send 💁 for our muses to be stuck in a small space together
They’re a pair of idiots. Idiot old men, too stubborn to cede each other exit from the TARDIS ceiling through the small hole the asteroid made–the asteroid that is the result of the Doctor’s poor driving, mind–so, in trying to crawl out the top simultaneously, they’ve gotten stuck. Arms free, but chest to chest, belly to belly, groin to groin.
The Master’s first impulse is to be furious.
But in mere seconds, the whole foolish situation has him laughing. At first, a delicious scrumptious little chuckle, and then a big bawdy cackle. As the laugh dies down into a hungry growl, he wiggles around, applying suggestive pressure to his lover’s crotch.
He wiggles his eyebrows at the Doctor, leering close,
“I know what you like, you slut,” he teases, and cackles again. “Let’s give the people who rescue us something to talk about …”
He ruffles the Doctor’s hair into helpless disarray.
Koschei’s round nose wrinkles in fond contemplation. He arches an eyebrow at his beloved and snaps at his fingers. A wicked rumbling laugh escapes, straight from the depths of his diaphragm.
“Of course I do.”
But oh, when you say it, I could erupt in a thousand colors and become sort sort of ecstatic supercorporeal entity.
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.”
“Now, now. You’re being disagreeable, you know.”
The Master stands on the Doctor’s feet, as he always does when particularly, possessively affectionate. He snaps his teeth at his nose, and nuzzles his face, demanding access to every inch of his essence.
“Monopolizing all the pretty words, so I’ll have none left with which to speak you my vows, heard across those infinite star systems. You cur. You know what a show-off I am.”
He slips off the feet of his beloved long enough to return his arms round his waist, standing behind him, conspiratorial, inhaling deeply of his fugitive scent. He closes his eyes and burrows a cheek against the crook of the Doctor’s neck.
Nowhere, you’ll go nowhere on me again. You’ve got to break this death-grip. I am obstinately attached to you now, my love of loves.
The thought process is silly and infantile, but he can’t help it; it’s so difficult to trust this building euphoria. Even as the TARDIS moves toward the spot the Doctor has chosen, the Master gloms tightly on. His features are blinding, joyous and wicked and crafty.
The Doctor’s hearts both melt in tandem as the keeper of them speaks, climbs onto his feet in that way that they both know he cherishes perhaps more than any other gesture made. It’s invasive, it’s territorial, it lets the Doctor know exactly who he belongs to and prevents those feet from moving a centimeter. He wouldn’t move, anyway- he’s through running. He’s found comfort and peace in the static, in the long-way-round with his counterpart, his other half. Himself, external, staring back at him through a mirror of affection and ownership.
“Disagreeable, hm? How insubordinate of me. I hope I’ll be punished for it later.”
His tone is impish and as luminescent as the chocolate-umber of his eyes, and as the Master snaps his teeth the Doctor growls- actually, genuinely growls -in response. His free hand moves briefly to the other’s hip, holding him there as he nuzzles and returning the intimate and affectionate gesture by nuzzling right back.
Oh, he belongs to the Master, always has- but now he relishes in it. He’d proclaim it from the highest point on every planet, if that’s what it takes to convince his cloven half that this euphoria is not a blip, not a pit stop but a promise. His mind shouts to those infinite stars of which his lover speaks.
I am his. He is mine, we are each other. We are the same. Hear me Universe, if you ever dare disturb this utopia of bliss I will rend every star asunder. I will burn every planet, I will tear time and space apart to get him back.
“Hmmm, you’ve not heard anything yet- and you know my propensity for the dramatic, Hearts. Pretty words are my forte’, among a few other things I know you enjoy. I can’t really be blamed for it. I’m just that good, darling.”
He chuckles softly, not joking but rather joyous in his own admissions and arrogance. His mind holds no fear, no regrets, no turning back now, no shame or embarassment. The past is over and done for the pair of them and only the future awaits and Theta Sigma is free. He lets out a contented hum as the Master circles him and encircles him in his arms from behind, one hand lowering to rest atop both of the Master’s own hands and the other lifting to card through his beloved’s hair, scratching his nails gently against the other’s scalp. The TARDIS materializes at its’ destination but he makes no move to untangle them, finding comfort in the embrace.
“We’re here, love.”
The words are spoken as a whisper, and still he makes no move to pull away. The embrace reassures the Doctor of the very same thing it reassures the Master- they are together, they are happy, and they are staying.
