The Master’s in the process of hydrating when Sammy and Vicky rampage around the corner. His eyes go owlish.
He’s barely seized the stairway railing when they collide with his legs. He goes down hard, landing on his ass on a stair, offhandedly grateful that there’s more padding there than in younger years.
“Golly,” he comments, with an infectious thunderclap of laughter. “What a welcoming committee. Either you two want me to do something, or you’re hiding something else.”
He playfully pinches the ear of each twin.
“Which is it, hm?”
And kisses the top of both their heads.
“Bof’,” Sammy grins, impish and happy and proud all at the same time. Vicky nods his agreement, clambering up into his lap. Sammy, however, tugs insistently on her father’s hand. “Got somethin’ for you to seeeeeeeeeeeee.”
Outside, there’s a messy sandcastle near the grill where they have so many of their family dinners. “Look!! We did that, Vicky ‘n me!”
Koschei dons his reading glasses the moment his daughter declares her need to show him the fruit of her labors.
“Both! Oh golly. Are you sure daddy’s ready for sooch a shock?”
Guided, or rather strongarmed, outside, he peeks around the grill to where the monstrous lump of wet sand stands, erected to the glory of the McCoy-Oakdown name.
“Well MY GOODNESS!” he roars, and flings himself down beside it. “What a feat of modern architecture! My children are TRULY avant-garde! That means you invented something all new!”
“No, no, wait!” Too late. For real?! “My… but… I have been collecting those for centuries!”
This ends now. The Doctor shoves the Master as far away from the doors as he’s able to, while staying at the console room. “If you want to kiss me, just ask me! Don’t threaten my accessories! Don’t throw my accessories into the time vortex!” The shock on his features slowly turning into you have wounded and offended me greatly and I am far from pleased.
“Now I most certainly do not want to kiss you.”
Which isn’t… entirely honest. But he threw his bowtie collection into the time vortex! The Doctor isn’t going to let that slide.
Most inexplicably, the Master is delighted by the Doctor’s indignation: and even more pleased by the rough handling. He’s like the kid on the playground that climbs to the summit of the monkey bars in order to toss down marbles and spare change at his crush.
“What’s yours is mine,” he declares, a guffaw in his tone. “You should know that by now! I was just giving us a makeover. Or maybe I just don’t want to see you encumbered with clothes at all.”
He lifts his arms overhead, and behind himself. He grins, eyes puckishly narrowed, and squirms luxuriantly.
“Fine, fiiiine, don’t kiss me. Do your worst instead.”
He is positively punch-drunk on the Doctor’s undivided attention.
They’re stuck in a very snug closet, the age-old hackneyed trope of hiding from a cloud of screaming, armed enemies in a tight dark space.
Koschei gives a husky laugh; his warm cinnamon scented breath beats on Jack;s neck.
“Was this how you imagined date night this week?”
His hands wander.
//Do you ever think about how Simm Master, right in the middle of hatching a decade-long Rube-Goldberg-elaborate scheme for revenge on the Twelfth Doctor, made a joke about a gay sex position and giggled at himself like a dumbass teenager, because I do.
Icarus 