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The hum of the TARDIS filled the console room, a familiar vibration in Clara’s bones, but tonight it felt more like a growl than a purr. The lights overhead flickered in sympathy with the storm pacing around the console.

The Doctor was in one of his moods. One of his little moods.

He marched in circles around the time rotor, coat flapping dramatically, arms flailing with every furious word that tumbled out of him. “You locked it from me! You actually— you dared to lock my TARDIS from me!” His voice cracked midway, shrill and unsteady, as if his throat didn’t know whether it wanted to belong to a furious old man or a sulky child.

Clara shrank back against the railing, clutching it like it might save her. She had seen him angry before, of course. He had a temper sharper than any knife. But this… this was different. His steps were uneven, stomping. His fists balled like a schoolboy’s. His face was blotched pink.

“This… isn’t normal, is it?” she muttered under her breath, eyes darting to Missy.

Missy didn’t even blink. She stood on the opposite side of the console, arms folded neatly across her chest, chin lifted in smug superiority. She might as well have been watching a puppy bark at her ankles. When she finally spoke, her voice was cool and crisp, but laced with a sing-song edge that made Clara’s stomach twist.

“Inside voice, starlight. You will calm yourself this instant, little boy.”

That last phrase made Clara blink, uncertain if she’d heard correctly. Little boy? She waited for the Doctor to explode at the insult.

And he did.

“I am not a little boy!” he snapped, stomping toward her, his wild curls bouncing with every movement. “I’m big! I’m dignified! I’m the Oncoming Storm!” His voice squealed higher at the end, utterly undercutting his claim.

He punctuated it by slamming his palm against the console. The TARDIS gave a protesting wheeze. Clara flinched.

Missy’s lips curved in amusement. “The Oncoming Storm doesn’t throw tantrums, poppet. One more outburst, and Mama will turn you over her knee and spank your naughty bottom.”

Clara’s heart nearly stopped. Had she—had she really just said that? Out loud?

The Doctor froze mid-step. His whole body went rigid, as if she’d slapped him. Slowly, his eyes slid to Clara.

Clara’s face burned hotter than the console’s central column. She wasn’t supposed to be here for this. She wasn’t supposed to be witnessing—whatever this was.

The Doctor’s jaw dropped, and for once, he didn’t have words ready. When he found them, his voice was a ragged shriek: “NO! You can’t— you can’t say that! Not in front of her!”

His face was scarlet now, eyes wild.

Missy’s expression didn’t change. She cocked her head, as if daring him to test her.

And test her he did. His temper exploded in a tidal wave.

“YOU DON’T GET TO TELL ME WHAT TO DO!” He kicked the console so hard the TARDIS lights flickered again, alarmed. Books toppled from a nearby shelf with a clatter, one skidding across the floor and stopping at Clara’s feet. He snatched another and hurled it in Missy’s direction. She dodged it effortlessly, a bored flick of her head.

Clara gasped, voice trembling: “Doctor, stop it!”

But it was too late. The fury drained out of him as quickly as it had come, leaving his chest heaving, his face streaked with hot, frustrated tears. His body shook with sobs, still stamping one foot weakly, like he couldn’t decide whether he was angry or just heartbroken.

Missy didn’t argue. She didn’t scold. She simply moved.

One moment she was on the other side of the console, the next she had swooped across the room, scooping him up mid-flail. He yelped, kicking against her, fists pounding her shoulders.

“Nooo! Put me down, Missy! Not fair, not fair!” His words blurred into hiccuping wails, but she carried him as if he weighed nothing at all.

“Shhh, darling,” she crooned, voice maddeningly calm, almost amused. “Mama’s got you.”

And then they were gone, Missy sweeping him out the door and down the corridor. His cries echoed behind them until the nursery swallowed the sound.

Clara was left in the console room, rooted to the spot, face burning, palms clammy. She pressed her hands over her mouth and whispered to herself, horrified, embarrassed, and unwilling to imagine—

“Oh my god.”

But the image came anyway. What Missy had promised. What the Doctor was about to get.

She squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t think about it. She absolutely couldn’t—

And yet she couldn’t stop.

---

The corridor blurred past him, his vision streaked with tears as Missy carried him like an unruly parcel. The Doctor wriggled, kicking and twisting in her grip, but she was immovable, an iron force in a black skirt. His fists pounded her shoulders, his voice breaking.

“Put me down! Put me down this instant! I am not a—”

“—a child?” Missy’s voice was syrupy and sharp at once. “Darling, after that tantrum, you could’ve fooled anyone. Enough, little boy. Mama’s patience is gone.”

The nursery door swung open of its own accord, TARDIS obedient to her will. Warm light spilled over them, revealing the big bed draped in soft quilts, the rocking chair in a corner, the white crib in the other, and the ominously waiting changing table.

Missy strode in, and with a theatrical flourish, she deposited him on the bed.

The Doctor scrambled backward, breathless, hands trembling as he clutched at his coat like it was a lifeline. “No—no, no, no, you can’t just—don’t you dare! I’m still big! I’m the Doctor, I’m—”

“—a soggy little troublemaker who thinks he can sass Mama?” Missy interrupted, unruffled. With deliberate disregard, she plucked at his coat collar, tugging it off his shoulders.

“No!” His cry cracked, his hands clutching the fabric tight. “Don’t take my coat, please, I— I’m still—”

“Big?” Missy snorted. With one smooth tug, she stripped the coat away and tossed it onto the floor like rubbish. The gesture was sharp, final, the sound of heavy fabric hitting the wood echoing like a gavel.

The Doctor’s lip quivered. Coat gone. Armor gone.

“Enough games.” Missy’s hand shot forward, fingers like a steel trap around his wrist. He yelped, jerking back, but she dragged him effortlessly across the blankets and down onto her lap.

“Stop! Let me go! You can’t do this, I won’t let you—!” He thrashed wildly, heels drumming the mattress, voice breaking into high, childish cries.

“Oh, but I can,” Missy purred, settling his squirming body against her knees. “And I will.”

Her fingers hooked into his waistband.

The Doctor froze, blood icing in his veins. “No—no, don’t you dare! Not— not that! Please, Missy, I’ll be good, I swear it, I’ll be—”

Too late. With a practiced motion, she yanked his trousers down to his knees.

He shrieked, voice cracking into sheer panic. “NOOO! Not my pants! Don’t—don’t—!”

Missy’s smirk widened. “Oh, I think we’re well past pants, poppet.”

Her hands didn’t hesitate. She seized the edge of his underwear and peeled them down, baring his backside to the cool air.

The Doctor screamed in horror, kicking frantically. “Please, no! Not that! Please, Mama, please!”

“Ohhh…” Missy’s tone turned sing-song, wicked delight curling her words. “I’m Mama now, am I?”

His face blazed crimson, tears streaking hot across his cheeks. He couldn’t take it back, not now, not ever.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up—!” His voice cracked, muffled into the bedspread as he tried to bury his face, but his body betrayed him, trembling and small over her lap.

Missy pinned him easily, one hand on his back, pressing him down with effortless strength while his legs kicked helplessly.

“Tut-tut.” She clicked her tongue. “Such a noisy little boy. All this fuss, when all I asked was that you sit in your corner and think.”

“I— I c-can’t— not like this—please!” He sobbed, half-choked, kicking with the desperate flail of a trapped child.

“Oh, yes, darling.” Her voice dripped with certainty, each word a gavel-strike. “Exactly like this.”

She lifted her hand. The Doctor stiffened, every nerve alive with dread. His breath came fast, shallow, trembling in his chest.

---

The nursery was silent for half a second, the air heavy and waiting. Then the first smack landed.

SMACK!

It echoed, sharp as thunder against the quiet room. The Doctor yelped, the sound high and startled, almost disbelieving.

“Mama, no! Please—please, I’ll be good!” he cried, voice cracking at once, desperate to undo what had just begun.

But Missy’s palm came down again, harder, deliberate.

SMACK!

“Ohhh!” His whole body jolted, legs kicking out against her lap. He tried twisting free, but Missy only adjusted her grip, one arm banded around his waist like iron.

“Good little boys,” Missy said sweetly, her tone sugar-wrapped steel, “do not throw tantrums in front of their companions.”

SMACK!

He squealed, his voice pitching into a panicked whine. “Mama, please! I’ll listen, I’ll listen, I promise!”

But she was relentless.

“Good little boys do not throw things at Mama.”

SMACK!

He gasped, then kicked furiously, feet drumming against the bed. “I didn’t mean it! I was cross! I—ahhh!”

“Good little boys,” she purred, pausing only to deliver another sting across his backside, “do not make a fool of themselves when Mama tells them to behave.”

SMACK!

He shrieked, trying to cover himself with his hands, but Missy caught both his wrists in one swift movement, pinning them against the small of his back. His chest hitched as he realized how completely he was trapped.

“No! Mama, please, I can’t—I can’t!” he wailed, wriggling like a caught fish, legs flailing in frantic kicks. The sound of his own cries rang in his ears, humiliating.

Missy bent close, her breath warm against his ear as her hand kept falling in a steady rhythm. “Oh, you can, my darling. And you will. Because Mama decides when you’ve had enough—not you.”

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Each spank landed harder, sharper, until his protests began to crumble. His voice, once full of outraged yelps, broke into sobbing gasps. His kicks lost strength, becoming weak little flutters against her lap.

“I’m sorry!” he wailed, his words dissolving into hiccupy cries. “I’m s-sorry, Mama! I’ll be good! P-please, please stop! I promise, I promise!”

Missy ignored the pleas, her hand striking again, her lecture woven between the smacks. “You will not talk back to Mama.”

SMACK!

“You will not throw tantrums.”

SMACK!

“You will not—” another hard crack across the curve of his bottom—“ever forget who’s in charge.”

By now, his face was blotchy, streaked with tears. His sobs came loud and broken, his words tumbling out in a slurry of desperate apologies. “I’m sorry! I’ll be good, I’ll be good! Just—just no more, Mama, p-please, I c-can’t—”

But Missy’s discipline did not waver. She spanked until his backside glowed a furious red beneath her hand, until every kick had slowed into weak little jerks, until his voice was hoarse from crying.

Finally, when she judged the lesson had sunk deep into every fiber of him, she stilled her hand and smoothed it gently over the burning skin, pressing him closer against her lap. He was trembling, tiny sobs wracking his chest, hiccups interrupting every breath.

Missy kissed the back of his damp hair, a satisfied smile curving her lips. “There now. Mama’s very proud of her brave boy.”

The Doctor could only bury his face in the bed, crying softly, utterly undone.

---

The Doctor’s bottom was still a blazing red beneath her palm when Missy scooped him up from her lap. His sobs were high and broken, wet cheeks pressed against her shoulder, legs kicking uselessly against the sweep of her dress. She held him firmly, not cruelly, but with the unbending confidence of someone who knew precisely what he needed.

Discipline. Humility. Time to think.

“Up we go,” she cooed, tone deceptively light as she carried him across the nursery. “No more wriggling, no more clever speeches. Mama’s decided what comes next.”

