bow down – Page 31

intergalacticstarlight:

sclfmastery:

Send “✘” for your muse to run their fingers along mine’s scars!

  “Well hel-lo.”

Unconsciously, the Master’s begun to mimic this particular face of
the Doctor, down to speech patterns and physical mannerisms.

Never, ever tell him this.

In case the Doctor has been searching for his Sonic, he’ll find it
in the Master’s current possession: tinkering with a particular
function that can maximize efficient wavelength output. Basically,
he’s performing system maintenance on the device, an act that
reveals his natural meticulousness and the Doctor’s natural
gunslinging, while tsking and muttering all the way.

But presently the Doctor’s knelt at his feet and reached up beneath
his charcoal gray dress shirt, to finger the bullet hole scar right over
his bellybutton, left seemingly eons ago by Lucy Saxon’s avenging
gun.

Koschei laughs through his blunt nose, while finishing the rewiring
process with a delicate little pair of pincers.

“Reminiscing on the ‘good old’ times, are we?” he jokes grimly.

The sonic is gripped tightly at first in his hand, an anchor of technological alteration purely metaphorical at the moment before it is quickly tucked within the Doctor’s pinstriped pocket in favor of his hand returning to its’ previous location, its’ previous actions beneath the other’s shirt. He recognizes the affectionate meddling for what it is an in this moment accepts it without snark or snide remarks. It isn’t the time and he still wants to grovel, still is groveling in his own way, the only way he possibly can.

The Doctor’s dark eyes lift upward, gazing into the eyes of the Master as hands find his face. His own eyes are seeking, searching, but for what he does not know- he just knows he finds it there, within the Master, that unnamed and intangible thing. Deeper than love, more powerful than comfort, more familiar than any face or mental signature and as those calloused thumbs trace his eyebrows the corners of his mouth begin to tilt upward, threatening to smile.

Pulsating variants of cerulean blue quake beneath the touch of the other’s mind, dark eyes rolling shut for a moment at the mental contact. The feeling of the Master’s silent reassurances make him exhale and release those nightmares back into the abyss where they belong. Blue and red twining together, coiling like smoke around the outskirts of one another’s minds and when his eyes open now they are clear, bright, almost vibrant.

Sparkling blue water lapping at the edges of crimson grass, mimicking their minds or perhaps their minds are mimicking the elements but it hardly matters because it is real. The hands in his hair produce a soft sigh and the rest of his body relaxes, nearly melting if he were ever to admit it- he wouldn’t -and both of his arms move to place his hands palm-flat against bare skin, against the Master’s sides beneath the shirt.

His other half knows him so well that it feels almost insulting that he should be able to pull him out of such a deep depression so easily and a part of him wishes to remain in a horrid mood out of spite. Like a petulant child with a pouting disposition, kicking and screaming and refusing to be happy. But how can he possibly refuse? The Master is here, he is alive, the war is over, they are together and at once the Doctor defines that formerly indescribable feeling. That previously intangible thing that’s deeper than love and more powerful than comfort. Familiar as the TARDIS, as his own mind, as his counterpart’s.

Home. That feeling is home. How about that- neither one of them had ever been wanderers after all. They’d been carrying home with them all along, apart or together, all along.

The smile appears in its’ full magnitude as he gazes up at his love, his other half, his home, himself. The Master is right, of course- far more often than the Doctor would like– another fact he won’t be sharing. The ghosts are gone and he soaks in his private patch of sunlight in the form of the Master above him. He no longer minds being in the submissive position he finds himself in this moment. Once in a while, the Doctor can yield. It isn’t weakness, he understands that in this moment. Rather, it is trust. Thumbs trace circles against his counterpart’s skin beneath that shirt as he finally speaks again, his voice more clear and strong than it had been before.

“We’re not there anymore.” Theta repeats the confirmation, an assurance that he believes it, that he’s heard him, and adds to the sentiment. “We’ll never be there again.”

You are my home and we are each other.
Never leaving, never again.
My hand in yours, your hand in mine, always.
I love you, Koschei.