Archive of Our Own

Logically speaking, he’s on the Doctor’s TARDIS. He’s responding to a distress call. He’s in a room that he found after wandering the dark, empty corridors for a bit; a room that was calling to him somehow, a room that seemed to sing to him with Doctor-ness. If she’s anywhere, she’s in here. 

But the inside of this room is pitch black, and that sense of Doctor-ness seems to be radiating from just about everywhere. Some parts of his mind are screaming trap. Other parts are entirely too fascinated to back away now. The Doctor had run away on Gallifrey, had left him- she’s got no reason to even think that he’s alive. She wouldn’t have set him a trap. Surely. 

Something touches the Master’s ankle. 

Or maybe it doesn’t. 

He can’t really tell, which is strange. He feels odd; he has the memory of being touched, of something smooth and warm sliding over the exposed skin just under the leg of his trousers, but the memory feels…false, somehow. Not quite right. Like his mind has jumped straight from the moment before the touch, to thinking about it in the past tense. 

“Doctor…?” His voice curls through the darkness, unfolding into velvety silence. And it really is silent, he realises. Not even the hum of the TARDIS’ engines has penetrated this blackness. 

His ankle feels strange. Hot, but not unpleasantly so. Like the electric-burning touch of a lover’s hands on sensitive skin, but lingering. 

“Doctor,” he tries again. “It’s me. It’s the Master. Are you—“

That’s as far as he gets before there’s something wrapped around his throat. It’s sudden- one moment, there’d been nothing. And now, he can scarcely breathe. 

The something feels just as smooth as whatever had touched his ankle. It’s thick, and pulsing gently in a four-beat rhythm. Either it’s mimicking his hearts, or…or…

Well. He doesn’t know where else it might have got that rhythm from. It doesn’t bear thinking about. 

He’s not panicking, the Master realises. His head spins from lack of air- he’s not getting enough oxygen despite his best attempts to suck in breath, but he’s not panicking. He feels oddly incapable of it. It’s like…it’s like his mind can’t process this. Can’t process being stuck in the dark, in this impossible pitch black room, can’t process whatever is around his neck. He knows it’s there. It’s physical, and real, and fluttering gently along with his pulse. But his mind simply refuses to accept it. 

“Doctor,” he tries again- tries to call out, even though it comes up through his throat as more of a soft whimper. His head is spinning harder, his hearts thumping in his ears. There’s a staticky greyness around the edges of his vision, everything slowly fading into the distant background as the thing around his neck squeezes just a little harder. 

Two starlight-golden eyes loom out of the darkness, and the Master falls. 

——

He comes to in the pitch black again, but somehow, he feels safe. 

“Doctor?” 

Those eyes appear again. This time, he’s conscious enough to process a face around them. A familiar one, bright and alert and watching him closely. 

“Master,” she says. “Hi. You’re, um…I’m sorry about this. But not really sorry.” 

“What?” He blinks- glances around- and something in his stomach lurches a little. 

As his eyes flick to the side, the Doctor’s form seems to shift. He’s conscious of a dozen or more eyes, of edges that blur and fade, and of a writhing, gathering darkness around her. She opens her mouth, and he sees sharp- too many- no— he looks back. She’s normal. She’s herself. 

“You unlocked something in me,” she says carefully. “Or maybe I did. Something changed, when I escaped Gallifrey.” 

“Something…?” He has a horrible feeling that he knows what sort of something. The Master is suddenly quite aware that he’s finding it very difficult to pay attention to the rest of his body. Every time he thinks about looking down, his mind seems to slide off of the concept again, keeps his gaze directed into the Doctor’s eyes. Looking there is safe. He knows that much. 

“Something,” the Doctor repeats. She takes a step towards him, and the writhing darkness around her swells and pulses and wriggles. Even in the nearly nonexistent light (and now that he thinks about it, why can he see her? Why is she so clear to him when everything else is dark?), he can see the shapes they’re forming. They look like…they look like tentacles. 

“Oh,” the Master breathes. He blinks in the darkness- in the fraction of a second before his eyes close and after they open again, the Doctor is glitching pixels, is an angel, is darkness personified, is old and young and impossible and burning bright enough to sear her image into his retinas. And then she’s herself, and he’s dazed and confused and still not looking down at the rest of his body. 

“I want you,” she murmurs. “That distress call…well. I knew you were alive. Knew you’d come. Don’t ask me how I knew. I just knew. I know a lot of things. And I know that I need you.” 

Those words lace themselves through the Master’s hearts and pull tight. She wants him. She needs him. Centuries of self-loathing, not cured, but…gently stymied, for now, in the face of that raw, obvious hunger in the Doctor’s expression. 

