Fic : The Shining of You [2/3]
current location: bed
current mood: tired
current song: muse - exo-politics
Title: The Shining Of You [2/3]
Rating: NC-17 to be safe, maybe hard R if you're a badass :)
Disclaimer: If I owned either of these two, I would NOT waste time on lj...
Summary: Just before/early LOTTL. Half a look at the relationship and half an excuse to see the beautiful but crazy take their clothes off...
Warnings : It's a little violent.
Part One: When You Burn You Bleach
Now, they've given up all pretence at normality. Harry is gone and the cruel god of the Master stands in his place. She's not sure exactly how she feels about sharing this side of him with the world ; where once Mr Hyde would only surface for her, the wink across a dinner table, the grip tightening on an arm, the concealed hiss in her ear, he belongs to the world. The world belongs to him; and he isn't her secret anymore.
The man called the doctor is huddled in his birdcage, and looks at her with pity in his eyes. She secretly enjoys this, herself as he must see her; the sad ghost, the broken doll, in out of her depth. They see her bruises and misunderstand everything, but their half concealed glances come as a shiver down her back and give her public life, such as it is, the tone and feeling of being half drunk on white wine – pure, and sad, and cold.
Such a shame Har– such a shame the Master had to age him though. He was very pretty, Lucy thinks, but perhaps that was the problem. She isn't a fool, and she understands more than he'd like her to about what has transpired between the two time lords. Better then, to have it like this; she's perfectly content being the only fragile plaything in the Master's world, right now.
The days pass in a blur of death and music; Harry is a noisy creature, screaming for his own sake. There's something inelegant about the way he parades himself about and flirts with his prisoners, something almost human about his exhibitionism, but he is every inch the cruel god when they watch the Toclofane depart together. The word decimate is poison on his lips and Lucy is fascinated by his power, incredibly aroused by the fact that, even if he's putting this show on for the doctor, his delivery is just for her. When Japan burns, she feels like a spectre, a shivering, static point at the centre of his storm.
The noise is unbearable, though, sometimes. The immortal man screaming his defiance from the boiler room, the pop songs the Master finds it hilarious to play, the burning and whirring and screaming from the video feeds, direct from Earth, from carnage and pain and - oh, impersonal death too far away to feel.
When they leave the room together, though, after a day of noise and confusion and battles won, she is shaking and she feels his hand, a little too firm, a little too assertive, wandering, pressing, tracing her spine. Making sure he sees, of course, she's not blind enough to think that this display is all for her, but when they turn that corner and the doors close then this really is just them and the Master clearly can't wait, isn't feeling patient, needs what he's needed since they watched Japan burn together earlier that morning and pushes, really hurls her against the wall because it's not like he cares what the staff witness, is it?
His strength stuns her as usual, holding her here with her legs around his waist and the rip spreading up her dress like blood and ohgod he's inside her, rough and brutal, high on the afterglow of some really good evil overlording, one hand coming to her neck, half-supporting, half-choking. She knows which one is intentional and that rough pulling feeling of pressure and not enough air is making her dizzy, and she doesn't exist, she is a ghost, she is simply this mass of sensation, this cocktail of oxygen deprivation and adrenaline and pleasure, the brutal force of his thrusting so rapid and merciless and …
And coming, both of them; him marginally earlier, tightening his grip on her neck as he snarls and spasms his way through this, yet another victory, sinking to the floor and rolling away, slightly from her, yet another victim. Sort of. Lucy feels stretched and spent, a million years old in this instant; destroyed and reborn again again again at the hands of this man, her creator, her god.
And when he's like this with her it makes her feel fragile, and brittle, and on the edge of the world. She feels, now more than ever that her life is just a series of garbled and chaotic interludes between these; the silver breath-thin moments where she dangles between consciousness and death. She is her every breath. The world is rain, and stars, and a million shades of grey. I feel like a ghost, she half thinks, half whispers to him with that half sided smile, and, grinning, he raises one hand and pulls her back to life.