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When the Master sinks his cock inside her and groans with the pleasure of it, Clara isn’t stupid enough to think that he’s seeing anything much of her beyond her wide brown eyes, her round face, her sleek shoulder-length hair.
And when she wraps her bare legs around him and pulls him in even deeper against her body, she knows full well that he knows she’s not seeing him beyond the ancient gleam in his eyes.
But if neither of them mention it, the game works well enough that they can pretend. Clara can sigh and arch her back and feel a warm, flushed torso against her own, and if she shuts her eyes, the two hearts that thump against her own long-silent chest could belong to anyone, really.
The face that buries itself in her shoulder has too much beard, a proper fluff rather than a barely-there scratch of fuzz, but the moans are almost how she’s imagined them. Rich and deep; a little drunk, a little wrecked, flatteringly overtaken by the sensations of her warm human body and the hot, slick squeeze of her cunt. Too hot for his tastes, she knows; the right body temperature would be a few degrees cooler. Still, it doesn’t seem to matter for whatever fantasy he’s lost in.
The Master’s hips drive into her, his hands moving to her thighs and pressing firmly until he’s folding her practically in half. His cock hits deep and the pace is brutal; her next moan is punched out of her, pleasure riding the edge of far too much. He’s stronger; he’s pushing her limits. She wouldn’t ever ask for anything less.
His eyes, when Clara opens hers to gaze into them again, are dark and fierce. She can only imagine what he’s thinking. The body he’s picturing would be just as lithe and slim as hers, but a little taller, a lot stronger. She wonders if the Master would prefer for her to fight back, or if he’s playing out some mythical, impossible submission.
She reaches up and rakes her carefully-rounded nails down his back anyway. His answering gasp tells her everything she needs to know, as does the way his cock throbs inside her.
“Faster,” she demands, and he loves that, too. Clara shuts her eyes again. If she wants to get off on this, she’s got work to do.
In her mind, she’s been working on her seduction for a while, and he’s been holding out on her because of his duty of care. She likes the thought of him tortured over it, knowing full well what she wants and holding himself back from it for her own good.
She’d get him when they were both high on adrenaline. Collapsing onto the floor of the TARDIS in a heap of giggles, both having barely escaped their deaths at the hands of some megalomaniacal ruler, she’d roll over and kiss him. He’d pull away at first, and she’d insist, fix him with her best determined glare and wait for him to get the message.
And he would. He’d get it loud and clear, and finally relent, and then he wouldn’t be able to take his hands off of her. Clara can imagine him everywhere, a hungry mouth and calloused, questing fingers drinking in her body like he needs it to live. He’d leave marks on her breasts, her thighs, would insist on tasting her until she’s squirming and moaning and his face is covered in her come.
And then, finally, he’d fuck her. Just like this. Eager, and desperate, with his face in her shoulder and his hearts pounding against her chest. The cock hitting deep inside her could so nearly belong to him, and her imagination is good enough that for now, it feels like enough.
It wouldn’t be fair on the Master to do this to him were it not for the fact that she knows he’s doing just the same.
In his mind, Clara knows she’s someone else. A body far older and yet almost the same age, similarly frozen in time. The Master is a hungry creature too, fierce and devouring— she is certain that his fantasies must be along those lines.
Maybe he’s picturing them after a fight. She’d have him pinned to the wall with an arm at his throat, her teeth bared, snarling. He’d snap at her, maybe even land a bite, and she’d pull away and curse. And then, mad and high and desperately lonely, they would kiss.
Perhaps, in the Master’s eyes, this is round two. Round one would surely have been up against the wall, her shoving him back into place and riding his cock until she came all over it. She wouldn’t let him come. She’d control it all with her fingernails digging into his shoulders, leaving crescent moon bloodstains on his skin.
Then, and only then, would he grab her and force her to the ground. She’d growl and spit, and then she’d kiss him, and she wouldn’t pull away until both of their lips were bloodied. And then, finally, he would fuck her senseless.
There, at last, their worlds coalesce. Two bodies meeting in the middle, their merging the point at which two distinct universes of imagination cross and form the sharp point of reality.
Clara is going to come soon, getting fucked by a man who does not see her. She slides her hands to his hips and digs her nails in there, forces him deeper inside and hurts him until he whines because she knows he likes it and she does, too. He’s so pretty, even on his own terms, and she wonders if he feels the same way about her.
Pleasure is winding clockwork-tight in the pit of her stomach. His chest is hot against hers, his thrusts hitting deep and his body grazing her exposed clit just lightly every time. She’s burning up, slow and steady, and all that’s in her mind is a pair of stormy grey-blue eyes. He’d watch her. He wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off of her.
They both come almost in unison, a snap of tension releasing. The Master groans, and throbs, and Clara feels her entire body tingle and tense with electric bliss. Her arms wrap tight around him, and he clings to her like she’s a rock in a storm, like he’s never needed anything more desperately.
It almost, almost feels right.
As the peak ebbs away, if they both happen to moan out the same name in the hazy afterglow of it all, neither of them is too inclined to bring it up. The game works well enough, Clara knows, and they’d both rather pretend.