“You arrogant bastard, I love you.”
He’s hanging off his affianced, his best friend and bondmate, utterly besotted, bunting his forehead into the Doctor’s cheek, as though doing it enough will rub off his scent, will impart his essence indelibly.
He steps off the Doctor’s feet only when convinced that the act will bring them breathtaking adventure closer together, ever closer, in mind and body and soul, colliding indelicately and jubilantly, like the wild children they are.
He takes the hand of his beloved. He drags him in circles round the TARDIS in flight, every jostle and bump eliciting a mad and joyous cackle, a wiggle of eyebrows, a flash of teeth.
Once they’ve landed he resumes the embrace, tighter still, rests his stubbled chin on the Doctor’s chest and grins all the broader. Dark effervescent eyes like a mug of root beer sparkle.
“Then what are we waiting for? You think this’ll end just because we’ve changed positions? You REALLY think you’ll ever get away from me now? HA.”
Once again rendered the intrepid forthgoer, when all their lives it was the Doctor dragging him by the hand on exhilarating journeys, he seizes his bondmate and pulls him straight to the doors.
He pauses and turns, hearts thundering. He places both hands on the Doctor’s chest, over each heart. This is a gift for him, a surprise, and he must appropriately articulate his gratitude. His bliss.
Who better than a human the Doctor has met and admired? And so:
“ ‘Did my hearts love til now? Foreswear it, Sight. For I ne’er saw true beauty til this night.’ ”
“Goose, I’m. So proud of you.”
His voice is thick with withheld emotion, his features radiant as a hearth.
“You are rife with power. You’re incandescent with the power of moving forever forward and celebrating it. You are so beautiful that I’m. I’m … ecstatic . . . to share the light of you with the universe.”
Never has Harry looked so dangerously ready to accept a hedonistic offering. He hasn’t used his magic, save to demonstrate for children defensive spells better suited to Aurors, in months, and oh, the hunger for something more scintillating is fierce.
That, and the chance to duel with the man with whom he is shamelessly infatuated is almost erotic.
“When? Today? Oh, DO say you’ll do it today!”
He all but leaps into a chair, swiveling in dizzying circles, a pitiable echo of his charismatically evil past, always full of excess mental and physical energy as he paces the bars of his cage. A tiger crammed in a ferret’s enclosure.
“I am so very willing to show your mother-in-law more useful expenditures of her time, with your say-so; I’d give anything to have time together with the daughter I lost. They don’t let me see her, you know. Performed a partial Obliviate on my memory then moved her into ‘protective custody.’ All because of the Dark Mark on my arm that I never believed in to begin with.”
He scoffs.
“What’s more, nobody’s allowed to hurt you that profoundly, except me.”
Johnathan stared with a quirked brow at the man’s unpredictable response to his agreement. Chuckling quietly he shook his head, amusement gleaming in the dark brown of his eyes. Oh what have I just gotten myself into?… He thought wryly.
“Yes. Really.”
The swiveling chair nearly brought more genuine laughter to his lips but he pushed it down in favor of waving over a tray with tea and biscuits. A wordless spell he had mastered long ago.
“Yes, yes, all-right. Today. Have some tea why don’t you.”
Making up his own cup of tea in one of the silver cups available he pull it close to have it at hand. An expression of darker humor manipulated his features at Harry’s willingness to have a go at his former mother-in-law. Humming thoughtfully he put the tea cup to his lips to take a slow sip from it.
“That’d be something I’d pay to see. Give the old crone a lashing from me, verbal or otherwise I wouldn’t care.”
Scowling deeply into his tea cup he chose not to remark on the final comment from the man. However the glint of near approval in his eyes was a silent give away. The eyes told everything, at least it was that way when it came to Johnathan.
“SPLENDID!”
Harold leans forward and smacks his palms against Johnathan’s cheeks, framing his lips for a big loud kiss. That kiss is utterly shameless, even though his heart secretly thunders.
He pulls back, and pinches his cheeks.
“I’ll drink your damned tea for that prize.”
Back to the chair he goes, the scars of his redacted Dark Mark stinging in warning. Per usual, he doesn’t heed them. He collects his teacup and sips. He even has the audacity to stick up his pinky.
This lasts the short side of 30 seconds before he slams the bone china cup down.
“BOTHER. You’re rubbish at this. I could give you at least five other brews for the stimulation of the senses. Or the calming. Come on, find us a dueling spot. The more public the better.”
Icarus 