#wyrwtd

[impossiblesongs]

familiar like my mirror years ago (dhawan!master x reader)

Summary: Did you fancy me as Missy? || this series partakes in and around this fic

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Disclaimer: Not my characters. This is a disclaimer.

Title from "From Eden" by Hozier

AN: this pair hasn’t left me and now it’s everyone’s problem dhawan!master timeline: post-part 6 of OG fic

The Master’s bathroom was possibly the most opulent thing you’d ever laid eyes on, but you may be biased.

Ebony wood colored the floors while purple gloss tiles prettily covered the walls, the grand chandelier winking above shading the tiles in a variant coloring that flowed between plum and magenta. A large round mirror sat between twin sink, lined with dark grey countertops one could glean their reflection upon, and a highly indulgent polymer corner bath so deeply purple it looked black. It seemed a perfect place to brood.

Now that you are a fixture on the ship however, some changes have made their way in.

The sink countertop has marbled with flecks of gold between the grey, and the corner tub has been replaced with a freestanding pearl-gold monstrosity that you have come to adore the more you use it. The mirror has reshaped into a rectangle with a border decorated of shattered pink stained-glass. The chandelier lights have been replaced with black candles.

It’s where the Master knows to find you, the nights you can’t claim sleep.

He wanders in terribly overdressed with a boyish pep in his step. Wordlessly, he starts to roll a sleeve up to his elbow before kneeling down and placing a hand in the water.

“Tepid,” he grimaces but his hand remains as it is, submerged, his fingertips ghost at your ankles. “You know she’d fix that.”

You smile bemusedly, “I told the Tardis not to. I’d never leave.”

The Master’s eyes twinkle as they wander, “I can’t say I’m terribly opposed.”

You gasp and pull your legs up to cover your chest, “What did you come here for? Other than to ogle! We both know you obviously had something in mind. You’re still dressed, for one.”

His face clears from most of his affection and he considers you gravely. You keep immensely still and wait him out, eventually his hand emerges from the water and settles on the rim of the tub.

Finally, he says, “Did you fancy me as Missy?”

You groan and flick water at him, which only makes him grin harder. You’re proud to say that even with a flush high on your cheeks you don’t stammer once, “You know, I don’t think it’s very fair that you expect me to reveal myself to you when you’re fully clothed while I very much am not.”

The Master makes a noise of lament at the back of his throat to answer your point before shimmying out of his shoes and climbing into the tub opposite you fully clothed. His legs extend and settle beneath yours as  his hands reach to curve the underside of your knees, dragging you closer and onto his lap.

“So,” he says, pressing his lips to your bare shoulder before whispering in your ear, “did you fancy me as Missy?”

You pull back and assess his face. And what a handsome face, his luminously eyes, dark as an abyss and twice as trickier. You press yourself fully against him, tucking your face in the crook of his neck while your arms clutch around his back, hugging his ridiculous fully clothed self to you.

“Did you fancy me as Missy?”

“Mmm, I did find you very pleasing and very pretty. I wanted to keep you and dress you up like a doll, you wore too many slacks,” he admits tenderly. “Your turn.”

You dissolve into a fit of giggles at the absurdity of him and he merely stokes your back gently, tutting at you when it only makes you laugh harder. He’s being very mother hen.

“I wouldn’t have said so,” you admit finally, “then, anyway. Not until you were gone. When I could think of no one else. Your face, she was all I dreamed about. She was all I wanted.”

The Master hugs you tighter. “I’m sorry. Terrible consequence of me, dear.”

You lock your arms securely around him, so that he can’t pull you back to look at you when you confess the following fear. Even you can’t imagine possibly hiding the reaction he’d find if he gives you an answer you cannot bear. 

“I know you change, and not just your face, but your temperament. Your whole… everything hinges of what changes, I suppose. But I guess what I’m getting at is… is this. How we are now. Is this going to change when you do?”

“Regeneration varies and things do change,” he acknowledges, “but I would wager that it has a lot more to do with who you are, down to the marrow. What truly blooms beneath the bruise. The Doctor, for instance, assumes she has a preference to run away. But that’s her one constant, the thing that never changes.”

“And did you ever possess… that particular compulsion?”

“No, dear. If history serves as our recollection, I have a tendency to run straight towards you, not away. And to answer your inquiry, this, us. It isn’t a one-off. You drive me just as mad now as when I secreted you away in my Tardis. I just… I suppose I couldn’t chance losing you, for things to go wrong. Not when I’d just found you.”

“But I felt the same,” you pull back to look him in the eye. “You had to know that. Not that I’d admit it to myself then. I’d feared I’d scare you away with my silly little human flutterings, but it wasn’t a crush. I loved you, I love you.”

The Master cracks a smile, “You’re not subtle, dear. Of course, I knew. You were good for my vanity. You’re thinking of having lost time, but we weren’t ready. We’re here now, and all we have is time.”

#the master x reader #dhawan!master x reader #wyrwtd

[impossiblesongs]

nobody loves me, it's true (dhawan!master x reader)

Summary: You don’t know why this kind of does it for you. What awful implications can be drawn from the outside, the probable one being that your husband hasn’t touched you in months. You are twin beings of woe, holed up in a frigid Russia.

Disclaimer: Not my characters. This is a disclaimer.

WARNING: this chapter may be pure filth. NC17. MINORS DNI AN: i've been trying to get better at smut and technically this is my third try at writing this kind of thing, but this is the first time i'm actually posting it, so....... jealous idiots = shameless rasputin smash. apologies to the late russian royals, you were but ploys in this virtually non-existent plot and i used the basest of my knowledge including you, so i beg of you: LOOK AWAY AN2: but is there plot here, you’d ask? to which, it’s a weekend before resurrection, i’d say. we all get a free pass?? AN3: fic title from 'sour times' by portishead

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nobody loves me, it’s true dhawan!master x reader dhawan!master timeline: pre-power of the doctor

He’s virtually got an entire army at his beck and call, and yet you both find yourselves in St. Petersburg in 1916. Even with the survival of his beloved Cyber Masters, he spends more time committing himself to holiness and to Russia. You are virtually his shadow, garbed in black, his companion. A healer nun, or whatever he deigns to call you lately that has you able to slink around the palace virtually unbothered.

“She doesn’t speak, you see,” he once relayed to Alexandra, a tear in his eye, “attends to me, with astounding servitude.”

At first, it rankles, how he baits you with the softness he treats Alexandra, but he’s mostly sulking. He was plainly jealous after you met with the Doctor. Which is ridiculous, but as you are standing now, with seemingly no rhyme or reason other than sowing chaos, at least he was getting back to some kind of his usual business. Or so you tell yourself.

You hear him return to the cottage before you see him. You’d made it back before he had, tasked with monitoring the child royal while he played at politics.

“How fares our little blood clot today?”

“You have care of Alexei now, do you? Oh, I forgot, I’ve taken a vow of silence.”

“Snark does not become you, dearest,” he says, dropping onto the chair in front of the desk.

“Nor holiness you,” you say, “and yet.”

“Alexandra was a vision in white today,” the Master adds with a sigh. “She just about ravaged me with her gaze, you should have seen it. To be honest, I just don’t know how much longer she’ll be able to help herself.”

“Oh, you think you are so funny,” you tear your headdress from your head and run a hand through your hair, massaging the area. You don’t fail to note that he’s trailing your every move with hooded eyes. “Please, do leave your delusions to your alluded God. He’s just as baseless.”

“You know, dear, I think perhaps you’ve just convinced me to make the first move. I’ll seek her out in the dead of night, passing off terrible proclamations and offering heady absolutions,” he snaps his fingers, “all in one fell swoop. It seemed to work on you.”

Your lips spread in a wide smirk, your heart never used to the careless way he chips away at it these days, but you’ll be damned to show it. His lips want to pull up at the sight of your smile, you know the tells of it, but he fights to maintain his image of absolute indifference.

You find yourself walking forward slowly, nearing the table and him. His eyes remain rooted upon your approach, you see his body shift subtly towards you in attention. You wonder if he’s aware of it, what he’s telling himself about his outward reactions being so transparent, even in the face of his dastard cruelty.

His hair is longer than he’s ever had it with this face, beard frankly horrendous, eyes tinted a metallic blue. He looks enough the part of a madman, some cruel creature conjured up, comes to prey upon you and the unfathomable limitless existence you allow him.

You don’t know why this kind of does it for you. What awful implications can be drawn from the outside, the probable one being that your husband hasn’t touched you in months. You are twin beings of woe, holed up in a frigid Russia.

You skirt the side of his desk with a finger before moving to sit right at the center of it.  

The Master splays his knees in answer but makes no further outward acquiesce to your nearness, his eyes remain speculative.

It stirs something in you, something so glaringly furious that it makes you frighteningly calm.

You toe off the stupid shoes that accompany this ridiculous get-up and prop one bare foot on his knee, whilst the other swings idly near his calf.

“I think if you made a move on Alexandra,” you say, “the Doctor would immediately know of it.”

The Master scoots his chair forward, effectively bridging the gap and prompting your foot to slide further up.

“Do you?” He queries conversationally, eyes peering off as in deep thought while his hand cups your other foot near his calf and brings it to sit on his thigh.

“Quite hard to gloss over an Empress with an icepick run through her eyeball, even if History bores you to death,” you say. "You wouldn't miss that new detail."

The Master laughs mildly, “You’d do that to me? Expose my plots? For jealousy?”

Without thinking further about it, you slip from the desk onto his lap easily and your fingers curl around the hair at the back of his head, pulling sharply. He hisses, body going taut beneath you. You bring your lips to his ear, “I think you know by now that I’d do more for less when it comes to you.”

His laughter comes in jagged huffs now, “Oh, I’d love to see you try, pet. You startle me, truly. Quaking in my gear.”

“You’re something,” you relent the hold on his hair and pull back to look at him, “I don’t know if you even notice it anymore, it’s been so long. But look at your hands.”

You watch him swallow and feel him flex his fingers. They’re clutching at the flesh at the back of your thighs under your dress. They’ve clearly wandered without his intent.

“Dear me,” he utters, eyes wide and watching you like you’re the only thing that exists in the world. His fingers start stroking nearer to where you want him most, watching as he trails the flush breaking across your skin. “Whatever will you do to answer to this offense?”

“Well,” you take care to speak gently against his lips, but you don’t press, you don’t give, “Father Grigori, I’d suppose, you’d have to beg for it.”

The Master’s eyes narrow and his face hardens, “I don’t beg, not for anyone.”

“Shame,” you lean back and press your legs together, retreating from the warmth of his touch and climbing off his lap with steel in your veins. You settle back on the desk, skin scalding from where he’s touched you, knickers already soaked through. “You’ve a good idea, though. Perchance I’ll go find myself an Emperor,” you say, voice husky, “I hear he’s a worshiping sort.”

The Master jolts upright and grasps your throat roughly in both hands, leaning closer to tower over you, almost swallowing you with the length of his body. You squirm with anticipation, delighting in the slow pressure of his hand, the dizzying and delicious effect when he squeezes.

This threat is so double-edged and precarious, that it will cost both of you. It’s reckless and dangerous, but he’s painfully livid at the mere idea. The insinuation of you sleeping with someone else all the while playing ignorant to the fact that he’d just threatened to do the same. Normally you’d loathe to stoke that fire, but if he’s going to bait you, it’s only fair to bully him in return.

“He’d have no idea,” you push even further, “the things I could show this Emperor. Imagine that, modern woman like me, effectively tainting the hand of Russia towards degeneracy. I’d do it again and again, and again. Poor Alexandra, there’d be no denying because I’d have his scent all over me. But, of course, you’d know. I even managed to show you a few things, didn’t I?”

He startles still when you grasp him through his clothes, face twisting in a way that’s akin to agony.

“Beg,” you coo, moving your hand in firm, even strokes.

Even with his robe giving him what you amount to the barest of sensations, he strains towards your touch, seeking the friction desperately.

“Or perhaps you should go find Alexandra,” you hiss, tearing your hand away and moving to stand, intending to push yourself away and leave him in his wanting.

The string snaps as it’s pulled, just like you estimated.

The Master’s fingers curl over said wrist with a swiftness you’d not expected, bending it backward painfully. You cry out just as his mouth crashes onto yours. He crowds your body up onto the desk further, bending your legs and hefting your wool skirt to your waist, manhandling you so roughly it makes your breath stutter from your lungs, has you spreading your legs wantonly.

He makes quick, uninventive work of it, but your blood and lust are already up, and you cry out gratefully when he pushes himself inside of you.