He twisted, trying to bury himself against her, clutching at her sleeves with trembling hands. “No, Mama, please, please— I’ll be good, I promise, I’ll—” His words crumbled into hiccuping sobs, his face a blotchy red mess of shame and snot.

Missy shifted him easily in her arms, ignoring his protests. She carried him to the far corner of the nursery, bare wall, no toys, no distractions. Just emptiness, meant for reflection. She set him on his feet, his trousers and pants still puddled around his ankles, leaving his blazing backside exposed.

“Here,” she said briskly, hands on his shoulders to steer him forward until his nose almost touched the wall. “This is where you’re staying. Twenty minutes.”

He gasped and immediately bent, fumbling desperately at the elastic of his underwear, trying to tug them up and cover himself. His fingers shook with urgency, his sobs spiking louder. “Please, Mama, I— I can’t— not like this—”

Smack.

She slapped his hands away sharply. “Ah-ah!” The crack of her palm against his knuckles was swift and stinging. “Naughty little boys who need Mama’s hand across their bottoms do not get the dignity of trousers. Hands at your sides. Eyes on the corner.”

He froze, wide-eyed, chest heaving. His lip trembled as he slowly lowered his hands, letting the fabric stay bunched humiliatingly at his ankles. His bottom quivered with every tiny sob, cheeks scarlet and hot.

“There we are,” Missy purred, satisfaction glinting in her voice as she straightened. “Now. Twenty minutes. Not one second less. And if you move, or fuss, or so much as look over your shoulder, I’ll add more. Understood?”

He whimpered, throat bobbing. “Yes, Mama,” he whispered hoarsely.

At first, he couldn’t stop himself from pleading. His voice cracked with desperation. “Mama, please, don’t make me— I’ll be good, I promise, I’ll fix it— Mama!”

Missy’s heels clicked sharply on the floor as she stepped closer, her shadow looming over him. Her voice cut like a whip: “Not another word, cleverest boy. Speak again, and it’s another ten minutes.”

That silenced him.

The only sounds were his ragged breaths, his soft hiccups, and the pitiful little whines muffled as his thumb crept up, trembling, toward his mouth. He didn’t even seem aware he was doing it. The pad pressed past his lips, settling deep. He sucked, greedy and helpless, tears rolling down his cheeks as he stared at the wall.

Missy folded her arms, watching with an arched brow. “Hmph. Thought so,” she murmured. “Strip a Time Lord of his dignity, and what do you get? A little boy who needs his thumb.”

Time stretched long.

Every few seconds, he shifted his weight, one hand drifting back as though to soothe the sting in his backside. The other kept nervously in his face. His thumb bobbed in and out with each sob, wet noises filling the silence of the nursery.

Minutes crawled past, agonizing for him. His shoulders shook constantly, his body trembling. He sniffled and whined, thumb working in his mouth, but he didn’t dare speak again after her warning.

Missy paced slowly behind him, the click of her heels a steady reminder that she was watching, that escape was impossible. Every now and then, she’d pause, tilting her head, smirking at his pitiful little noises.

At one point, he tried to glance over his shoulder, seeking her out with tearful eyes. Immediately, she snapped: “Corner. Eyes on the wall, Doctor.”

He jolted like he’d been struck, turning back instantly. His sobs grew louder, his thumb sinking deeper between his lips. His pride had been thoroughly dismantled; all that remained was a shaking, shame-soaked boy in time-out, trousers and pants still round his ankles, bottom blazing, crying his way through the punishment.

And Missy — Mama — made him stay that way for the full twenty minutes.

---

The timer finally chimed, a soft ding echoing in the nursery. The Doctor had been standing miserably in the corner for what felt like an eternity, nose pressed close to the wall, shifting uncomfortably on his sore bottom. His hands fidgeted, twisting together, and every few moments he sniffled. When the sound of Missy’s heeled footsteps approached, his hearts started to race.

She didn’t speak at first, just let the silence settle heavily around him. Then, with deliberate slowness, she reached out, turned him by the shoulders, and looked down at him with a mix of severity and indulgence.

“Time’s up, starlight,” she said smoothly, her voice carrying that velvety mockery that always made his ears burn. “Have you learned your lesson?”

The Doctor’s lower lip wobbled. “M-Mama…” His voice cracked, and all at once, the composure he had been trying so hard to maintain crumbled. He lunged forward, clinging tightly to her neck, pressing his face against her shoulder. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Mama, I’ll be good, I promise, don’t be cross with me!”

Missy let out a soft, triumphant hum, sweeping him up as though he weighed nothing at all. She sat herself down in the rocking chair, arranging him across her lap. His trousers and pants were still down around his ankles, leaving his red backside exposed, but he didn’t even care. He clung tighter, trembling, babbling apologies between his sobs.

She bounced him gently, rocking back and forth with slow, steady motions. “Shhh. That’s enough now, darling,” she murmured, her lips brushing the top of his mussed hair. “It’s over. Mama’s not angry anymore.”

“But—” he hiccuped, words tumbling over themselves. “I was bad, I made you angry, I don’t want you to—”

Her fingers traced calming circles on his back. “You weren’t bad. Never bad. You just did a bad thing, and Mama couldn’t let it go. But you took your punishment so bravely. And now? It’s finished. You’re forgiven.”

The Doctor gave a little whimper, sniffling wetly as he clung tighter. His whole body shook with the force of his emotions, his skinny arms refusing to let go of her neck.

Missy kissed his temple. “Mama always forgives her baby,” she cooed, smug smile flickering across her lips even as she rocked him. “Always. Even if she has to smack his bottom and put him in the corner sometimes.”

He burrowed in, whispering a hoarse, “Love you, Mama.”

“I should think so,” she said airily, though the warmth in her tone betrayed her.

---

After a long while of rocking and murmured reassurances, Missy finally rose, keeping him settled in her arms. His grip didn’t loosen even as she carried him across the nursery to the padded changing table.

“Up we go,” she said, prying his hands gently from her neck. He whined in protest, but she laid him down carefully on his front, stroking his back.

Shoes first. She untied them neatly, setting them aside. Then his socks peeled away to reveal pale, trembling toes. She tugged his trousers and underwear the rest of the way off, folding them with an efficiency that made the Doctor flush crimson. Now he lay bare-bottomed on the padding, his face pressed against his folded arms.

He made a small, pitiful sound. “Nooo, Mama, it’s embarrassing—”

“Hush, starlight,” she crooned, unscrewing the lid of a small jar and dipping her fingers into the cool, fragrant ointment. “Mama’s cleverest boy needs his lotion, doesn’t he? Your poor bum is all red.”

The Doctor squirmed, cheeks burning as her hand spread the soothing oil over his tender skin. He whimpered softly at the sensation, half relief, half mortification, but didn’t resist. Missy’s touch was clinical yet oddly indulgent, rubbing in slow, circular motions until the sting faded to a dull warmth.

“There now,” she murmured. “Better?”

He made a muffled noise into the crook of his arm, too embarrassed to say yes, but she heard it anyway.

Missy tapped his hip. “Turn over for Mama.”

He obeyed reluctantly, rolling onto his back, still blushing furiously. She powdered him with a practiced hand, the soft scent filling the air, and then pulled a thick, crinkling diaper beneath him. With deft movements, she taped it snugly into place.

“There we are,” she said, giving the front a firm little pat. “All safe and sound.”

But she wasn’t finished. With a deliberate gleam in her eye, she tugged his shirt off over his head, leaving him squirming in nothing but the diaper. He made a strangled squeak.

“Mama!”

“None of that,” she chided, ignoring his protests. From the nearby drawer, she produced a onesie, pale blue, patterned with tiny stars and moons, complete with snap-crotch fastenings. She shook it out with a flourish and slipped it over his head, guiding his arms through before snapping it closed snugly around his padded bottom.

The Doctor whimpered, face flaming. But he didn’t fight. He couldn’t. Missy didn’t even give him the chance. The moment she saw the tears still glittering in the corners of his eyes, his face blotchy red from crying, she swept forward and scooped him up.

She scooped him back up into her arms, holding him against her chest, smug satisfaction painted across her face.

“There now,” she purred, kissing the crown of his head. “All dressed, all forgiven. Mama’s baby again.”

The Doctor sighed shakily, giving in to the warmth of her embrace, clinging as tightly as before.

“Ohhh, my poor little stormcloud,” she crooned, adjusting his weight easily, mindful not to let him wriggle too much. He was limp, exhausted after his tantrum, but still gave a token squirm of protest. “Hush. Mama’s got you. You’ve cried yourself half to pieces, haven’t you? Come now.”

Her arms were steady, her perfume sharp and dizzying as she carried him to the nursery’s rocking chair. She lowered herself into it, keeping him tight against her chest. And, because she knew exactly how sore his bottom was after the earlier punishment, she shifted his weight so he lay cradled on his side, with none of the pressure pressing against him.

He sniffled miserably, his lashes spiky with tears.

“Dun’want—” he muttered hoarsely, turning his face away.

Missy rocked the chair gently, back and forth, a rhythm as steady as a heartbeat. Her hand smoothed over his hair, fingers combing through damp strands. “Don’t want what, darling?”

His throat worked, but he didn’t finish the sentence. He shook his head, face pink with shame.

“Mm. That so?” Missy tilted her head, all faux sympathy, though her eyes gleamed with mischief. “Doesn’t want his baba, does he? Oh, such a big boy, hm? Big boys never need anything. Except—oh, what was it you were calling for earlier?” She lowered her voice, teasing but tender. “Who was it you wanted, pet?”

His lower lip trembled. His breath caught.

“M… Mama,” he whispered, almost too faint to hear.

Missy’s smile softened into something genuine. She kissed the top of his head. “Yes, starlight. Mama’s right here. Always here.”

He hiccupped against her collarbone, voice muffled and wet. “…Mama, d’you—d’you have my baba?”

Her grin spread, wicked and indulgent all at once. She tipped her head so her lips brushed his temple. “I do have it.”

A pause. His breath shuddered, shallow and frightened of his own need.

“D’you… want it?” She prompted, her voice playful, coaxing.

He made a strangled little noise, burying his face harder against her chest. His ears burned scarlet. His body trembled with the sheer humiliation of it, but his head gave the tiniest nod.

Missy chuckled low in her throat. “Mmm, nodding doesn’t count, poppet. You can use your words. My brave boy knows how to ask.”

He whimpered. “…Mama…”

“Yes, darling?”

“…c–can I… h-have my baba now?” His voice cracked into a sob at the end, mortification drowning him. He pushed his face deep into her chest as if he could vanish.

Missy’s heart melted, though her smirk stayed firmly in place. She stroked her fingers through his hair, nails grazing lightly over his scalp. “Ohhh, there’s my clever boy. Of course you can, honey. You asked for it like a big boy, didn’t you? And Mama is always going to give you what you want.”

She reached for the bottle resting on the side table, already warmed to the perfect temperature. Holding it steady, she pressed the rubber teat against his trembling lips. “Here. Drink for Mama.”

At first, he shook his head, still whimpering, but his body betrayed him. The instant the teat brushed his mouth, his lips parted in instinct, and the first mouthful of milk soothed down his throat. He latched, desperate despite the tears spilling fresh down his cheeks.

