mostincrediblechange:

He catches her by surprise, and that is the only way he would get the best of her. The Master’s hand grips her jaw, pushes her back against the wall and pins her there by the throat. It is only because it’s him and no one else that he’s not unconscious on the floor with the help of her Venusian aikido skills.

The Doctor trusts her husband implicitly never to hurt her, but that doesn’t stop a brief flash of fear from running through her before she catches the look in his eye. Her own hazel gaze grows dark and she lets her hands run down his chest instead of gripping his arm. 

“Interesting… can’t say I’ve ever seen you get quite like this… Can’t say I don’t like it, though.” 

His mouth hangs slightly ajar with his arousal.  Oh, there it is.  That flicker of terror which might otherwise send him shrinking to a corner with shame at a relapsed evil.  But now?  With carefully staged, moderated “force”?  He’s deeply satisfied.  The Oncoming Storm, a tiny bit afraid, because of him; the Doctor, horny and playful and possessive and smug, because of him.

Nobody but nobody can do that to her. 

Except him. 

        “I thought,” he explains, throaty, husky, “I’d surprise you with something I know you really. Really. Like.” 

A knee presses up between her legs. He self-indulgently shivers at the nails scraping his chest.  

      “There’s a whole book written about you,” he breathes, ghosting his lips, his teeth, over her mouth, pinching her jaw hard.  “But am I in it? Do they know what I can do to you?  Do they know how I can make you go incandescent with pleasure? Do they know how I can undo you and leave you unfurled like ripe flower? Hm?”