You must both make such grotesque misshapen figures, both virtually fully clothed and rutting against each other, chasing climax in the heart of Russia of all places. This isn’t initially where you’d considered he would finally crack, but then again, you thought he would give in months back. You’d never believed that either of you could keep your hands off one another once you’d both finally given into it.

“Beg,” you cry out, holding onto him fiercely as he bucks up into you, as you push back to meet him, “Master, beg me to fuck no one else but you.”

He digs deeply frustrated fingers into your hips and covers your mouth with his own, the kiss deep and mellowing. He’s hoping you’ll lose your play at power if he stows you away in the bewitching shade of his avidity. Of course, he forgets he’s so easily susceptible, too, and you have a point to prove.

“He’s just as tall as you,” you babble on nonsensically, your release just at the edge of your grasp it has you curling your toes in anticipation, “have you noticed? He’s just your height. Maybe he’d wear his uniform. I’d like that.”

The Master growls furiously, his hips already stuttering, dragging you closer, teetering you both right along that familiar edge.

“Beg, or I swear I’ll dare it. Oh, god, I’ll let him do whatever he likes,” your nip at the soft end of the Master’s ear, “but it’s your name I’ll call out, it’ll always be your name.”

Your orgasm hits you fiercely, robbing the breath right from you and prompting the Master to sob out his release almost in tandem. It whites out your vision, taking you plummeting up high to the heavens only to come smack right down into your body, slouched up against your husband, both of you breathing hard and indulging in quiet after.

It only fully registers as your senses return to you, that a torrent of soft pleas are coming from him as he holds you close and kisses your cheeks, your eyelids, the shell of your ear, your neck. His touch is reverent and doting, he’s gone putty in your hands. You open your eyes and what you see is so ridiculously beautiful. Cosplaying Rasputin aside, he’s the most adorable bastard you’ve ever met, truly.

“Please, don’t, don’t ever love anyone else,” he says. “Not like this, don’t ever do that to me.”

You kiss him quiet. Your physical affection assure him more than your words would, but you say it anyway. “As if I ever could.”

#the master x reader #dhawan!master x reader #wyrwtd

[impossiblesongs]

it's a god-awful small affair (simm!master x reader)

Summary: You jolt at the voice and the setting powder goes sprawling over the side of your vanity. A chorus of No’s falling from your lips as your eyes trace the culprit shoving the rest of your window open and sticking a boot inside.

Disclaimer: Not my characters. This is a disclaimer.

AN: this pair hasn’t left me and now it’s everyone’s problem AN2: title from david bowie's 'life on mars' AN3: i'm going to try to give backstory and so i figure fluff is in order, enjoy

✍️✍️✍️fic masterlist

it's a god-awful small affair simm!master x reader simm!master timeline: in and around chapter 2 of OG fic

“Aha!”

You jolt at the voice and the setting powder goes sprawling over the side of your vanity. A chorus of No’s falling from your lips as your eyes trace the culprit shoving the rest of your window open and sticking a boot inside.  

“I knew you didn’t have work scheduled today! Fibber!

“Christ,” you swore, moving swiftly from behind your vanity to bar the Master further entrance into your bedroom. “You cannot be here!”

“But I am,” the Master tries harder to shove himself inside, only you don’t give an inch, hand perching at the underside of his knee and pushing back.  

“Please, come back tomorrow. Please, please, please,” you beg in a panic.

“Move out of the way!”

“You have to go!”

Your bickering is halted by your bedroom door being flung open and your sister walking in, her second babe perched high on her hip.

“Oh, you have a man in your bedroom,” Georgiana states.

“This is, uh, my… my mate! This is.. he’s,” you sputter, trying to think of any possible outcome wherein you tell Georgiana the Master’s name that won’t come back to bite you in the arse. The introduction will end in her immediately conjuring up that you’re obviously in some sort of BDSM relationship, which will then be spread like wildfire throughout the family, and you get enough interference about your romantic situation or lack thereof from them, thank you very much.

Your eyes meet the Master’s in hopes for an out, but he merely beams at your ineptitude. You could slap him.

“I’m Harry,” he finally says, presenting a hand to your sister. “And who is this spry young chap.”

“Hello, Harry, this is Marlow,” Georgiana introduces her son, looking the Master up and down shrewdly. “Now Harry, would you like to tell me why it is you are climbing into my sister’s window when there’s a perfectly far-from-adequate door downstairs?”

“George,” you say.

“Fun!” the Master says.

Georgiana stares at him, her pale blue eyes hard and unrelenting in her scrutiny, and then gently, she begins to laugh. “Oh, what a lark! You must stay for dinner, Harry!”

“George,” you scold. “I don’t quite think it’s th – Harry’s scene.”

“He’s hanging around your apartment with your godawful family due to show, I hardly think he’s too opposed. Are you, Harry?”

“I’ve no plans,” the Master adds, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Sorted!” Georgiana grins, hefting Marlow from one hip to the other. “You’d best introduce him to mom and pop, which is what I actually came up to tell you. They’ve just pulled up, Gran jumped ship. Feigned a hip out of place or something.”

“Oh, for the love of,” you roughly grab the Master’s bicep and march him out of your bedroom with the order, “Loo first, wipe off your eyeliner. Don’t be yourself!”

You turn hastily to walk back into your bedroom, your stomach filling with dread the longer you register that yes, this is actually happening. Georgiana is looking out of the window that the Master climbed inside from. The soft light of the evening bathes her with flattery, her complexion is fair and her hair looks spun of gold, eyes a dewey blue.

“It’s not easy to climb up here,” she says, “he must really like you.”

“He’s fond of doing the absolute worst thing,” you answer back, hoping the nerves are not evident in your voice. You refuse to meet her eye.

Georgiana laughs gleefully, “He’s so odd.”

You brush off the comment and shrug your shoulders, “So he’s odd.”

“No, I mean. He seems fun, if a bit emo and peculiar. He’s handsome, mother will positively hate that he’s older than you, which is a certifiable plus! And, look at it this way, you can hardly get another Samual Rosshart, hmm? Not even the universe could be that cruel to you. You should invite him to the wedding!”

You figure you should cut her off before any of this can go further, “Let’s just get this over with, shall we?”

Georgiana quirks a brow and flattens Marlow’s fine baby hair, kissing the crown of his head.

“Touchy,” she says, before moving towards the door.

You sigh and follow.  

You hold a glass of champagne in your hand and wonder how in the hell is the Master engaged in comfortable debate with your father at the other side of the room, a man whom he’s taken to calling ‘Berry.’ Your father only lets people in his immediate family call him by his name, which is Tiberius. For anyone else it is Sir, and for his children in particular. And your mother is no better, hanging off the Master’s shoulder, her shrill laughter can probably be heard all the way to bloody Mars.  

“Well, it seems you’ve won the lottery, dear sis,” your sister’s husband, Maximus, comments over your shoulder. “Your old mum won’t have to put you down so soon now that you’re in the race.”

“Pithy,” you say, downing your glass. You hate existing in this absurdity that happens within your parents’ vicinity. Their suffocating expectation that always starts on a lukewarm reception only to taper down into their eventual and immovable disappointment, their scathing veiled rhetoric passed off as affection.

“Don’t take it too hard, old girl,” Maximus pats your shoulder sympathetically. “Least you can do for us is take the shine for a night so we can get a chance to go lick our wounds.”

“Too true,” Georgiana butts in and takes her husband’s vodka glass, having joined your little corner in hell from putting the kids down on your bed for their evening nap. "Mum's twat is in a bunch over how you possibly have no prospects at your age. Prospects, she said! Like we're in the 1800s."

"I'm sure for her it is, she's been to powder her nose six times since she's arrived," Maximus hush-says. "Her gait is starting to lean ever so precariously to the right."

"God, I need to steal whatever she's got stashed," Georgiana snickers into her husband's shoulder. "You know it's the good stuff too, horrible fucking example, she is."

“I need some air,” you knock shoulders with George on your way to the kitchen but pay it no mind. You exit through the back door and immediately seek out the cigarettes you’ve hidden at the top corner of the archway, breaking the new packet, and shoving a stick into your mouth. Relaxation swarms your body the second you light and inhale nicotine.

“What’s a Samual Rosshart?”

“Ohmygod,” you start, glaring at the Master who is now standing in front of you. Of all the vexations today has wrought, the one that sticks is, “Why were you listening?!”

The Master sniggers, eyeing you as if you’re particularly soft in the head, before stealing the cigarette from your lips.

“In your own time,” he says, taking a puff. “So, you’re adopted.”

“I’m adopted,” you confirm.

“And Berry and Matt?”

You laugh helplessly at his absurd little nicknames for your parents and you steal the cigarette back before you wring his neck.

“Tiberius and Mathilda married young, both from disgustingly rich families but the riches are not easy to come by," you say.

The Master hums in assent.

“Well, to tell you the unequivocal truth, they adopted me because a clause to Dad getting his inheritance was that he had to start a family within the first three years of marriage, and they were having trouble conceiving. Georgiana came about two years after I was adopted. That happens apparently, conceiving comes easier without all the pressures. I was about seven. I had a friend in her, after that.”

“After that,” the Master narrows his eyes, “as in you didn’t before?”

“I mean, they weren’t terrible to me. I had the best of everything, clothes, food, home, tutors. It’s just that… well, they’re terribly privileged individuals. Vapid and practically bred to be lifelong alcoholics, you should see the family tree. They were very hands-off, for me and Georgie. They took care of where we would be, who would take care of us, trot us from place to place when we needed to be seen as a unit, but mostly Georgie and I were our own ocean until we got older, more sociable in adult circles. Mum always went on about the stiff upper lip and all that.”

“And Samuel Rosshart?” the Master prompts.

You try not to physically wilt at the past, but you feel your cheeks warm immediately. You tell yourself it’s just the draft of the evening. “He was, well. I suppose he was the first person I ever fell for.”

You pause, tearing over the images of a life once lived, of your girlhood innocence blossoming into something of a nightmare. Of first loves and tying yourself to someone who could bring about such unwavering tragedy. Over how, after, you've feared you’re doomed to incur such beginnings and endings, helpless to it. It feels like a brand on your soul now, an absolute certainty, that you attract these things. It's why you’ve never really dated seriously. This first time was enough.

You try to push it all out steadily and succinctly, through gritted teeth, “Sadly, he was also a raging narcissistic sociopath. He killed two girls in our year, he had me on that list at some point I’m sure.”

“And,” you feel the Master’s fingers bump into yours and you hand the cigarette over without a glance.

“And I sat him down and told him I knew what he was up to,” you say, “and then asked him to tell me, in plain detail, his every why. Needless to say it gave him pause.”

The Master cackles outright, startling you with the strength of his amusement. He covers his mouth with a hand to stop the outburst, cigarette dangling between his graceful fingers.

“I’m sorry, I.. that’s terrible,” but he doubles over with unrestrained enjoyment, laughing so hard that his face is beet red when he looks back up at you, having to take a moment to catch his breath. “Oh, pet. You’ve no idea how your obvious human defect is actually the funniest thing about you.”

“You know I thought you’d… I don’t know, mock me, or something,” you confess. “Poor little rich girl, the worst of cliches.”

“Well, are you?”

He offers the cigarette back to you, it’s nearly a stub.

“Am I – what? Sad?”

You take it.

“Rich,” he says.

“Ah. As it stands, no. Berry and Matt, as you call them, pay for this little hovel - their term -  and my college, food. But like his father before him, I have to meet my own father’s clause to even hope to access a single cent.”

“Could kill them for you,” he offers, giving a vicious grin you can’t help but mirror. “But actually, what I was thinking, is that it makes us much more alike than we both initially thought.”

“How so?”

“I suppose, in every intended way,” the Master glances up at the evening sky, “we can never really go home.”

“Well, you can always kip here,” you bump your shoulder into his.

“Bugger off, I agree with your parents this place is so pedestrian,” the Master grimaces and pushes away from you. “We both well know, you’ll kip at mine,” the Master throws an arm over your shoulder. “Now come on, Berry sent me to fetch you.”

You groan in misery, allowing him to usher you back inside, where your parents do not hesitate to launch for your proverbial throat the second you are back in their grasp.

Thankfully, with the Master at your side, he makes quick work of trading barbs with the best of them. The evening goes by a whole lot quicker than you’d ever hoped. You feel… shielded, almost. And concerned, the Master plays the most quintessential snob. Your parents are half in love with him by the time they take their leave.

“You can never do that again,” you tell the Master when it’s over and your parents, sister and her family are well out of sight, “ever! If I tell you not to come ‘roud, there’s a reason. Please, promise me?”

The Master smiles at you so insufferably that you want to push him out of a window.

“Bribe me,” he says.