“That’s it, my love,” Missy murmured smugly, rocking him slowly. “Good boy. Drink it down. Mama’s got you.”

He hiccupped around the teat, every gulp broken by sobs. His fists clenched at her sleeve, pulling tight as though he thought she might let go. She hummed under her breath, an old Gallifreyan lullaby woven into a smug tune.

“Who’s Mama’s cleverest boy, hm? My little tantrum machine, that’s who.” She kissed his damp curls. “You made such a fuss, but look at you now... Snuggled up, having your baba like the sweetest baby in the universe.”

His cries softened with each suckle. The rocking soothed him, her voice lulled him, and the steady comfort of her arms wrapped around him stripped away the last scraps of resistance.

His eyes grew heavy, lids drooping. The bottle slipped lower as his pace slowed. His breathing steadied, though little whimpers still puffed against the teat.

Missy smiled, victorious and fond. She shifted him carefully, supporting his head as the last of the milk disappeared. When the teat slipped from his mouth, his lips still sought something, instinctively, his thumb crept back between them, replacing the teat.

Missy chuckled. “Ohhh, hopeless. Utterly hopeless. My baby forever.”

She rocked him a while longer, humming smugly, until his fists loosened, his thumb stilled, and his breathing slipped into the rhythm of deep, exhausted sleep.

She pressed a kiss to his temple, satisfaction curling her lips.

“Mama always wins, darling.”

Missy rose from the rocking chair with the Doctor still cradled against her chest, his gangly limbs limp, his cheek pressed damply against her shoulder. He gave a tiny sigh in his sleep, thumb working in his mouth, as if clinging to comfort even in unconsciousness.

“Pathetic little scrap,” Missy murmured, though her arms tightened around him as she carried him across the nursery. “All bluster and thunder when you’re big, but one spanking and time-out later, and you’re nothing but Mama’s tiny tot.”

The big bed stood ready, its blankets turned down. She shifted his weight carefully, laying him down with surprising gentleness. His face, blotchy and tear-streaked, looked impossibly young now; he stirred faintly when she tucked the covers over him, but didn’t wake. His thumb found its way firmly into his mouth again, and Missy smirked.

“Ah, there it is. Instinct. You don’t even think about it, do you?” She leaned down and brushed a stray lock of wild hair from his forehead, her grin curling sharp and satisfied. “The mighty Time Lord Victorious, undone by Mama’s hand.”

She straightened, folding herself onto the bed beside him, back resting against the headboard. One hand reached out, idly stroking through his unruly tufts of silver hair. His eyelids twitched, but he didn’t stir beyond a soft, sleepy hum.

Missy tilted her head, studying him. Even like this, hiccuping breaths tapering off into shallow sleep, thumb bobbing rhythmically in his mouth, there was still that edge of fight in him, the stubborn crease in his brow as though he was dreaming of battles yet to win. It made her laugh under her breath.

“Oh, you’ll be mortified when you wake up big again,” she whispered, her voice low and gleeful. “Can you imagine it? The Doctor, my precious rival, realizing he got spanked on his bare bottom and still begged his Mama not to leave him.” Her grin widened, sharp and delighted. “Delicious.”

But her fingers kept moving, slow and steady through his hair, smoothing, petting, coaxing calm. Her gaze softened despite herself.

“Sleep, darling. You’ve earned it. Mama’s here.”

She leaned back, one arm still draped across the blanket where his body rose and fell with even breaths, her smirk lingering even as her eyes grew fond. Strict, merciless, smug beyond belief, and yet guarding him with every ounce of vigilance.

At last, she bent low enough to kiss his temple. “Mama always wins, sweet boy,” she murmured, lips curling against his skin.

And there she sat, smug grin settled firmly in place, long fingers threading through his wild hair again and again, watching over her Time Tot as he finally — finally — rested.

---

The nursery was quiet, the low hum of the TARDIS vibrating faintly through the walls, as though she was deliberately keeping the mood calm. The Doctor stirred, shifting in the big bed. His hair was a wild, sleep-flattened mess, his cheeks blotchy from earlier tears. His thumb was still tucked securely in his mouth, damp with hours of absent suckling, and even before his eyes fully opened, he knew Missy was there.

Of course she was.

Her presence pressed like warmth against his awareness, seated tall against the headboard, skirts spilling elegantly across the blanket, Gallifreyan book open in one hand. Her other hand, impossibly steady, ran fingers through his hair over and over, smoothing tangles and tracing his scalp in lazy circles. The motion had been so constant, so rhythmic, it was likely what had let him sleep at all.

The Doctor blinked slowly, eyelids heavy. His thoughts were soft at the edges, fuzzed like a painting blurred by water. He could, if he wanted, tug himself back together, engage the full weight of his mind, snap into Big-Boy-Doctor mode with all the rationality and sharpness expected of him. It would be easy. Almost automatic.

But he didn’t want to.

Not now. Not yet.

He wanted this instead. Wanted the simple softness of thumb in his mouth, the warmth of the blanket tucked around him, the sound of Missy turning pages. He wanted to stay small, wanted Mama. He wanted baba and paci, and toys. He wanted her voice cooing at him, telling him he was a clever boy.

So he didn’t pull himself together. He let himself stay little.

Shifting, he scooted closer across the mattress, thumb never leaving his mouth, and pressed his face into the side of Missy’s thigh. The fabric of her dress was cool against his cheek, and he nuzzled there without hesitation, seeking her like a child seeking sunlight.

Missy’s hand stilled. She tilted her book down, lowering her gaze with a slow, feline smirk curving her mouth.

“Well,” she drawled, voice velvet and amused, “hello there, my little ball of anger. Awake at last, are we?”

The Doctor flushed faintly, though he didn’t move away. His thumb worked faster, comfort sought in the rhythm. His voice, when it came, was small, cracked and hushed, with none of his usual bravado.

“…Mama.”

Just that. Barely more than a whisper.

Missy’s smirk deepened, but her hand returned to his hair, stroking fondly. “Mmm,” she hummed, smug and tender all at once, “someone is still very little, I see.”

The Doctor didn’t deny it. Didn’t even try. He simply leaned further into her touch, lashes lowering as her fingers slipped soothingly through his tangled strands. The shame was still there, bubbling faintly at the edges — you’re a grown man, a Time Lord, what are you doing — but the comfort, the overwhelming relief of being held in this simplicity, outweighed it.

He turned his head slightly, cheek still pressed to her thigh, to look up at her with wide, glassy eyes. The Gallifreyan text was still open in her lap, glowing faintly in the low light, but her attention was entirely on him.

Missy’s expression softened just a fraction, still smug, still Missy, but with an undeniable warmth that wasn’t for anyone else. “There you are, darling,” she murmured, running her thumb along his temple, “my fierce little stormcloud. Not so fierce now, are you?”

The Doctor sighed around his thumb, cheeks heating, but instead of pulling away, he let himself sink into it, into her. He didn’t want to be fierce. Not right now. He just wanted to be hers.

Missy lingered a moment longer, fingers still sifting lazily through the Doctor’s wild, sweat-tousled hair. His lashes fluttered against flushed cheeks, and his thumb worked in his mouth with a steady rhythm, the smallest of self-soothing habits. She gave a quiet hum, smugness curling her lips, and then said, very softly but with that familiar wicked lilt:

“Alright, honey… let’s see how you’re doing, shall we?”

The Doctor stirred at her tone, brow knitting even before she shifted the covers. The thick duvet rustled as she folded it down, exposing the soft blue of his onesie. With deliberate slowness, because of course she loved to draw these moments out, she slipped her fingers to the edge of his leg opening and tugged the fabric gently aside.

The telltale dampness greeted her fingertips.

“Ohhh, I thought so,” she purred, eyes dancing. “Mama’s little Time Lord’s gone and soaked himself.”

The Doctor’s eyes snapped open, wide and horrified, his thumb slipping from his lips as color rose furiously to his cheeks. “M-Mama! Stooop! Don’t—don’t say it like that!” He squirmed, legs drawing up as if he could somehow vanish into the mattress.

Missy only chuckled, entirely unbothered. “Hush, soggy-bottom. Babies are supposed to wet their nappies, that’s what they’re for.” She leaned down, brushing a kiss to his damp temple, her voice sing-songing against his skin. “My little leaky kettle… my damp darling… Mama’s squishy-bottomed starlight.”

The Doctor made a sound dangerously close to a whimper, half-burying his face in the pillow. “S-stop with the names…”

“Never,” she smirked. “Not when you make them fit so well.”

Without further argument, she slid her arms beneath him and lifted him with ease. His onesie-clad body curled instinctively against her chest, his face still blazing. He buried himself against her collar, thumb sneaking back into his mouth as she carried him across the room. Each step rocked him slightly, adding to his shame and his comfort all at once.

The padded changing table loomed, tidy and ready with a neat stack of nappies, wipes, and creams. Missy laid him down with practiced gentleness, the padding beneath him crackling faintly. Her hands went immediately to the row of snaps at his crotch, popping them open one by one with sharp little clicks.

“Up we go,” she instructed, pushing the fabric of the onesie up over his tummy. The sight of him there, tiny, flustered, and squirming, sent a rush of warmth through her chest. She peeled away the swollen, heavy nappy with clinical ease, rolling it up in a neat bundle and setting it aside.

The Doctor gave a miserable little groan, one hand flying to cover his red face, thumb still caught between his lips. His long legs shifted helplessly, exposing him further as Missy reached for the wipes.

“There we are, damp darling,” she murmured, sweeping the cool cloth gently across his skin. “Let’s get you all freshened up, hm?”

He flinched at the touch, breath hitching in his throat, but he didn’t resist. Only when she slowed, eyes flicking up to meet his, did she ask quietly:

“How’s your bottom feeling, sweetheart?”

His reply came muffled behind his hands. “’s fine.”

Missy arched a brow. “Is it?”

A pause. His hands dropped just enough to reveal his burning eyes, and his voice cracked as he admitted in a whisper: “It… it hurts a little, Mama.”

Missy sighed, shaking her head with a mixture of pity and smug satisfaction. “I thought as much.” She stroked his thigh with the back of her hand, gentle as a lullaby. “Poor little soggy star… you never last long without getting tender, do you?”

The Doctor whimpered softly, curling his toes, face redder than ever.

Missy gave his thigh a little pat, sharp enough to make him squeak but fond enough that he didn’t mistake it for punishment.

“Over you go, tummy down, starlight,” she said, sing-song and maddeningly indulgent.

The Doctor squirmed, but she was already guiding him with hands firm at his hips, rolling him gently so that he lay on his stomach atop the padded table. His onesie was still bunched up at his chest, baring the pale curve of his backside, still faintly pink from the earlier spanking, still tender, still his greatest humiliation.

He buried his burning face in his arms, muffled and sulky.
“Mamaaaa… nooo, this is so embarrassing…”

Missy only laughed. Not cruelly, though the note of mischief was undeniable, but warmly, like a mother who couldn’t possibly take her child’s protestations seriously. She reached for the small glass bottle of soothing oil, the same one she had used earlier. The stopper popped free with a little sound that made the Doctor flinch in anticipation.

