don’t go + 🔗 :D

send “DON’T GO!” and an emoji to see my muse’s reaction to yours 🔗 saying it while holding or pinning my muse.

The moment the Doctor seizes the Master’s suit lapels–the instant she slams him against the side of the big, blue, beautiful TARDIS–he retaliates.  One sharp motion and he’s released himself, shoving her back.  He leers into her space now.  He seizes her face in his hands, and SPILLS telepathic energy–pure, unqualifiable, animal emotion– straight from his mind into hers. 

When he speaks, he roars:  

      “Then DO!!!! PROVIDE!!!! A REASON!!!” 

The disarmingly soft features of this particular Master contort with fury.  That anger is not a visceral discomfort. No, it’s a malignant rage that’s calcified over centuries of abandonment, rejection, alienation and grief.  It’s the soul-crushing pressure of why was I not enough? magnified exponentially by relentless, mutual miscommunication. It’s the product of a falling-out between best friends, mangled in translation, to a little boy who pissed his robes at the sound of drums in front of the Untempered Schism, failed his test, and disgraced House Oakdown, and from then on, from then on, always, peered around every corner of life, paranoid to be found out as a Nothing.   

No one made him feel more like a Something, and, subsequently, like a Nothing, than the Doctor.  

He bridles, in all his five feet, nine inches and under 160 pounds of Time Lord.  He tries to make himself look bigger, crueler.  He only succeeds in looking some mixture of agitated and terrified.  

     “How’m I to believe you?  That, what, now you’re Hope’s Messenger?  That you accept responsibility for the people you snake-charm into traveling with you?  That you’ll not discard me like rubbish tomorrow, or else turn me into a project, a thing to fix, a notch in your Savior Complex Belt? EY?  C’mon, Hearts.  I know you.  Novelty will always defeat commitment, when it comes to you.”