#the master x reader #simm!master x reader #wyrwtd

[impossiblesongs]

and hanging on by the skin of our teeth (the master/reader) 6/6

Summary: The Master found himself unnervingly entertained by a human psychology student volunteering at UNIT. Embarrassingly, it endures through more than one of his faces. || ✍️✍️✍️fic masterlist  ||

Disclaimer: Not my characters. This is a disclaimer.

Title from “Daffodil” by Florence and the Machine

AN: This is my first ever reader fic and I’m not terribly sorry. It’s been ages since I’ve written anything and I’m indulging myself. It’s not my fault the Master is my babygirl, and it’s not your fault they’re the love of your life either. Enjoy! 😉

vi. come home (dhawan!master)    

“You… where am,” you slurred your word, reaching up to shield your eye from a bright light.

“You’re safe.”

The voice wasn’t quick to place, but then it came back. All of it. The Master had invited you into his Tardis. He made your favorite tea.

You sat up in a jolt, reeled, focused. Your eyesight… it was clearer than it had been in six years.

The Master was perched on a stool beside you almost preening with satisfaction.

“What have you done?”

“What I should have done a long time ago,” he said.  

You felt warm and rested, vitalized even, but there was something different. Too much different.

“What did you do?!”

“I fixed you. You’re impervious to a mortal death now, nothing will stop you or slow you down. Not by my side.”

“And you’ll have me, what? Sit beside you as your little pet, watching and purring, unable to judge you because I understand you too much?” You slipped off of the chaise lounge you had been deposited in and awoken in. You ran a hand through your hair and found it was free, no longer in the tight plait you had made when you woke up today. An overbearing anxiety was surrounding you. “Analyzing you has been all my life has summed up to, and even then, it amounted to nothing!”

“That was your life, I’m offering you a new one.”

“And when you die, and I have to watch?”

“Then we’ll do that together, too.”

“I don’t… I don’t want that.” Tears streamed freely now because you couldn’t bear the idea of just slipping back into the past. You couldn’t bear just being by his side, his pet. It used to be easy because it was so long ago now that you could deny the truth in the youth of your relationship, what your heart knew long before your head. Why you needed to get to know him and how much you wanted him in your life despite all that he has done. Years alone have sobered you of the denial that you weren’t completely and desperately in love with the Master, that you would always be in love with him, you couldn’t just be his friend. That would be a fate worst than death, worse than an immortality without him. So, no. You couldn’t, wouldn’t, accept this. He would have to take you back, even if he couldn’t make you mortal again, he would have to leave you. He had to. He had to see this was too much to ask.

The Master stood and rounded, approaching you with a fixed assuredness, closing the proximity between you both. You took in the details of this new face greedily, the differences you find are never jarring, just revealing. It’s devastating really, how many times you’d turn Missy’s face over in your memory... because you’d thought it was their last face. Ceaselessly, tormentingly, grasping at what you’d lost. Of all you so loved.

“Do you recall the last thing I said to you the day we first met?” he inquired, dark eyes intense and penetrating.

You couldn’t help but scoff, “The day you mind-controlled me and then fucked right off?”

He gave a nod but also an admonishment, “Language, pet.”

“It was such a long time ago,” you protested, not knowing where this was leading. Dreading that whatever it was, you wouldn’t be able to find fault within it. Insanity, chaos, murder, it was as present in him as air, but he had reasonability streaks at the oddest of times too.  You hated that. You needed to provide the actual reasoning against him or admit that loving him the way you did would be your own special torment.

He tilted his face and leaned in, “Give it a second, love.”

As if it wasn’t already hopeless, your temporary loss of focus is brought on by the way your face flushes at the endearment, the pleasure settling deep in your belly.

You turned your face away to hide what must be so plain on your features, but the Master cupped your chin in his hand and denied you that grace, his soulful gaze trapping yours.  

The light in his Tardis was warm, shaping everything around it in its golden hue. A deadly compliment to his complexion, his doleful and magnetic eyes. His prominent nose, lips chapped, but dear god this face was already so very agreeable to you. The stubble dark on his cheeks…

It came to you with a start. His goatee, the first time you met, was somewhat the same color but greying. Powerful eyebrows. His cool, controlled authority.

“You told me an offer can be seen as a promise,” you recalled, “in the –”

“In the wrong hands, and mine are the worst,” he finished. “I make this offer, this promise, because I’ve lived so many lives with you, and come the last one, before I died as Missy,” he grits out with a fury, with a wallowing barrenness, “I found it utterly unforgivable, all I didn’t say… didn’t do.”

“You always treated me well, Master,” you hurry to assuage. “I know how you are, I knew. Okay? I did.”

His face blanks, and turns emotionless, all feeling gone but for his eyes.

“You don’t. You knew nothing. And that is my error. By my side is where you belong,” he stated with corroded desperation, skin deep. A scar he keeps bare, that he keeps from healing. “How is it that we have danced this dance a million days and you still have this ridiculous human insecurity to have to wonder over it all?”

“But I am human,” you say, your simplest shame. “I have always been human!”

“Not anymore!” he burst abruptly, so impassioned with his fury that it shocked you into silence. He paced away and back, and away and back, all seemingly to quiet his rage before deciding against it entirely. His agitation made him too animated, too intense to keep close, and still, you couldn’t push him away. He burned with it, but where he burned, you only felt the warmth.  

You watched him watching you, a thousand thunderous emotions vying for life within his moment's pause, just from the intensity of his stare.

The Master took a breath and bridged the distance, crowding closer and closer. Just like he used to. He cautiously reached a hand to gently cup your cheek, tempering his volatility and whispering. “Not anymore, you’re not human anymore.” His hand wandered and hovered over your throat, lips tightening with a grimace. His hand came to settle at the back of your neck, and he secured hold of the strands at the back of your scalp, tugging lightly and tipping your head back as he leaned in, closing the distance without further warning. His lips pressed against yours.

“You’re mine,” he rasped against your lips.

Your eyes watered. In despair, in rejoice. You pulled him in for another kiss and the Time Lord curled into you, rocking forwards, and entangling himself in your embrace. The kiss quickly turned from chaste to searing.

The Master pulled away, gasping for breath he didn’t really need, pressing his forehead against yours and chasing your lips again.  

He pushed his longings into your mind, not spoken, but finally unequivocally known.

 you have always been mine

“Give me your arm, dear,” the Master requested.

“Why?”

He procured a syringe and gave it a shimmy in his hand, a maddening smile on his lips. “A dose of immortality.”

“But I thought – ”

“I shot you full of adrenaline to wake you,” he informed. At your continued stare, he grimaced and said, “What? Do you think I’d decide what’s best for you with no actual input from you? Who do you take me for? The Doctor?”

You leaned forward to place a lingering kiss on his cheek. As you pulled back, the manic spark in his eye had quieted, leaving him looking positively soft.

You handed him your arm.

#the master x reader #dhawan!master x reader #wyrwtd

[impossiblesongs]

and hanging on by the skin of our teeth (the master/reader) 2/6

Summary: The Master found himself unnervingly entertained by a human psychology student volunteering at UNIT. Embarrassingly, it endures through more than one of his faces. || ✍️✍️✍️fic masterlist ||

Disclaimer: Not my characters. This is a disclaimer.

Title from “Daffodil” by Florence and the Machine

AN: This is my first ever reader fic and I’m not terribly sorry. It’s been ages since I’ve written anything and I’m indulging myself. It’s not my fault the Master is my babygirl, and it’s not your fault they’re the love of your life either. Enjoy! 😉

AN#2: this is somewhere in the series 10 Simm!Master era, but before 10x11 specifically 

ii. consensual kidnapping (simm!master)    

Technically, for what appears to be medieval times on a distant planet, you should both stick out like sore thumbs. The Master is dressed head to toe in a meticulous black suit, last night’s eyeliner smeared beneath his right eye and his peroxide hair streaking with grey. You adorn a worn dark brown leather jacket, and a neon blue minidress, paired with tights and combat boots. You think you both look Earth Chic, but you don’t tell him that. He’d sulk.

 Right about now, you have other priorities, like needling him for his advice as to what possible gifts you could pick up for your date on such an odd planet, given you are missing the actual date itself to gallivant through the cosmos.

 “Do they have chocolates here? I could feed them to him when I get back, smooth over my apology,” you chatter. “Or maybe, do they have clothing stores? Maybe a foreign jumper would do. Does everyone have six arms here? Surely there are tourism options?”

 The Master made a face, as he always did when you mentioned any ties to your home life or family, your studies. They all incurred his ire. Well, it would do him good to deal with yours. This was the first date you had managed to secure your entire last two years of uni, and that was only because he happened to be the only other person you really saw as you both volunteered at UNIT. The Master knew you were looking forward to it. This date. And yet, here you were, not on said date. Because he was the Master. Because from everything you know about him, he’s not the type to do this. To take a pet. Because you never knew if this time was the last time. Because if UNIT even had an inkling, you were done for. But you wouldn't miss it for the world.

 “Aww,” the Master mockingly pouted his lips at you. “You’ve pulled, and now you’re making your human problem everyone’s problem.”

 You opened your mouth to respond but the Master placed his palm over your lips, halting your words.

 “Ah, tat, tat, tat. Procreate on your own time,” he motioned to the current play at power he was far too excited to show you tonight. “Pay attention.”

 He pulled his hand away and you bit your lip to keep from smiling, hoping beyond hope that the fondness in your expression didn’t give you away. You pushed your shoulder into his, jostling his artfully cool posture. He turned an unimpressed look your way, sternly raising a brow. You turn your eyes back to the processions of your surroundings.  

 “You know, it’s not like you couldn’t have sped along to the following day, after my date, if you planned to kidnap me,” you pointed out, as he stewed in his indifference. “You have a time machine.”

 “You’d like that,” the Master snapped, regretting the decision of letting you have free reign as he did. He ought to just destroy Earth’s civilization for good and be done with it. There would be no choice in the matter then. “I’d just as well drop you off and forget about you.”

 You hummed in agreement, “You probably should. No use, me.”

 The Master turned to glare at you. You met his eye, watching as the malice swam alive and true, then, subtly, a between, shifting his entire mood and intent.  

 “Or, perhaps…”  he moved to stand in front of you, barring you between his arms and the wall of the building you were leaning against.

 The noise and bustle of the crowd dull compared to the roar of your heart in your ears.

 “I’ve been giving you too much leeway,” the Master said. “Pretending, for your sake, that you make good decisions.”

 “How rude of me,” you agreed sarcastically.

 “Quite,” the Master removed his arms from either side of you, his eyes wandering down your figure. His fingertip skirted the fabric hugging your hip. “Earth dresses really do just get shorter by the year, don’t they.”

 “This dress is adorable,” you said, a matter of fact, ignoring the shiver brought on by the barest of touches. “You might just be old.”

 The Master’s grin grew wolfish, crowding closer all the while. His brown eyes were fixed upon your mouth, and you could feel his breath puff against your lip.

 Your palm went up to his chest, settling between his hearts. You inhaled a breath, hoping to gain some sense of greater perception. Falling to his whims would be devastating.

 “Your eyes are dilated. One could even say they look heated. Skin’s… all a flush.” He tucks a curl behind your ear. “Not to mention… all those thoughts.” He grinned wickedly. “You know, if you keep thinking loud enough, those pesky things will always give you away.”

 “One, I’m human, and you, despite it all, look human. Our silly little human bodies aren’t advanced enough to not react to stimulus,” you said. The Master shut his eyes and frowned theatrically, nodding his head as if you were speaking the gospel.

 “Two, we both know you don’t really want me.” Slowly, with a firmness that was all too delicate, that would shatter in an instance if pressed, you pushed him away. Inch by terrible inch he went, distance granted, but not enough to gain a sure footing. Still hovering, towering over you, smirk in place. Reveling in your reactions. The terrible want of him pulsed inside of you.

 “We both know, you’re just playing.”

 “It is such a fun game,” he said, smiling beatifically. He turned to survey the room and immediately scowled. “Oh, blast! We’re missing the beheading!”

 You gasped, “You said we were coming to court, not to a beheading?!”

 The Master took firm hold of your hand and began pulling you through the crowd, lightly chastising, “Come along now, listen to your Master!”

#the master x reader #simm!master x reader #wyrwtd

[impossiblesongs]

and hanging on by the skin of our teeth (the master/reader) 1/6

Summary: The Master found himself unnervingly entertained by a human psychology student volunteering at UNIT. Embarrassingly, it endures through more than one of his faces. || ✍️✍️✍️fic masterlist ||

Disclaimer: Not my characters. This is a disclaimer.

