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This is where it all comes undone.
All you needed was a little twist and a tug--morality is always such a subjective concept, isn't it, Doctor?
Take, for example, Archangel. You did it *so* well. Crawling inside their heads, making them drunk on your name, then exacting obedience like the great puppeteer you are.
Now, tell me how it feels when you rip each one of those minds apart.
There. It's better when I turn the screen off, better still when you lay your head in my lap and *show* me. Show me how you tear out a hope here, trample over a dream there, not sparing a soul.
How that scientist over there, a man of logic and reason, cowers and sobs in terror when the landscape around him melts, dissolving him, tearing him limb from limb.
And over here, in front of a mirror, a woman who refused to say your name; staring in horror at the needle as you make her sew her own mouth shut.
And here, when a child who never believed in monsters steps on a crack in the pavement, the earth opens up and swallows him with a satisfying crunch.
These, and millions more, screaming and falling and dying, because you have made it so, for my pleasure.
I'm so proud of you, my dear Doctor. So proud--let me look at you.
Oh, no, don't suck my cock just yet.
Stroke it with your hands, that's it--both hands. So I can tilt your face up, see the way your pupils have dilated, the way you stare at me, at everything as if to devour. So I can touch your mouth with my fingertips; feel where I split your lip with my loving blows the night before. So I can feel the way your cheeks have hollowed out--oh, hollowing even more when you lean down to suck, just like that. Such beautiful, beautiful greed.
You, Doctor, are my greatest masterpiece.
And you move your body like a dancer when you ride my cock.
I've struck a match, and you burn like Alexandria.
Having tasted destruction, you will always be hungry.
More is what you'll ache for, more with every passing day. Harder. Faster.
More of *me*, until you're consuming me like oxygen. You'll claim deeper kisses, cry out for harder slaps, rock fervently onto my hand as it sinks inside you. Every time you paint your stomach with come, it's "more" you will scream, "more", "Master", "more".
All I'll have to do is wait. Days, maybe weeks--I'll be counting the minutes, the seconds. Until finally, finally you will curl your hand around my throat, another around my cock, and make me come for you.