(leaving the perfume of all you adore to die nameless on my floor)

[riverdresses]

I think these two . . . . things were obsessed upon & about for at least three days before I actually wrote them. ::blinks::

There would have been a third one of a more Ten/Jack flavour, but it didn't want to play nice.

(& plus, I completely sort of fucked myself over trying to write it with Jack telling the story. Yes, um, remind me never to do that again.)

& yes, as we all know, everything I do eventually comes back to either Firefly or The Sandman. It's a weakness of mine, apparently. & I also couldn't get the idea of a Time Lord meeting one of the Endless out of my mind for a couple of days there.

Fucking christ, I swore up & down I'd never write Doctor/Master as long as I played about in this fandom. & yet I have.

& I love the second one so much. I shouldn't, since I wrote it & all, but I do.

♥

♥

♥

Tori Amos - Sister Named Desire

You met desire in a bar, centuries ago. She was beautiful, exuding sensuality & a certain deadliness you hadn't seen in a bit of time.

She looked you up & down on the spot, smiling a ravenous smile, a knowing, hungry smile. She knew everything about you before you realised it, before you really saw her.

She promised you a gift. One you had discarded long ago & would continue to discard as you aged.

You were no fool. You knew who she was, but arrogantly discounted her words.

'You always were so arrogant, Time Lord.' she said, smiling a crueler, more familiar smile. 'You deny your desires, all of you, except for one. It's pitifully amusing.'

You shrug her words off, even as she swears that there is no escaping her gift.

'There are things none of your kind knows, Time Lord. There are things I know that you never will. Doesn't that just fascinate you?'

You leave her then, feeling her golden eyes boring into your back, feeling the chill behind them as though she'd touched you.

No race is omnipotent, you tell yourself, realising the impact of her words later. Not even the Time Lords.

This will help you sleep through the centuries.

Until you realise, so much time later - perhaps, too much time later, that she was right.

You cannot escape her gift. You never could.

& you never will.

Not even in half a dozen regenerations.

He knows this all too well, & uses this fiercely against you, every night. He laughs at your humiliation, your weakness, savoring the taste of your shame like the coldest champagne on the hottest day.

You realise that you have been desire's puppet all along.

Only now, she's given your strings to the Master.

& even as you bite your lip to stay strong, endure the dissolving of your pride, you know you've accepted this gift too readily.

& that is what frightens you the most.


Poe - Wild/Iron & Wine - Evening On the Ground (Lilith's Song)/ Matthew Good Band - Carmelina

'Tell me.'

You say nothing. This is one game you won't give into, the one you won't let him force you into playing. Not this time.

He doesn't ask again, just tightens the grip of his fingers against your ribs. You wonder for a moment if he may break them just to spite you.

Or to wear you down.

'Tell. Me.' he repeats, anger colouring his tone. 'I don't intend to ask again.'

You look up at him, deja vu sweeping over you. Every time, past & present, you've given in somehow, just to get it over with then, to ease the pain & save your strength now.

'No.' you say, one syllable sharp against your lips. He glares down at you for a moment, but he knows how to push this game along.

Just like you know you'll give in at some point, whether he eases you into it, as when you were young, or whether he locks you into it by way of physical means, as it is now.

He smiles at you. Even so close, with so much heat surrounding you, so much heat you feel like you should both be melting the silk underneath the two of you, that smile sends shivers down your spine & all throughout your body.

'I'll make it easier for you, just this once.' he says, unwrapping your wrists, the pound of blood returning to those places making your hands ache. 'See? I've shown you a gesture of good faith, now you should show me one in return.'

You can't play this game. You won't. You just lay there, staring up into the ceiling, fibres of your mind weaving into space, anything, anything but what is happening now.

His fingers are becoming harsher, more bruising against your skin. He's not going to stop until you submit to the challenge.

No.

Blood pounds in your ears as he bites down on your shoulder, the skin breaking just above your collarbone.

They lied to you when they said blood never makes a noise.

It's so loud. For a moment, the rushing, pounding, throbbing makes you feel almost kinship with the Master; the drums can only be so relentless.

Forcing him to submit to their bend, to their will.

Even he has a master in the end.

This thought makes you snap. You're on top of him before you even realise you've moved, pinning him to the bed, binding him with such soft silk that will inevitably burn him as it burns you. Your hands are furious, moving with their own purpose, splitting such expensive linen into halves, buttons raining down between the both of you. Leather comes next, that foolish strip of leather you'll never wear as long as you stay in this body.

Everything is ripping all around you; the blood pounds in your ears & in your chest the harder you move.

Just this moment, you don't think of anything beyond what your hands can do, your teeth, your mouth. Just this moment, he's the tiniest bit vulnerable. & you've traded places with him in the process.

It sickens you to think of it like this. It feels like you're finally cracking into slivers of yourself. But you just can't bring yourself to stop.

When it ends, he looks up at you, with a half-smirking, half-knowing look in his eyes.

You slap him. The pain in your hand & the look on his face when you do gives you a shudder that causes you more pleasure than expected.

You're coming down now, repairing, the cracks sealing themselves up again. You're whole, rational, in control again. You're the Doctor again. You're here to save him, not hurt him.

You're still silent, even as he guides your head back down onto his chest, his fingers teasing your damp hair into spikes & swirls.

'Isn't it easier when you play along, Doctor?'