“Need me for what?” The question rises up almost without conscious thought; he’s gazing into the Doctor’s eyes, still, fascinated and mesmerised and not. Looking. Down. 

The Doctor smiles. She reaches up a hand and touches his cheek, and it’s warm, and soft, and comforting. He presses towards that sensation, and goes to move his hand to touch her cheek in return. 

His hand does not obey him. 

“Doctor,” he says softly. “Need me for what?” 

She moves her hand a little, cupping his chin, and turns his head to the side. His eyes seem determined to stay on hers, not wanting to move- but eventually they have to, and he’s brought face to face with what is happening to the rest of his body. 

There’s a thick, dark tentacle curled around his wrist, the length of it twining up his arm. It tails off to a point, and from the point emerges a number of tiny, thin tentacles, all of which are buried underneath his skin. He can see them moving, just about. It…it doesn’t hurt. 

He can’t quite tell how he feels about this. Again, his mind seems to be sliding off of the sensations, as much as his body is registering them. He feels the heavy weight of it around his limb, like a snake. He feels the tiny points buried in his skin, injecting something, and it’s all happening slightly below the level of what his brain is willing to accept. 

“What’s it doing to me?” He asks the question as the Doctor turns his head to the other side. His other arm is in an identical predicament. He’s shirtless, the Master realises. No- he’s naked. If he really focuses, he can feel the cold air against his inner thighs. 

“Aphrodisiac,” the Doctor explains. “I need you, Master. I need your energy. I’m so…hungry.” 

Something shifts in her with that last word. She seems to break apart; her whole body folds in on itself, looping a couple of times before re-forming out of another bright-black mass of tentacles. The Master can feel it breaking his brain, piece by piece. 

It’s so, so unbelievably hot. 

“Take me,” he breathes, eyes blown wide as he leans down to stare deeper into the Doctor’s gaze. “Please.” 

She draws in a deep breath, a shiver running down her spine. Her eyes flicker- pure black, rainbow like an oil spill, and then back to gold- and the Master feels himself fall into them, caught even more effectively than if he’d been hypnotised. 

“Oh, I’ll take you,” the Doctor murmurs. “Fuck.” 

Swearing suits her. The Master doesn’t have time to say as much, or even fully process the thought, before her mouth is on his own. She tastes like desperation and stardust, and he melts against her, lips parting to allow her tongue entry. 

He feels teeth on his bottom lip. They’re sharp ones, leaving him bloody, and the tongue that strokes across his own is too long, bizarrely pointed. He moans, helplessly and desperately aroused, and the Doctor’s mouth against him feels just like it always has. Hot, and eager, and perfect. 

Something curls around his torso. Several somethings. He’s aware that he’s aware of them now- and then he’s aware of the Doctor in his mind. Fiddling. He hadn’t let her in, but she’s there, deep in his brain. 

“Just need to flip a few switches,” her voice says, echoing through his consciousness even as she kisses him deeply, her body squirming delightfully against his own. “They’re buried in all Time Lords, y’know- if you want to feel this properly, I just have to activate them. One, two, three, and…there.” 

The world inverts for a moment- everything seems to twist, his head feeling indescribably tight and hot as his stomach lurches- and then it stops. 

There are tentacles around his arms. They’re pulsing hot and keeping him restrained, supporting his weight. The aphrodisiac in his veins is burning, burning, leaving his entire being desperately aching for more. Still more tentacles are winding their way up his torso, playing with his nipples- their slender tips circle those sensitive points on his chest, pressing against them in a way that has his hips jerking upwards. 

“Good, I didn’t break you,” the Doctor says. Out loud. She’s still kissing him. “There was a risk it would melt your brain out of your ears. Pretty small one. But I’m glad it didn’t happen, ‘cause that would have been a pain to fix. Not impossible, though.” 

She might be talking nonsense, or she might be admitting to having some kind of necromantic powers. The Master isn’t entirely sure. And he’s currently too aroused to give a shit, to be frank. 

More of the Doctor’s tentacles wind around his body. They’re everywhere, and they feel like hands but not like hands, like the very flesh of her body is sliding hot-desperate-controlling against his own. They’re surrounding him, snaking down to his thighs now, curling thick and strong around the sensitive skin. 

“I can feel them all,” the Doctor says, her voice a little hushed now. She’s not kissing him anymore; he isn’t completely sure when she stopped. “I can feel all of you, Master.” He hears a second voice behind hers when she uses his title, murmuring Koschei into his ears, filling his old name with so much affection that it melts him. 

