Anticipation ('Rapture' entry)

[but_can_i_be_trusted]

Title: 'Anticipation'
Rating: R
Genre: Horror/Introspection/Character Study
Word Count: 1,736
Pairings or Characters: The Master (Ainley version)/Eleventh Doctor; minor original characters
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Disturbing imagery. Slashy implications. Torture/bloodshed.
Author's Notes: The darkest thing I've written, to date. I'll be honest: This scares the living daylights out of me.

Summary: One end of his tie hangs loose, as though too weary to fight. The remainder is inexplicably still knotted, still limply forming half of a bow. Overall, I'm given the impression of a butterfly with a broken wing.

I sit in a rough-hewn wooden chair, eyes on the scene before me. Never could I have asked for something more flawless, more atmospheric. Better suited to my wishes.

Tripods stand at the corners of the chamber, oily smoke rising and leaving sooty smears on the walls above them. Their flames dance fitfully, casting ghostly shadows that caper about the room, as though seeking to entertain me with their antics. In the center of the room is a table, roughly the length of a man's body. It has seen a good deal of use over the years, much of it no doubt unspeakable.

It will soon be put to more use. If all goes well, it will serve a purpose similar to that which I imagine it has already served. A purpose which, perhaps, those possessed of weaker constitutions would be better off not contemplating. There is a winch-like device in the corner of the room, connected to the table with a series of cables.

Not far away, a heavy oaken door stands open, and I hear the sounds of a tussle growing ever louder.

Rising, I smile. Splendid. All of my plans have fallen into place.

My assistants--all with steep prices on their heads, and only their unquestioning obedience to me keeping them safe from the hangman's noose--enter, dragging with them a struggling male figure. Their beefy hands clutch his arms in vicelike, irresistible grips, rendering his writhings ineffectual. His shirt is in tatters, and there are large rips in his trousers. He's lost one boot at some point. All that remains of his coat is one tweed cuff still buttoned around the right wrist. On closer observation, it seems possible that a scrap of the coat's lining has also been preserved; I know of no other way to account for the rag that muffles his angered protests.

He spots me, and stiffens in recognition, momentarily forgetting those who hold him fast. Dark hair, matted with sweat and mud, dangles in his eyes. He tosses his head, as though to remove the obstruction the strands present to his vision.

I bow mockingly. "Greetings, Doctor. I trust that your journey was a pleasant one?"

Evidently not, judging from the way he twists against my helpers' restraining hands.

"Calm yourself," I tell him, drawing closer. "You'll be enjoying my hospitality, such as it is, for an indefinite period. Just relax. There's no need for this waste of effort on your part." My smile widens, and my captive lets out an involuntary moan of dread.

I stand inches from the Doctor, looking him over. How long has it been, I wonder? How long since last we met? And for how long has my dear Doctor worn this absurdly adolescent frame? Does he no longer wish to be taken seriously as a Time Lord? Or does he perhaps prefer to play the buffoon?

No matter. He'll play a new role from now on.

One end of his tie hangs loose, as though too weary to fight. The remainder is inexplicably still knotted, still limply forming half of a bow. Overall, I'm given the impression of a butterfly with a broken wing.

A bow tie. How delightful. Not nearly so eccentric as the sprig of celery, nor as absurd as the impossibly long scarf. But no less quaint and charming, for all of its comparative ordinariness.

I gently finish unknotting the tie, taking both ends in one hand and pulling the Doctor close. So close. Until our faces are an inch apart, until I can make out every speck of color in those moss-shaded eyes. My other hand rises, the backs of my fingers caressing his cheek, his flesh alabaster-pale against the blackness of my glove. He trembles deliciously at my touch.

I close my eyes, inhaling. He smells of leatherbound books and ozone and innumerable paradoxes.

And of fear. Rich, intoxicating fear, spiced with just a hint of adrenaline. I ache to drink it all in. But I must savor it slowly.

I'm going to enjoy this. So will he--though it may take time. It might take a good deal of persuasion to convince him of the gemlike splendor of the pain that I'm going to put him through. He will gleam under my influence. He will shine starbright, incandescent.

If possible, he will be so very much more beautiful than he already is. Than he has always been.

Slowly, so very slowly, I unthread the tie from his collar, brushing its satin against his cheek. He flinches, and I realize that I've touched a bruise that's beginning to form there; my helpers must have used more violence than I'd advised.

Never mind. The bruise is inconsequential. Indeed, it will pale next to what I have in store for my old friend.

"A little souvenir," I whisper, drawing the tie across his muted lips. "A reminder of the rapture yet to come..."

