standsonhigh | There's nothing here but what here's mine.

This wasn't, exactly, how he had planned his return. He had expected to be on home turf, a place he understood and wanted to be. Surrounded by worshippers and already plotting. Not here with some strange man using the power he gave specifically to his followers to bring him back. The books of Saxon weren't meant to be public knowledge, they were his private notes, and yet this man decided to drag him into a world he didn't want to be in.

The Master always had a funny feeling that magic wasn't something he should of ever tried to toy with because as it stood, he didn't like where this was going. It defied the logic he knew.

Voldemort was a strange creature, a very unpleasant one at that. He looked sickly and his eyes were red like an albino. Still, he didn't say much on it, he'd looked worse himself and damages were just a sign of ambition and desire. It always took everything out of you, especially with humans.

The drums were raging in his head as he followed Voldemort into this meeting he'd decided to attend. He'd only been back a few days and already he seemed to of captured the imagination of this tiny little creature who was all but eager to introduce him.

An ancient ruler from another reality must of been interesting.

He didn't walk behind Voldemort, he kept in step, not willing to seem a lesser. Hey, the dark lord brought him here. If he was going to play with this merry band of psychopaths, he wanted to seem equal.

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Barty turned around to walk to the bed and to keep his dark glare to himself. He looked down at the Mark, fingers ghosting just shy of brushing over it. It wasn't as if he was scared of pain, not that he was looking forward to it either, but...

Well, times had changed. He did as instructed, however reluctant he felt, holding his arm out and, after a moment, lowering his head to look at the mattress instead of the Master or his arm. He didn't usually avert his eyes, but right now he didn't trust them and he trusted the Master's interpretation of whatever he might see in his eyes even less.

"Don't lose my arm."

"I won't lose your arm, it happened once and that was only because he wouldn't stop thrashing around. Keep still and you'll keep your arm," the Master pointed out, climbing into the bed and seating himself neatly on top of Barty, one hand gripping the arm and the other his screwdriver. Frowning, he made sure it was at a comfortable angle before starting.

At the lowest setting, he started at the top and gently used the button on and off to burn off the inked layer of skin. It was a quick process, if people stayed still. Around three minutes? That was his personal best at least.

"Tell me if it hurts too much, I'll have to tie you down. Because I don't want to lose your arm yet, I sort of need you to have it."

Barty didn't have a high pain threshold. Never had. But he had a strong will, determination and pride and that did help him now, holding as still as he could as if he had something to prove. There was a whimpers, sure, and there were tears in his eyes as he tried to keep his breathing calm, as he tried to keep from struggling to get away, but he was as still as possible.

It hurt, though. It hurt as if a lot more than just some skin was burned off and, well, the Mark was magical. A lot more was.

"You're not tying me down." Not exactly an order, but close enough, because this already felt too much like being coerced into submitting to torture for his tastes.

"Don't order me around," the Master said calmly with a dark edge to it and purposefully lingered in one spot longer than was really needed. Then he continued down, already plotting what to do next to make sure Barty didn't forget the chain of command, even in moments like this. "You know not to do that, we've been over it so many times. It never ends well for you, does it?"

He'd give him a pass, just for now, but it wouldn't last much longer if he tried anything like that again.

When the mark was halfway done, he stopped the laser and pulled out a cloth, swiftly cleaning it over and checking to make sure he'd gotten every spot. What? He was a perfectionist. Then, once more, he started up again. "Don't get your tears on my pillow."

"No, Master. It never ends well." The words were spoken quick and quietly, before he made yet another pained sound, louder than the last had been. He didn't have to fake the submissive tone here, there were few things he hated as much as the way the Master could bring him down, seemingly never running out of new ways to do it. He did want to avoid that.

"What else should I get my tears on?" Barty asked in an almost conversational tone, while he was mostly busy holding his tears back. His body had started shaking and he couldn't stop it. Too much of a shock to his system, he supposed, an unrelenting attack. He wanted to ask the Master to just stop and leave him be and even through the haze of pain he knew that would be a bad idea.

"Please," he finally begged anyway, before biting his lip hard enough to make it bleed. He wasn't sure what he was begging for.

"Nothing, just stop crying," the Master said dismissively, not really sounding all that bothered either way. Truth was, he wasn't actually that bothered. Barty cried so wonderfully, it was truly a beautiful sight. He often wondered if the Doctor wept like this? Maybe one day he could check next time he caught up with the other Time Lord, make him suffer till he wept and trembled.

Once a good chunk of the second half was burnt off, he paused at the pleading and looked up, frowning at Barty. He was shaking so much, he was ruining the Master's perfect work and he nearly fell out the line. Maybe he should of drugged him for it? With an annoyed sigh, he leaned forward and gently bumped their foreheads together.

"Stop crying, you can get through this. Can't you? It'll be done soon and then you'll be mine completely. Wouldn't you like that so much better? Because you're not his any more, he's gone. But you still have me and we have to make that very clear."

He gently stroked the man's hair, just to seem like he was sympathetic, and gave him a swift kiss like one would a fussing child. "Deep breath, keep still and stop ruining how perfectly I'm keeping in the lines."

And, with that, he returned to what he was doing.

Barty had no delusions about what the Master truly felt about his tears, neither a stranger to sadism nor the man's obsession. He wasn't holding back his tears and whimpers for the sake of not annoying him, but for his own pride and refusal to give him the satisfaction.

He still had to blink away tears when the Master paused, flinching at first before realizing that he was playing at being sweet instead of kicking him around. So there was that, at least. He shrugged before he could think it through, but luckily his brain had caught on by the time he spoke up.

"Yes. I want to be yours."

And there was a stubborn streak that kept him from saying his name at right that moment, but that was a very subtle act of defiance that made little difference when the words were still true and when the pain started up again, because then he screamed his name.

The Master didn't even bother to hide his smile as he powered through, not even stopping when Barty cried, screamed, jerked slightly. He just wanted to hurry up and get this done. It was losing it's spark of amusement and he didn't want to ruin it by making it into a chore. Rassilon forbid!

Once the mark was gone, all that remained was the harsh burns the Master had caused. He sat back and admired his work, gently running his fingers along the burn, not a single dot of ink left behind. Half the job was done, now for the other part.

He reached down and gripped Barty's face, holding it tight in his grip to make sure they had eye contact. "Now beg me to mark you like a good little loyal servant."

Barty's eyes blinked open, blinked away tears as his eyes tried to focus on the Master through the pain. He swallowed, frowning as he worked out the words and fought the first impulse of shaking his head. He didn't want to be marked right now. He was hurting, he was shaking, he felt weak and wounded and the last thing he wanted was to beg anything of the man who did it.

But he had a brain and he knew he had no choice, ultimately, so he dared to look at his burned mess of an arm and did as ordered. "Please, Master, mark me. Make me yours."

"Good boy," the Master offered back, pulling Barty into a swift reassuring kiss before grasping his other arm and holding that one still instead. It was more awkward, what with the angle he had to shift himself to do this properly, but he wanted to make sure he did this right. His first practise at his mark. Others didn't get his mark, some occasionally got a crude 'M' branded on them to make a point but he didn't give them his mark.

Only Barty had earned it.

Starting once again, the Master swiftly and skilfully wrote his name in Gallifreyan on the trembling arm. And no, not his chosen name or his old nickname, his true name. The name that only the Doctor knew. It was still very special to him and so few had earned the right to see it.

There's nothing here but what here's mine.

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