He moans, tipping his head back, and finds it supported by another tentacle. This one curls around the back of his head, keeps it upright, and he feels the tip of it tracing over his lips. 

“Take more of me,” he finds himself murmuring, tongue darting out to lick at the tip of the tentacle. The Doctor’s breath hitches- everything seems to flicker for just a moment, the darkness filled with electric tension that’s somehow so very real and physical. 

“Oh, Master. Believe me,” she breathes. “I’m going to.” 

Before he can say anything else, one of the tentacles curls around his cock. It starts at the base and spirals around and up, warm flesh sliding against his own in a repetitive, heated pattern that is dizzyingly pleasurable. He moans again, jerks his hips up- and the tentacles around his thighs pull him back, hold him still. 

“Doctor,” he says, his voice shuddery, overwhelmed. The aphrodisiac in his system is hardly necessary at this point, but it’s there, electrifying every nerve. Her tentacles on his skin (and it’s so easy, now, to think of them as hers) are soft and silky and enticing, constantly moving, constantly stimulating every inch of his body. 

They wrap further down his legs, around his ankles, around his feet, and the Master is suddenly aware that he hasn’t been touching the ground for a little while now. He’s held, spreadeagle, and he doesn’t know how high up he is. He doesn’t even know which way is up anymore. 

The Doctor is still in front of him. She’s at the centre of it all, inches away, her eyes dark. Spiralling dark; beautiful golden rings surrounding pupils that look like they contain the entirety of space and time. Starlight. He could look into those eyes forever. Some part of him feels like he’ll always be here, somehow, a little piece of him forever melting into her impossible, hypnotic gaze. 

“I want more,” she says softly, and her breath is warm against his lips. She kisses him again- just once, almost chaste- and then smiles a smile that contains too many teeth with too many points. The Master feels his cock twitch hard in the tentacles’ tight grasp. 

“You can take me, can’t you?” Her hand reaches out to touch the side of his face. “You’re ready to feel me inside you. It won’t hurt.” 

Of course it won’t. Reality is her plaything, he is her plaything, and as a tentacle presses against the tight ring of muscle at his arse, it doesn’t hurt even one little bit. He’s dimly aware that it should, that some kind of lubrication ought to be required, but his muscles simply open up to her, and she slides in as smoothly as if she were made to be in there. 

The Doctor starts shallow, the tip of the tentacle wriggling and circling in a way that makes the Master squirm. 

“Theta, please,” he says, her old name spilling almost unintentionally from his lips. He’s not accustomed to begging for her, but it feels so very, very right. 

“Please what?” All of her tentacles tighten around his body for a moment, the one wrapped around his cock holding very, very still. He whimpers, trapped and encased and helplessly turned on. 

“More,” the Master begs. “Please, I want more. I need more. I want- I want all of you, please. Have me. Take me.” 

Her eyes darken, widen, becoming voids that threaten to swallow him whole as she leans in closer. She’s somehow not wearing any clothes anymore, and her body is normal, but it’s also too long, twisted, sprouting tentacles from indistinct holes in her skin. There are eyes watching him from her torso, there are about five different kinds of genitalia nestled between her legs (all of which he quite desperately wants to fuck), there are sparkling, moving veins threaded through her skin like lines of oil on the surface of a puddle. He wants to worship them with his tongue, wants to feel the silky static of something not of this dimension sliding against his lips. 

The tentacle in his arse shoves in deeper, fast enough to give him just the slightest edge of pain, and it’s delicious. It finds his prostate and milks it, wriggling and writhing against the tiny spot, and the Master cries out into the darkness. He arches his back and squirms, and the tentacles hold him firmly in place. 

He should have come by now, under stimulation like this. The tentacle on his cock is moving up and down, rippling and squeezing him and sliding over his skin like the most exquisitely unreal thing he’s ever fucked. It’s hot and perfect and he wants his release so, so badly. 

But he can’t come. The Doctor doesn’t want him to, even though she hasn’t said a word, and so it hasn’t happened. 

“Please,” he tries, and a thick-tipped tentacle shoves itself into his mouth. He moans around it, relaxes his throat a little as it thrusts deeper. It tastes like her, it tastes like a cock, and he watches the Doctor tip her head back and groan in pleasure as he sucks on it. The sound seems to come from all of her at once, vibrating from her every pore and filling the air with sex. 

He blinks, and she’s gone. Every tentacle on him is moving, thrusting, fucking- he’s overwhelmed, held wide-open and supported, useless except as a vessel for sensation. Another tentacle curls lightly around his neck- not choking, but threatening it, knowing intimately just how much he adores an edge of danger. 

