“You say our love is draining and you can’t go on You’ll be the one complaining when I am gone… And no, don’t change the subject Cuz you’re my favorite subject My sweet, submissive subject My loyal, royal subject Forever and ever and ever and ever and ever…
You’ll be back like before I will fight the fight and win the war For your love, for your praise And I’ll love you till my dying days When you’re gone, I’ll go mad So don’t throw away this thing we had Cuz when push comes to shove
I will kill your friends and family to remind you of my love “
The Master turns to face the Doctor, deflated and weary; he looks every bit his age, which, with his round and vivacious features, is exceptionally rare. He looks flaccid and gray, and there are bags under his eyes.
“When I die, nobody is going to miss me but you.”
It’s the first time since their childhood that he’s even admitted to himself he’s mortal.
“But if you die first, there’ll be an armada of mourners. And I won’t want to share you, but of course I will. What’ve I done, Thete?”
He steals the Doctor away by the pinstriped lapels, and drags him down onto the sofa, burying his face in his chest, wrapping his legs around his waist and his arms around his neck, as close to carbon-bonded as he can get.
It takes inarticulable force and menace to curl the Master into a sobbing fetal ball. And yet here he is. What awful punishment has put him in this position, remains undetermined. But as the Doctor burrows his long lanky form around him, Koschei clings to his hands, to his wrists and forearms, happily the little spoon for once in his life, yielding entirely to the only presence he’d now welcome. Shivering violently, he holds fast to the arms encircling him, mouth pressed against the Doctor’s knuckles to muffle his own weeping.
@masterfulxrhythm liked my starter call [ Accepting ]
A light ‘tap tap tap‘ drew Johnathan’s attention and there pecking at his office window was his own Selene. Pushing away from his desk he walked over to let her in, gingerly plucking the letter from her beak. He watched the beautiful barn owl soar over to her perch in the far corner before settling back at his desk with a half smile. The letter didn’t list a sender but merely had his name scrawled across the front in elegant script. Turning the paper over he grimaced, the wax seal on the back held a very specific insignia one he knew all too well.
Exhaling heavily he sat back in his chair, deliberating over if he should actually open the letter or not. One hand absent mindedly scratched at his forearm where a black mark was concealed by his sleeve. Johnathan reluctantly decided to pry open the envelope and pull the parchment out. Skimming over the words his frown deepened and his lips formed a snarl.
Tossing the contents rather roughly into the trashcan at his feet he then pulled his wand from his side pocket.
“Incendio.”
Flames filled the garbage can until the letter was merely ash. Grumbling he let the fire die out before setting his head in his hands. Fingers gripping and pulling at his hair our of pure utter frustration. It had not been a good day.
“Whoa. Temper, temper, Johnny.”
In strolls the new auxiliary Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts: thusly assigned as penance for a lifetime of service to the Death Eaters, an alignment that one Harold Saxon held not because he believed the deranged eugenicist arguments of its proponents, so much as he relished the personal advantage of access to so much dark power. Still, silver scars remain where redacted Dark Mark once was, and he plea bargain out of a lifetime sentence at Azkaban is to have his magic sealed save in the service of academia. The penalty for any attempt otherwise? Any nasty spell he fires, fires back on him twofold.
So here he is, five feet, nine inches of mercurial intellect, in his black and red robes, unwilling to take the cursed position, but serving via extensive experience as a sounding board for the actual professor.
This grants him perhaps too much free time to spy on his oldest childhood friend.
He sprawls in a chair opposite Jonathan and his owl.
“Aw look. Our owls match. I’ve got a barn owl too. Darling. Whatever ails you. Wanna go give the Dueling Club something to talk about again?”
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.”
Icarus 