my (or rather my docs XD) two fave people in the world being friends 🙂 <3 please dont plot to take over the world… actually you both might make it a better place if you do… hmmmm….
Send an accusation and the muse can only answer with “guilty” or “not guilty.”
An accusation thoroughly reciprocated. The Master sits up in their shared bed, skin bare and sleep-warmed, body softer than it might have been in loud and reckless youth, back still sore from Missy’s stab wound. But still alive, and still unquestioningly adoring, even through generations of senseless malice.
Somehow, the Master doesn’t miss a beat (hey, he’s always had excellent rhythm) when the Doctor springs this whimsical request. Mid-pouring of tea, he fluidly spins and gestures to her for attention.
“Well darling, you know that an actual living child requires regular maintenance, right? More than, say, a cat, or a spinning delivery bot head, or a cactus, or a Type-40 TARDIS that a certain someone else,” and he tugs on his own suit lapels, “regularly tends do. She’ll need food, and affection, and probably school of some kind, and next thing you know she’ll be dating, and acquiring moral principles, and asking you where babies come from. Can you feed and water a darling human girl with dedication?”
I love and appreciate every second I see you on my dash ❤ and every word written is gold that forces me to wait patiently for more ❤ I’m glad you’re taking care hun ❤ you are more important than the threads ❤
You are so nice to me and literally everyone else, I always admire your kindness Alex <33333
He smiles down at her, a touch shyly; nobody but the Doctor can elicit shyness from the most conquest-driven being in the cosmos. But here is the Master, nuzzling the crown of the Doctor’s messy blonde head with his round nose.
“I will carry the thought with me everywhere, Hearts.”
The Master feigns astonishment, but draws close to the Doctor, leaning down, peering down at she who is at last shorter.
“I don’t doubt you could disarm a Dalek Fleet with your bare teeth and, maybe, a box of toothpicks and a jar of olives, or some other utterly incomprehensible, implausible combination of ingredients, but you don’t get to do that this time.”
He gathers her closer, tugging her near by the suspender straps.
“The pleasure of protection gets to be mine. I get to be the beast who paces in circles around you, so you can remain true to your quest for hope and innocence.”
Koschei’s entire form tenses, the way a cat arches its back; his features contort into an expression of shock that quickly evolves into haughty outrage.
“COLD,” he protests explosively.
He wriggles like a mongoose with the intent to turn, when instead far warmer lips suckle on his neck. His deeply sensitive, long, handsome neck.
And instead he’s writhing with a host of entirely other urges.
Icarus 