Title from “Daffodil” by Florence and the Machine

AN: This is my first ever reader fic and I’m not terribly sorry. It’s been ages since I’ve written anything and I’m indulging myself. It’s not my fault the Master is my babygirl, and it’s not your fault they’re the love of your life either. Enjoy! 😉

AN#2: takes place during series 7, power of three

i. restraint (delgado!master)

You’ve been working most of the month sifting through UNIT’s paper trails, which extend currently into two hangers located on the base. Never say UNIT isn’t thorough. It’s perfect, because you’re virtually left to your own devices and you can get lost UNIT’s past accounts for hours, making notes upon notes for your eventual thesis, which is just starting to gain a specific shape. The base happened to be abuzz, Kate Stewart was currently hosting the Doctor. Or one of them. Cubes were showing up everywhere. Still, hardly anyone disturbs you in the hangers.

 Until today.

 An older gentleman has busied himself rifling through dozens of files, most splayed before him on a table. Taking in his appearance and the way he holds himself, you’re not quite sure what’s firing off in your memory, or why it calls to you. An air of darkness clings to him, that much is plain to see.

 When he looks up, his stare is piercing and almost uncomfortably direct. A mystery begging to drag one in. Or perhaps that’s just you, as you’ve never met a curiosity you could deny. But that face, you’ve seen it somewhere before.

 Then it comes.

 “Oh,” you utter, breath leaving you with an embarrassing amount of wonder. I know who you are. You glance over to the door, too far to dart now. Eyes front, to the man you’ve for all intents and purposes interrupted. The man (or rather, nefarious time lord with a habit of murdering humans) trails closer with ease, a confident tilt to his lips that almost dare you to run.

 “Oh,” he echoes, towering in his full height, stopping right in front of you. His eyes are dark but glimmering, and his right eyebrow quirks. “Finish your sentence wisely,” he says, “you never know if it could be your last.”

 “Sometimes an oh is just an oh,” stumbles out of your mouth before you can rethink it. Does it dangle quite as much as you fear it does? Precariously? Is nonsense more frowned upon or would it come across as amusing? Is either worth dying for?

 “Oh,” the man smirks, “well perhaps I’ll keep that one for another day.”

 You’re about to inquire how so, keep him talking, but then he’s leaning towards you, hand settling on your shoulders with the command, “You will tell no one I was here, and you will forget this meeting.”

 You blink, and come to, notice him. Notice the UNIT paper trail room. You’ve been combing through cases that came before the digital age. Right.

 “Oh,” you shake your head, unaware that you are repeating yourself. You try to swallow down the slight nauseum settling tight in your belly, not remembering feeling at all out of sorts when you woke up. “Sorry, I must have blanked. Were you here for me, or were you looking for something in particular?”

 The man smirks, “Beware, my dear, an offer can be seen as a promise in the wrong hands, and mine are the worst.”

 He gathers the files on the table silently and with them in hand, slips out of the door, quick and graceful as a cat.

 (Let it be known that, eons later, when the Master infiltrates MI6, it really does come down to one word: Oh)

#the master x reader #delgado!master x reader #wyrwtd

[impossiblesongs]

right-wrong turn (iii) [simm!master x reader]

Summary: The Master forces you through and you know immediately that you pass through a forcefield that starts to trigger why you’re allowed inside the Black Archive at all, what possible part you played.

He leads you right to it.

Disclaimer: Not my characters. This is a disclaimer.

AN: this pair hasn’t left me and now it’s everyone’s problem Warning: (nothing says valentine's day like) Typical Master violence-prone tendencies

✍️✍️✍️fic masterlist

right-wrong turn (iii) simm!master x reader simm!master timeline: post-end of time

Open. The. Door.

Your pulse flutters wildly beneath the Master’s fingertips but you don’t miss a beat in your reply. “Just kill me already and open it yourself!”

The Master snarls in your face before taking the key card from your hand and roughly spinning you around, forcing you towards the door. He fists his palm at the back of your hair and pushes your face forward.

The black door in front of you almost pulses to life, pixels come forth revealing a computerized interface.

“Please present your clearance card,” the interface instructs.

The Master moves the card near your face, and you’re surprised at the immediate scan that projects outward, green lasers that zero in on your eyes.

“Welcome,” the interface greets you by name. You’re surprised that it knows you at all, reveals that you have a UNIT alias, lists your immediate vitals, and that you are in fact alive. It also provides the last date you accessed the archive, just weeks ago.

The door pulses again and folds in on itself.

“Welcome to the Black Archive.”

The Master forces you through and you know immediately that you pass through a forcefield that starts to trigger why you’re allowed inside the Black Archive at all, what possible part you played.

He leads you right to it.

The Master’s Tardis, bequeathed to the Archive by one Lucy Cole Saxon.

He lets you free from his cruel grasp when he favors approaching his ship more.

“Oh, vicious lady,” he coos, producing a key from his pocket, “did you miss me, hmm? Your Master is back, infinite worlds to dominate and destroy.”

Just as he’s put the key inside and the door shutters open a crack, you’re both jolted out of place by another presence.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

You know that voice.

Tamara stands behind you both, shaking like a leaf, but a gun steadily trained right at the Master.

“Tamara,” you shake your head, reaching your hand out in hopes of placating the situation. To persuade her to run. To just run, because she’s not going to make it out of this alive. She’s just had a son. Dear god, please.  

“Oh, look! A stowaway,” the Master grins wickedly, slipping the key to his Tardis back into his black slacks.

“I've seen you take her, but I radioed for help, and you can rest assured they’re coming,” Tamara says. “But you won’t hurt her or me, and you won’t get away now, so I suggest you stand down.”

His shoulder brushes yours and you turn your face to him, pleading, “Let her go, please. Kill me. You have what you want.”

The Master pouts at you, sticking out his bottom lip childishly. “You know, as first dates go, you’re no fun!”

“Enough!” Tamara shouts. But it all happens too fast for you to change it. To think it through.

Tamara fires the gun and by some stupid sense of trying to de-escalate the situation, to not give the Master a chance to retaliate. To get Tamara home to her son at the least… you do the simplest, stupidest thing you’ve ever done.

You step in the way.

You feel yourself fall back, much like a marionette who’s just had her strings cut. Back and back and back, until you’re colliding into something. Into the Master’s chest, his arms coming around to catch you.

Nothing registers as much as the pain, that is… until you feel the Master moving you. You don’t know how or why, you just know that the movement makes everything hurt so much worse, and as you try to stop him, try to cry out and tell him it hurts, something clogs up your throat. You sputter, trying to gasp for breath.

“No, no, why?!” The Master’s furious face suddenly hovers over you, “WHY DID YOU DO THAT?! YOU STUPID, FOOLISH IMBICILE!”

But you have no words, nothing registers but the pain.

“Why, you need to tell me why?! TELL ME WHY!”

His face starts to go blurry, but you blink, refocusing because he’s shaking you. A burst of red clouds him up. You realize it’s your bloodied hand, trying to stop him. You miss him, you think, your hand grasps at nothing. You feel too weak.

He’s still screaming, maybe. His face looks so, so furious, so he must be. He’s undone his tie, and you realize his jacket’s gone, sleeve rolled up. Something is glowing in his hand.

When things go blurry again, they don’t refocus. Everything goes dark, and at least it finally staves off the pain.

When you come to, you don’t recognize where you are. You realize your shirt is soaked with blood. When you lift your garment to inspect the cause, there is no wound. You feel something sticky and drying at your lips, down your chin and throat. It's you, actually. You are soaked in blood.

Everything feels slightly off. Reality feels dream-like, too far to grasp at, flickers. Someone is grasping at your chin between their fingers and tilting your face up. You meet with a familiar face and you’re startled by recollection, but you’re not scared. You don’t feel scared now.

It’s the same face, but he’s not so young as you’d last seen him, and his hair is no longer honeyed dark but streaked over with glossy silver. He seems to have… aged. Slightly.

“What… how long?”

“Four hours,” the Master says, “by human time anyway. We’re eons away by now.”

You take a look around the room and don’t recognize it whatsoever. It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen. “Where am I?”

“You’re in my Tardis,” the Master says, “where you will stay until you tell me why you felt the need to die for me.”

“Well, it looks like I’m not dead,” you snap nastily, bits of what had happened coming back to you and making you churlish. He's somewhat infuriating. “Anyhow why do you care?”

“I promise you pet, I don’t,” the Master says, “but you’ve just become subtly more interesting to me than you were before. If I were you, I’d try my best to keep me interested, because once I bore of you, you’ll get your wish and I’ll happily kill you. So let's pretend you have a say, do we have a deal?”

#the master x reader #simm!master x reader #wyrwtd

[impossiblesongs]

something borrowed, something blue (dhawan!master x reader)

Summary: Becoming lovers isn’t new, for him, but it is for you. He’d gluttonously taken to ravaging you as soon as you were in reach when he was Missy, but he finds he simply cannot abide gorging himself on you, not until he’s courted you efficiently.

Disclaimer: Not my characters. This is a disclaimer.

AN: tiny bit of a drabble for you this evening, master's pov AN2: title from 'every you every me' by placebo AN3: the thought of the master trying to be a stand-up guy after marrying reader and inadvertently sexually frustrating the hell out of her was hilarious to me and i hope it is to you too

✍️✍️✍️fic masterlist

something borrowed, something blue dhawan!master x reader master timeline: post OG fic (just married)

It doesn’t seem sensical to have waited, to draw out what is so evident in the ways you both dance around each other, here, after everything. He’s taken you to wife but he maintains that the performance is tantamount to where this is leading. Every heady glance, every lingering touch. It’s electric agony, a lush form of torture, and it’s mutual to be sure.

Becoming lovers isn’t new, for him, but it is for you. He’d gluttonously taken to ravaging you as soon as you were in reach when he was Missy, but he finds he simply cannot abide gorging himself on you, not until he’s courted you efficiently. Not until you’ve been dined and doted on and lavishly adored in every way you deserve, all but the one way that tests his virtual lack of self-restraint to the point of utter lunacy. He even wonders if he’s perhaps going too far, too tied to being a gentleman for you. Especially when you make him feel anything other than gentlemanly, you make him feel like an active predator, but even that’s putting it tenderly.

“You’re a terrible nuisance,” he breathes hotly into your mouth, body trapping your own up against a wall.

He could easily bash your head in, here in this alcove he’s trapped you up against, truly, because of the impertinence. Don’t you realize he’s just shy of losing his resolve? This precariously close to swallowing you whole?

“Our dinner is going to go cold,” he says, shifting his weight to alleviate his own suffering. You fit together so well already, clothes and all.

“Fuck dinner,” you say, unnervingly coarse in your frustrations. He could even dub you openly hostile, sitting sullenly at the dinner he’s gone through so much trouble to attain. Not that he didn’t enjoy it, but beheading a noble to attain a reservation is child’s play, it’s utterly of no concern.

What is concerning, is the lengths you’ve gone to, to thoroughly distract his plans. The dress, for instance, a shimmering translucent slip of a thing, is hugging every curve superlatively. You’re a woman with a cause, with cruelty. He shouldn’t find that so devastatingly enchanting.

He follows the goosebumps on your chest, the flush covering your neck. Your hands grip his biceps through his black tux, fingers pinching as they clutch him tighter in your desperation.

He’s all but crushing you between the wall and himself and you dare to groan pathetically against him. Is it alluring, he wonders, pinning you up like a butterfly that he’s oh, so tempted to rip the wings off of? 

He would laugh, if only he weren’t so desperately hard, his lust cloying and blotting out any sense he’d probably decided upon earlier, whatever it may have been, it’s hard to grasp now.

“Please,” your lips tremble and he can spy the glassy look in your eye. You are so very tempting; you are perhaps the most tempting thing he’s ever found in this godawful excuse of a universe. Nothing has ever managed to hold his attention more or for as long.

“Is that what you truly want?” He frowns, begs. “Do you want me to ruin you? You have no idea what you’re asking for, dear.”

“Master,” your body writhes in his hold, hips shifting against his just right, with determined purpose, “Just what are you waiting for?!”

He curses, slots his lips over yours and indulges, rocks his hips into your core, and feels the shudder pull throughout your whole body, inviting him further towards reckless abandon. If he takes, he will take until there is nothing left you can claim as your own, no part of you that he will not seek and conquer, he will fit himself so thoroughly, will have so you ruinously, that not a thought will occur in your mind other than the sounds he pulls out of you for days.

You bite down on his lip viciously but there is no pause in either of your assaults. He tastes his own blood on your tongue and every attempt at his composure is lost.

Oh, how he loathes you, how you are a sickly thing that fills his lungs that he will obediently always choose to suffocate from. You could crush him, hurt him, betray, and kill him, with your bare hands preferably, and he’d beg for more, more, if only it meant that you’d never take your hands off him. God, he loves you, he adores you, annoying and determined as you are, changing his entire course with the pliant temptation of your body.

