Koschei’s four limbs encircle his Doctor. It’s not enough to snuggle; he must literally seep into all the nooks and crannies and burrow there, savoring the person who is his every reason for all things.
He knows he’s being admired; knows it from habit, from their childhood. It was always Theta Sigma whose wild insomnia kept him up gawking at his beloved and softly chattering about what colors might exist beyond the eye’s perception, and whether inanimate objects had feelings, while Koschei slipped into deep slumber, the only time and place when he felt anything akin to peace.
So he smiles, just a little bit, enjoying the attention; he can hear whispers from the Doctor’s mind: beautiful.
“Ohooo. Professor. You flirt,” he slurs, and flashes teeth.
He rolls on top of the Doctor then, heavy and boneless, and shoves his face up under his chin, pinioning him.
“Bad dreams,” is all he mumbles, at last, by way of explanation, before dozing back off.
“You,” he begins, accusatory but teasing, “Weren’t supposed to hear that.”
Not like he minds much. He’s far too content to make any kind of complaint.
The Doctor’s arms are loosely wrapped around him at first, while he lets him move and find whichever position he’s decided is best today.
“Bad dreams,” he repeats, one hand slowly rubbing his back while the other arm holds him close. “Well,” he murmurs, possibly to himself and possibly to Koschei. He doesn’t know if he’s awake or not. “How can I go anywhere now? Clearly I’m needed here most of all today.”
He enjoys being held so securely, feeling the weight on top of him. There’s absolutely no way he can feel alone like this. Even if the whole universe were to suddenly despise him, it would be okay, because he has this. His Koschei. The love of this one being is worth more to him than the rest of the universe combined.
“I hope you know that.” He’s hardly even speaking, more whispering, and he doesn’t know how much of what he’s saying will actually reach him. It gives him confidence, though. He’s always found it easier to speak from the hearts when there’s less chance he’ll be heard. “I hope you know that I would give up everything if it meant I could still have you. You’re essential to me.”
The Doctor shifts, kissing his head softly. “I love you. And I hope you’re asleep.”
“Okay, I’m asleep,” Koschei mumbles slyly, grinning palpably against the Doctor’s neck. His chuckle comes from a deep rich smoky place, and thrums against the Doctor’s chest.
He lurches upright, eyes closed, with a foolishly trusting smile that is a once in many millennia rarity, and kisses his way up to the Doctor’s nose, from chin to lips to the final destination. Then he nips the nose tip, wrinkling the bridge of his own nose in delight, and sinks back down.
It’s not a bad idea. It’s a very tempting one. He doesn’t have any lectures today, but he does have a big pile of work to get through. Perhaps it could wait. He knows how he’d rather spend his time.
He gazes across at the Master, his own eyes open just enough to see him clearly. He’s beautiful. The Doctor finds himself growing less and less willing to get up out of bed and leave. How can he, when the alternative is to stay here, warm and comfortable, in the presence of someone he loves so much?
“I suppose…” he murmurs, a gentle hand brushing the Master’s cheek. “That wouldn’t be so bad. Are you okay? Any particular reason you don’t want me to go, or are you just too comfortable to allow me to move?”
Koschei’s four limbs encircle his Doctor. It’s not enough to snuggle; he must literally seep into all the nooks and crannies and burrow there, savoring the person who is his every reason for all things.
He knows he’s being admired; knows it from habit, from their childhood. It was always Theta Sigma whose wild insomnia kept him up gawking at his beloved and softly chattering about what colors might exist beyond the eye’s perception, and whether inanimate objects had feelings, while Koschei slipped into deep slumber, the only time and place when he felt anything akin to peace.
So he smiles, just a little bit, enjoying the attention; he can hear whispers from the Doctor’s mind: beautiful.
“Ohooo. Professor. You flirt,” he slurs, and flashes teeth.
He rolls on top of the Doctor then, heavy and boneless, and shoves his face up under his chin, pinioning him.
“Bad dreams,” is all he mumbles, at last, by way of explanation, before dozing back off.
“I know I said you had a stupid round face, but it’s not. Not stupid, I mean. It is round. Good round. It’s good to kiss.”
He pauses, deciding whether to continue and risk revealing too much emotion at once.
“I think you’re brilliant. You make me very happy.” There’s so much more he could say on that subject, but he’ll say it later through the adoring way he gazes at him.
Koschei removes his glasses and sits up out of the Doctor’s lap. He cups his face with practiced gentleness, caressing the barely-encroaching wrinkles of his oldest love’s face. Every crinkle in the Doctor’s skin, he loves individually and well.
“My clever, clever ploy. To get you to prove your own pretty words.”
He kisses him then, with more fortitude, more enthusiasm, deeply. There’s the softest suckling sound as he pulls back to study his face.
“You’re the one I’ll always want.”
A nuzzle.
“Even if you called me Stupid Roundface, and even if I called you Grandad.”
Icarus 