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The Doctor’s hands carded through his hair, caressed his ears. The Master found himself purring again, head lolling in the Doctor’s lap. The Doctor turned a page in the book he was reading.
The Cheetah Virus was progressing rapidly, to which there was no known cure; the Doctor had selflessly agreed to keep the Master in his TARDIS, where he had initially assumed he would at least get treated like a Time Lord prisoner rather than like a pet. This—this humiliating, degrading behaviour—
The Doctor’s thumb passed over the thick black fur of his new ears, and the Master purred. The Doctor was warm. Settled as he was, kneeling between his legs, he could bathe in both the Doctor’s warmth and in the feeling of being pet, and he could rest his head on the Doctor’s thigh. His fangs must’ve been poking at flesh as he lay there, but the Doctor didn’t complain.
Besides his new teeth, there were sixteen sharp objects in this room. He could push the Doctor into regeneration easily, and although it would cost him this pretty, fragile body, it would also burn the body that would debase him like this.
The Doctor scratched his fingers almost idly against the Master’s scalp, flipping a page with his free hand. He seemed oblivious to the Master’s anguish, deftly batting away all attempts at Contact as though the Master were merely a cat trying to play with string. He was very good at petting. The Master purred again, and the puddle of drool that had formed beneath his mouth only stood to remind him of how he was losing himself.
You are a Time Lord, he told himself. You are better than this. He should move. Lunge at the Doctor and rip his throat out with his teeth—no, that was another animal instinct. He was—he was the Master. He was a Time Lord and—
The Doctor’s hand passed through his hair and over his ears again. The Master purred.