“Embarrassing, is it?” Missy tipped the bottle over her palm, letting the oil pool and warm against her skin before touching him. “Nonsense. There’s plenty of dignity in being Mama’s naughty little red-bottomed baby.”

His ears went crimson, and he let out an indignant whine, half into his arm and half around the thumb he’d jammed into his mouth. The sound was small, pitiful, and Missy beamed at it.

She spread her palm over his sore backside, beginning to rub in slow, deliberate circles. The oil caught the light as it glossed his skin, and he shuddered at the sensation, cool, then warm, then soothing, though it stung faintly against the heat of his earlier punishment.

Every pass of her hand made him squirm, thighs tightening, toes curling against the padded table. His muffled whines grew more insistent.
“Mamaaa, stooop… undignified, th-this is so… not right…”

Missy leaned down close, her lips brushing the crown of his wild silver hair as she chuckled.
“Oh, my little kettle, all steamed up about dignity. You’d think saving the universe required fewer nappies and less oil. Tsk. But here we are.”

Her fingers traced the line of his reddened bottom, slow and unhurried, massaging the soothing balm into every sore patch with care that made his protests falter. He sucked harder on his thumb, desperate to hold onto some veneer of resistance, but his body betrayed him, relaxing under her ministrations.

She teased him gently, words falling soft and wicked all at once:
“My brave Time Lord, reduced to a whiny little puddle the moment Mama’s hands find his bum. My soggy-bottomed comet, my pouty little red-cheeks… There now, doesn’t that feel better?”

The Doctor groaned miserably into his arms.
“…mmm’kay…”

“Exactly,” Missy purred. She pressed one final, indulgent circle into the crest of his backside, then drew back, wiping her hands on a soft cloth. “All better, oiled up and glowing. Mama’s masterpiece.”

He dared a peek up at her through his fringe, face flaming. “Y-you’re awful…”

Missy smirked and blew him a kiss.
“Awful? Darling, I’m divine.”

She turned him over again and dusted his bum with powder, the faint puff rising like smoke, then reached for the fresh diaper waiting beside her. She slid it beneath him with brisk, practiced ease, pulled it up snug, and taped it securely around his hips with a series of sharp, decisive rip-rips. Each sound made him twitch and bury his face again, but he didn’t fight her.

“There,” she said, smoothing the front of the diaper with her palm before tugging his onesie back down over it and going to fasten it into place. “All fresh. All proper. And still Mama’s little red-bottomed darling.”

The onesie hung open around his belly, pale fabric bunching uselessly at his sides as Missy’s nimble fingers reached for the snaps again. The Doctor squirmed against the padded surface of the changing table, cheeks already heating with the shame of what he was about to say. His thumb was tucked firmly in his mouth, muffling his words, but she caught the gist the second he whimpered,

“I don’t… I don’t wanna onesie. I’m a big boy.”

Missy stilled, then tilted her head, lips curving into something halfway between amusement and fond exasperation. “Oh?” Her voice had that lilting edge that always made him feel like a mouse caught under the paw of a very smug cat. “Is that what you think, poppet?”

The Doctor pulled his thumb out just long enough to huff, “Yes.” He shoved it back between his lips immediately after, as though the small shield of it could protect him from her relentless gaze.

“You’re my little boy,” Missy corrected smoothly, leaning over him just enough for her curls to brush his temple. “And little boys wear little clothes.”

That made him squirm harder. He turned his head sharply to the side so he didn’t have to see her face, cheeks burning, thumb pressed tight against his tongue. It was mortifying, but he managed to mumble around it anyway, soft and halting:

“M’not saying I’m… Big-Big. Just… jus’ a little bigger right now. But I’m still Mama’s baby.”

There was a pause. Then Missy’s delighted laugh, warm and full, spilled into the nursery like a bell. “Ahhh, I see. That makes much more sense.” She reached down and gently brushed a stray lock of silver-streaked hair from his forehead. Her tone softened, velvet threaded with steel. “Of course you’re still Mama’s baby. Always.”

The Doctor gave the smallest of nods, still refusing to turn his face back to her, still hiding behind the comfort of his thumb. His ears, however, were bright red.

“Very well then, my big boy,” Missy said at last, decisive. She slipped her hands under his arms and lifted him with ease, balancing him neatly on her hip. One arm cradled his back, the other rested under the rounded bulk of his diaper, holding him steady in that humiliatingly natural way. “Let’s get you dressed properly, shall we?”

The nursery closet was, naturally, overwhelming: racks of colors and textures, human and Gallifreyan styles alike. But Missy hardly glanced at most of it. They rarely needed anything beyond onesies or footie pajamas for when her little Time Tot got tiny. Still, she humored him this once, eyes sliding over the options until she plucked out a few contenders.

“Hmm… no, too frilly. You’d pout for hours. This one? Too babyish, surprisingly enough. And this…” Her eyes sparkled when she pulled free a small black denim overall speckled with little silver star designs. “Perfect. Galactic chic, darling.”

Turning back around, she laid him down on the broad bed. His undone onesie was slipped off with a flourish, leaving him in nothing but his crinkly padding. The Doctor squirmed and made a muffled sound of protest into his thumb, but she was quick, swiftly trading it for a soft baby blue T-shirt that clung snug around his shoulders.

“Arms up, sweet pea.”

He complied reluctantly, still sucking, refusing to meet her gaze. The fabric slipped down over his chest, neat and comfortable. Then came the overalls. She guided his feet through the legs first, tugging the denim gently up past his thighs, then sitting him upright with a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Well then,” she murmured slyly, holding the straps but not fastening them yet, “are you planning on helping me at all, oh mighty big boy?”

The Doctor shook his head furiously, eyes fixed stubbornly on some distant corner of the nursery wall. His thumb bobbed between his lips as he sucked harder, the very picture of embarrassed defiance.

“Not that much of a big boy, I see…” Missy purred. She let the implication hang, then, without waiting, snapped the overall straps over his shoulders. The little silver stars glimmered as she smoothed the fabric down over his tummy.

Next came socks, soft cotton with rubber grips patterned in swirls. She knelt at his feet, carefully sliding each one on, tugging them straight so his toes were snug. “There you go,” she declared brightly. “Dressed like a big boy… who’s still small enough to stay Mama’s baby.”

That did it. His flush spread hot across his face, up to his ears, down his neck. He mumbled something soft, thumb still clamped tight, then, finally, pulled it out, just long enough to whisper, barely audible,

“…Thanks, Mama.”

Missy smiled, all sharp satisfaction softened into something warm, and leaned in to press a kiss against his cheek. “Good boy.”

The Doctor blinked, face crimson, and shoved his thumb back into his mouth immediately, as though to hide from the storm of affection flooding him.

The Doctor was still flushed from her kiss, still fidgeting in his starry overalls, when he tugged his thumb free from his mouth just enough to ask, softly, “Mama… can we go to the playroom now? Please?”

Missy rose fluidly from where she’d been kneeling at his feet, dusting her hands together with mock finality. “Of course we can, starlight,” she said, straightening her skirt. Then her smile sharpened. “But there’s something that must be done first.”

The Doctor blinked up at her from the bed, head tilted like a curious child. “...What do we have to do?”

Missy leaned forward, arms crossed, voice dripping with pointed patience. “You need to apologize to Clara for throwing that tantrum, little boy.”

The words hit him like a thunderclap. His eyes went round, almost comically so, his mouth falling open. He looked as though he’d been reminded of something he had entirely pushed out of his mind.

It all came back to him in a dizzy rush, his screaming, his sobbing, his stamping feet against the floor, the things he’d hurled across the console room, Clara’s pleading voice asking him to stop and him not stopping. Missy’s sharp reprimand. The corner. The spanking.

For a second, shame pooled hot in his chest, prickling at the corners of his eyes. But it was quickly drowned out by a tidal wave of dread. Cold, suffocating dread at the idea of looking Clara in the eyes after all of that.

“Come on, starlight,” Missy said, her tone breezy but absolute. “Then we can go to the playroom after.”

But the Doctor didn’t move. He was absolutely frozen, sitting stiffly on the bed like a toy wound too tightly. His hands began to tremble. The thumb slipped from his mouth. His breathing hitched, once, twice, then turned shallow, rapid. He pressed both hands to the sides of his head, eyes going glassy, panic flickering wildly in their depths.

Missy’s face shifted in an instant from smugness to concern. “Oh,” she murmured, and then she was already striding back across the room. She sat down beside him and pulled him bodily into her lap, settling his diapered bottom against her thighs. “What’s wrong, baby? What’s happening in there?”

He gasped for air, chest heaving, breaths coming fast and ragged.

“Shhh, honey, breathe! Breathe for Mama, please,” Missy urged, bouncing him gently against her legs. Her hands smoothed up and down his back, grounding him. “In, out, darling, you can do it. I’ve got you.”

But the Doctor broke instead. The dam shattered, and sobs ripped out of him, loud and ugly and raw. He clung to her as though drowning, his whole body shaking with the violence of his cries.

“What’s wrong, what’s wrong, what’s wrong, my darling?” Missy repeated, stroking his hair frantically, her voice low and fierce in his ear. “Tell Mama, tell Mama.”

At last, between hiccupping sobs, he stuttered it out, every word soaked in terror: “C-Clara’s g-gonna hate me now—b-because I was—terrible. Sh-she won’t want me anymore—”

Missy’s arms tightened instantly, locking him against her chest as she began to rock him, still bouncing gently with every sway of her knees. “No, no, no,” she soothed firmly, kissing his hair. “That’s not true at all, my starlight. Clara is your friend. She loves you very much.”

He sobbed harder, muffled against her shoulder.

“She knows you were just having a lot of feelings,” Missy pressed on, her voice warm but unwavering. “Clara understands it wasn’t your fault—you’re just a baby. And babies have tantrums. They’re normal. They happen to every little boy.” She brushed away a tear from his cheek with her thumb. “Nothing’s going to change between you and Clara, my love.”

He gulped in shaky breaths, then whispered, broken, “...Promise?”

Missy’s eyes softened. She pressed her lips to his temple, rocking him like he weighed nothing at all. “Mama promises, starlight. On both our hearts.”

It took long, tender minutes of rubbing circles into his back, humming softly against his hair, bouncing him gently on her lap before his cries tapered off into sniffles, then hiccups, then silence. His face was blotchy, eyes red-rimmed, but his thumb found its way back into his mouth, sucking slowly, comfortingly.

Missy tipped her head to look at him. “Is my baby feeling better now?”

The Doctor didn’t answer with words. He only nodded faintly and burrowed his face against the curve of her neck, hiding in the safe scent of her perfume.

“Good,” Missy whispered, still stroking his back. “Then let’s go get it over with. You can apologize, get it out of the way, and then we’ll head to the playroom. Mama will even make you some snacks. How does that sound?”

His thumb slipped free just long enough for him to mumble, thick with lingering tears, “Do I have to, Mama?”

“Yes, you do, my little prince.” Her tone was gentle but firm, leaving no room for doubt. “You know you do.”

