Player nickname: Cully Player LJ:sky_w_diamonds Way to contact you: Email: Im.going.nowhere.very.slowly@gmail.com AIM: Culumacilinte Are you at least 15?: But of course
Character: Lucy Saxon Fandom: Doctor Who Character Notes: Lucy is the wife of the Time Lord known as the Master- or, as far as the human race is concerned, Harry Saxon. His faithful companion. Of good looks, good breeding, and good schooling, she provided the perfect wife for the future Prime Minister. However, she's more than just a pretty face for the Master to wear on his arm. She is, in her own way, quite mad, and she absolutely hates silence. She's clever, calculating, and ruthless, and often much stronger than her husband gives her credit for. She does genuinely love the Master, and would do almost anything for him, including killing him at the end of Last of the Time Lords. She is not, as many people would assume, an unwilling pawn in his plans, nor has she been hypnotised by him; she's just twisted enough that she believes he's doing the right thing, and she'll help him to do it. Humans are all idiots, after all, and her Harry was bringing the future.
Of course, as far as she knows, the Master's dead, so she's going to have a bit of a shocker when she finds him on the comm here.
Sample Post:
A faint twist of consternation flashes over her face when Harry tugs sharply at her hair, but no sign of the pain. She'd got good at that, during that year aboard the Valiant, when Harry was in one of his moods; learned how to hide inside herself and give no sign of how much his slaps hurt, how much they infuriated her. Now just as then, he's more the Master than he is Harry. And even though she knows Harry Saxon is a fiction, she still prefers him.
As for the begging, though; she can do that. Even under the brief flare of anger that still lights her veins, a little shiver makes itself known at the idea of begging before her Master. Not because Lucy has ever been a particularly submissive woman (she's not), but because in begging she gains her own kind of power. The woman's power, says a voice in the back of her mind which sounds suspiciously like her mother. In begging she can make Harry absolutely melt.
She drops to her knees without preamble- just jeans today; none of the opulent silks Harry had so loved to deck her out in when she was Mistress of All. Her face, when she looks up at him, is cool and proud, despite the fact that she's on her knees before him.
'You know,' she says, quiet and collected, 'you never needed to order me, Harry.'
Then, ducking her head, she skims her fingers up the backs of his calves, slipping them under the elastic bottoms of the sweats he's wearing. They're hers, as it happens, smelling incongruously of her perfume and washing detergent, and she smiles a little, softly, as she looks up at him through her lashes.
'Please.' Her voice just the roughest of murmurs- a calculated performance, though not without a bit of truth to it. 'Oh, please Harry- Master. Tell me, please. How are you going to take over the planet? Make the human race grovel at your feet.'
no subject
Player LJ:
Way to contact you:
Email: Im.going.nowhere.very.slowly@gmail.com
AIM: Culumacilinte
Are you at least 15?: But of course
Character: Lucy Saxon
Fandom: Doctor Who
Character Notes: Lucy is the wife of the Time Lord known as the Master- or, as far as the human race is concerned, Harry Saxon. His faithful companion. Of good looks, good breeding, and good schooling, she provided the perfect wife for the future Prime Minister. However, she's more than just a pretty face for the Master to wear on his arm. She is, in her own way, quite mad, and she absolutely hates silence. She's clever, calculating, and ruthless, and often much stronger than her husband gives her credit for. She does genuinely love the Master, and would do almost anything for him, including killing him at the end of Last of the Time Lords. She is not, as many people would assume, an unwilling pawn in his plans, nor has she been hypnotised by him; she's just twisted enough that she believes he's doing the right thing, and she'll help him to do it. Humans are all idiots, after all, and her Harry was bringing the future.
Of course, as far as she knows, the Master's dead, so she's going to have a bit of a shocker when she finds him on the comm here.
Sample Post:
A faint twist of consternation flashes over her face when Harry tugs sharply at her hair, but no sign of the pain. She'd got good at that, during that year aboard the Valiant, when Harry was in one of his moods; learned how to hide inside herself and give no sign of how much his slaps hurt, how much they infuriated her. Now just as then, he's more the Master than he is Harry. And even though she knows Harry Saxon is a fiction, she still prefers him.
As for the begging, though; she can do that. Even under the brief flare of anger that still lights her veins, a little shiver makes itself known at the idea of begging before her Master. Not because Lucy has ever been a particularly submissive woman (she's not), but because in begging she gains her own kind of power. The woman's power, says a voice in the back of her mind which sounds suspiciously like her mother. In begging she can make Harry absolutely melt.
She drops to her knees without preamble- just jeans today; none of the opulent silks Harry had so loved to deck her out in when she was Mistress of All. Her face, when she looks up at him, is cool and proud, despite the fact that she's on her knees before him.
'You know,' she says, quiet and collected, 'you never needed to order me, Harry.'
Then, ducking her head, she skims her fingers up the backs of his calves, slipping them under the elastic bottoms of the sweats he's wearing. They're hers, as it happens, smelling incongruously of her perfume and washing detergent, and she smiles a little, softly, as she looks up at him through her lashes.
'Please.' Her voice just the roughest of murmurs- a calculated performance, though not without a bit of truth to it. 'Oh, please Harry- Master. Tell me, please. How are you going to take over the planet? Make the human race grovel at your feet.'