But fine, he'll give in, and he’ll take, and you’ll enjoy every second.

#the master x reader #dhawan!master x reader #wyrwtd

[impossiblesongs]

i win (iii-iv) [simm!master x reader, gomez!master x reader]

Summary: This is a gift.

Disclaimer: Not my characters. This is a disclaimer.

AN: this pair hasn’t left me and now it’s everyone’s problem timeline: both fics have timelines included

timeline: both fics have timelines included

✍️✍️✍️fic masterlist

i win (iii) simm!master x reader simm!master timeline: post-10x12 The Doctor Falls

It’s Earth. He’s left you back on Earth, but not just anywhere. You look up from the street at what used to be your old residence sitting abandoned, allegedly condemned if you believe the notice at the fence. You don’t have to be a genius to guess that UNIT was probably to blame for keeping the house unused, as certain protocols called for. You had been devastatingly vague when they caught on to you traveling with the Master, whatever questions they had left they probably hoped to gain from searching your place of residence from top to bottom.

The last time you had seen this building, you moved to America. You had been trying to leave dead things behind, which incidentally is right where Missy had found you.

A morbid curiosity pulls you forward and has you walking the steps you walked many a time as a human on Earth.

The door is slightly ajar when you reach it, which doesn’t concern you initially, but the bloodstain on the handle does. You swirl around, eyes darting to every streetside. The Master said he was leaving you in his own hands, that had to mean he was here somewhere, yet there is no further sight of his Tardis.

You approach the door and resolve there’s nothing more to do than to slip inside.

The inner structure of your past home exists in shadows, and you dig your phone out of your back pocket. You hardly used the dated technology since abandoning Earth, but it does have a flashlight.

Turning it on, it’s easier to make out the place, bare as it is. It’s also easier to see the bloodstains that lead up the stairs. You don’t hesitate, taking two at a time. The writhing figure collapsed on the floor just past the threshold of your old bedroom punches the air from you.

“Ohmygod.”

The phone drops from your hands as you scurry forward and drop to your knees, pulling the Master’s head into your lap. His hair is more silver than peroxide when you run a hand through it.

“Master,” you whisper.

His eyes move behind his eyelids, heavy with exhaustion, but his lips curl wry, “Couldn’t stay away, could you?”

His statement pulls a hearty guffaw from your lips, the sound seeming too loud in the dark. "I could very well say the same to you."

His eyes squint open and he struggles to catch a breath, let alone speak. Even coughing blood he shouts, the force causing him to curl at every word, “She. Stabbed. Me!”

“Who did?” you demand.

“Me,” he cackles deliriously. “Always, and I mean always, the women!”

“What can I do? What do I do?!”

“Nothing.” His hand pats the palm you have atop his chest and settles there, “Nothing to do. It’s done. I refuse! See how that suits the abominable quim.”

It settles in you with mounting dread because everything that has happened between you will not happen should he choose not to hold on, to choose despite, to regenerate.  

“No, no, you have to,” you urge fervently, can hear it in your voice. It’s gone high and desperate because you know this incarnation, you're possibly the only one who has bothered to know this him. From his venomous, capricious cruelty to his wickedly childlike sweetness, it is an absolute fact that this incarnation is virtually impossible to sway. “You can’t- you have to,” you sob, “you have to regenerate!”

The Master scowls angrily and tries to pull away from you, “I will not abide another person whinging at my deathbed!”

You grab him by either side of his face and yet he fights you still, the absolute bastard.

“Look at-LOOK AT ME, MASTER! YOU HAVE TO REGENERATE, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE, I NEVER ASK YOU FOR ANYTHING YOU’RE NOT READY TO GIVE, BUT I’M ASKING YOU THIS, PLEASE! REGENERATE! REGENERATE!”

“NOOOO!”

His roar is deafening to your ears, a debilitating finality.

With nothing at all left to lose you rush forward and capture his lips in a kiss. It blindsides him so utterly that his body goes rigid as a corpse. You let your hold on him turn less frantic, turn tender, your tongue following the shape of his bottom lip.

The Master parts his mouth and dives headfirst into the kiss. It’s your first kiss, with this face, and it’s not even marred by the tang of his own blood filling his tongue.

His hands clutch at you greedily, bruising and possessive. The priority of discernment you hoped to uphold gets lost in the heady haze of his kiss, because the man, this man in particular, is an abyss. You're surprised you weren't swallowed whole from the very beginning.

Then, without another warning, he breaks the kiss and shoves you away furiously.

You barely have a chance to shield your eyes as the Master regenerates, howling his dying wrath.

i win (iv) gomez!master x reader gomez!master timeline: right after regenerating from simm!master

At first, you don’t take notice of how the regenerative energy has caught against the walls, the flame steadily building in your momentary enthrallment.

This is a gift. This is a gift. This is a gift.

The Master's final words as you parted from the Tardis replay in your mind, and even as it happens before your very eyes, you still can’t quite believe it. He knew the shape of your anguish with his previous face. The weight of your regret. The haunt of almost was, of what would never be.

Missy appears with a pronounced squeak, her hair a wild frizzy mane haloed around her face. You watch as her fingertips press to her lips first, lingering, before moving to map out the rest of her face. She gives a satisfied hum at the jut of her cheekbones and turns her head to the side to crack her neck. She brings her hands up to her eyesight and wiggles the digits for good measure. She continues her assessment of her new body, glancing down at her slight frame.

She pauses, seems to take in the difference, reaches to cup her breasts, and then proceeds to squeal with unrestrained glee.

She climbs to her feet quick and graceful as a cat and dusts off the Master’s suit, straightening the collar and her cuffs while backlit by the rapidly gaining blaze. Before you can mention it, her razor-sharp gaze flits on over towards you.

Missy raises her arm to rest against the doorway and juts her chin, looking down at you with a predatory leer.

You hear sirens fast approaching in the night and can’t help but glance back towards the stairs, “They’re coming.”

In your momentary distraction, you don’t notice Missy’s swift and silent approach. When you turn back, you’re startled to find her face inches from yours.

She takes secure hold of your wrist and says, “Say wheeeeeee!”

You both disappear in a puff of static.

You materialize on the edge of a cliff, wind whipping relentlessly in your face. Nausea lasts less than a second, but it feels longer. This entire experience doesn’t feel real. When you woke up this morning it was on the planet of Ietis, kipping in a makeshift bed of greenery with your husband at your side.

You suppose you have the same now, be it in another form.

You almost laugh. Technically, you have a mistress.  

The universe could just about stop turning at this point and you'd be none the wiser.

Raising your head you stare at Missy, standing ahead, eyes on the horizon. So startlingly alive. Your grief coils tight in your chest and it takes everything in you not to double over and break it free. 

“Tricky, tricky,” Missy mutters, pulling at her sleeve.

You note a device strapped to her wrist.

She admires the gadget, “For a dead man, he’s been oh, so fortunate to possess us with a vortex manipulator. Come on, up you get.”

She helps you to your feet and stares as if seeming to notice you for the first time.

“You’re older than I saw you last,” she says, running a new fingernail from your cheek to your chin, tilting your head up to her scrutiny. "Still pretty. How fortunate.”

You damn the ease with which you are flustered by seemingly every incarnation, shaking your head to disperse the flush coloring your cheeks.

“What now?” you ask.

“Oh, pet,” Missy grins wolfishly before swiftly twisting her hand through the hair at the back of your neck. “Heaven,” she answers, tugging you forward and pressing her lips to yours.

#the master x reader #simm!master x reader #gomez!master x reader #wyrwtd

[impossiblesongs]

i win (i-ii) [thirteenth doctor, dhawan!master (x reader)]

Summary: The first time the Master runs into the Doctor in this regeneration (hint: it's not her first run-in)

Disclaimer: Not my characters. This is a disclaimer.

AN: this pair hasn’t left me and now it’s everyone’s problem timeline: both fics have timelines included

✍️✍️✍️fic masterlist

i win (i) thirteenth doctor, dhawan!master (x reader) timeline: post-12x02 Spymaster eps for the Doctor, but PRE-12x01 for dhawan!master, so this is really a case of cause and effect and round and round we go

The Master had been watching her all evening, ghastly wardrobe and all. It’s been a good while since she’d last been a woman, from what he can recall, a thing he can’t very well claim himself. She always did copy him first, much to her absolute abhorrence to remember.

He hasn’t seen her in ages really. Not since she left him to die. There hasn’t really been a hurry to come ‘round to torment this new regeneration of the Doctor, priorities had changed and he’s married anyhow. That said, he can’t see why she’s reaching out now, of all things. He wonders if she found out he survived, of how he died. If she grieved or regretted? He scoffs at himself because it’s preposterous, of course. She hadn’t. She’s the Doctor, always moving on.

He lay in wait until her little friends parted ways and she was all alone. He followed her through the crowd and even had to duck behind a building or two, watching and waiting.

The Doctor finally headed towards her parked Tardis with the Master quick on her heels. She opened her blue doors, intending to close them behind herself, only his hand shot out, “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

The Doctor recognized him instantly and added immediate resistance against his hold. The nerve on her, after everything. He pushed inside forcefully, and the Doctor nearly lost her footing at his gain. He waltzes inside and stalks after her. She looks dreadfully rattled, and shifty, like he was a nightmare of her past come again. Good.

“You rang, dear, coordinates and all,” he says, letting every bit of annoyance and resentment color his words. “Bit rude to shut the door in my face.”

“You actually came,” the Doctor watches him stonily, lips curling with a grimace.

That simmering hatred of old is finding itself easy to slide in and color his mood. This regeneration of the Doctor really is proving to disagree with him more than any of the others, she's dour and already looking down her nose at him.

“What do you want?” he grits out. The better to find out and leave quicker.

“The girl,” the Doctor says.

The Master feels his lip quiver in an attempt to hide an outright snarl. The Doctor doesn't know, she can't know. But she's asking questions and he's not keen for her to find answers. He remembers River Song, known associate of the Doctor, and what that cost. He wouldn't make that mistake with you.

“Kate Stewart reached out to me personally," the Doctor informs.

"Ah, the dreaded UNIT," the Master affects nonchalance, crossing his arms across his chest. "Your lapdogs, always sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong."

“A person of interest who had ties to you has completely vanished from Earth,” the Doctor continues, “they had an idea where she was holed up in, but even they can’t find her now, and neither can I.”

“Well, I can say it’s a wonder you even noticed, Doctor. The way you leave everyone behind.”

“Enough with the games! What have you done to her? She has a family! A life!”

The Master rushed up to the Doctor and roughly grabbed her by the throat, his voice low but dreadfully clear, “You’ll want to be careful now, Doctor, because should you keep pushing, all your former companions can be found very quickly. I can make it very, very difficult for you to find them too.”

The Doctor seethes in his hold and despite the terror in her eye, he could see the promise stubbornly held there. She would not stop looking, like a dog with a bone this one.

He leaned in ever closer with a promise of his own, “You’re lighting a match, so you better be ready to watch your whole world burn.”

---

i win (ii) dhawan!master x reader dhawan!master timeline: pre-series 12

He finds his wife just where he left her, knee deep in the jungle-water planet of Ietis, playing with the children while chatting happily with their mothers, of most who have swam from their habitat in the waters below to converse with her. Initially this planet inhabited only those of amphibious descent, yet hundreds of races have migrated within that time, diversifying the populus. Mutations that evolution allowed to adapt in the pond waters and outside of them.

The Master watches his wife from between the endless green stalks that stand 40 to 60 feet tall along the planet that is not submerged. Just the sight of her grounds him, brings him back to a center of reality they’ve attained together. An orbit of their very own.

One of the children calls her name eagerly, he looks ready to jump from his perch. The child makes a decent backflip into the pond water. She heartily cheers for his triumph, and the child jump-runs, throwing himself into her arms. She throws her head back in a picture of diaphanous joy that has the Master’s own smile grow to answer in kind.

The mothers spot him before she does and point over. The second her eyes land on him he swears he can feel his blood run hot, every single cell in his body yearns for her and only her. He wonders how he existed before this, before knowing her touch and her love, her heated kisses in the night. How did he ever resist falling into her for so many years?

She has to swim over to get to him, a fact that she’s been ecstatic about since they landed here. She immerses herself completely wherever they go, whatever they do, and every species they meet flock to her because of it. The warmth she gives so freely to others. It’s addictive and seemingly effortless, it bewilders him to no end.

She hefts herself up from the pools onto the mossy green floor and throws her arms around his neck. He catches her instinctively, the dampened clothes on her back marking the dry material of his own.  