He sagged against her, defeated, breath shaky as he worked to stabilize it. After a long pause, he nodded against her neck, a soft, tiny gesture of resignation.

Then, after a moment, in a voice so small it could have shattered glass, he asked, “Mama… is it okay if I have my paci?” He said it like he was afraid she would deny him, afraid she’d think him too silly, too weak.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Missy murmured, rubbing his back again. “Of course you can. You know Mama would never say no to that. You can have your paci, your blankie, a stuffed toy, anything you need, honey.”

A moment later, she slid a cute pacifier between his lips. He latched on instantly, suckling slowly and desperately, his whole body relaxing by degrees. She reached over to the crib rails and grabbed his favorite blankie, tucking it into his hands. He clutched it fiercely, burying his face in the worn softness.

Missy stood then, smoothing her skirt and moving toward the nursery door. But when she reached the threshold, she realized he wasn’t following. She turned back, one brow raised.

“Well?” she teased, voice sing-song. “Aren’t you coming, baby?”

The Doctor sat rooted on the big bed, pacifier bobbing in his mouth, blankie gripped in both fists. He looked at her for a long moment, working the binky furiously between his lips. Then, timidly, he lifted his arms, voice muffled and soft as he whispered, “...Mama up?”

Missy’s grin bloomed, wicked and smug. She rolled her eyes skyward with a dramatic sigh. “Big boy? Yeah, right.”

But she didn’t hesitate. She swept back across the nursery, bent down, and scooped him up easily. He settled instinctively on her hip, his blankie clutched tight, pacifier bobbing rapidly as he sucked to quell his nerves.

And together, they left the nursery, Doctor clinging to Missy like a much smaller child, steeling himself for what came next.

---

Missy carried him easily out of the nursery, her posture straight and elegant despite the extra weight on her hip. The Doctor clung to her like a limpet, arms tight around her shoulders, his beloved blankie fisted between his hands. The pacifier bobbed rapidly between his lips, a steady rhythm that betrayed just how nervous he really was. His flushed cheeks and wide, wary eyes made him look younger than ever.

The TARDIS guided Missy smoothly through the hallways, her humming voice vibrating in the walls as if approving this journey. When they reached the library, the great doors swung open with a soft groan. The familiar smell of old paper and tea drifted out.

Inside, Clara sat comfortably on a wide couch, a thick book open across her lap. A steaming mug rested in her hands, the curl of steam catching the lamplight. She looked utterly at ease, tucked into the cozy embrace of the TARDIS’s library.

Missy didn’t hesitate. She strode forward, the sharp click of her heels softened by the thick rug, and stopped directly in front of Clara’s couch.

Clara looked up, her eyes brightening when she saw them. She smiled warmly. “Hello, Doctor. How are you doing? Better?”

The Doctor froze like a startled deer. His eyes darted to her, then down to himself, diaper thick beneath his overalls, pacifier in his mouth, blankie clutched to his chest. His friend, his companion, was seeing him like this. His cheeks burned scarlet, and with a strangled soun,d he buried his face in the curve of Missy’s neck, trying to disappear into her.

Clara’s smile softened. She noticed, of course. She noticed everything. The pacifier. The blankie. The way the Doctor curled small against Missy’s side, the unmistakable crinkle beneath his clothes. But instead of laughing or commenting, she only looked at him with fondness. Gone was the angry, stormy man from earlier, the one who had yelled and thrown things. Now he looked soft, flushed, and so clearly loved.

Missy caught the flicker of realization in Clara’s eyes, saw her deliberate choice not to say a word about it, and gave her a single approving look. A silent acknowledgment: Good girl. You understand.

Missy’s hand stroked the Doctor’s back, rubbing small circles. “He wants to talk to you. Right, starlight?”

The Doctor shook his head fiercely into her neck, muffled whimpers escaping around the pacifier.

Missy, unbothered, lowered herself into a large chair beside Clara’s couch. She settled the Doctor in her lap, turning him around so he faced Clara. He squirmed but couldn’t escape her grasp. His pacifier bobbed, his blankie twisted between his fingers.

Missy began to bounce him gently on her knees. “What do you have to say, sweetheart?”

Clara set her mug down and leaned forward slightly, her expression patient, expectant.

The Doctor’s eyes darted around the room, anywhere but Clara’s face. His lips worked furiously at the pacifier, cheeks puffing with every anxious suck. Finally, in a small, muffled voice, he managed: “Clara… I’m sorry.”

Clara blinked, startled. “What are you sorry for, Doctor?”

The Doctor’s head snapped toward Missy, eyes wide with panic, as if begging for help. Then he glanced back at Clara and muttered, “You know… for the… the thing.”

Clara’s brows knit in confusion. “The… thing?” She looked at Missy helplessly. “What’s he talking about?”

Missy smirked, pulling the Doctor back flush against her chest. “You need to actually talk to her, baby boy. She can’t understand you if you’re speaking in code.”

The Doctor’s face went a deeper shade of red. He shoved his blankie up against his face to hide. Missy only chuckled, thoroughly enjoying herself.

“He’s talking about his tantrum,” Missy announced smugly, looking directly at Clara.

Clara’s eyebrows shot up. She turned back to the Doctor, surprised.

The Doctor’s face disappeared entirely into his blankie. His voice came out muffled and frantic. “Mama, it wasn’t a tantrum!”

“Oh really?” Missy’s tone was sing-song, amused. “What do you call it when a naughty little boy stomps around, yells, and throws things, starlight? Because I call it a tantrum. Don’t you, Clara?”

Clara pressed her lips together, caught between laughter and sympathy. She didn’t answer.

“Mama, stop, please,” the Doctor whined into his blankie.

Missy smoothed a hand down his back, bouncing him lightly. “Say what you wanted to say, honey. Then we can go to the playroom. That’s what you wanted, remember?”

The Doctor let out a tiny, defeated sound. “I know…” His voice was muffled, wavering.

Minutes seemed to stretch as he hid behind his blankie, summoning courage. At last, he lowered it slowly, placing it back in his lap. His pacifier bobbed nervously between his lips as he looked up at Clara again, face crimson.

In the smallest whisper, he said, “I’m sorry for my tantrum, Clara. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.”

Clara’s expression melted. She reached forward, her voice warm. “It’s okay, Doctor. I don’t mind.”

“It’s definitely not okay,” Missy cut in firmly, though there was a smug smile tugging at her lips. “And I’m quite sure he learned his lesson. Right, starlight?” She gave his bum a light pat, the faintest reminder of what had happened earlier.

The Doctor jolted, his entire face flooding scarlet. He wiggled in her lap, groaning. “Mama, stop doing that!”

Missy smirked. “I think we learned that you telling Mama to stop doesn’t actually make it happen, didn’t we?”

The Doctor whined, pacifier bobbing furiously. “Mama, can we go now, please?”

“Yes, we can.” She kissed the top of his head. “Good job apologizing, baby boy.”

He looked hesitantly at Clara. She beamed at him, nodding enthusiastically. “Yes, a very good job, Doctor. Thank you so much for apologizing.”

His cheeks glowed redder than ever. He buried his face into Missy’s neck again, mumbling around his pacifier, “Let’s go, Mama, please…”

Missy chuckled low in her throat and rose smoothly to her feet, settling him back onto her hip. He clung to her immediately, blankie tight in one hand. She gave Clara a little nod; Clara nodded back, eyes full of quiet amusement and warmth.

As Missy carried him out of the library, she bounced him gently on her hip, his pacifier squeaking softly with every suck. He was still red-faced, still embarrassed, but his body melted against hers, the apology done, the ordeal behind him.

The playroom awaited.

---

The playroom doors slid open with that soft sigh the TARDIS always made when she was particularly proud of herself. Missy guided the Doctor through, and as soon as they stepped inside, the room unfolded in all its ridiculous, whimsical glory.

It was absolutely humongous, stretching out farther than the eye could quite take in, and of course, it had shifted and grown just right to suit this particular regeneration’s tastes and energy. The TARDIS always knew her Doctor.

To the left rose a custom climbing wall, handholds shaped like stars and planets. Next to it, a miniature stage complete with heavy velvet curtains and little spotlights begged to be used for impromptu performances. A massive ball pit glimmered under soft overhead lights, and beyond it a slide wound down in a gleaming spiral. An indoor swing hung from nothing at all, just suspended from the TARDIS ceiling as if gravity itself had agreed to cooperate.

Every corner carried delights. An elaborate reading nook draped in plush pillows and blankets, shelves stacked with picture books and thick tomes alike. A full-service arts and crafts station glittered with jars of beads, paints, paper, and glitter, very carefully installed after his 10th self had taken to drawing murals straight onto the TARDIS walls. She had definitely learned her lesson.

There was even a kid-safe science lab/discovery area with magnifying lenses and bubbling harmless concoctions, a snack bar that shimmered invitingly, walls covered in chalkboards and murals waiting to be added to, and soft tactile textiles scattered around, rugs, beanbags, crash mats, all bright and touchable. Toy chests lined one entire wall, overflowing with every kind of plaything imaginable.

It was a kingdom, a universe of play all made just for him.

The second Missy set him down on the soft floor, the Doctor took off in a blur, his legs carrying him straight toward the biggest chest stuffed with toys. His hands dove inside, rummaging until he found what he wanted: a massive box of Legos.

With a triumphant squeal, he yanked the box out, dragged it to the middle of the floor, and upended it completely. Thousands of tiny bricks cascaded out like a plastic waterfall, bouncing and scattering everywhere, the sound echoing through the playroom.

Missy arched a brow, crossing her arms.

“Now, now,” she said sweetly but firmly, “don’t go making a huge mess, sweetheart. You’re going to clean everything up later, okay?”

The Doctor barely glanced up, already on his knees, digging through the colorful pile. He shoved a handful of pieces aside with impatient little huffs.

“The TARDIS will clean it up later, Mama,” he muttered, voice full of cheek, “don’t be dumb.”

The effect was instant.

Missy’s entire posture stilled, her voice slicing through the room, velvet-coated steel.

“…I’m sorry,” she said slowly, dangerously calm. “Did you just call Mama dumb?”

The Doctor froze, his hand halfway to grabbing a red brick. His hearts stuttered, his throat closing up. Slowly, he turned his head to look back at her. She hadn’t moved from where she stood, but her eyes were fixed on him, sharp as knives, waiting.

Color drained from his face, then returned all at once, hot and pink. His hair fell into his eyes as he shook his head so fast it made the strands fly.

“No, Mama!” he blurted, voice high and rushed. “I didn’t—I swear I didn’t! Sorry, Mama, I’m sorry!”

Missy let the silence hang a moment longer, measuring him, weighing how much of that sass had been honest cheek and how much had been slip of tongue. He was still frozen in place, big eyes locked on hers, chest rising and falling a little too quickly.

Finally, she let out a long sigh and tilted her head, her expression softening, but not entirely.

“Careful, sweetheart,” she said, voice low but carrying across the room. “Wouldn’t want to end up turned over on Mama’s lap getting your bum smacked twice in one day, now, do we?”

The Doctor flushed crimson, shaking his head vehemently, curls bouncing.

