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The Doctor misses three opportunities to force the Master to surrender, too tempted by the chance to gloat and too entertained by their sword fight to have it be over so soon, the few light blows that each landed spreading scratches and the occasional cut around their arms, thighs, and the sides of their torsos. He's had the advantage until now, and so is shocked when the Master manages to push him against the table, pinning him down and holding the blade against his neck to keep him in place.
“You're at my mercy now,” the Master says, grabbing the Doctor's hair with his free hand and pulling his head back, forcing his neck to press further against the sword, the edge digging into his skin.
He feels the thick wetness as a drop of blood falls over the sword, sliding down the blade, and knows that he has very few options to escape. Perhaps none that wouldn't involve cheating, but their fights never involved playing by any rules. And this is still a fight, or at least a dispute. Cheating is still within the spirit of things.
The Master leans further over him, making the table creak, and the Doctor uses his distraction to grab a knife from his pocket, passing his thumb over the length of the blade to be sure that he has the right one, as his pockets are always full with all sorts of things, and choosing wrong now could be catastrophic.
“You have no mercy,” he says, challenging even as the cut grows deeper with the movement, sacrificing a couple more drops of blood in the process.
The Master smiles, predatory and triumphant, and just as he opens his mouth, no doubt to parry his verbal attack, the Doctor uses the distraction to stab his chest, plunging the knife to the hilt over the Master’s left heart.
The Doctor takes advantage of the shock to push him away, and is surprised when the Master stumbles and falls with his back to the floor, his hands hovering in disbelief over the knife sticking out of his chest. In his eagerness to win, the Doctor might have gone too far, and he drops to the floor, reaching for the knife, in his panic intending to pull it out.
The Master grabs his hand over the hilt and presses it closer, and his other entangles itself on the Doctor's curls.
“You can still surprise me, my dear Doctor,” the Master says, and pulls him down for a kiss, moaning into his mouth as his weight presses the knife as far in as it'll go.
The Doctor tries to hold it in place, afraid that his calculations might be off, but the Master doesn't seem as concerned with his own body. Or maybe he took an assessment of the injury already and judged it to be less important than this.
“I have a…” the Doctor starts to say as he tries to pull away, but he was too distracted to notice that the Master had let go of his hand and grabbed back his sword.
From this angle, he only manages to slice at the Doctor's back, barely deep enough to draw blood, but it's enough to make the Doctor recoil, and the Master takes the opportunity to flip them, strandling the Doctor's lap.
“You have an inability to commit,” the Master teases, pressing both hands over the Doctor's neck, using his weight to more thoroughly choke him, the pressure just enough to interrupt his breathing without cutting off the blood flow to his brain.
The respiratory bypass allows him to survive, but he still claws at the Master’s hands, trying to pull them away. The knife is still within his reach, but he doesn't want to risk using it again, the sight of it hanging from the Master’s chest uncomfortably real. The Master is right, he might not have the ability to fully commit to this, but he's not ready to concede either.
The Doctor tries to push him off, but the Master is relentless, and there really is only one thing that the Doctor can do, despite his hesitation. He twists the knife, only about ten degrees, but it's enough to make the Master howl and fall forward, letting go of his neck.
He manages one deep breath that burns in his throat before the Master is kissing him again, pressing down on him in a way that makes the knife poke uncomfortably at the Doctor's chest, and the Doctor's had enough of this, whatever this is. He pulls out the knife and throws it to the side, making the Master break the kiss with a gasp, and he doesn't let him recover before he's rolling them again, holding the Master by the wrists with one hand so he won't take any more weapons.
The Master still tries to escape, but the Doctor presses the tips of two fingers into his chest wound, making him arch off the floor with a moan.
“How is that for commitment?” the Doctor asks. “Do you yield?”
He sees the conflict in the Master’s expression, and he genuinely doesn't know what will happen next. He almost lost track of time, and the fight took longer than he expected, so if the Master doesn't surrender soon, they might not have time. But the Doctor isn't ready to give up either, not with how far he has gone to win. It wouldn't be the first time that neither of them is willing to concede, far from it, but he hopes that it isn't the case now, as it already happened two weeks in a row.
The Master closes his eyes and sighs. “Very well, I commend your underhanded tactics.”
It's not quite a surrender, but the Doctor will take it.
“Make yourself useful then, old chap, before the camera loop ends,” the Doctor says, letting go of his wrists.
Whatever objection the Master might still have, it dies as he must take count of the time. He's perfectly willing to antagonise the Doctor for no other reason than to annoy or infuriate him, but perhaps less so after being stabbed in the chest. The Doctor will have to mentally file that information for future use.
“I can always count on you to be directionless,” the Master says, reaching for his trousers, not even trying to mask the annoyance in his tone. “What is the point of ceasing control if you won't enact it properly?”
The Doctor rolls his eyes, and is almost tempted to use his prize specifically to refuse to collect, but that would only be getting in his own way to spite the Master, which he is capable of doing, but not always willing. In particular, he's not willing now, with his hearts still racing from the sword fight and strangulation, and with the Master pinned under him in a similar state of disarray.
“Making you lose,” the Doctor says, and kisses him before the indignant response that's sure to generate.