She pulls back with a beatific grin, “What did he want?”

“She,” he reveals.

She gasps softly at the news, giving a fond shake of her head. “I can’t tell you how I know, but I have a fairly good guess that she’s not as beguiling as you were,” she whispers with a bite of her lip.

The desire in her gaze is one he can now recognize easily and would meet in kind, were it not for the threat of a newly sanctimonious Doctor determined to follow the trail towards all he holds dear. In any other circumstance, he would have kissed his wife and dragged her back into his Tardis and only let her wander back onto the world Ietis if she begged prettily….

“I’m afraid we’re going to need to cut your expedition short, love,” he says gravely.

“But Ira is due to give birth the following cycle, I promised I would stay for the-”

It seems she too can read the unsaid through his eyes. She’s torn up about it, truly, but she gives him a curt nod.

“Go gather your things and say your farewells. There’s time enough for that.”

She cups his cheek sweetly, offering him comfort of all things, “You know I don’t carry anything out of the Tardis I can’t leave behind.”

It’s not long before he’s piloting them away. He’s not ignorant of how she’s studying him, how quiet and still she’s keeping herself.

“The Doctor is proving to make herself an enemy of me yet again,” the Master confides. “She’s determined to intrude, to take you away from me.”

She steps forward indignantly, “She can’t do that!”

 “And she won’t,” he promises, rushing to his wife’s side and taking her hands in his. “She won’t find you, not where I think to hide you.”

She flings herself from the safety of his arms and glares at him flatly. “Please tell me you’re not planning to drop me off somewhere while you go deal with her, because that’s wholly preposterous at this point, we are a team! You don’t swan off and treat me like some delicate trinket! This is a betrayal!”

In the face of her rage, her devastation, her words, it all seeps out of him like lifeblood from a ghastly wound.

“You are my wh-” he ducks his head, ashamed of the position he’s putting her in. She’s right. His hearts beat wildly in his chest and his nostrils flare, the terrible urge to commit devastating atrocities in the name of his fear, of his love, of his complete lack of other options….

He looks back up at her, pleading, eyes blurring her image with unshed tears. “You’re not a thing, you’re my whole world. I’m leaving you in the only hands I trust.”

The Master turns back to the console and parks, composing himself before he turns back to her.

“Mine.”

#the master x reader #dhawan!master x reader #wyrwtd

[impossiblesongs]

the world’s forgotten boy (dhawan!master x reader)

Summary: You are here, you are there, you are everywhere and nowhere at all, and it’s everything. || this series partakes in and around this fic

✍️✍️✍️fic masterlist

Disclaimer: Not my characters. This is a disclaimer.

Title from “Search and Destroy" by Iggy and The Stooges

AN: this pair hasn’t left me and now it’s everyone’s problem dhawan!master timeline: post-part 6 of OG fic, specific to information relayed in DW series 12

Life lived in the footfalls of time and space with the Master brought with it a particular cocktail of divine chaos and reckoning, such obsolete and unavoidable devastation. But then there is the tender, hallowed glory. It happens and it happens, all too fast and all at once. You are here, you are there, you are everywhere and nowhere at all, and it’s everything.

You used to think you could never belong, not even on Earth, no matter how hard you tried. Your life, your career, your family. No matter how you well you dressed the part, no matter how you assimilated, the cracks would always out. At the edge of worlds, you learned the traits of adaptability comes faster than you’d ever anticipated. But it always did, if you’re being truthful, even as a child. You don’t think anyone has ever underestimated you quite like you used to.

Being raised on Earth can do a number on you, especially if you’re a woman. You’re too smart and too loud and too opinionated, you care too much or not enough, and if you dare, you shouldn’t. Every point you make can be right and they’ll still make you feel like little more than a piece of meat.

You’ve carried it all your life that the second you put it down, you change.

The change is palpable. You can feel it, and not just because you are no longer bound by something so trivial as age and sickness, but because you have the ability to choose. Really choose. So does he. You don’t always agree, but most often you leave right and wrong outside of his Tardis doors.

You’ve pondered at it too, when the Master tells you stories of how all of the Doctor’s companions leave them eventually, be it for humanity or for survival. This is how he confesses his greatest fear without saying it plainly. Just telling stories and hoping you gain the meaning behind the words. You tell him this is also how you differ. If humanity could be spared, you’d make the effort surely, but your loyalties tie elsewhere now.

He wants to believe you, and you don’t take it personally that he doesn’t know how. You see it clear on his face, he wants it to be true so much, but trust is foreign. It belonged to a boy long gone who once played with his friend under a burnt orange sky. He doesn’t know how to trust you, not anyone. You see him battle with himself, see him try to tiptoe the line, and he’s never taken it out on you, but he holds back. He keeps things to himself, he doesn’t lie, but he isn’t truthful.

It comes to a head one day. He comes home wretched, he’s devoid of anything but self-loathing and has fresh blood caked underneath his fingernails. He has the gall to lie to your face when you ask him about it and your resolve snaps.Your hand moves before you can register the action. He takes the slap like a man hungering for penance. You take his face in your hands and kiss him, and you tell him the next time he lies to your face, you’re gone.

Each day he comes, malevolent and bloodied. Falling to his knees before you and crying himself to silence until he’s looking up into your face, begging you to tell him what to do without uttering a single word. You’re not stupid. You brush back his dark hair and tell him he can stop. He can choose to stop.

It takes eleven days for him to destroy all of Gallifrey.

When it ends he presents himself to you and all that he found. His every reason for doing so. He becomes a mask devoid of anything but rage when he demands to know if you’ve had enough now.

It’s the Doctor’s companions trying to divide the cosmos between living a relatively human life that makes for the ultimate problem, you think. Both lives naturally clash against one another, all of time and space overruling the steady chronological passage of time. While the past, present, and future exist, once you get into a Tardis, there is never a moment after that you can go back. One chooses. Whether they can live with the choice, that’s another matter. 

“You ache to be forgiven and yet you abhor the idea, it rattles defiantly in you. I won’t forgive you, but only because I don’t see why I would condemn you. There is no more limit here, do you understand? No more ‘reason’. Only yours, and mine. I know the man I married, whether you choose to believe it now or not.”

You tell him you made your choice a long time ago, and wasn’t he listening?

#the master x reader #dhawan!master x reader #wyrwtd

[impossiblesongs]

the hardest part is who we are [dhawan!master x] reader, thirteenth doctor

Summary: He doesn't like it when you suggest it.

Disclaimer: Not my characters. This is a disclaimer.

AN: this pair hasn’t left me and now it’s everyone’s problem AN2: IT HAD TO HAPPEN EVENTUALLY reader will turn in her doctor/master essay at the end of class thank you for reading AN3: fic name from 'who we are' by hozier

✍️✍️✍️fic masterlist

the hardest part is who we are (dhawan!master x )Reader, Thirteenth Doctor dhawan!master timeline: post-timeless child

He doesn’t like it when you suggest it.

To meet with the Doctor, willingly.

He threatens to physically lock you away. But you don’t press it after it’s spoken, once it plants itself in his head you know it will eventually bloom. That’s why you proposed it to him. To get him coming around to it, because it was the only sensical answer to your predicament. To stop her hunting, to stop this incessant strained feeling that you both have been weighed down by ever since you’d escaped Gallifrey with your lives.

The Doctor had intended to leave the Master to die with his Cyber-Time Lord Army, of which you'd vehemently disagreed with the second he’d sprouted the idea on you.

(“You can’t be this clueless,” you had uttered, “you’re doing the most affronting thing to her. It’s not even a provocation, it’s a – ”

“I don’t need a diagnosis, wife! I need your support.”

“You will always have my support; your choices however are of an entirely different beast.”

You knew well how his hatred for the Doctor could lead him to his worst tendencies and you only wished that he would see what was in front of him, that he wouldn’t cling blindly while led on by his ignorance to avoid rejection and remain combatively reactive to the Doctor’s spurns.

You wanted to say that he should try to find the voice he keeps trying to ignore, the one deeply betrayed and hurt, that he likes to pretend doesn’t exist. Because the Doctor did betray him.

He died for her as Missy, finally standing with the Doctor against his former self. He tried, he really tried, as Missy. One could say Missy endeavored to change from a cold, hard, and unfeeling vessel into the Time Lady you know very well exists, one with depth and feelings and warmth, and deep abiding loyalties. Cyber-Time Lord hybrids, gods you could have almost laughed in his face at the absolute transparency of his actions. But it all meant nothing, and therein lies the crux of the issue. The Doctor still ran away, like they always do, not a glance behind them. Not a thought spared.

You know where the Master's bruises form. You don’t know if he always does.

“You are letting your feelings mold your actions, when words could suffice.”

“Then I suspect things are indeed exactly how I shape them.”

He gazed at you sharply and you’d relented, leaving it at that.)

Everything thereafter bled from that wound, and he would not let it go, would tear at the scar tissue endlessly. You’d both frayed to each other’s worst of temperaments. He’d go from combatively hostile to saccharinely apologetic, unceasingly tender to hopelessly pathetic, restless in both his hearts and in spirit. For the first time, you could not abate him, no matter what you tried.

One night, he wakes from your arms a with wretched cry.

“They’re back! The drums are back!”

He flings himself away from you and stalks off, leaving you alone in the dark.

You sleep in different rooms, after that.

You watch him shut himself away, eyes full of torment, giving statements along the lines of how he won’t taint you with his longing any further. As if his longing were only ever his alone.  

After the flux, he caves.

“She must be at her very weakest,” the Master says, but the confession is, I’m at my very weakest. “What harm could she do now?”

You merely concur and send the coordinates yourself.

“You’ll be careful?” the Master asks disinterestedly, eyes glazing over. Tired, always tired. He hardly sleeps anymore. Hardly eats. No trips out.

“Kiss me for luck?” you answer, holding your breath, begging for spontaneity of chance to maybe turn the tide. Nothing else has.

The Master narrows his big doe eyes at you, pleading and irate in the same measure. He grasps your chin between his fingers softly and peers down at you, leaning forward and whispering, “Why don’t you go and ask Missy?”

You shove him and his wretchedness away, hard.

He watches as you pilot his ship sullenly.

“Don’t wait up,” you toss behind your back upon landing, heading straight for the door.

The Doctor alerted herself to your presence with her hopeful words, “You got away?”

You turn to look at her, expecting….

You don’t know what you expected but, she’s tiny. Blonde. Bubbly. Unremarkable, frankly.

“If you need me to help you get back home to your family, you’ve got no worries,” she approached you giddily, “I’m here to help. I can even smooth things over with UNIT, all of it can be fixed."

“I don’t need your help,” you reply, “I need you to stop.”

“If the Master has done anything to you, I swear on my lives, I will help you undo it. All of it.”

“Is that what you told River Song’s family when the Church took her?” It’s an unexpected blow, but you revel in how it lands. You think you understand the sentiment better now. How the Doctor’s pain could suddenly be as dear to you as perhaps it is to the Master, as addicting. “Did you? Undo it, I mean.”

The Doctor straightens her spine and won’t meet your eye, but she answers honestly enough. “I tried everything I could to save her.”

“The only person I need to save my husband from is you.”

The surprise colors her face but not kindly, eyebrows furrowing and mouth pinching in stern judgment.

“He’s a generous lover," you say, "but then again I don’t have to tell you that, do I?”

You watched with sickly satisfaction as the Doctor blanches at your words. She looked ready to be sick at your feet. Good.

“Oh, yes. He’s told me about that too. You look down your nose at him and make me a victim in his clutches, but you were in my place once. First loves. You know more than anyone what it means to be in his embrace, how his hearts feel beating beneath your palm. You turned away, I didn’t, but now you’re making your choices my problems and I won’t abide it any longer.”

“You say you know him, so you know what he’s capable of," the Doctor says with urgency, "all that he has done.”

“If I’m correct you’ve been in such a place yourself once, with all that blood on your hands. The only difference is you think your do-over changes the facts. You were capable, culpable. I am, too. I live my life in the nuances of grey, Doctor. Not stifling day by day in black and white should it fit the circumstance.”

“You’re talking like you don’t care about his actions, about the people he’s murdered," the Doctor frowns. "Like there’s no consequence that he should answer for!”

“I was there on Gallifrey,” you tell her calmly, “I know exactly what he’s done.”

“And you did nothing?!”

“I piloted his ship and saved him from certain death, if that’s what you’re asking,” you relay harshly. “Gallifrey means little to me, I’ll admit. Other than being the Master’s home planet, I hold no allegiance to it, and neither should he. Neither should you, in all truth. So yes, I stood as witness and I didn’t stop him, because it wasn’t my place.”

