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bowieandqueen11 · 2 years

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Dhawan!Master Being In Love With You Would Include...

Request! Would you please write about flirting with the 11 doctor or the dhawan!master really in love with you? 👉🏻👈🏻

I love Sacha so I hope you don’t mind me doing the Master headcanons!! <3

Warning: NSFW!

(I do not own Doctor Who or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @wincheskka.)

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

Hmmm I had a dream about Dhawan!Master last night so this is perfect ty ty, I’ve been obsessed with the Master since about 2007 so you’re really calling me out right now I love it.

Not going to lie Master I love you but this man would be annoying as frick once he finally realises what he’s feeling for you. Instead of the usual burning hatred that plagues his mind and doubles him over in pain most of the time, it’s a scorching, devastating... loneliness? Need? Want? Eventually his brain cells will skip stones and hit love, but it will just take him a little bit of time; he hasn’t felt it very often, not since he was a young child running wild and free through the crimson reeds of his father’s fields back home. He’s lost all that now - even the memories are mere whispers tingling the rational part of him in the back of his mind, buried deep within the swallowing pit he no longer calls his hearts.

Yet he’s still so touch starved, so aching for some kind of connection with something real and solid and fiercely alive that he becomes completely overbearing when he realises there’s a chance you might not actually hate him too.

He keeps creeping up behind you in his TARDIS, like a shadow connected to your feet looming up the walls from the corner of your eye. He looks so serious, so stern as he’s lost in his thoughts before he steps into your line of vision: little did you know, as he tilted his head from side to side and roamed his eyes over you, that he was just wondering how to not ruin this. How to not destroy you, as he does everything else: if he ever lost you, his hearts might as well crumble into dust and choke him into a sweet oblivion. Then he acts all aloof, and humoured when he comes up behind your back for an ‘impromptu TARDIS flying lesson’ - which is a huge step forward in his chain of trust within itself. His hands wrap over your own as he leans over your back, pressing your waist uncomfortably into the buttons lining the console. You can feel his breath trembling over the shell of your ear, his eyes never leaving yours as you feel his midriff entrap you against his shirt; his pointer finger gently grapples yours and glides it over to the buttons.

‘That one, love - just like that. You’ll be flying me around the place in no time.’ The sound of his hoarse, near growling voice trembling over your spine nearly breaks you out into a fleet of goose bumps, and you pretend not to notice the way he begins to smirk. His lips nearly brush over the pulse point on your neck as his fingers hunch over yours for a lingering few seconds, and then as soon as he started he’s run off in a blur to pull a lever on the opposite side of the console room.

The man is literally chaos incarnate, so you can never really tell on a day to day basis how his way of showing love is going to leak out from his cracks. A lot of days, his more Missy side shines through: before you can even finish pulling your socks on he’s grabbed you tightly by the wrist and has you tumbling out the doors to visit a new planet. Just causing trouble, and trying to pull you out of it; even though he was the one who went up and aggravated the very obviously hostile Dalek leader, he still manages to push you around the corner and collapse on top of you in a fit of giggles when it starts shooting energy beams at you both. Even though he’s obviously enjoying himself, you can tell by the way his body is surging towards yours that he’s trying to keep you safe: by the way his hands have tightly kept your wrists pinned against the pockets of his trousers, rapacious in his appetite to feel you tight against him.

Speaking of - the Master is so protective of you. If he even hears the word ‘Doctor’, he’s started growling from deep within his throat and surveying the room with a snarl twitching his nose. Whenever you accidentally get roped up in his devious schemes against said Doctor, he always tries to keep you out of (his) harms way. Whether that’s fitting you with a stolen Time Vortex Manipulator on the plane he’s just destroyed, or making you stay on Earth so you’re far, far away from the planet he’s currently trying to boobytrap.

When he’s not... you know... completely wrapped up in his torment and fury for revenge, the Master comes lingering outside your door like a kicked puppy, knowing that he’s upset you with all his wretchedness. With those exploding, doey, wet eyes, he just rests his forehead against the door frame and frowns at you until you finally relent and open your arms out to him. He doesn’t want anything, for once: he just comes running into your room in less than a millisecond, and jumps onto the mattress next to you. He finds his apologies become lost in the fog of his confounded mind, choking up his throat until he draws blood from his closed fists at the annoyance of it. Instead, he lies next to you, turning onto his side so he can be tucked up against your waist, and allows you ample space to reach up and run your hair through his curls. He closes his eyes in a pained bliss, feeling underserving of such tenderness, but jointly ready to burn down every star in the sky if anyone ever dared to take it away from him. When he finds it becomes too much: the love hurtling through his hearts like a man drowned, the only warning he gives before he knocks you onto your back and comes crawling up on top of you is a groan.

The man would have stars lining his eyes, gazing at you as if you were the whole galaxy incarnate. Not going to lie, he adores it even more if you’re the one on top of him *hm hm*. Sometimes he’s just so tired, you know? Just lounging down on the sofa of his second library, when you come in and climb on top of him, trapping his thighs between your knees and skirting your hand up his chest. You can feel him squirm, his breath becoming high and full of squealing moans as his cheek bumps against the hand you have splayed against it. You loosen his bowtie, calling him out for his choking kink when you pull it out from behind his neck and he bucks his hips up. Throwing it onto the velvet purple chaise longue on the opposite side of the ornate fireplace, you turn instead to focus on unbuttoning his check shirt, until the first tufts of chest hair begin to peek out from his heaving chest. You can feel how thunderous his hearts are beating as you go, his desperation radiating off him as clawing, bruising hands come up to grip into the meat of your waist. When he leans his neck up to kiss you, it’s all encompassing, as if he’s trying to swallow you whole: he snarls against your bottom lip before tugging on it, inhaling against your mouth as if he were languidly trying to steal the heavens that lived within your soul. Eventually you can feel his knee rise up to rest in between yours, yet the kisses don’t stop - instead he runs his hands up and over your shoulders until he’s cupped your cheeks, trapping you entirely against him.

He’ll even get you a matching set of silk pyjamas to make you feel more at home! On the days when the tempest within his head has managed to calm into a vernal rain, the two of them will match in them as you share a cup of warm tea. Sitting on his lap, he reads aloud a book on Gallifreyan history from over your shoulder; he keeps shouting out scathing insults about how wrong some passages are, which nearly makes you jump out of your skin. He’ll kiss your cheek in apology, lingering against you for a moment because he knows the feel of his fresh stubble by the side of your lips drives you wild, before he turns back to the domestic peace again.

Even though he’s so desperate and craving for your love so constantly, some days he feels so desolate that he looks like a sad little puppet collapsed down in a heap on the console chair. When you go over to try and give him a hug, he’ll act all disgruntled when you wrap your arms under his jacket and tight around his squishy little stomach. He’ll jut his chin out and act as if he’s not about to burst into tears, the stubborn little feral mouse he is, but if you stick it out he’ll always eventually give in. Once the head has collapsed down against the curve of your neck, and you begin to feel his hands snake around your back like a vice, you know the real him is starting to peek through again. When you pull back to place your pointer finger under his chin and pull him up to gaze at his bloodshot eyes, he gently takes your hands within his and kisses your knuckles, enraptured, as if he’s trying to devour every inch of you.

My man’s just a tragedy wrapped up in vivacious tweed, so his version of love is like a bursting supernova, constantly exploding and dwindling simultaneously in shards of striking light. It may be overwhelming at times, but by everything true in the galaxy, does he love you with every inch of his hearts.

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