He tells himself that coming here is only a mix of gloating and making sure to keep an eye on the Master, and that he’s already won, but he’s not sure if that’s truly the case. If the Master’s plans are a twisted way of getting his attention, then he’s the one winning even now.
They’re running out of time, and the Doctor lets out a frustrated grunt as the Master frees his cock only to let go of it, but is rewarded when instead the Master caresses his side and back, smearing his hand in blood. He nearly rips the Master’s trousers in his impatience, then grabs something from his pockets that he hopes is a lubricant, coating their cocks as the Master’s hands over his stains them with his blood. It's an attempt at some retaking of control, but the Doctor doesn't fight him on it.
Everything else had a certain sophistication, a certain finesse, but this is pure base instinct, animal desire given weight when they were taught to be above it. It's inelegant, they get in the way of each other, trying to get enough friction pressing their cocks together, before gripping each other.
They have no more verbal jabs to throw at each other, and so the Doctor makes the mistake of thinking that this means the conflict is over, focusing only in the movement of his hand, how he's using his own blood to give the Master pleasure, their blood, as his fingers were still wet from pressing into the Master’s chest. It's such a singular point of focus that he allows his physiological responses to be entirely involuntary, pleasure felt by his body without the active input of his mind.
Until the Master stabs him between the ribs.
The Doctor doesn't even have time to cry out in pain before he's coming, and he knows that it isn't his reaction that pulls the Master along, but rather having tricked him, winning after pretending to surrender.
He drops to the side, carefully not to press the knife, and takes in a series of short breaths, the pain sharp and vivid with each one.
“That's cheating,” he says once he thinks that he has enough air for it, while he searches his pockets.
“You cheated first, bringing a concealed weapon,” the Master says, pulling it out without standing up. He touches the blade almost reverently, testing it on the tip of a finger, including over the broken edge. “Did you measure this yourself?”
The Doctor makes a non-committal noise. It was an idea that he had a while ago and wouldn't leave him until he tried it. They do use real swords, and so have to be careful with direct blows. But the dagger’s blade was cut so it's under an inch, and still sharp and with a slight tip. Perfect for stabbing his chest directly without risking a hit to a heart or a lung. Probably. Unless he pressed too hard, although he had taken care to use a wide hilt that couldn't easily follow the blade.
“I have a tissue regenerator,” he says, ignoring the question and tossing the device to the Master.
They don't always use that, but he didn't want to take the chance with what else he was planning, just in case he made a mistake with the knife. Even if he had perforated a heart, he would have minutes before the other emptied with the hemorrhage, plenty of time to fix the damage.
The Master only heals the cut to his chest, and even then only until the outer skin is in the final stages of closing, still bright red in the middle. All the other cuts are minor enough to have stopped bleeding on their own, and rather than tending to them, he grabs the Doctor's chin and tilts his head up to heal the cut on his neck until not even a scar will be visible, then gives the same treatment to the latest cut to his side, this one deep enough to make the healing itch.
“Turn around,” the Master says, gesturing towards the cut on his back, but it's not too bad, so the Doctor shakes his head.
The Master isn't the only one to want a few souvenirs of the encounter.
“The cape will cover it. Come, we have to get to position,” he says, standing up and quickly cleaning himself, at least in a way that might be passable to the guards.
He doesn't offer a hand for the Master to stand, it would only offend him, but he does insist on taking the knife back, as well as the swords, which he can put back on his pockets, having set them to be dimensionally transcendental, even if he has to shove to get them all the way in. It's a good thing that the guards never think of searching him, as he wouldn't want to have to explain himself.
“One hundred seconds, Doctor,” the Master reminds him, having discarded his prison clothes in favour of identical but clean and unripped ones, which also cover all the cuts that he still has.
“I know, I know,” he says, and they both adjust the furniture quickly back to position before sitting on opposite sides of the table, staring at each other with a look of deep concentration.
“Can I expect your visit next week?” the Master asks, a tradition, although he has come every week since putting him there.
“Unless I have something better to do.”
It's a point of pride to pretend, even if they both know that he doesn't mean it. In his exile, the Master is by far the most interesting thing that he might encounter on a regular basis.
“I suppose I may escape before then, this place is rather dull.”
Five seconds, the Doctor gets the final say. “We both know you won't try to escape without me here. You'll want to gloat.”
There's no noise, nothing to indicate that his bypass of the camera feed stopped working, but they both know that it did. He set a timer, he always does, rather than risking letting himself fall into temptation and making this something that it isn't. He's not breaking the rules of the prison so much as he's bending them. This is just a visit, and as long as it's just that, he doesn't have to be afraid of what these feelings for the Master say about him.
“Goodbye, old chap,” he says, standing up.
To the personnel hired to watch that prison, not even UNIT but outsourced, it'll just seem as though they spent two hours staring at each other, only blinking and breathing betraying their movements, leading to the rumours that they communicate telepathically. The Doctor already did plenty in helping the humans arrest the Master and keep him in this prison island, anything else is between the two of them, and none of their concern.
“Goodbye, my dear Doctor,” the Master says, offering a hand for him to shake.
The Doctor ignores it as he always does, afraid of what might happen if they touch while others watch.