“Your place,” the Doctor sneers, “he has ruined you.”

“Much like some would say you ruined River Song.”

The Doctor strikes out almost instinctively, but you long calculated this blow. It's why you placed it there. You catch hold of her wrist in an uncomfortable grip before her palm even meets your cheek.

“Ah, you see, there. That utter boiling atrocity of rage, of violation. You know firsthand exactly what it’s like to have others decide you are a monster, to hunt down you and yours, and how helpless it feels when you have to watch as they take away the person you love most in the world. To know that they hurt them, because of you. And yet, here you stand. Passing out the same cycle of action, onto him.”

The Doctor tore her arm from your grasp.

“Can you feel it, Doctor?”

“Can I feel what?”

“My disappointment in you.”

You tear your sight from her, feeling yourself fill to the brim with what has become of your days because of her insistence to be his reckoning, left abruptly and wholly bereft from it. By haunting both your heels, she’s brought you both to this misshapen state of a marriage. Because at the end of the day, shout it to the heavens as he insists, say it till he’s blue in the face, deep down you know the Master cares what the Doctor thinks of him. That it stains what he thinks of himself, cuts too close to the hearts of him. Particularly, and maybe specifically, because she was the first to know him, really know him. To love him. And she left him to die. Again.

Her cause had it’s effects, and she has moored on his mood and his self-worth far too long for your liking. It’s gone too far now. You’ve been stripped of your husband’s wanting and his smiles, deprived of his familiar heated gaze and seeking hands. Long destitute of his lush and all-encapsulating charm, magnetic and chaotic at every turn. His passion, his madness. He’s immovable in his self-loathing, rejecting you before he’s rejected. Textbook. 

Whatever he may be, whatever else he becomes, you dearly covet. It's become a cavern of loneliness that lives within you. And you’re left day after day in your wanting, it darns at you with no resolution.

“I didn’t – ” the Doctor says, speech halting, as if it’s being pulled out of her like a rotten tooth. “I wasn’t sure you were with him of your own will. To be fair, he’s done this before. Plucked a human for his own ends, discarded her soon after those ends were met.”

“That makes it all okay, then?”

“No,” the Doctor admits. “I am sorry.”

“Though I can appreciate your acknowledgment of your actions, you don’t owe that to me, Doctor.”

"You'll have to forgive me if I disagree," the Doctor says.

"Which is very like you," you say, letting that linger. Hoping it internalizes.

“Fair enough," she says eventually.

“We are at an impasse, then," you state. “A truce, for time. A little time.”

The Doctor seems to wilt at the phrase and you can’t help but wish you knew why, it may be something you can exploit in the future if you need to.  

“We are,” she says. 

“Don’t get in my way again,” you warn gently, holding her eye, “the Master may say he wants to kill you but I don't know if you notice that he never does, or never quite manages. But I assure you, when it comes to him, I am far less forgiving and a far better shot.”

#the master x reader #dhawan!master x reader #wyrwtd

[impossiblesongs]

and hanging on by the skin of our teeth (the master/reader) 5/6

Summary: The Master found himself unnervingly entertained by a human psychology student volunteering at UNIT. Embarrassingly, it endures through more than one of his faces. || ✍️✍️✍️fic masterlist ||

Disclaimer: Not my characters. This is a disclaimer.

Title from “Daffodil” by Florence and the Machine

AN: This is my first ever reader fic and I’m not terribly sorry. It’s been ages since I’ve written anything and I’m indulging myself. It’s not my fault the Master is my babygirl, and it’s not your fault they’re the love of your life either. Enjoy! 😉

v. come back (dhawan!master)    

The intruder was rifling through your minimal belongings and muttering to themselves distastefully. Of course, you couldn’t exactly hear what was being said but you did recognize the tone initially. You suppose it didn’t matter, either way.

“Who the hell are you?”

At the sound of you cocking a gun, the man raised both his hands in surrender, daring a peek behind him. You could make out his profile then, though the light in the room was sparse. He was grinning and still muttering (though that was mostly to himself and not at all to you.)

“Turn around, slowly,” you warned.

He did as you asked but not without proclaiming, “You didn’t think I wouldn’t find you, dear?”

“I had hoped that by being declared dead and disappearing that I could just be forgotten, for my family’s sake, but really when does anything happen because you want it to? If you’ve come for information, I have nothing to say to anyone about what happened at UNIT, the 3W Institute in Britain had nothing to do with me. I just want to be left alone,” your mouth twisted with bitter fury, “so I’d advise you to just leave me alone.”

“I think the time for that’s long passed, don’t you?”

Your grip on the pistol tightened, “You’ve taken everything from me, my name, my reputation, my future! What more can you people want?!”

“Ah,” the man began to chuckle, his hands slowly coming together to clap before he gestured to himself. “Darling, I don’t believe I’ve been misaligned quite so spectacularly in recent history if memory serves, well done. Give us a kiss, make it all better?”

He started to approach you, but you moved forward so much faster.

“Don’t move a single step closer,” you shouted, aim to redirect from his heart to his head. “You’re not the first man I’ve killed, and I’m sure you won’t be the last!”

He scoffed, and while his demeanor shifted to something infinitely more malevolent, the way he watched you was unnervingly familiar.

“You seem to be under the assumed impression that I’m people, dear,” he said. “My patience for you can be infinite, but if you’re not careful, you’ll grow tiresome.”

You don’t let a single emotion show, but the statement bewilders you, sucks the air from your lungs, and in four long strides his hand covers over yours, warm, alive.

You felt him maneuver the gun from your grasp and slip it away inside his coat pocket.

“It’s not real, this isn’t real,” you muttered, shutting your eyes, unable to help from uttering the words again and again, wet tears falling down your face.

You felt one of his hands settle first on your throat, the feel of it not so different from the hands you already knew. His fingertips moved against your skin, tipping your face up to his before settling both palms to cup your cheeks. His forehead pressed against yours.

 open your eyes, love

The words weren’t spoken, they were in your head.

You gasped, staring, and staring.

The light all but cast shadows, and yet his shadow was enough. Your brain sifted through possible explanations from highly probable impossible explanations. You stared at him in stillness, all but immobile, and then you realized that the fact that he didn’t disturb this silence, a silence you needed to come back to yourself, that was his way of being kind.

Your hand reached out and landed firmly upon his chest unbidden, right beneath his coat, and in your right mind you know you would have been mortified at how forward that could seem, but sense was lost to you with the shock. “But you’re…”

You could feel his hearts, all four stops.

“Dead?” he offered. “We both know that’s for other people, dear.”

You took a step away, distancing yourself as you wiped the tears from your face, the embarrassment wasn’t far behind now.

God, what a sentimental fool you must appear to him. Caught off guard so completely.  

“Where… um,” you hesitated, not knowing if it was your place to ask, but then he wouldn’t be here unless he had some reason. “Where have you – ”

“That doesn’t matter,” the Master interrupted, dismissing the topic entirely. “None of it matters now.”

There was a desolation to him, the longer that you looked. Even in the shadows, his eyes gleamed with a darkness, tension that hung wrapped around his frame, as if he could snap at any second. There was a hollowness, too. An immeasurable… sadness.

You could hardly bear to look at him, but neither could you look away.

“You’ve changed,” he said.

Whether he meant it as an insult or compliment, you couldn’t say, but the insecurity swelling inside of you fell harder on the former. It’s been ten years since he... she died. The idea of disappointing him after a time so very long spent apart, smarted.

You cleared your throat and hoped your voice wouldn’t give you away when you answered, “Humans get old.”

“I mean, you seem,” his eyes narrowed, and his lips sounded out in silence before he decided on, “better.”

You glanced at your surroundings. You were kipping in a broken-down hovel of a place in Russia in the dead of winter. Your own belongings only truly amounted to those you could carry in your hand. You’ve been running and hiding long before the British government declared you a person of interest. When they couldn’t find you, because in your time with the Master you did indeed learn a trick or two, they’d smeared your entire existence. They’d made it a goal to turn not only your country but your loved ones, against you. Then, finally, they declared you officially dead. Because even in the event that you did turn up, you were completely without an ally, without hope.

“You’re sharper,” he continued, “no more… illusions of youth, of goodness. You’ve seen what the world does, what people do. It’s the same in every species, I assure you.”

“Well, I was still something of a girl, the last time I thought I saw you,” you said, matter of fact.

The last time you’d seen him, you had procured an original Vote for Harold Saxon button you’d secreted away from a Torchwood incident report off UNIT headquarters. There had been various buttons acquired along with the report, which you read in full. The report was filled by a woman named Martha Jones. You knew the picture she had painted of the Master was accurate, just as you knew deep down that it didn’t change things for you.

You tended not to think too much too hard about it in those days. Didn’t quite know how to face it, these divides, and truths. Now, time afforded, you can firmly reject the idea that this alignment with the Master had turned you into something, that he was an orchestrator of this machination, but a rather more accurate happening is what it revealed in you, what was always true of your character. He became dear to you (and perhaps only to you, from what various accounts report) and you would not forsake him, you would not forsake anyone that mattered to you. That was your choice. He never asked that of you. He only offered a hand, time, and space.

You had just turned twenty-four, that last night. You know now, how young that really is. You figured there was no harm in taking just one button to tease him with. You still remember him dropping you off, peroxide hair shining in the night as he scampered back to his Tardis shouting something obscene at you like a big brat before hastily wishing you a good night. He was never good at goodbye, a see-you-later. You figured out quickly that it was because no one ever truly stayed, so he never had to learn how.

“Then when I did see you again,” you continued, “I didn’t even get the benefit to know it was you.”

“What would you have done differently?” he asked, crossing his arms across his chest and perching against the nearest available space.

“Pulled your hair out probably,” you smirked.

He grinned manically, tickled by the idea. “Dear, I literally hunted you down to the middle of nowhere America. Nor did I dress the age. It’s hardly my fault you didn’t connect the dots.” He waged a finger at you, “Besides – ”

“It was a fun game,” you finished for him, rolling your eyes dramatically. Somberly, you added, “You’re always playing.”

Still as he was, you could feel him watching you. You hated how the playfulness of the moment has suddenly buoyed into such a resounding, intense misery. The mess that was left of you when you were sure he was dead, the entire part of life you lived in the “after” that he didn’t see. All that is gone now, that life is dead.

It’s all suddenly too much.

“Why don’t you come on inside, love,” he presented an outstretched hand to you, “I’ve got the kettle on.”

“Your Tardis?”

“The very one.”

You wondered if it looked the same. It couldn’t hurt, could it? To get out of this cold, Russian night. Just for a second, for sentiment? For old times’ sake?

His skin was warm to the touch, and he led you outside without another word.

To say it was a shock, to see a whole bloody unmistakable house parked out on the snow, is an understatement.

It did not deter him, even when you stumbled and dragged your feet in quiet astonishment. He simply placed an arm around your waist and forced you forwards.

#the master x reader #dhawan!master x reader #wyrwtd

[impossiblesongs]

right-wrong turn (ii) [simm!master x reader]

Summary: The Master had you both slip in through the Traitor’s Gate, an already ominous omen.

Disclaimer: Not my characters. This is a disclaimer.

AN: this pair hasn’t left me and now it’s everyone’s problem Warning: (nothing says valentine's day like) Typical Master violence-prone tendencies

✍️✍️✍️fic masterlist

right-wrong turn (ii) simm!master x reader simm!master timeline: post-end of time

It was frighteningly eerie, walking outside the walls of the Tower of London without guard or personnel lingering in sight. No one to stop you or question why you were there in the first place. You had a sinking dread in the pit of your stomach that told you the Master had everything to do with that.

You knew where the Black Vault was located, you had to wonder if the Master did too. If you could lead him elsewhere, wasn’t it your duty to? Then again, if he killed you, he’d still have free reign of the Tower. You doubt it would take him long to find the Vault. It would take him longer to get inside, though. Maybe even long enough for someone else to notice.

The Master had you both slip in through the Traitor’s Gate, an already ominous omen. When a door to the actual castle came in sight, the Master hurried to sidestep in front of you just as you reached it, bringing all of your thoughts of leading him astray to a halt.

“Don’t say I never did anything for you,” he stated primly before taking great care to break into and hold open the beautifully carved castle door.

Did he just open the door for you? The harder you stared the more he returned it with his own penetrating glower. It was so seemingly out of character that you hesitated to walk past him, finally doing so for fear of what he’d do if you refused.

“Aren’t you going to ask where everyone is?” He sing-songs from behind your back, probably with a pout.

You shrug, “Do I have to?”

“Are you asking if I’d like you to? The answer is yes, obviously, or I wouldn’t have led with the question,” the Master retorts testily.

