It’s Koschei’s birthday!
“ABSOLUTELY, old boy! Medium rare filet mignon, with a nice mulled red to toast the season! Let’s see if I can drink you under the table again afterward, with something stronger!”
<333333 I trust that this is true when it comes to you <3333
//I know you know the feeling all too well 😦 <3333
The Master aims Thor a look of amused skepticism, and steps out of the torrential elements.
“You’re disturbingly kind in all scenarios, and it makes me suspicious,” he admits, with a guffaw. “Although isn’t this rain your doing?”
<33333333 *squish*
Send a what-if scenario for a reaction from my muse.
“That’s … unfathomable.”
He means it in every sense of the word. Every joy and despair, every achievement and failure, are inextricably knotted, like two hands joined and bound by matrimonial cords, to the Doctor. A life bereft of the other half of himself, that’s like staring into a blackness that’s beyond the nonpresence of light: it’s beyond absence, because absence implies that there was once presence.
It’s like staring at Nothing.
Send “Sleep already!” for a starter where my muse is very clearly sleep-deprived, but refuses to sleep.
The Master’s mania is ill-slaked by the booming command of another forceful personality. He stops what he’s doing, turns and rears up to his full height (five feet, nine inches) and curls his lip majestically at Thor.
“No,” is his withering and throughly mature retort.
For a moment, however, he forgets how to filter language from his brain to his mouth, and blinks in a weeklong sleepness daze at the god, before his eyes refocus, and he nods sharply, as though pleased by his own wisdom.
Come Trick or Treating to my muse’s house!
“What say you we stop drinking mead and instead have some cocoa or apple cider, my friend? Bob for apples, perhaps? HehHAH, it’s a fun game, really, you never know when you get a chance to dunk someone’s head under and threaten to DROWN them!”
//I honestly have NO IDEA until we write it lmfao >A>;;;;;
The Master laughs; it starts quiet and becomes a singularly diabolical rumble. Despite how wicked it sounds, he holds no ill intent, only deep amusement.
“I know you’re legendary for drinking others under the table, Thunder God, but you do realize, don’t you, that without ginger, a Time Lord’s body metabolizes alcohol indefinitely? If this is a competition, you will literally die before I’m even inebriated.”
Of course it’s not a competition, but trust the Master to make such a brazen assumption.
Icarus 