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#doctor who missy
electricsocketman · 4 months
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fuck it if time lords can bring back old faces the master should regenerate into jodie whittaker next. she was done so absolutely horrendously for the 13th doctor’s writing i need to see her joker arc for my own personal catharsis. enough theatrical sexy man villains and enough evil sexy femme fatales. i want jodie whittaker as the master to fucking brawl.
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bellaschinchilla · 5 months
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just selfcest and vibes
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hensel-x · 11 months
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found some more doctor who fanart 
i love drawing these old aliens hugging and being happy as you can see
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ourteyeseen · 9 months
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I’ve been trying to go for a more cartoony style
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master-missysversion · 6 months
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The scene where Missy and the past master hug is insane to me. Makes me pull my hair out. Not just the back stabbing but the obvious affection beforehand.
Missy initiates the hug and its an act sure, but she's also saying goodbye. Because she really does love her younger self, she will miss him and she wants him to know that, she wants him to know she isn't doing this out of annoyance or self hatred but because she genuinely thinks this is what is best for them
And the master let's himself be hugged. Thinks its silly at first but still does it. I wonder what he thought the purpose of the hug was, they were supposed to be leaving together so he didn't know it was a goodbye. Did he just think that Missy had been waiting until they were completely alone so they could really actually show some emotion? Did he also want that? I'd kill to know what was going through his head in those moments
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glossyybabie · 5 months
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epilogue
part 17 || part 18 || part 19
Summary: You’re free. You’re actually free.
Warnings: Kidnapping. PTSD. An asshole of a psychiatrist.
Word count: 1893
Notes: I nearly threw up coughing as I edited this. That would’ve been dreadful, especially after how long I spent perfecting this lil bit.
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You jolted in a way that made your spine lurch forward unnaturally. A feeling of static burrowed and splintered its way towards the surface of your skin, prickling at your eyeballs and just about any other expanse of soft tissue. Like dust, it softly collapsed away from you, and then you were still, and it was silent. You opened your eyes.
Your gloved hands were still clutching the steering wheel of your car. Little puffs of cloudy air left your mouth. You were restrained only by your seatbelt across your chest. That marked, scarred body of yours was soothed by the familiar fabrics of your clothes. 
You went still. Your hands slowly lowered from the steering wheel as you gradually turned around in your seat as far as your seatbelt would allow. Your belongings were gathered to one side of the backseat. Just as you had left them. Just as you had left everything. Even yourself.
You sat forward again and twisted your keys in the ignition. The engine hummed to life with the same abruptness as the twitchy radio. You glanced around the empty, narrow road you were parked beside. There were no street lamps, signs of life, or buildings that emitted any light. Just an empty field.
Carefully, slowly, you began to drive forward. It was as if you expected someone to stop you — someone specific — but nothing, no one, did. You began to increase in speed. The road eventually twisted out onto the nearest motorway. Other cars drove alongside yours. Still, no one stopped you. There was no one to stop you.
You barricaded yourself into your own home that night. Your windows were tied shut with rope, creating knots you only knew how to tie from your recent experiences with crude restraints. You wouldn’t sleep that night. You didn’t sleep for many nights after that.
You refused to stop and take a moment to think and analyse your situation, because then you would have to face the question of why Missy would have ever allowed you to win. Had you really won her over? Had you really escaped her clutches? And how permanent would this feeling ever be?
You didn’t feel like you deserved the freedom you’d been granted. This was a punishment of its own. Missy was everywhere. In your mind, you could see her, in the darkened silhouettes of pedestrians after nightfall, in just about every shade of dark purple you encountered, in your own reflections through every window and mirror. Her existence ate away at your insides until you were a hollow, rotten mess.
Sometimes you wrote those feelings down in a calendar, like a reverse countdown since you were granted freedom, if you could call it that. Apparently it was a very good way to compartmentalise your thoughts, or evaluate your emotions, or some kind of drivel like that. It was the idea of one of your first psychiatrists. 
Going back to work was difficult, as was learning to adapt to life and routine. It took you a month to muster the courage to face a small errand run alone, and two to buy groceries last minute after dark. 
After three months, you finally stopped sealing yourself into your home during the day. It took you five months to sleep without furniture blocking your bedroom door at night. And it was silly — you knew you were being obsessive, and you knew that Missy would have no issue finding some other way inside if need be. That sense of security was only for show, to soothe your brain for even a second or two.
