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Summary
The first time the Doctor had kissed him, the drums had been deafening.
When the Doctor pulled him in, hands gripping the collar of his shirt in frantic desperation, lips pressed to his as if they somehow belonged there, something aggressive and scalding crawled into his chest. It burned, furious and violent. How dare he? What had possibly made him think he was allowed that?
The drums grew quiet. The Doctor’s hand, entwined with the Master’s hair, cradled his head as the thrumming died. The gentleness of it all was revolting. Some horrible concoction of rage and repulsion filled him, a sickening cocktail, complete with a hangover when it was all over with.
OR
Gradually, the Doctor eases the Master into submission, no matter how hard he tries to resist it, no matter how many times he insists he hates it.
