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Missy is, finally, exactly what she wants to be. No baggage from the war, no half-arsed drums-addled bleached-hair nonsense. She is herself, and she is lovely. And a lady as well, to boot.
She’s girlish, she’s cute, she’ll murder you in your sleep. The best hat in all the galaxy. The shoes make her legs look good, the makeup sets off her eyes; the corset for posture and figure and tense, repressed, nearly violent sexual appeal. Accessories. Hair, oh, she’s never had hair like this.
She’s been trying to grow a beard, to complete the ensemble, but no joy so far.
It doesn’t really matter, the fact the Doctor once again seems to be completely oblivious to her particular, specific, physical charms. The idiocy is part of his appeal. But it does chafe, a little. She spends so long getting herself just right, the least he could do is muster up a bit of a fluster. Him and his human women, she should be right up his alley.
But regardless. He can go hang. Now, after everything they’ve been through together, if he still wants to wrinkle his nose like a prepubescent boy and run away - fine. The fighting and wary circling, that’s always been the best part. And she doesn’t need him to validate her choices. Her beauty.
Because she is beautiful. Sensual. So much lurking underneath. The corset’s not just holding her tummy in, love. Oh, there’s a whole world inside her.
A bared ankle, an implied violence. She takes a man, some human off the street, takes him to bed and watches his eyes as she unfolds around him. His scream of terror. It’s delicious, of course, but there’s bigger plans to be made than culling the herd a lawyer at a time.
Bigger plans, the biggest there’s ever been. The world, the galaxy, the universe at her feet. The Doctor begging, oh, she’ll make him beg. She thinks about that, when she’s alone and unfolding in the privacy of her TARDIS. The boning of her corset unstrung, her edges coming loose. Muscles shifting, skin in flux.
Searching for, finding herself. The recursive psychic loop. Haptic feedback. The gentle, probing touch. She splits, and splits again, arms and legs and spines. She’s always wanted to be an abomination.
He would be frightened and he’d be disapproving but he’d be compelled, he would, the Doctor. Drawn in, attracted despite his assumed mantle of morality. He’s always been a sucker for strange beauty. And she’s got suckers in spades.
Unfolding, unleashing, unfurling. Arms and arms and arms and arms, flexing reflexively towards her core. The functions she’d put in place, the careful arrangements. To feel good, just feel alright man, just blissed out, you know? To feel pleasure. They can’t take that away from her. Not anymore.
Unfolding, and she’ll scream as loud as she likes. Writhing, shameless, d'you think she cares? What you, what anyone thinks? Right, okay, she’ll admit: she might be looking for some sort of reaction. Just not quite the one you’d been expecting. You can look, if you like, hidden in the cupboard, peering through the keyhole. You can judge, if you like. Be afraid. Running ineffectually ahead of that tinge of obsession, your perverse desires. You can stay there, breathing hard, eye pressed to the keyhole, as she stretches, spills out.
Just - say her name, would you? As you come. There’s a good pet.