My hand lowers, fingers prodding, seeking out the pulse points in his throat. It takes little effort to find them; both pulses are beating rapidly. Pounding out a tattoo of terror. I squeeze, and he stiffens again, not daring to struggle when he's moments away from strangulation.

Perfect. He's ready for me.

"Prepare him," I tell my helpers. I raise a hand in warning as they drag him to the table and force him down. "Gently, now, friends. Gently. You mustn't harm our guest. That privilege," I add softly, watching as he's bound into place, "belongs to me..."

Within moments, the Doctor lies outstretched on the table. Thick ropes, built into the table's surface, wrap around his wrists and ankles. A hefty strap is cinched around his chest, with another one secured at his waist. One of the most endearing qualities of the restraints is that they go straight through the wood, coming out the other side. Mechanisms that work along the same principle as the garrote can be used to tighten them as needed.

I don't anticipate the necessity of those mechanisms...but I'm willing to entertain the notion.

At a gesture, one of my assistants works the winch, tilting the table until it is only a few degrees from vertical.

"Leave us," I instruct. My gaze never leaves the Doctor as my helpers depart, even as the door's heavy bolts slam into place.

Alone at last.

Slowly, deliberately, I circle my helpless prisoner. The Doctor turns his head, watching me, until the table blocks his vision. He squirms and arches against the restraints.

"It would be unwise to struggle," I warn him, coming before him again. But I see that he has learned that lesson for himself. Thin rivulets of blood are already easing down his arms, staining what remains of his shirtsleeves. "As you see, the ropes have been specially prepared," I continue, holding a spare length up for his inspection.

The feeble light from the tripods glints on the small shards of razor-sharp glass embedded between the rope's fibers. His eyes widen in mingled fear and disgust, and a moan comes from behind his gag.

Satisfied that he's gazed his fill at the unused bit of rope, I toss it aside. There are more important matters to see to.

"Now...what shall I do with you," I wonder, listening to the symphony of tormented, muffled pleas and labored breathing. "Where do we begin? The possibilities overwhelm me." Drawing as near as I can, I tenderly ease the Doctor's hair out of his eyes, letting my fingertips linger at his temple, stroking the skin softly.

Those eyes glint dimly at me in the tripods' flames, barely shining out of the shadows cast by his brow. Softer brushstrokes of shade touch beneath his cheekbones.

Such a fascinating face. So simultaneously ancient and youthful. In a way, it's a strikingly handsome face.

But how much more handsome will that face be when contorted with agonies worthy of Hell itself?

A thrill runs through me at the prospect. A rush of adrenaline-based ecstasy. Similar, almost electrical surges have run through me as I've planned this meeting, awaited its arrival.

I know, as I watch with pleasure as the Doctor renews his struggles against the--sadly (for him, at least) unbreakable--bonds that contain him, that the sensation will continue.

I hope that I won't grow bored with it. That I won't tire of this fierce joy.

But I don't believe I will.

Unable to resist, I press a soft kiss to the gag just above where the corner of his mouth should be. He tenses, longing to pull away from me. Knowing that it would be pointless to try.

"Are you ready," I breathe against his ear. I chuckle as he replies with a terrified groan. "Very well, Doctor. Let's begin..."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Hours have passed. We are at rest now, the Doctor and I. He lies slumped against the table, head sagging to one side, moaning fitfully in his slumber--for he lost consciousness not long ago. He's either dreaming of what he's been through...or else anticipating what is yet to come.

As am I. Though perhaps I am a bit more eager than he is.

All that is left of the Doctor's shirt is a pile of useless shreds of cloth scattered on the floor. There are welts across his arms and chest, raw and swollen. Blood has oozed from a few of them, scarlet tracks slowly drying and darkening. At one point, I took the liberty of tightening the restraints that hold his wrists; his hands are blue and numb by now.

I've resumed my seat, eyes greedily devouring him. Hungry for more of this ecstasy. But patient, ever so patient. For I mustn't break my pretty toy just yet. We have all the time in the universe at our disposal. Smiling softly, I lean back in the chair, idly passing a strip of satin cloth between my fingers--the only garment of the Doctor's that remains undamaged.

It's only a rough wooden chair, splintered with age. But it might just as well be a throne fit for an emperor--for a god.

And that is what I am--or very soon will be. At least, in the Doctor's eyes.

I will be his god.

And, in time, he will be my acolyte. My disciple. My devoted slave, standing at my side as I break the universe apart.

I will show my dear Doctor that pain and pleasure are ultimately one and the same.