According to your psychiatrists, you were coping astonishingly well. You didn’t feel the same. There was plenty they didn’t know. Like how you hadn’t slept properly even once since you’d returned, or that you still felt genuine pangs of pain in the areas your horrific wounds had once been situated in — areas completely clear and mark-free — or that you hadn’t actually socialised with anyone since. You hadn’t been able to. No friends, no family. You were arguably more alone than you’d been before.
Nine months in, and you had successfully braved a road trip across the country alone to celebrate Christmas. You saw people you hadn’t in a long time. And then a couple of days later, you started the long journey back, following the strategically calculated route your satnav had given you.
You didn’t even slow as your car passed the spot. Although you had gripped your steering wheel so tightly that one of your fingernails snapped agonisingly in half.
But you were normal again. And it was right.
–oOo–
“Now, let’s talk about these halluci–”
“They weren’t hallucinations,” you said firmly. “They were real. They happened.”
“Okay,” Dr Keller held his hands out, his tone velvety and soft in an attempt to subdue your outburst, “okay. These events. Shall we go from where we last left off?”
He clicked his biro pen and sat back in his chair patiently. You didn’t like your psychiatrists — appointments were anything but honest and validating — but Dr Keller was one of the only ones who’d allow you to speak your mind completely before accusing your claims to be false, some kind of trauma coping mechanism or misinterpreted memory.
You swallowed, your foot tapping against the floor. He scrawled this observation down in his notepad. He was always very thorough in his examinations of you and your unusual mental state.
“I was in a library,” you began.
“A library,” he repeated, his head muffled against the open page in front of him. “Could you describe this library?”
“There were books. Loads of books. The most books I’ve ever seen in one place.” Your gaze moved to the glass of water on the table beside you. The fluid inside was unnaturally still. “And she was there.”
He paused, as if waiting for you to continue. “She being–”
“Missy.” You flinched. Her name left a stinging, sour taste on your tongue. “Yes.”
“Did she speak to you?” You nodded your head in response. “What did she say?”
“She said . . .” You stared at your palms. They were sore and red with self-inflicted scratches from your fingernails. “She said, ‘How poetic’.”
Dr Keller looked up, his thick grey eyebrows creased in bemusement. “Was this in response to a previous conversation? Or simply a comment?”
“Missy can read minds,” you told him.
You knew it sounded far fetched. It was the most unrealistic part of your experience. It was the detail that had every specialist you’d spoken to pulling the same face — an expression of false understanding that masked a deep layer of blatant alarm. You patiently waited for the day you’d be committed.
But he simply nodded. “She can read minds? Telepathically?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
“And what were you thinking?” he asked. “What was she replying to?”
“I was thinking about . . . how dangerous she was. Even when she was sitting still at the other end of the room, I didn’t feel safe. She wasn’t even holding a weapon. She didn’t need to. Some of her best work was done without a weapon,” you drawled. Sometimes instilling your voice with some nonchalance and some uncaring dryness did wonders to fool your own brain into behaving the same. “She never let me die. She wasn’t finished ‘playing’ with me.”
Dr Keller continued to take notes. You doubted he’d take today’s session any further than that — you didn’t need a mirror to see the absolute disarrayed state even speaking about Missy had left you in. You could go home, scrub yourself clean in the shower until you were red and raw, sleep, work, and repeat this session again next week.
The clock on the wall chimed softly, signifying the end of the hour. The sound of it always managed to drag you out of any dark reverie. Like clockwork, you stood up and began to reach for your belongings.
“I don’t have any other appointments today,” Dr Keller told you. You froze with a hand on your bag. “And I’d like us to spend some more time on this, if that’s okay with you.”
You turned your head, your deep set frown saying all that needed to be said. “Why?”
He shrugged. “Because you aren’t like any other patient I have seen before. Because your case is one I am determined to crack.”
“I’m a case to crack,” you concluded. You pursed your lips to conceal your mild annoyance that threatened to become distress. Breaking down in front of anyone was always mortifying.
At first, he didn’t have a reply ready. He froze, mildly taken aback — maybe he could see that his words had upset you — but then his mouth twitched into the smallest of smiles.
“In the case of traumatic events, the human brain reacts in some extreme ways,” he began. He picked up the plastic model brain from his desk and held it up in his right hand for you to see. “Events can be remembered completely differently to how they originally transpired. Details can be changed drastically.”
