Doctor Who: The Bright Asylum

Dead Man's Chest

“Such a view, Koschei…” The Doctor says to the Master, his long, squarish fingers squaring off the well-shaped heart of River Song’s bum as she bends down to tend to the firewood. “It’s good that we’re building a fire. It can get frigid in the Canyon, what with all that gravity-related fun happening down there since the War; and that is a most delicious view.”

He turns; Koschei of Oakdown’s gaze is the hot kiss of breeze off molten lava. The man’s big irises are brown today instead of grey, a solid pointer to the man’s unwelcome discovery of the day before. Then he says, “I think we could do with a bit more of that, River,” the Doctor smirks, still idly cupping her bum with his hands from afar.

Koschei smiles his little boy smile, pursing his lips like he’s just eaten a persimmon. It’s the only thing left to him in this small, inadequate body. Inadequacy. Still it will never be said that he can’t use any tools at his disposal. He is the Master, after all.

“Really Theta, do you think that maybe you could focus on the work for once?” the Master murmurs, scratching his young chin with insufficiently small fingers then reaching down to tug at the Doctor’s odd choice of trousers for the Georgie Plombkin Avatar. “It’s refreshing to know that, despite your being in a Flesh at the moment, all those extra hormones haven’t dampened your stupidity.”

The Doctor smiles at River’s bum one more time, then shifts to stare at the Master. “Really Koschei? Don’t be so hard on me; I’m a sensitive man with burgeoning prospects, and in my fragile condition, I’m allowed a secret smile or two! In fact, I’ve been thinking -and River, you can chime in on this if you like- that perhaps, once all this silliness is over, I might regenerate into my previous body, you know, the one you fell for, with the bleeding and the bullets and the whinging?” The Doctor grins as he speaks those last words, through thinning lips that remind of newly-hatched grubs stretching over a corpse.

Well. That does it- much more of this charade and the thoroughly evil idiot who’s wearing the Doctor’s Flesh Avatar is going to be a likely candidate for the day’s braining.

The Master cracks his young boy neck and settles his head on his elbow, somewhere very far away from the moron’s disturbingly self-pleased gaze. He can’t take this lie much longer.

So he doesn’t.

He sets his teeth, quite fine and white, to the –Doctor’s- stockinged and booted ankle, sinking each gleaming chomper in, to the bone.

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