justprompts gentle
It's deceptively gentle but he recoils just the same as if the mental probing was a burn.
The Doctor recoils as well, eyes shining bright with pain. "You aren't even trying."
"Get out of there. You don't belong there." he hisses, voice low.
"I'm telling you I can help you." he says, reaching out with his own mind again and the Master's mental blocks slam into place so quickly that it leaves the Doctor reeling. The Master sneers at the weakness and stalks off to what he's deemed as his side of the TARDIS.
"And I'm telling you, the drums aren't for you." And honestly, it terrifies the Master in some deep hidden part of himself that he refuses to show of what the drums could do to his precious Doctor. Perhaps this little play on domestication has tainted him, twisted him, but he refuses to lose the Doctor to demons he's fought on his own for centuries now.
The Master's protests don't stop the Doctor from trying and he knows his blocks will only last so long. He's stretched already by the drumming, this ridiculous cage he's caught in that proves inescapable at every turn and the Doctor's need to fix him. But it can't be fixed and he knows this with every fiber of his being. The drums have tasted another mind and they're restless, hungry for more.
No. He tells them. No. Not him, you cannot have him. But the drums have never listened to him. He is, for all his genius, their pawn and he knows they will get what they crave, it's only a matter of time.
Time wears on and mental shields slip at inopportune moments, granting access. The Master blocks them from the Doctor's questing in his mind but he knows that they are what he is seeking. He takes the drums and wraps them up deeper inside his mind, in with that inky black void that swirls there, begging you to let go.
To fall.
A futile effort, on the Master's part, at distancing himself has far from the desired effect. He's gone for days on end and the drums only grow more insistent for that other presence. The Doctor comes looking for him then, he lashes out at him, like a wounded animal would when backed into a corner. He must look horrible for the way the Doctor is braving scrabbling fingers and twisting limbs to get a good hold on him, keep him still, calm him. He's vaguely aware of his cool cheek (not the too hot flesh of a human's) resting on top of his head, voice shushing him gently. The Doctor rocks them both, whispering soothing nothings into his short hair. He's unaware of how long they've been like that and the drumming is so very, very loud.
Fingertips on his temple and the brush of a mind against his own. It's been so long since he's been able to have that and it be willing. I can help you. Please, let me help you. He wants to laugh at the absurdity of that statement but he's too tired to spare the energy. Another gentle caress against his mind and he sighs in defeat, lowering the mental blocks as he curses his own weakness. Dimly, he's aware of the Doctor's long fingers doling out the tap-tap tap-tap against his chest, over his hearts.
He shudders, knowing the next touch won't be gentle and he hates himself for finally destroying the last pure thing in his wretched life.
prompt: gentle
words: 639
The Doctor recoils as well, eyes shining bright with pain. "You aren't even trying."
"Get out of there. You don't belong there." he hisses, voice low.
"I'm telling you I can help you." he says, reaching out with his own mind again and the Master's mental blocks slam into place so quickly that it leaves the Doctor reeling. The Master sneers at the weakness and stalks off to what he's deemed as his side of the TARDIS.
"And I'm telling you, the drums aren't for you." And honestly, it terrifies the Master in some deep hidden part of himself that he refuses to show of what the drums could do to his precious Doctor. Perhaps this little play on domestication has tainted him, twisted him, but he refuses to lose the Doctor to demons he's fought on his own for centuries now.
The Master's protests don't stop the Doctor from trying and he knows his blocks will only last so long. He's stretched already by the drumming, this ridiculous cage he's caught in that proves inescapable at every turn and the Doctor's need to fix him. But it can't be fixed and he knows this with every fiber of his being. The drums have tasted another mind and they're restless, hungry for more.
No. He tells them. No. Not him, you cannot have him. But the drums have never listened to him. He is, for all his genius, their pawn and he knows they will get what they crave, it's only a matter of time.
Time wears on and mental shields slip at inopportune moments, granting access. The Master blocks them from the Doctor's questing in his mind but he knows that they are what he is seeking. He takes the drums and wraps them up deeper inside his mind, in with that inky black void that swirls there, begging you to let go.
To fall.
A futile effort, on the Master's part, at distancing himself has far from the desired effect. He's gone for days on end and the drums only grow more insistent for that other presence. The Doctor comes looking for him then, he lashes out at him, like a wounded animal would when backed into a corner. He must look horrible for the way the Doctor is braving scrabbling fingers and twisting limbs to get a good hold on him, keep him still, calm him. He's vaguely aware of his cool cheek (not the too hot flesh of a human's) resting on top of his head, voice shushing him gently. The Doctor rocks them both, whispering soothing nothings into his short hair. He's unaware of how long they've been like that and the drumming is so very, very loud.
Fingertips on his temple and the brush of a mind against his own. It's been so long since he's been able to have that and it be willing. I can help you. Please, let me help you. He wants to laugh at the absurdity of that statement but he's too tired to spare the energy. Another gentle caress against his mind and he sighs in defeat, lowering the mental blocks as he curses his own weakness. Dimly, he's aware of the Doctor's long fingers doling out the tap-tap tap-tap against his chest, over his hearts.
He shudders, knowing the next touch won't be gentle and he hates himself for finally destroying the last pure thing in his wretched life.
prompt: gentle
words: 639