Oh, the smirk that spreads across his face, at that declaration; the expression of triumph. Oh, this conquest. He takes the hands around his waist, forces them down and slides his fingers into the Doctor’s. He lifts both joined hands to his lips and kisses, with particular fervor, the left.
“I think you belong to me already.”
He turns his head enough that he can look up, and back, at his oldest friend’s face.
“But I will marry you anywhere and anywhen. So let’s go.”
“Only one thing?” He rolls his eyes and sighs dramatically. “Ah, I rather thought I was useful for reaching high shelves for you. I suppose I’ll have to hide more of your things up there, and then you’ll be sure to appreciate my height.”
The Doctor is privately glad he seems to like the hugs, though. It must mean that even though he’s not a natural hugger, his height gives him an advantage when it comes to hugging people to comfort them.
“Your height — or lack thereof — makes you easy to hug, I suppose, little spoon.” He does enjoy calling him that. It shows on his face.
“HAH! Hehahah! Oho! You were worried. I can feel it.”
The Master dances the fingers of both hands up the Doctor’s chest, straight into his unruly cumulonimbus cloud of curls.
“You were worried your hugs didn’t stand up to some nonexistent test of merit! You numpty, try to remember when we were boys, and pounced each other in red fields and rolled down hills of grass in a tangle of limbs. Were we worried for even a moment, that we might not be good pouncers? No, of course not.”
He stands right upon the Doctor’s feet to obtain the height to kiss his chin.
“We were only overflowing with joy and affection, and expressing those things in the comfortable tactility of three dimensions. That’s all such things are, in the end.”
He then bites his hooked nose.
“I even forgive you for that damned nickname, in light of that fact.”
Icarus 