“No, Mama! No, no—I don’t, I promise. Sorry, Mama.”

Missy’s lips curved in a knowing little smirk. She tapped one finger against her chin as though still considering, then finally waved a dismissive hand.

“Mm. Very well. I’ll let you off with a warning.” Her smile turned just a bit wicked. “But don’t test me, starlight. Mama always follows through.”

He gulped, cheeks still burning, but managed a hurried nod. “Yes, Mama. Thank you, Mama.”

“Good boy,” she purred, and with that, she swept across the room to the enormous armchair tucked near the reading nook. Draped in pillows and blankets, it was the perfect throne from which to keep watch. She sank into it gracefully, folding one leg over the other.

The Doctor turned back to his Legos with the eagerness of someone very keen to look busy and innocent. His hands began sorting pieces, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. Still, every few minutes, his eyes flicked nervously back toward Missy, making sure she was still in her chair, still watching with that amused, sharp look.

The pile of Legos sprawled everywhere, threatening to swallow him whole, but at least, for now, his bum was safe.

---

The Doctor’s hands were already moving at lightning speed, digging into the scattered heap of Legos like a miner searching for treasure. Bright bricks clicked and rattled as he pushed them aside, his curls flopping into his eyes, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in deep concentration. He had forgotten all about the near-slip-up from moments before, fully absorbed in his pile of colors and possibilities.

“I’m gonna build—no, wait—gonna build this—no, no, hold on, I’m gonna build a castle fortress with—uh—with turrets and a—um—like a rocket launch pad on the side! A castle with a spaceship landing dock! Nobody’s ever done that before, bet you.”

His words tumbled out in a breathless string, far too fast, like his brain was racing his hands. He grabbed a big flat green piece for a base and started slapping down bricks at odd angles. Some were crooked, others upside down, but he didn’t care, his excitement was the glue.

Missy, watching from her plush seat in the Reading Nook, folded her hands neatly in her lap and tilted her head, a soft smile curling. He was always like this when his tininess hit full force: messy, defiant, brilliant, and so easy to adore.

“Careful, starlight,” she said in that sing-song lilt, her voice coaxing and smug all at once. “Strong foundation first, yes? Or else your great cosmic fortress will tumble into a heap before you’ve even raised the first turret.”

The Doctor glanced up at her with wide eyes, cheeks flushed pink from both play and the memory of her earlier warning. He hesitated, little fingers still holding mismatched pieces, and then he nodded quickly, hair flopping.

“Okay, okay—yeah, foundation. Big pieces first. You’re right, Mama. Gotta have something stable or else it all falls down. Gravity, innit? Stupid gravity.” He muttered the last part under his breath with a pout, but he began snapping large, sturdy bricks together with newfound intent.

Missy reclined in her chair, perfectly smug, crossing one leg over the other. “That’s better. My clever little madman, building worlds even when he’s knee-deep in colored plastic.” She paused, tapping her lip. “Do put the blue one on the left side, though, sweetheart. Yes, that one. Makes the structure symmetrical. Mama does like symmetry.”

The Doctor obeyed instantly, half out of instinct, half out of eagerness for her approval. “Like this, Mama?” He held it up, messy but earnest, eyes bright and expectant.

“Exactly like that,” Missy praised, her voice dropping lower, softer, more honey than iron. “Look at you. A proper little architect. Mama’s proud.”

The Doctor’s whole face lit up like a child seeing fireworks for the first time. He beamed so brightly it was nearly ridiculous, his chest puffing out as he scrambled back to his pile.

“I can build faster, watch me! Gonna build the tower next, biggest tower in the universe, you’ll see! Nobody’ll ever—ever break it, ’cause it’ll be indestructible!” His voice squeaked with enthusiasm as he slapped brick after brick onto his uneven walls, sometimes forgetting to press them down all the way.

Missy chuckled, the sound low and throaty, watching as her little one’s entire being poured into the chaotic creation. She let him chatter, let him babble about towers and rocket pads and secret labs hidden inside, occasionally leaning forward to point at a stray piece or to gently suggest a stronger placement.

“Don’t forget the drawbridge, darling,” she added casually. “Every fortress needs one. You never know when a certain naughty Time Lady might wish to invade.”

The Doctor’s head snapped up, eyes wide with delight at the challenge. “Nooo, you can’t invade! S’my fortress, Mama, mine! I’ll put traps everywhere, spiky traps and—um—laser cannons and—and maybe some dinosaurs.”

“Dinosaurs?” Missy smirked, utterly entertained. “In your fortress?”

“Yeah! Yeah, yeah, dinosaurs,” he insisted, nodding so hard his curls bounced. “Guard dinosaurs. Big ones. With sharp teeth. They’ll eat anybody who tries to get in. Except you. You’re—you’re allowed. ’Cause you’re Mama.”

The last bit slipped out without him realizing, his cheeks flushing pink as soon as the words left his mouth. He ducked his head quickly, pretending to rummage through the Lego heap again.

Missy’s smirk softened into something dangerously close to fondness. She rose from her chair, gliding toward him in slow, deliberate steps, her heels clicking faintly against the TARDIS-grown floor. She crouched down beside him, close enough to brush her fingers lightly against the crown of his unruly hair.

“Good boy,” she murmured, just for him, her voice sinking into the marrow of his bones. “Mama is allowed. Always.”

The Doctor froze, his little chest swelling with a cocktail of embarrassment and pride, before diving right back into his building, fingers flying even faster than before, because if he built it big enough, bright enough, strong enough, maybe it would hide the furious blush across his cheeks.

The Doctor was still on his knees, legs folded under him, feverishly snapping Legos together, muttering excitedly about turrets and laser cannons and hidden secret passages. His hands were moving so fast it was almost a blur, and his curls kept falling into his eyes, which were wide and sparkling with that reckless energy only a little one possessed.

He paused for a moment, surveying the sprawling fortress he’d built so far. “Okay…okay…this needs a…a big tower…no, no, wait…a really, really tall tower with…uh…a trap door!” He bounced on his knees, then decided he should fully sit down to reach a lower section more comfortably. He shifted his weight, lowering himself onto his bottom, and immediately yelped.

“Mama!” he squeaked, eyes wide and flustered, cheeks blazing as he froze in place.

In less than a heartbeat, Missy was there, crouching beside him, one hand brushing through his curls, the other resting lightly on his shoulder. “What’s wrong, my little stormcloud?” she asked, her tone brisk but tender, the very picture of patient concern.

The Doctor flushed even harder, twisting his face away, and muttered, “…Nothing.”

Missy didn’t press immediately, just gave a patient hum and brushed a hand across his back. “You’re sure, starlight?”

“…I…my bum…” he whispered finally, eyes still darting away from her, voice tiny and hesitant. “…It…hurts.”

Missy’s lips curved into a smug little smile, as though she had been expecting exactly this. “Ahhh, I see,” she said, tilting her head and giving his tiny shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Well, that’s exactly what happens to naughty little boys who throw tantrums, isn’t it? Sore, red bums from having to be spanked by Mama.”

The Doctor’s ears burned scarlet, and he buried his face in his hands, whining, “Mama, stooop! Stop saying that!”

But Missy didn’t move away, just kept a gentle hand on his back while allowing herself a small, indulgent chuckle. The words stung a little, but they were also oddly validating, reminding him that Mama was watching, guiding, keeping him safe even when she teased.

He squirmed for a moment, then slowly leaned forward, trying to ignore the throb in his bottom, and returned to his Lego fortress with renewed determination, snapping pieces together in a frenzy of creative energy. “I’m…uh…gonna build a…giant…no—cosmic…castle…thing…with, um, lasers!” His words tumbled out too fast to follow, but Missy didn’t need to, she was watching every flick of his fingers, every tilt of his head, and her chest swelled with maternal pride.

After a few frantic minutes of construction, the throb in his bum seemed to fade from his attention entirely, or at least he pretended it had. He hopped up, ran over to the ball pit, dived in, then scrambled out again, racing from the indoor swing to the reading nook, tugging books down faster than he could read them, then flinging stuffed animals across the playroom with reckless glee.

Missy reclined in her chair, hands folded neatly, watching with a mixture of amusement and awe. Her little tornado’s attention span was astonishingly short, even compared to when he was big, which she found both ridiculous and endlessly entertaining. He would focus on one activity for fifteen minutes at most, then sprint off to something else, squealing with delight, completely immersed in the chaos of play.

Eventually, after a particularly ambitious sprint from the slide to the science lab, Missy rose from her chair with a soft sigh and a small, indulgent smile. “All right, my tiny whirlwind,” she murmured to herself, “time for a little snack. Mama promised, didn’t she?”

She headed toward the playroom’s snack bar, glancing over her shoulder at the Doctor, who was currently attempting to launch a Lego spaceship from the top of his fortress. He froze for a fraction of a second, noticed her movement, and let out a tiny, excited squeal. “Snack, Mama? Snack now?”

Missy’s lips twitched in that smug little way that always made him melt. “Yes, starlight. But first, we need to make it together, so you can help Mama with your very own little hands.”

The Doctor clapped his hands together, practically vibrating with excitement, before bounding toward the snack bar, grabbing colorful aprons, and getting ready for the next whirlwind of chaos and fun.

---

The Doctor’s hands moved in a blur, grabbing ingredients, pouring, stirring, and spilling in a chaotic ballet of energy and excitement. He was kneeling on a small step stool Missy had set up, legs bouncing as he worked, curls bouncing along with him. Every so often, flour puffed into the air, dusting his cheeks and nose, and he giggled at his own reflection in the counter’s shiny surface.

“Careful, starlight,” Missy said softly, leaning close to steady his hands. “Slow it down just a little, or the batter’s going to be everywhere.”

“I… I can do it, Mama! I can do it!” he squeaked, eyes wide, as he poured a cup of milk a little too fast, sending a small splash onto the countertop.

Doctor froze, cheeks flaming, fingers gripping the edge. “Mama… I… I made a mess…” His voice wobbled, panic flickering. “You’re… Are you… gonna spank me…”

Missy immediately leaned down, brushing the flour-dusted curls from his eyes and rubbing a hand along his back. “Shhh, starlight,” she murmured, her voice soft but steady. “Mama would never spank you for an accident. Babies make messes—that’s why you have Mama. I’m here to help you.”

Doctor’s shoulders slumped slightly, relief flooding his tiny body, but he couldn’t help the little hiccup in his breath and the flush creeping across his face. “O…okay… Mama…”

Missy smiled, tugging gently at his tiny apron strings to adjust it. “You see, this is just like when you wet your nappy, my little tornado. Accidents happen, and Mama’s job is to take care of you. It’s not wrong—it’s just what Mama does. You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

The Doctor’s eyes went impossibly wide, a bright scarlet flooding his cheeks. His mouth opened slightly, and he mumbled, “…W…what?” His tiny hands fumbled with the spatula as if it could erase the embarrassment.

“Just like Mama changes your nappy when you’re wet, I’m here to clean up spills, too,” Missy said, her voice full of gentle smugness. “It’s my job, starlight, and it makes me happy to help you.”

