“HALLO, Apex Me. To what do I owe such a blessed salutation?”
The Master takes Missy’s knuckles and kisses them, all charm and deference.
//Unpopular opinion from a Clueless Yank but I honestly prefer having a DW New Year Special to a Christmas Special because on Christmas I always have a shit ton of family over and can’t get away to watch anything, much less something no one else in the family cares about (lol I’m the only nerd :c ) but on New Year’s Day everyone is laying around bored and depressed that the holidays are over lol and it’ll be a nice buffer.
“Mmmmmmmhmhm,” the Master hums at the delectable greeting.
He draws the Doctor near, feasting upon her, his face doting, more wholesome than most might believe him capable. It could not be clearer that he delights in every beauty and blemish that make the Doctor who she is.
“What did I do to deserve that, hmmmm? Tell me so I can do it more.”
He pinches her bum, and rubs her lower back warmly.
The last thing the Master has needed since faring quite comfily aboard the Doctor’s TARDIS consuming custard creams–which has continued to soften his once-scrawny waistline–is a platter of cookies.
But he is beyond certain that he is the sexiest specimen, male, female, nonbinary, vegetable, mineral, or animal, to walk the cosmos. And he shall continue to believe this. So he leaps from his workbench and rubs his hands together.
“Take me to the loot, darling.”
//Honestly do you ever just step back and look at Series Eleven as a whole and say “my God what a time to be alive” because it’s my favorite season of the show ever. Hands down. I’m even making a point of being objective and looking for flaws. It is so well researched and executed and genuinely delightful to watch.
“So you and the Doc, ey? How long’s that been going on then?”
The Master rolls out from under the Console, where he’s been performing long hours of system maintenance. His arms are smeared in engine grease up to the elbow, and he wears an apron over his black jumper and trousers. He sits up, pleased that one of the Doctor’s new collectible humans has decided to do more than squint and gawk at him.
“On again, off again, but usually on and hiding it, for the better part of our lives. We were eight. Eight, when we met. Both boys, then. Then I was a girl, and the Doctor was a boy. Then, both boys, I think … ? I dunno, the Doctor might’ve been a girl once or twice when I wasn’t ‘round. Now here we are, boy, girl. I’m due to be a girl again next. We’ll see. Fingers crossed.”
He stands and luxuriously stretches, with a satisfied grunt at work well done. He lopes to the custard dispenser, dispatches one, and a second one, which he hands to Graham. He takes a fierce bite.
“Mm. Mm-HMM. Anyhow, we’ve been … all sorts of different people, far beyond the vicissitudes of gender. Somehow we remain as compatible as magnetic poles. Even though she left me, and I held a grudge for centuries, and we wasted … . appalling amounts of time fighting.”
Icarus 