his neck.
                There was a moment – the briefest moment – of change in the Master’s face. A look of unease or even fear flickered there, highlighted by the ever-narrowing ray of moonlight as the Doctor pulled him closer. And then it slid away: The Master’s head dived forwards and latched once more onto the already bruised neck, biting into it. The Doctor pulled at the Master’s hair. This time there were no words of protest; instead he moaned.
                The Master and the Doctor pressed themselves against each other, all concept of winning or losing forgotten as they fell into rhythm, the Master’s face buried in the other Timelord’s neck, muffling the appreciative noises as the Doctor rocked upwards against him. The Master removed his hands from the Doctor’s hips, apparently satisfied that there was no need to force a rhythm any more: The Doctor reacted to every change of pace; every shift in complete compliance, tugging ever harder at the Master’s hair as the movement became more intense.
                The Master’s hands slid up the Doctor’s legs, pulling them higher. Suddenly the Doctor’s body jolted upwards. He gasped loudly and shuddered. The Master stopped to appreciate the noise.
                “Oh I’m so good…” the Master laughed, his voice shaking in the Doctor’s ear. The Doctor gulped at the sound, “right first try…”
                “…Don’t.” breathed the other Timelord, warningly. “Just shut up.”
                The Master’s face darkened.
                “Bit rich, coming from you.” He growled. He pressed forward. The Doctor’s hips jolted, but he made no further noise.
                There was a moment in which neither of them moved or spoke, the only sounds the heavy, shaking breath of both men. The Doctor felt the instinct to rock upwards against the Master’s warmth, but the little self-control he had left held it back.
                Eventually the Master grunted in frustration. He snarled in the Doctor’s ear. “Fine.”
                And then he thrust forward.
                The Doctor almost screamed; a loud, low, guttural sound that seemed to reverberate around his entire body. The Master’s rhythm became almost painfully rough, thrusting against that same spot harder and harder each time; digging his fingers subconsciously into the Doctor’s legs. He rested his head under the taller Timelord’s chin, his face contorted in mixed pleasure and concentration.
                The Doctor could hear himself groaning, gasping, crying out at each thrust, the very effort of breathing seemed to make his lungs feel raw and burning. His head swam; the confusion and pleasure seemed to meld together until it simply didn’t matter which one was which. All that existed was the Master’s clutching fingers, the sound of his voice, the way he moved inside him. The Doctor felt himself begin to shake in earnest, still clutching desperately to the Master’s hair in his hand. There was a moment in which he felt himself holding back. He clenched his legs tightly around the Master’s waist and arched upwards towards him.
Whether intentionally or on the spur of the moment, the Master chose that moment to moan the Doctor’s name; and the taller Timelord felt himself let go.
His back arched painfully high as he gulped back a cry. He froze there for a moment as a shudder of pleasure ran through him. The Master’s thrusts came faster and harder than ever, spurred on by the other man’s noises; by the way his back arched, and by the way he felt wet warmth spread out across the sheets. A moment later the Master came; a sharp cry forcing itself between his clenched-shut teeth.
They both collapsed, both gasping for air as the sensations subsided. The Master let himself fall forwards, the thin trickle of moonlight falling diagonally across his sweat-soaked back. The Doctor let go of the Master’s hair and his own, his hands falling limply back against the bed. He began to ache.
The Doctor’s eyes opened slowly, squinting into the darkness as though waking up. The Master’s stomach twitched against him. He could feel his laboured breaths against his neck. He frowned, waiting for the gloating laugh; the superior, mocking voice that was he was so sure would come any minute now. It didn’t.
And yet, as the Doctor began to regain his breath it felt like he was recovering from a fever: he realised how weak he’d been. A terrifying thought circled in his newly-clear head, as every bruise and bite and scratch began to burn; a thought that made him hide his face in the other Timelord’s hair in shame:
He’d let the Master win.

Quick note:
This is not the end, in case you were wondering. The plot (and yes, more sex scenes) will continue. Unfortunately the next chapter will probably be the last I get to do until next weekend. It all depends on how busy I am over the week.
As a side note: I always have more difficulty writing scenes like this. I always think realism is important, but too much makes it a bit... un-sexy. At the same time it's hard not to fall into the trap of turning it into a Mills and Boon (look it up) story. It's a difficult tightrope to walk.
It's also hard to get across character traits. The Doctor and the Master are easy to write in conversation, but putting them in a sex scene and trying to be true to character is almost painfully difficult. I hope, in any case, that they came across well. The target of any fanfiction author should be to represent the characters as carefully and honestly as they can.
See you in the next chapter (and hopefully in the reviews).
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Lost Boys