Doctor’s body shook with flustered laughter and relief. He pressed a hand to his forehead, eyes darting to the little mess he’d made, then back to Missy. “I… I… thank you, Mama…” His voice was tiny, shy, a whisper barely audible above the soft clatter of ingredients.

“You’re welcome, my little chef,” Missy said, kneeling down and smoothing his curls again. “Now, let’s clean this up together. You help, and we can keep making our snacks.”

Doctor nodded eagerly, still flushed pink from the comparison and Missy’s approving gaze. He grabbed a small cloth with one hand while his other hand scooped a bit of stray flour back into the bowl, his fingers moving in tiny, determined motions. Occasionally, a bit of flour slipped, and he froze, wide-eyed, but Missy only smiled softly, rubbing his back.

“It’s okay, starlight,” she murmured. “Accidents happen. Mama’s here.”

The Doctor exhaled shakily, a small laugh escaping as he wiped up the mess. “Okay… Mama…” He looked at her with a mix of embarrassment and gratitude, his little chest puffing out just a fraction in pride.

Missy’s heart swelled as she watched her little tornado in action, cheeks still flushed, tiny hands moving in overdrive, making a small disaster look like a grand adventure. “That’s my baby,” she whispered, tugging him closer for a quick, reassuring hug. “Messy, flustered, and perfect. Just the way I like you.”

With a renewed sense of determination, and a few more giggles, they continued together, batter mixing, ingredients measuring, and little spills quickly wiped, each one met with patience and soft approval from Mama. The Doctor’s small giggles and focused little frowns filled the room with energy, and Missy couldn’t stop smiling at the sight of her tiny, flustered, and utterly loved little chef.

---

The cookies had finally cooled enough, the warm, sweet scent still lingering in the air. The Doctor could barely contain himself, his fingers twitching as he bounced slightly on the small chair at the kid-sized table. He was practically vibrating with anticipation, eyes darting to the colorful plate Missy carried carefully in her hands.

“Careful, starlight,” Missy said, gently setting the plate down in front of him. “If you try to eat them all at once, Mama’s going to have to stop you.”

Doctor’s greedy hands shot out, grabbing a cookie, then pausing mid-air as if remembering some crucial etiquette. He flushed bright red, glancing at Missy with wide eyes. “I… I won’t eat them all at once, Mama!”

Missy chuckled, smoothing the curls on his forehead. “I know, my tiny tornado. That’s why I made this just for you.”

She leaned closer, tilting the plate slightly. “Do you want some milk with your cookies?”

The Doctor nodded eagerly. “Yes, thanks, Mama!”

Missy’s hands hovered for a moment, then she asked, a teasing lilt in her voice, “And… do you want it in a sippy cup, or your baba?”

The Doctor froze, his little jaw tightening, cheeks blazing a brilliant scarlet. “I’m… I’m way too big for babas!” he sputtered, crossing his arms in defiance.

Missy ruffled his curls, smiling down at him with soft indulgence. “Oh, my little love,” she murmured, brushing a hand across his tiny back, “you’re never too big. You’ll always be my tiny time tot. If you want a baba, you can have a baba.”

The Doctor’s little scowl deepened, and he turned his face away, crossing his arms even tighter. Missy didn’t falter, only kept rubbing his back gently, whispering encouragements and soft coos.

“Alright, starlight,” she prompted after a moment, “what will it be?”

The Doctor hesitated, brow furrowed, eyes darting shyly up at her. He fiddled with the edge of his overalls, tugging at the straps nervously. Finally, he whispered, “…I… I want my baba, Mama… please.”

Missy’s eyes lit up, full of warmth and love, and she couldn’t help herself from smiling wide. “Of course, my little love. Anything for my tiny time tot.” She padded over to the snack bar, warming up the milk with expert care and fussing over the baba so that it was just right.

The Doctor perched on his chair, clutching a cookie in one hand and bouncing a little in his seat, eyes glued to the process. When Missy returned, he took the baba gratefully, little hands holding it carefully, cheeks still faintly flushed with excitement and residual embarrassment.

As he sipped and nibbled on the cookie, the tiny crumbs falling onto the plate and table, his eyes sparkled. Flour dusting from the earlier baking still clung to his curls, a testament to the whirlwind of energy that had just produced the sweet treats.

“Mama,” he said softly, after a final bite and a sip, “can I… can I go back to playing now, please, Mama?”

Missy smiled, brushing a hand over his curls and shoulders. “Why, you very polite little boy. Of course you can! Go on, run ahead, my little gremlin.”

The Doctor practically launched himself from the chair, sprinting off with tiny, bouncy steps toward the next activity, shifting seamlessly from Legos to the climbing wall, then onto the ball pit, leaving a flurry of movement and joy in his wake.

Missy watched from the chair, rubbing her hands together smugly, a soft smile curving her lips. Her baby was small, flustered, messy, and fiercely alive, and utterly, completely hers. The love she felt was quiet, indulgent, and infinite, reserved for no one but him. She would never admit it aloud, but watching him leap from one joyous activity to the next, flour-dusted curls bouncing, eyes bright and flushed with excitement, she felt a warmth that filled the entire TARDIS.

He paused briefly in the ball pit to wave at her, crumbs clinging to his tiny fingers, face sticky from cookie and baba alike. Missy waved back, a glimmer of pride in her eyes, her little time tot entirely absorbed in his world of play, yet always tethered to her gentle, loving presence.

---

Back in the nursery everything was quiet, the riot of toys and half-finished games abandoned in a scatter across the carpet. Blocks lay toppled where tiny, eager hands had left them; a toy Dalek teetered against the leg of the small table; the Doctor’s blanket had slipped from the rocking chair in a crumpled heap.

But the Doctor wasn’t little anymore. He sat on the big bed at the far end of the nursery, shoulders hunched, his head buried in his hands. His little clothes clashed horribly with the way he sat, stiff-backed and full of shame. He was trying so very hard to be Big again, but the clothes betrayed him, reminding him with every fold of fabric where he had been only an hour ago.

The door opened with the creak of well-oiled hinges. Missy stepped in, elegant as ever, carrying two steaming mugs of tea. She crossed the room without a word, her heels clicking softly against the wooden floor. Setting one mug on the bedside table, she perched gracefully on the edge of the bed, offering the other to him.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” she asked, her voice warm, teasing, but not unkind.

The Doctor breathed deeply, his hands slipping down from his face. His eyes were heavy with guilt, dark hollows forming beneath them. He took the mug she held out to him, curling his long fingers around it as though it were the only steady thing in the universe. He lifted it to his lips, sipped, exhaled slowly through his nose.

“What am I going to tell Clara?” he muttered, almost to himself, but loud enough for her to hear. His voice cracked on her name. “This is horrible. How could I act like that?”

Missy tilted her head, her own mug poised near her lips. Her eyes sparkled with something between amusement and concern. “Act like what, darling? Like the angry little time tot you are? Tantrums and all?” She smirked but her tone was gentle. “You were little, sweetheart. Just a baby. Tantrums are normal. And you already apologized, didn’t you? She accepted it.”

The Doctor scowled into his tea, shoulders tightening. “Come on, that wasn’t really an apology. She was just… indulging me.” His voice grew more bitter, self-directed. “Because I was little. Because she didn’t want to hurt my feelings. Because she was probably afraid she’d make me cry. Or something pathetic like that.”

Missy let out a soft sigh, sipping her tea. “Oh, sweetheart…” She shook her head, amused in spite of herself. “You’re very dramatic, aren’t you?”

The Doctor’s jaw tightened. “I’m not being dramatic, I—”

“Yes, you are.” She cut him off smoothly, reaching out to pat his knee. Her tone sharpened just a touch. “I don’t really like your pets — sorry, companions — but still.” She softened again, watching his face. “She loves you. She isn’t leaving you because of that.”

The words hit him like a direct strike. His face twisted ever so slightly, lips pressed thin, eyes flickering away. That was it. That was the fear under all of it. That Clara would see him for what he was when he slipped, weak, childish, ridiculous, and walk away.

Missy saw it instantly. She always did.

They fell into silence, broken only by the quiet clink of mugs and the faint hum of the TARDIS. The Doctor stared into his tea, wrestling with thoughts he couldn’t bring himself to say aloud. Missy simply waited, patient in her way, watching him with that mix of smugness and affection she would never admit to anyone but him.

At last, he turned to her, his voice softer now, stripped of all bluster. “…Do you promise?”

Missy’s lips curved into the kind of smile she only ever gave him. Genuine, quiet, unguarded. She reached out, brushing her fingers against his sleeve, grounding him.

“Yes, honey,” she said softly. “I promise.”

The Doctor swallowed hard, staring at her, searching her face for any trace of insincerity. There was none. And though the knot in his chest didn’t unravel entirely, it loosened, just a little. Enough to let him breathe.

---

The mugs of tea sat empty on the bedside table, steam long since faded into the nursery’s still air. The Doctor shifted uneasily on the big bed, tugging absentmindedly at the hem of his t-shirt. He was quiet now, but his ears burned pink, and his long fingers fidgeted with the seam of the blanket beneath him.

Missy leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, studying him with her usual sly amusement. Then, breaking the silence, she tilted her head and asked sweetly, “Would you like to get out of your little clothes now, starlight?”

The Doctor’s head snapped up, his face flushing almost instantly. He cleared his throat, too stiff, too formal for a man in childish overalls. “Yes. Yes, I would.”

He stood, brushing his palms down his thighs, and made his way to the corner where his grown clothes had been folded neatly earlier. His coat hung over the shelf above them like a guardian shadow, dignified and out of reach.

Missy followed, heels clicking softly. She reached for the straps of his black denim overalls, her fingers already loosening the buckles.

The Doctor caught her wrists, flushing deeper. “Missy, I can do it myself.”

Her grin was immediate, wicked but tender. “Oh, I know you can, sweetheart.” She tugged the strap free with a little flick of her wrist. “But Mama’s going to help you anyway.”

He bristled, looked like he might argue, but instead sighed, his shoulders slumping as he turned his face away. He let her work.

Missy slid the overalls down, fabric pooling around his ankles. The Doctor stepped carefully, one leg, then the other, until they were off. She knelt, graceful even crouched at his feet, and reached for his grippy socks.

The Doctor made a small, sharp noise of protest.

Missy arched an eyebrow, looking up at him, hands still poised. “Yes?”

The Doctor swallowed hard, his cheeks blazing. He averted his eyes and muttered, almost too soft to hear, “You can… leave them. For now.”

Missy’s smirk spread, knowing and unbearably smug. “Of course, starlight. What was Mama thinking?”

The Doctor groaned faintly, burying his face in one hand.

Rising with feline grace, Missy slipped his t-shirt over his head, tugging it free. Now he stood bare-chested, clad only in a nappy and those stubbornly clinging socks.

Missy let her eyes sweep him, indulgent and amused. “And how’s your bum feeling, sweetheart?”

“It’s fine, Missy,” he said too quickly.

Her smirk sharpened. “Really? If I were to take off your nappy right now, would your bum be bright pink? Yes, or no?”

