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Saccharine. That’s the only word the Doctor has for…whatever this farce is. The Valiant is out of sight, its raptor-shadow long since departed. The Master’s breath is sickeningly sweet as it gusts across his cheek.
He leans back. He knows he shouldn’t, he knows he should run, but his vision blurs and sways as it darts over the horizon, across trees and ponds and distant houses, and he knows he wouldn’t get far. Un-tensing his muscles, he settles in the splay of the Master’s legs.
“Good,” the Master purrs, hot on his ear. “Another, I think.” One of his hands leaves its resting place on the Doctor’s stomach, snagging a chocolate from a tin in the grass. As before, and before that, and before that, he places it in his own mouth.
The Doctor tips his head up, anticipating the fingers that peel open his jaw at the hinge, tugging against tendons and forcing him to arch his spine. With a harsh yank, the Master twists his neck to the side. He drops the candy on the Doctor’s tongue, holding him steady, not allowing him to chew. It melts slowly, at first, most of his hazy focus spent on the nip of the Master’s teeth at his lips, gentling before drawing blood. And then it’s chocolate trickling down his throat, and ginger on his palate, and the Master’s tongue chasing both and forcing the ginger back, choking him.
“Swallow,” the Master murmurs, petting down his neck to encourage the motion and it’s not worth fighting, none of this is. They gaze upon the Earth with blown out pupils and reddened scleras—what’s one more?
Bobbing his throat, the Doctor swallows painfully. “Thank you,” he forces out through hitched coughs, still held in place against the Master’s chest. He grits his teeth at the Master’s airy hum.
“Pity we can’t see the stars,” says the Master. He wriggles, shifting his shoulders across the trunk of the tree he leans on. His hands slip back under the Doctor’s shirt, one crawling up to rest over the race of his hearts. “I think I’ll let you name a few, once this ugly business is over. Although,”—snuggling the Doctor closer, he laves a sticky trail below his ear—“I may have to name them after you. We’ll see if you’re still alive by then, hm?”
“Sure, right.” The Doctor closes his eyes.
“You’re welcome, by the way. I can’t say I understand the holiday, but Rassilon, do I like you like this."