I just want to make something super clear. ThirteenXSimm is my Thoschei otp but not once has it occurred to me that, because he is male-presenting and she is female-presenting, this should become a “good girl reforms bad boy story.” I DO NOT want that. If you want to do that, fine, go to. But that will NOT be the content of MY blog.
This is for several reasons:
The good girl saves bad boy trope is hackneyed and implicitly misogynistic.
Both the Master and the Doctor are genderfluid. Their notions of gender are not constrained by human concepts, including problematic concepts, of “roles” in relationships. I reject misogyny as a trait of the Master in the RTD and Moffat eras, save as a verbal weapon and series of human beliefs which he does not himself ascribe to, because it makes no sense.
From an outside-of-universe standpoint: this genderfluidity means they’ve never been a problematically mainstream “cis het” pairing and never will be.
I want the Master to save himself. Because at his core, he is a being who craves autonomy and control. He would want to rescue himself with the AID and GUIDANCE of a loved one (which is what I like to explore in my threads with Thirteens. He would not want to be spoon-fed salvation. Which is exactly why Missy in the Vault, moving though it was, resulted in tragedy.
The Doctor deserves better than to be someone’s moral nursemaid.
It would be boring.
Super Important PSA
I just want to make something super clear. ThirteenXSimm is my Thoschei otp but not once has it occurred to me that, because he is male-presenting and she is female-presenting, this should become a “good girl reforms bad boy story.” I DO NOT want that. If you want to do that, fine, go to. But that will NOT be the content of MY blog.
This is for several reasons:
The good girl saves bad boy trope is hackneyed and implicitly misogynistic.
Both the Master and the Doctor are genderfluid. Their notions of gender are not constrained by human concepts, including problematic concepts, of “roles” in relationships. I reject misogyny as a trait of the Master in the RTD and Moffat eras, save as a verbal weapon and series of human beliefs which he does not himself ascribe to, because it makes no sense.
From an outside-of-universe standpoint: this genderfluidity means they’ve never been a problematically mainstream “cis het” pairing and never will be.
I want the Master to save himself. Because at his core, he is a being who craves autonomy and control. He would want to rescue himself with the AID and GUIDANCE of a loved one (which is what I like to explore in my threads with Thirteens. He would not want to be spoon-fed salvation. Which is exactly why Missy in the Vault, moving though it was, resulted in tragedy.
The Doctor deserves better than to be someone’s moral nursemaid.
It would be boring.
//BRB I gotta check my other bagels but keeeep sending me stuff pls <33333 I’m lovin it!!!!!!!!!!
//Oh, the Master, EASILY. The Doctor has never been self-aware in any face, which has effected consequences ranging from being blunt, impatient, and rude toward a Companion who’s scared or upset, to the creation of a number of monsters throughout the universe, including the Master themself.
The Master is aware of this, and is contrariwise a hypervigilant, fanatically meticulous person. Whether in love or loathing, the Master has studied the Doctor like a most beloved academic subject, and simultaneously, like a soul mate. Simm Master has a penchant for rubbing salt directly into the deepest wounds, as well, and that’s not just because he’s spiteful and nasty (which he is), but also because he knows the Doctor THAT well. It’s a double whammy because the Master studies EVERYTHING thoroughly (except maybe the potential heroism of humans, whom the Master constantly underestimates), and also because the Doctor is the Master’s favorite subject in all the universe.
I have never seen a more beautiful confession of love. Because he sees all her flaws and darkness and still loves her, instead of the usual “she’s so perfect” where everyone only sees the light. Give him all the 13s, dammit!
Lily stood beaming at the man. In her arms was a black box, wrapped in red ribbon with a rather extravagant bow to finish it off.
“Happy Birthday Papa!” she cheered holding it out to him. She knew that they hadn’t know each other that long, But already she adored him just as much as she did her Dad.
He was her Papa and he would be treated as such, So only the best of her work would do. She had spent hours on this design, drafting out 3 different ones before she finally got to this one.
Inside the Box, lay a black wool coat. The finest wool she could find with a lining of silky red on the inside. The edges were accented with red, and so were the buttons. She gave it a high collar, knowing that he suited them.
The coat lay on a bed of red tissue paper, with another layer to cover it. Under the coat was the original drawing design that she would let him keep.
“So… What do you think?” She rocked on her heels, really wanting to know. but forced herself to be patient.
The Master wiggles his fingers at the elegantly wrapped parcel, licks his lips and flings off the lid.
His lips purse into an “O” of exquisite satisfaction, and turn into a hiss of delight, teeth set on edge, as he unfastens the buttons and feels up and down the lush red silk.
“My favorite colors, my favorite design, it’s almost like a Chinese changshan, only so mooch more chicly austere, by GOD, Lily!”
He leaps to his feet, seized by two extreme motivators: being the center of attention, and the vanity of high fashion. He throws off his sweater, which flies to the cottage floor, and canters shirtless into the bathroom.
He exits moments later dressed in his new coat, cutting a sharp figure indeed.
“I can assure you, there’s truth in your supposition. I have been in love with the same two-hearted soul who is equal parts comet and black hole, for thousands of years. I have watched the same Andromeda-spiraling brain forbid weapons while being the worst weapon of all. She killed a planet, with invalids and children and pets and birthdays and anniversaries and favorite tastes and colors and nervous tics and bowel patterns and least favorite songs and a thousand million other uncoiling springs of LIFE. I have seen her rail against death because she foisted the duty of executioner off upon me. But she is also the person who would rescue just as many men, women, and children on a colony ship doomed to perish, and risk her own life in the process, to give them the chance at the strange ecstasy of living, just a bit longer. Playing with her food, yet never ignoring a distress signal, absolute and merciless, and yet rapturously inspiring. She is the most violent and the kindest being I know. How are such paradoxes possible, within one being, without the fabric of space and time collapsing?
“Simple. The storyteller is either one of the ones she strung up to slowly starve; or it’s one of the ones she took by the hand and saved.”
Icarus 