“Good boy,” comes the Doctor’s rough, husky voice from just behind his ear. Her lips press against it, her teeth grazing against the sensitive shell of it, and he shudders, squirms. “Nearly there…” 

She thrusts deeper into his throat, and the Master takes it. He doesn’t have a choice, and he’s deeply, wonderfully, intimately aware of that fact. She can do with his body as she wishes, and it doesn’t hurt, doesn’t take any effort; he’s her toy. And he’s so caught up in her that he doesn’t even mind. 

His eyes fall shut, surrendering completely to the darkness and the pleasure. Tentacles writhe over his body, circling his nipples, tracing over his sensitive thighs, his feet, his neck, his wrists, touching and stimulating every spot that could possibly bring him pleasure. Her hands touch his skin, too, fingers splayed as she skates them warmly across his ribcage. 

The tentacle in his arse thrusts deeper, fucks him harder, faster. The stimulation on his prostate is unrelenting, intense- he feels split open, wrung out, a live wire twitching and jerking in an impossible, transdimensional cage. 

The Doctor is in front of him again. On top of him. On his cock, possibly. Her body is seated over it, her hips are moving, but he can’t entirely tell if what he’s feeling around him is the tentacles or some other part of her that he can’t quite put a name to. It’s not the genitalia he’d expect on this body, but that’s fine. All of this is so much more deeply fascinating than normal. 

“Get ready,” she says, and she leans down, her eyes catching his own again. He’s mesmerised, helpless to look away as she tightens around him, fucks him harder, thrusts deeper into his throat. “Now.” 

The Master comes. It’s like the end of the world, like the birth of stars, like everything and nothing all at once. Pleasure suffuses every nerve, lighting him up, making him spasm and scream, the sound muffled as she fucks his throat. The Doctor comes too, and he can feel it- the whole air goes electric, sparkling like fireworks, pulsing, pushing him higher and higher into endless, dizzying waves of ecstasy. 

There’s a moment of complete stillness as it fades. The Master is aware of a dim reddish-bronze energy surrounding his body, and he wonders for a moment if he’d just come hard enough to make himself regenerate. But the energy isn’t quite the right colour, it’s too warm, and it’s drifting towards the Doctor, entering her torso. 

Once it’s all gone, she sighs, satisfied. “Full now,” she proclaims, lightly patting her stomach and giving him another many-toothed smile. Then, her grin turns wicked. She leans down over him, giving him a sweet kiss, and grinds her hips down against his. Now, he feels like he’s properly inside of her, buried deep and hot and perfect. He lets out a soft, tired moan around the tentacle in his mouth. 

The Doctor’s golden eyes blink slowly at him. “Okay,” she says, and her hands slide up his chest, the tentacles in his mouth and arse starting to lazily thrust some more. “You’re going to come again for me, darling...” 

And suddenly he is. The Master’s eyes widen- he’s right back on the edge, the Doctor sitting back and riding him hard, and he’s hypnotised, dazed, watching her bounce up and down as her tentacles fuck his body and the deep-seated weirdness of all of this fucks his mind. 

He comes again. It’s just as intense as the first time, his body burning with the release, every nerve on fire as he writhes and moans. The Doctor hits another peak, her nails digging hard into his hips, piercing his skin deep, deep, like claws. He feels her squeeze around him, muscles spasming and twitching, and then she slumps, drained. 

Consciousness is slipping away from him. The Doctor leans over, presses her forehead lightly against his own. 

“Sleep,” she says softly, and he does. 

——

The Master wakes again in a bed, in a normally-lit room, with the Doctor’s arms around him. 

Everything in his memory feels like a strange dream. Surely it couldn’t be real. But…there’s a pleasant soreness in his arse and his limbs and his jaw, the faint buzz of a thoroughly good fuck still lingering throughout his body. 

He leans in to press a kiss against the Doctor’s forehead, and her starlight eyes snap open. She smiles at him, the warm expression making his hearts flutter pleasantly. 

“Hi,” she says softly. “I think you’re going to be staying with me for a while.” 

That statement feels different. Not the reality-altering facts she’d murmured into his ear whilst they’d been fucking, the shifts in the fabric of the universe that had opened his mind, made him come hard enough to pass out. This is, instead, a question. 

The Doctor has new abilities that she isn’t sure how to deal with. She, apparently, needs to feed on his energy. She needs him. 

The Master tilts his head, leans in to kiss her. Her lips are soft and familiar, her tongue only a little forked as it brushes lightly against his mouth. 

“Yeah, love,” he agrees. “I think I am.”