You force yourself to say, “Where is everyone?”

He gleefully orders, “Guess!”

“Dead?”

The Master cut you off once again and you flinched away as he followed your backsteps, crowding into your space menacingly.

You could see every pore on his young, unblemished face, his dark-blond hair haloed by the fluorescent lights above.

“Go on,” he says, leaning in and forcing you to turn your face to the side. You can feel his exhale at your ear before he harshly whispers, “Am I that transparent?”

Clearly, with every ounce of bravery you have within you, you hiss, “You’re a monster. I know exactly who you are, the things you have done.”

The Master hums, unrelenting in his suffocating proximity.

You meet his eye steadily and challenge, through gritted teeth, “So why don’t you show me something I don’t know.”

The Master holds a stern façade only for so long before bursting out with unrestrained laughter. Your skin burns with sudden humiliation. The fact that he’s playing with you is not lost on you.

Suddenly you feel his arm snake around your waist, all humor stripped from his voice as he says, “Get on with it.”

And he shoves you forward. You nearly stumble over your feet, having to find purchase against the brick wall, before continuing to lead him toward his desired location.

You walk forward with leaden steps, your mind scrambling the closer you get. Less able to think, less even to act on any sort of diversion, however, your heart does beat with a sudden fury. A madness, even. If the Master wants easy prey, he won’t find a mouse in you.

“What’s wrong?” You say, flat and dour, slowing your gait. “Are we in a terrible hurry?”

“Feeling awfully chatty now, are we?”

You scoff, “As my last conversationalist, you’re doing the worst thing one could do.”

“And what, pray tell, would that be?”

You give the Master a glance over your shoulder and affect a shrug, “You’re a total bore.”

“And you humans have a vast knowledge of such, don’t you? Evolution,” the Master chuckles derisively. “You animals are led by whatever feeling drags you on at any given moment, caught by messy ridiculous notions of what you purport to be and pointless, tenuous and flickering moral guidelines. Your lot is little less than the primitive species you allegedly evolved from. Such stupendous arrogance that you’d think otherwise.”

“Careful now, I fear you’ve gone and lost yourself with good old classic projection,” you answer evenly.

The archway to the stairs that lead to the basement levels of the Archive meets your sight. It brings you to a halt. You feel the Master poke at your back and tears spring to your eyes.

He gives a tsk, “Aww, cat got your tongue?”

Slowly, you turn to face him. Not to beg for your life, not even for full sympathy, but what comes out is this: “What would you want? If it was your dying day and someone cared enough to ask what would comfort you? Honestly, can you tell me that? I think you owe it to me.”

His answering smile could almost be sublime, if not for the vicious gleam in his eye. “Don't tell me you want a kiss? I’d think, if you’re looking for comfort, you’re asking the wrong Time Lord. Now, walk down those stairs and open the Vault.”

You don’t know what gives you the extra audacity to press your luck, but your smile is just as sharp as his gaze. “See, I don’t think I’m asking the wrong Time Lord at all. I just think I’m asking a cowardly one.”

You turn and walk down the stairs before he can reply.

Walking into the check-in stall before the Vault, you do finally see another person.

They’re middle-aged, teetering on their tiptoes, a device securely around their neck keeping them in place, eyes wide and posture straining. There’s also a small cube that the Master moves to grab, leaning against the desk and pushing it towards you.

“The second your friend over here loses balance and pulls on that thread around his neck, that room loses pressure and collapses in on itself, crushing everyone inside,” the Master informs. “Won it at a toy shop.”

With one glance, you can see it’s a live feed. It’s a room filled with Tower personnel; some that you even recognize. Some are in much higher ranks at Unit than yourself. “If you’ve evacuated the entire Tower, and had access to people in that room who had access to the Vault, why did you need me?”

“You were a string to pull, and it’s been a fun game, pet, but now is your hour. So if you’d please, not in your own time,” the Master prompts you towards the door with a wave of his hand.

You eye the middle-aged man the Master has hostage and take the extra second needed to read his nametag. Victor.

“I’m sorry, Vic,” you say to him.

He closes his weary eyes at your acknowledgment.

“Ah, ah, ah, almost forgot! You’re going to need this,” the Master hands you what looks to be your clearance card. You don’t recognize it. “You’d think they’d keep this place under lock and key,” the Master whispers conspiratorially to Victor. “I’d tell you to meet with the head of your security and let them know it’s much too easy to break in this way, but… you won’t be here much longer.”

“Stop baiting him,” you snap.

This seems to finally strain the last bit of the Master’s patience and he stalks towards you quick as lightning, his hand wrapping viciously around your neck and face a breath away from yours.

“Open. The. Door.”

#the master x reader #simm!master x reader #wyrwtd

[impossiblesongs]

and hanging on by the skin of our teeth (the master/reader) 3/6

Summary: The Master found himself unnervingly entertained by a human psychology student volunteering at UNIT. Embarrassingly, it endures through more than one of his faces. || ✍️✍️✍️fic masterlist ||

Disclaimer: Not my characters. This is a disclaimer.

Title from “Daffodil” by Florence and the Machine

AN: This is my first ever reader fic and I’m not terribly sorry. It’s been ages since I’ve written anything and I’m indulging myself. It’s not my fault the Master is my babygirl, and it’s not your fault they’re the love of your life either. Enjoy! 😉

iii. miss me (gomez!master)    

“Well, you have impeccable recommendations.”

“Thank you for reaching out.”

“And yet, it says here you were fired. Oh, from a military operation? You were consulting, I believe?”

“Yes.”

“Care to elaborate on the situation?”

“I… I may have overstepped in my position. I didn’t divulge certain information about my life to my superiors that I should have. Therefore, I couldn’t remain unbiased in that setting, but like you said, I have impeccable recommendations and I am more than qualified in my field. I would be grateful and eager to commit to this foundation, which is an opportunity I am eager to tackle as a military operation was not why I got into this field. I want to help people.”

“And your bias?”

“I can feel confident in saying that the bias, that situation, is long past me and will not present as a problem in the future.”

“Are you sure?”

How could you explain that it’s been three years? Three years wherein the Master hasn’t come round again. Two years since UNIT found out and cast you out. One year since you moved from Britain, determined to start over.

“I am positive. It’s all behind me.”

“Well, I think we’ll work very well together. I have certain things that take me out of the country time and again, mostly to deal with my… boyfriend. He works as a tech support line, I just gave his number out this past week. Always helping, silly sausage.”

“Um, of course. I can’t wait to start.”

“Here at 3W Institute, we’re hoping to become a more accessible help to those nearing death. If I’m honest, starting here, in this small town, this is my trial run. I have hopes to take the 3W Institute International one day and I’d very much appreciate your intelligence on the matter. Something tells me you’d be indispensable. Have we met before?”

You blinked, took in the woman’s wry red lips and lively green eyes, her near mechanical mannerisms.

“I can’t admit that I’ve had the pleasure,” you say, eyes darting about the desk, hoping to find a nameplate. “I’m sorry, Miss?”

“Please,” the woman extends a hand, “just call me Missy.”

#the master x reader #gomez!master x reader #wyrwtd

[impossiblesongs]

right-wrong turn (i) [simm!master x reader]

Summary: The Master gives a vicious grin before enunciating, “Remember.”.

Disclaimer: Not my characters. This is a disclaimer.

AN: this pair hasn’t left me and now it’s everyone’s problem

✍️✍️✍️fic masterlist

right-wrong turn (i) simm!master x reader simm!master timeline: post-end of time

You join the conference for UNIT personnel just in the nick of time. The missives to attend came just thirty minutes before the meeting itself was to start and everyone was a bustle of whispers and gossip as to why.

Your eyes scan the hall and land on Tamara Hinkle sequestered at the very back, hiding out. She’d joined UNIT almost around the same time you had. She was very reserved but offered genuine kindness in every conversation you'd been engaged in.

“Any ideas?” You slip in beside her.

“None whatsoever,” Tamara yawns. “I’m knackered. Our Tommy kept us up past god’s own hour, swear me brain is melting out me ears.”

You nod in sudden recollection. Tamara and her partner had just had a baby. “Poor thing, I’m sure he’ll settle soon,” you offer a reassuring pat to her shoulder, “as will you.”

Tamara smiles warmly at you.

The lights dimmed and the Kate Lethbridge-Stewart steps up front, prompting the hall to quiet promptly.

Word was, that the Doctor no longer traveled with the Pond-Williams, and that they had also proved to be MIA as of last week. Surveillance of their flat in London reported that the house they owned remained unoccupied, and jobs have remained unattended. There were no reports of what exactly transpired, and the Doctor has since gone radio silent. There was also no such sight of him in the present day.

“It is UNIT’s duty to pick up the slack,” Kate Lethbridge-Stewart intones. “The Doctor will turn up again, in his own time. We will do what we always do, and I urge you to use this lull in time to push any paperwork you’ve left unfinished to the forefront. The holidays are upon us, and as we know, that’s when things get exciting.”

Most of the room chuckles, knowing well that invasions and Christmas were just the way of things.

“I also want to ask you all refrain from speculation, if the Doctor’s companions are no longer traveling with him this is a delicate transitional period for all involved. Thank you for attending, good work everyone,” Kate dismisses the room.

Tamara huffs beside you, her voice hushed and low when she says, “Weren’t expecting that. Looks like the paperwork malaise for you and me, my sweet. See you at the end.”

You nod your assent at her departure, head lost in a fog around the name Pond for reasons you couldn’t even begin to parse. The harder you tried, the farther you felt from a probable conclusion. It was so strange, grasping at virtually nothing, and all for a name you probably only heard in passing in connection with the Doctor. A name that had nothing to do with you….

“Hey!”

You were jolted from your musings and startled by the realization that the hall was empty, and you were alone. Where a moment ago people were just beginning to file out, not one single other person remained.

“Pssst!”

“Hello?” You push away from the wall and hurry to the entering archway, poking your head out.

A man lounges against the opposite wall, arms crossed, shadowed by the faltering light.

“Good, you’re late,” he orders, curling an impatient finger at you before walking down the corridor in swift strides.

“I think I need to – ”

“Tet, tet, tet, irrelevant,” he cries, pausing at the nearest lift and gesturing. “Get in.”

“But I – oh my god,” it suddenly hits you why the lights are so dim. Why there are no personnel bustling about the corridor and not a single sound on the entire floor.

 It’s after hours. It was just midday, but now there is only you and... him.

“Blast! Must I always hurry this along,” he takes a steadying breath and buries his face in his palm. “Tedious. All of you. Especially you,” he points your way. “Let’s get this over with, then.”

It’s terrifying how quickly he reaches you, how alarm bells are going off in your head, and despite it all you remain so, so very stationary.

He leans in very close, crouching forward to cage you in and rid you of all your space. An intimidation act for certain. You meet his glare with terrifying pluck, stomach-churning in the face of his menacing aura.

“Are you scared?”

A tear rolls down the side of your face, “Do you want me to be?”

The Master gives a vicious grin before enunciating, “Remember.”

Cubes. Tweed. Ginger. Unit files. Dark eyes. Malevolence, curiosity, adrenaline. Forget.

You blink and suddenly all that was ungraspable earlier in the day slots into place. The fog disperses.

You ran into the Master the very day that the Doctor and Amelia Pond corresponded with UNIT, and then he made you forget.

The Master throws his head back and laughs, “Oh, well done. You’re not a deficient one.”

“You’re, I know who you –”

His words are entirely measured and chilling, “Don’t you interrupt me, it’s rude.”

“I’ve been called worse,” you whisper, brushing the tears off your face and trying hard to disguise the way your body has started shaking.

The Master takes in the state of you disinterestedly, “Are you quite done?”

“If you’re going to kill me, just go ahead and get it over with,” you snap with unexpected heat, clamping your mouth shut immediately after. You don’t know what’s gotten into you but testing the Master is certainly not the route you need to be going down. He is known to be volatile and mercurial.

“I’m not going to kill you, puppet,” the Master says with a saccharine smile. He pushes your hair behind your shoulder, “You’re going to help me.”

“I’m just a student,” you stammer, “I’ve got no jurisdictions here.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong,” the Master says, “See, that was true, when we met, but that isn’t the case anymore.”

“What are you talking about?! I’m here for experience in the field, for my hours," you promise, "that’s all!”

“Ah,” his knowing grin gives you a terrible sense of unease, “you see, it’s not just me making you forget things. You’ve made clearance and now you’ll walk me in.”

“Clearance? F– for what? Where?”

The Master looks fit to bursting with satisfaction, “The Black Archive.”

#the master x reader #simm!master x reader #wyrwtd