She’s massaging his shoulders as he shrugs out of his maroon Council robes, having just taken the full lambasting of a dozen “concerned citizens” as to his crucial role in the reformation of the Prydonian Chapter’s testing procedures.
Isn’t your husband reputed to have failed his test before the Untempered Schism? and about eleven varieties of that (accurate) accusation still ring in his ears as he groans, and leans back into his wife, and takes his oldest friend’s legs, and wraps them around his waist.
The Master turns his head and presses his face into the Doctor’s neck, lazily kissing her jaw.
“Help me forget a while.”
she’s eager to help; he can read the tension not just in his face but his entire frame. the entire line of questioning had felt like a firing squad in her opinion. she had kept her tongue, however, unwilling to make it seem like koschei couldn’t speak for himself. but she will not waver on his role, or the complete overhaul of the testing procedures. it’s another step in gallifrey’s reformation. for the better, as far as she’s concerned.
her fingers dig deep into his shoulders, dragging the fabric of his robes to the floor somewhere on her left. her motions dip across his shoulder blades to his spine and back again, massaging anywhere she can. she mind is calm, warm, enveloping as she embraces him physically and emotionally at his request. yes, she can do that.
one hand breaks off the massage to drag through his hair, nails against his scalp. she tilts her head to press a series of kisses against his temple, trailing until she can kiss him properly. her other hand digs into the muscles down his spine, and she hums softly in agreement.
“of course.” she murmurs against his skin. “here, or shall i run you a bath?”
Koschei falls forward onto his face and stomach. He groans a long, quasi-obscene sound as the lady president’s fingers knead into and render pliant dough of his battle-taut muscles.
When his best friend encircles him mind and body he exhales just as slowly, and closes his eyes.
“Couldn’t move if I wanted to,” comes his voice from a smushed, muffled place somewhere in the sheets.
And when her hands employ their secretmost weapon and comb tension from his scalp, his mindscape is a bath of batik ink, swirling outward from a throbbing red place into gradations of violet and blue, indigo to cerulean to the hue of earth’s skies.
“Whoooooohhh,” comes the Master’s inarticulately blissful warbling.
Icarus 