You reluctantly sat back down with a small huff. You didn’t want to listen to this once again — yet another “explanation” for your “nightmares”, “hallucinations”, and “visions”. You knew what you’d experienced. It was real, you knew it. Even if no one else ever would.
Dr Keller placed his notepad down on the coffee table. His eyes flitted to the door, his gaze narrowing, but then he turned back to you. His expression returned with full confidence, as amiable as ever.
You didn’t respond with any kind of friendliness, not even fabricated. You looked to the door just as he had, as if you expected to see something strange or suspicious. Maybe there would be his next client outside. But he had no more appointments today . . .
You looked back at him. He was patient, waiting for your attention once more.
“But in your case, my dear . . .”
He leaned forward in his chair. The small smile he wore stretched out into a grin.
“. . . that squishy brain of yours changed nothing at all.”
You were up on your feet and moving towards the door faster than you thought was instinctively possible. The silhouette the light from the window cast against the door of the office wasn’t just your own. A woman was behind you, shoulders ruler straight and figure tucked away into an unmoving corset, her hair twirled into an effortless updo.
That was when you fell, and from there the writhing sensation under your skin never stopped. You were pushed head-first into impenetrable darkness. The empty space was winding its way around your neck like a noose. Your screams became strangled choking sounds the further you fell and the greater your efforts were to desperately squirm into something, anything at all. You had to wake up. This was a dream, a bad dream, and you could wake yourself up from it.
And then it all just stopped.
Your view changed so abruptly that it filled you with a sense of nauseating deja vu. You couldn’t remember the darkness anymore. You couldn’t properly recall the way it had engulfed you whole from the moment you’d gone tumbling down.
But you did remember everything else. Your appointment. Dr Keller.
‘Dr Keller’ herself pulled up a chair, grinning from ear to ear. “Wasn’t that just brilliant?”
---
No, the story’s not actually over. Not at all. I just like to cause problems and gaslight readers the way Missy would teehee
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sordsketches · 2 months
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The master
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a-random-whovian7 · 1 year
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A non-serious attempt at comedy/list about what your favourite incarnation of the Master says about you:
Roger Delgado: They just like more dialogue and richer themes in your storyline, preferring character interaction and chemistry rather than spectacle. They also make sure their outfits are neat, stylish and elegant. Always colour co-ordinated. Usually quite calm and collected until you say Terror of the Autons is just a remake of Spearhead From Space.
Peter Pratt: Basically a Fourth Doctor fan who refuses to admit there are flaws with The Deadly Assassin or a fan of horror films. More than likely grew up in the seventies. Definitely looks into their KFC bucket and sees lots of little Masters staring back at them.
Geoffrey Beevers: Basically the same as the Pratt fan, although this one refuses to admit there are flaws in the Fourth Doctor's era as a whole. If you tell them Tom Baker stayed on for too long, prepare to have your intestines made into a scarf. Usually forgets about 90% of the plot of Logopolis. Almost certainly a child of the 70s, hence why they see this Master in the mirror each morning.
Anthony Ainley: Likes to just have fun, no matter how corny or wierd the stories are. Will happily just sit and watch the Master basically trolling the Doctor with minor inconveniences, waiting for the inevitable moment when that character hovering in the background with a not-quite-as-clearly-defined backstory pulls off a mask and wig to reveal a goatee. Is somehow able to enjoy Time Flight. Do not ask them their opinion on the TV Movie.
Eric Roberts: A legend amongst humans. Saw the campy, over-the-top dressing gown/robe, the bad cgi snakes, the wierd terminator references and thought "yes, this is clearly the best one." Constantly annoys purist classic series fans simply by existing and does not care. Knows the TV Movie is mid and does not care. Knows that the Eye of Harmony was originally on Gallifrey and does not care. Has definitely said "I always... dress for the occasion" and does not care that no-one gets the reference.
Derek Jacobi: Sold their soul to Big Finish for the War Master range. Religiously watches Utopia to see that reveal again, and wishes Chantho had been fully fried before shooting the Master. Now all they can do is offer sacrifices to Nicholas Briggs and sit in a darkened room, staring at the Big Finish website.
John Simm: Probably has fan art saved to their phone, and has almost certainly read Ten/Master fanfiction at some point. Will defend Last of the Time Lords and The End of Time Part 1 with their dying breath (and for good reason, those episodes slap and those two slightly dodgy scenes don't ruin them, Moffat did worse retcons, fight me). Cried when their Master showed up in The Doctor Falls and usually has good relations with Missy fans because of it. Thinks Sacha Dhawan is a lazy rip-off. Can usually be found comforting the Jacobi fan after their War Master box set has been delayed.
