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The Master had finally achieved the triumph of his life.
After all the years of obsession, all the near-victories and humiliating defeats, the Doctor was his at last. The universe itself seemed to hold its breath at the irony the eternal savior now trapped in the hands of his oldest nemesis.
It had begun so innocently, almost absurdly. The Doctor, still dizzy from regeneration, had extended a trembling hand and offered what no one could have foreseen: a place at his side.
“You could take Adric’s place,” he had said, voice uncertain yet sincere, as if trying to reach the better part of a monster long lost.
The Master’s lips had curved into that familiar, elegant smile, a smile that never quite reached his eyes.
“My dear Doctor,” he had murmured, “how could I refuse such a generous invitation?”
And so he hadn’t.
The Doctor’s new incarnation fascinated him. So young, so fair, so painfully human. Golden hair, soft features, a face that seemed almost too gentle for the horrors it had already witnessed. The Master had killed him a thousand times in his fantasies, and yet, when the moment finally came, the urge to destroy was replaced by something darker, far more intoxicating.
Possession.
Instead of ending him, the Master decided to savour him to watch that noble composure crumble, to turn compassion into helplessness. There was pleasure in degradation, and he intended to enjoy every breath of it.
Lately, he had found himself intrigued by certain earthly arts. The Japanese, for instance, had perfected something that appealed to both his sense of control and his taste for beauty: shibari. The art of binding not merely restraint, but aesthetics made from rope and surrender.
He had studied it in stolen hours, tracing the diagrams in antique volumes, admiring how precision and cruelty could intertwine so gracefully. And now, at last, he had the perfect subject to test his newfound fascination upon.
The TARDIS hummed faintly around them, its golden light dimmed to amber, casting long, wavering shadows over the chamber. The Doctor sat against the console, dazed, still adjusting to the dissonance of his own body the flutter of two hearts that felt unfamiliar, the taste of a new voice on his tongue.
When the Master approached, he did not resist. Perhaps it was confusion. Perhaps, somewhere deep down, a trust he could not quite smother.
The Master tilted his head, studying him with almost scientific detachment or perhaps reverence.
“You really are exquisite like this,” he murmured, voice low, velvet over steel. “So delicate. So… malleable.”
The Doctor flinched at the tone but said nothing.
The Master’s gloved fingers brushed a stray lock of blond hair from the Doctor’s forehead, lingering just a moment too long. The gesture was intimate, almost affectionate and yet there was nothing kind in his eyes. Only calculation, and the satisfaction of a predator admiring his prey.
He reached into a nearby drawer and drew out the ropes, soft yet strong, coiled like serpents. The scent of hemp filled the air, earthy and faintly sweet.
“Tell me, Doctor,” he whispered, stepping closer. “Have you ever wondered what it feels like to surrender not in defeat, but in art?”
The Doctor’s throat worked as he tried to speak, but no sound came. His breath hitched, shallow and uncertain.
The Master smiled, slow and terrible.
“No matter. You’re about to find out.”
And as the ropes slipped through his fingers careful, deliberate, elegant the Master felt something he hadn’t in centuries. Not anger. Not vengeance. But a strange, consuming exhilaration.
For once, the chaos was his to weave, and the Doctor, unwilling muse that he was, would wear it beautifully.
“Undress,” the Master said quietly. His voice held no anger this time only a kind of patient command that was far more dangerous.
The Doctor hesitated. For a heartbeat, he thought of running, of fighting, of saying something clever to shatter the strange silence between them. But instead, his fingers moved almost of their own accord. The cream-colored coat slid from his shoulders, falling soundlessly to the floor. Then the jumper followed, the thin shirt beneath it, until he stood in the dim amber light, stripped of defense.
The Master watched in perfect stillness, his blau eyes gleaming with something that might have been admiration or victory, or both.
He smiled not mockingly, but with the slow satisfaction of an artist about to begin his work.
The Master’s smile was faint, deliberate. “Beautiful,” he murmured, stepping closer. “Hold still.”
Then he smiled, took the rope in his hand, and moved behind him. He looped it across his chest, over his chest, around his back this time beneath the curve of his ribs then drew it up around his neck and let it slide down again, between his legs, circling his throat once more before descending. As if creating a work of art, he wove the rope around the Doctor’s torso, his neck, his thighs binding him tightly, deliberately, beautifully.
The Doctor suddenly felt as if he were inside a cage. The ropes pressed against him, restrictive yet strangely grounding. Each knot, each crossing of the cord was a reminder of surrender, of trust. And though it should have been unbearable, it wasn’t. Because he had given control to another: the man he trusted most, his greatest enemy, his oldest friend,
The Master stepped back, studying his work with the detached precision of an artist and the secret ache of a man who had finally touched something sacred.
A long silence fell between them heavy, electric.
And then the Master smiled, slowly, as if realizing a truth too immense to speak aloud.
He had not captured the Doctor.
The Doctor had yielded — not because he was forced, but because, in some impossible, unspoken way, he had chosen to.