He thought about his eyes.
Those eyes that had stared into time itself. Those eyes that were simply a window into madness, insanity, depravity. Those eyes that were alight with evil; beautiful, tantalising evil. This man was his enemy, even his eyes told him that. But he couldn't help but stare into them, falling into their vortex.
He thought about his hair.
This regeneration's hair was short, dark, soft. His hands clung to it desperately, never wanting to let go. He held on tight, almost violently, but lovingly. It gave him an illusion of control. He knew very well he was lost.
He thought about his hands.
Hands that had poisoned his TARDIS. Hands that had murdered innocents. Hands that ran down his back, stroked his face, shoved him down onto the bed. Hands that stroked him until he was hard and gripped his shoulders as he came.
He thought about his lips.
Those permanently pouted lips. Lips that spewed insults, treachery, torments. Maniacal laughter and an endless drumbeat. One Two Three Four. One Two Three Four. One Two Three Four. The drums the drums the drumbeat. His hips grinded to the beat of the drums, harder and harder until they saw stars. Bucking and thrusting desperately, so needy and so hungry. The Doctor spread him self open on command from those luscious, plump lips. Lips that caressed his mouth, his neck, his chest. Lips that growled in pleasure. Lips that utter a forbidden I love you as the Doctor and his Master collapsed in post-coital euphoria.
One mad mad man turned to the one lying next to him. The Master was the Doctor's sworn enemy, but Koschei was Theta's lover. For one night they could pretend that everything would be ok.