Michelle Gomez: Basically the same as the Simm fan, only this one defends the Moffat era and their fanfiction search history is a bit more varied. Thinks Death in Heaven was a good episode, and that The Doctor Falls should have been the last Master episode. Hates Chibnall for bulldozing all their character development and rendering this incarnation's redemption slightly pointless. Usually slightly more forward-thinking than some other fans and great with their friends. Has formed an unlikely alliance with Delgado fans... somehow.
Sacha Dhawan: Took one look at the most quirked up Master and decided that was the one. Thinks John Simm was OK, but lacked the "evil four-year-old on a sugar rush" energy of this one. Usually bitter rivals with Missy fans, as everyone started re-evaluating the Moffat era instead of watching S12, and will go strangely quiet whenever the Timeless Child is mentioned, praying that someone will say that it should have been the Master and thus giving them a "get out of jail" card. Was absolutely overjoyed when people enjoyed Power of the Doctor. Convinced that the Chibnall Era will receive a massive reappraisal in the future, despite the fact that the odds of that happening are about the same as the Terry Nation estate accepting that the Daleks are overused.
Alex Maqueen: Sold everything to Big Finish. Doesn't even watch the show. Can't watch the show. Who needs the show when you've just spent all your month's wages on that box set? It's not like you need to eat or anything. The most likely individual to end up in a padded cell when someone doesn't know what Dark Eyes was.
Gina McKee: Missy fans, but with small social circles and a heavy dose of Weezer.
Mark Gatiss, James Dreyfus, Milo Parker: Wait, these guys played the Master?
If you really want more of this shit (why), there's a list about favourite Doctors and Companions
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rabbit-head-007 · 1 year
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New favorite pastime is drawing Missy and the Twelfth Doctor in matching outfits and wishing that they had an animated spin-off series
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The Master submission
Lindsay submission
Chibiusa Tsukino submission
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idaaliis · 6 months
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world enough and time except missy is just a tiny bit more aggressive
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puffins-studio · 1 year
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“I’m gonna get killed by a Christmas tree!”
That’s it, that what give me the idea to do this outfit. And I had to make little doctor who ornaments to go with it.
[ID: picture 1: is a felt doll that is the shape of a gingerbread man with a big circle head, who is supposed to be Missy from Doctor Who. She has a dark brown piece of felt that is the part of her hair that is pulled back and another piece that is her bun. She have on a dark green version of her outfit. Black shoes you can’t see here, long skirt, her long coat with a collar the coat is lined with edging that is a braided thread that is a darker shade of green. On her sleeves there some more of the edging. Down the middle are brown buttons. Her shirt have rows of ruffle. With thread with beads to look like little lights, gold thread, and then like ornaments of k9, a Dalek; and a cyberman. Under the coat is a brown collar shirt and a brooch is a clear round bead. She is holding an dark green umbrella that match her outfit it just some felt that is bunched up a bit to look like an umbrella, and a old pin make up the handle and the point. She have a dark green little hat tilted on the left side of her head. Her hats also have the ruffles and it have. A little Tardis, and a little red phone both for her Tardis and a little weeping angel on top. 2nd picture is a close up of her hat.3red pictures is a her with the thirteenth doctor, he have on white socks, dark blue jeans, and a black sweater with the tardis on it and rainbow beads.. 4th picture is them together with the caption of the doctor asking “so where did you get the little model?” And Missy “what model?” 5th pictures is black, and the 6th is them again with the weeping angel missing from Missy’s hat with the caption “Missy!”ID]
Little story involving a weeping angel
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Doctor: “So where did you get the little ornaments?”
Missy: “what ornaments?”
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Doctor:“MISSY!”
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bellaschinchilla · 2 years
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"He can be very mean sometimes. Except to me, of course, because he . . . loves me so much."
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thebowtieandtheglasses · 10 months
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 Stylish and adorable!
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stardustflamingo · 1 year
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Missy, excuse the lighting
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enigmacatinspace · 9 months
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Can't believe Missy just straight up randomly chose a nanny to be the Doctor's next companion. She was like "this one's gonna cause the most chaos and make the funniest face when I kill her, I'll give her the Doctor's phone number."
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