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It seemed theoretical, when the hook dangled freely in the Doctor’s soft mouth. The Master’s thoughts lingered in academia, in anatomy — and then he grabbed the hook and pushed, through epithelial tissue, mucosa, and into the clean air.
The hook dangled, again, but embedded now in the Doctor’s cheek. He had shouted, a harsh, urgent noise, disbelieving; squirmed on the hook, eyes wide and legs kicking uselessly at the wall. All of his backhanded remarks evaporated like sugar in water. Sweet nothings.
Bright red saliva pooled in his mouth. The Master expected his bluster to continue, but the Doctor swallowed before the blood could drip down his chin. His throat worked hard when the tang of iron hit his palate.
The Master tugged the curve, fascinated by the way it made the Doctor flinch. “My little fish,” he said, sincerely affectionate.
“Take it out,” the Doctor slurred, lips barely moving for fear of jostling the cruel metal barb. His pale, sweat-streaked face trapped strands of hair.
“I think not. I’ve caught you,” he tugged at it again, harder, and the Doctor shuddered, “my dear Doctor.”
He drove the next one straight through the Doctor’s lip, ignoring the way he screamed.