The Doctor fidgeted, hands tangling in front of him, ears blazing crimson. He refused to meet her gaze. “Stop it, Missy.”

Missy pursed her lips, mock-considering. “Mmm, I think I’d better have a look. Maybe rub some more oil on it. Don’t you?”

“That’s really not necessary—”

“I think Mama knows best.”

Before he could react further, she swept him up onto her hip. The Doctor let out a scandalized yelp, limbs stiff, but his arms instinctively curled around her neck.

“This is absurd!” he grumbled, voice muffled as she carried him easily across the room.

Missy deposited him on the padded changing table, unfastening the nappy with practiced ease despite his protests. “Ridiculous. I’m very big—”

“Yes, yes,” Missy said breezily, turning him over so he lay on his tummy. “You can complain all you want, sweetheart, but Mama knows how much you actually enjoy it when she takes care of you. You can’t fool Mama.”

The Doctor hid his face in the crook of his arm, his voice muffled. “Nonsense. Completely unnecessary—”

Missy ignored him, humming softly as she reached for the small bottle of soothing oil. She warmed a little between her palms and then rubbed it gently onto his skin, circling, careful, slow. His bottom was still tender and pink, evidence of earlier discipline.

“Shhh…” she cooed. “There we go. Mama’s got you.”

His weak protests dwindled to small noises, then faded entirely. A long sigh escaped him, unbidden, betraying his relief.

Missy smiled to herself, rubbing until the skin softened under her touch. She gave him a final, light pat and said warmly, “There now. Isn’t that better, starlight?”

The Doctor didn’t answer. His face was still buried in his arm, but she could see the telltale movement of his jaw, his thumb tucked firmly between his lips.

Her smirk softened into something fonder. She gave his bottom two gentle pats before turning him back over and helping him sit up.

Realizing himself, the Doctor yanked his thumb from his mouth as though it had burned him, his face crimson. “Can we be done now?”

“Of course, sweetheart.” Missy’s voice was syrupy with amusement. “Let’s get you dressed.”

She lifted him from the table, settling him on his feet. From the drawer beneath, she pulled a fresh pull-up.

The Doctor’s eyes widened in horror. “Missy, don’t you dare. I don’t need that! I am big. Very big. Thank you very much.”

“Yes, you are,” Missy agreed smoothly. “Very big. Very dignified.” She held the pull-up casually in one hand, tapping it against her palm. “Mama also knows you were sucking your thumb just now, and that you are very prone to accidents right after you come out of headspace. So you can either wear the pull-up like a good big boy, or…” she let the pause linger, voice lilting, “…you can risk having an accident on your trousers in front of Clara. What will it be?”

He spluttered, stammered, hands flailing. “That— That’s not— That won’t happen!”

Missy’s gaze sharpened knowingly. “Would you like me to give you some examples, darling? The last times it did?”

The Doctor froze, head bowing in defeat. His voice cracked, small. “Please don’t.”

“Then are you going to wear the pull-up?”

Silence stretched. Finally, the Doctor nodded meekly, eyes fixed on the floor.

“That’s my smart boy,” Missy cooed, crouching to slide the pull-up up his legs. She snugged it into place around his waist and patted his padded bottom twice, earning a crimson flush and a strangled noise of protest.

She moved on quickly, dressing him in his trousers, shirt, boots (leaving his silly socks) and finally draping his coat around his shoulders.

“There we go,” Missy declared proudly. “Looking very big. Very dignified. Not at all like a naughty time tot who had his bottom spanked by Mama a few hours ago.”

The Doctor’s whole face turned scarlet. “Missy— I— I can’t believe you actually did that!”

“I gave you a warning, baby boy. You didn’t listen. And you should always listen to Mama, shouldn’t you?”

The Doctor mumbled, looking away. “Yes.”

Missy cupped her hand to her ear. “Sorry, poppet, Mama couldn’t quite hear you.”

The Doctor glared, his eyebrows drawing into his signature furious slant.

“Oh my,” Missy laughed. “Such scary eyebrows, from my little boy.”

“That’s enough, Missy.”

Her laugh softened, and she pulled him into a sudden hug, pressing his head into the crook of her neck. He stiffened, arms at his sides. But slowly, hesitantly, his hands rose and wrapped around her waist. He breathed deeply, the tension leaving him in a quiet shudder.

Missy leaned back, framing his face with her hands, eyes locking onto his. Her expression was softer than her words had been all night, open and loving.

The Doctor’s lips trembled as he whispered, “Thank you.”

Missy knew. She knew what he meant — not just for the clothes, or the oil, or the tea. But for everything. For seeing him small, and still staying. For loving him through it.

She smiled, brushing the gentlest kiss across his lips. “Anytime, starlight.”

They both smiled then, their foreheads nearly touching, the nursery quiet around them.

---

The Doctor strode into the console room with stiff shoulders, chin tilted a touch higher than necessary, already wrapped in his Big clothes as if that would anchor him in the role he wanted so desperately to play. His coat swished behind him, his boots clicked against the grating. He rehearsed the words in his head, firm, dignified, serious, and yet his hearts were racing like a pair of frantic drumbeats.

Clara was already there. She leaned lazily against the console, her hands flicking switches in that way she did when she was half-bored, half-curious, waiting for something to happen. She looked up when she heard him, her expression brightening instantly.

“Doctor,” she said warmly.

He marched right up to her without hesitation, though inside, every step felt like walking across thin ice. His face was carefully composed, though his jaw worked once as if holding back nerves.

“Clara,” he began, his voice low and formal, “I wanted to apologize to you.”

Clara blinked, surprised. “Why, Doctor?”

He looked at the console instead of her, as though it were suddenly the most fascinating thing in the universe. His fingers moved along the controls, twisting a dial he’d already adjusted twice that morning, tapping a switch with no particular purpose.

“The… screaming and throwing thing that I did. Earlier,” he said finally, clipped, trying not to sound too ashamed.

Clara’s lips curved into a slow smile, her eyebrows arching playfully. “You mean your tantrum?”

The Doctor’s head snapped up, his eyes flashing indignation before quickly looking away again. His cheeks burned. He cleared his throat. “I— I don’t know if I’d call it that,” he muttered. “But yes. That.”

His hands tightened on the console edge, as if gripping dignity itself.

Clara’s smile softened into something fond, teasing but gentle. “Doctor,” she said lightly, “why are you doing this again? You already apologized to me before, remember?”

“That wasn’t—” He shifted uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair, trying to appear casual when he felt anything but. “That wasn’t a real apology. That was basically all Missy.”

Clara tilted her head, watching him with amused affection. “Well, it was definitely the best and cutest and most honest apology I’ve ever gotten,” she said brightly. “And I loved it.”

The Doctor froze. His face went scarlet, ears and all. He gave a huff, muttered something unintelligible, and dragged his hands through his hair again, tugging at the ends in embarrassment. “Whatever…” he said, trying to sound aloof, but it came out weak.

Clara’s smile widened, and without hesitation, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.

The Doctor stiffened. His arms stayed stubbornly at his sides, his body locked in place as though hugs were foreign territory. He stared over her shoulder at the far wall, his hearts pounding so hard he thought she’d hear.

And then, slowly, hesitantly, his hands lifted. He rested them awkwardly against her back, then curled them properly, hugging her in return. His eyes closed, just for a moment.

His voice, when it came, was small. Almost meek. “Do you… still want to travel with me?”

Clara pulled back slightly, her face full of surprised warmth. “Why wouldn’t I?” she asked, genuinely confused.

He swallowed, shifting on his feet, gaze darting away again. “Because of… the thing.”

Clara’s expression softened instantly. She shook her head, almost laughing. “Doctor, don’t be daft. Of course I still want to travel with you. We’re friends. And I don’t care if sometimes you’re not only a little boy, but also an angry, tantrum-throwing little boy who needs his mama to turn him over her lap, okay?”

The Doctor flushed scarlet. He looked away so fast his coat tails swirled behind him. “Nothing happened,” he muttered furiously.

Right then, the console room door creaked open. Missy swept in, her entrance perfectly timed, almost suspiciously so, as if she’d been standing right outside, waiting for her cue.

“Well, now,” she drawled with wicked delight, “should we be lying, sweetheart?”

The Doctor’s head snapped up. His whole face was crimson now. “Missy, don’t start.”

Missy’s laugh rang out, delighted and knowing, her eyes sparkling with smug amusement. She flicked a glance at Clara, who immediately grinned back with a conspiratorial sparkle of her own.

The Doctor’s gaze flicked between them, incredulous. “Stop it. The both of you,” he snapped, flustered.

But that only made them laugh harder, their mirth bouncing off the console room walls like music.

Trying to regain some shred of control, the Doctor straightened his jacket and cleared his throat. “Are we going to go now?” he demanded, dignity fraying at the edges.

Clara, still grinning, turned back to the console. “Sure, Doctor. Off on an adventure. Then you won’t feel the need to throw another tantrum in the TARDIS.”

His frown deepened, and he flushed all over again, ears burning hot. But this time, he said nothing. He only muttered something under his breath, stalking toward the other side of the console while Missy and Clara shared another laugh behind his back.

And the TARDIS herself hummed faintly, a low, warm note, as though she, too, was laughing.

The Doctor darted around the console in his usual blur of movement, hands slapping levers and switches with a kind of desperate urgency. His straight hair fell into his face, cheeks flushed as if he'd been running moments before. The console lights flickered to life as he pulled one lever, then another—

—and then… silence.

A dull, heavy silence that pressed against the room, the TARDIS humming low and resentful, her time rotor still as stone.

The Doctor froze mid-motion, his mouth falling open. He blinked at the console like it had just grown teeth.

“…That’s not right,” he whispered, a quiver of confusion in his little voice.

Clara, standing on the other side of the room, frowned. “What’s wrong?”

The Doctor’s eyes went comically wide, hands hovering over the switches he’d just touched. “She won’t work.”

Clara tilted her head. “What do you mean she won’t work?”

He waved his hands toward the console as though she should understand perfectly. “Well she just won’t! She’s sulking. She—she won’t move.” He shot a quick look toward Missy, brow furrowed. “You did unlock her, right?”

Missy’s lips curved into that maddening, self-satisfied smile. She leaned back against the railing, arms folded in perfect calm. “Yes, poppet, I did. You should be able to fly her.”

The Doctor’s frown deepened, eyes darting back and forth between the console and Missy. He leaned in, pressing his ear against the panel as if listening. A low, almost grumpy groan echoed through the floor. The TARDIS’ lights flickered, not mechanical, not accidental, but deliberate. A sulk.

The Doctor’s cheeks went crimson. He straightened abruptly, tugging his jacket straight like that might cover how tiny and guilty he suddenly looked. His eyes flitted toward Clara, then to the console, then back to Missy.

Missy’s laugh broke the silence, low and rich, curling around the room like smoke. “Oh, this is hilarious.” She tilted her head, her grin sharp with amusement. “But really, darling, you should just do it. She deserves it, too.”

Clara looked between them, baffled. “Do what? Deserves what? What is happening?”

Missy didn’t answer her. She just arched her brows and fixed the Doctor with a look that said everything and more. That teasing, knowing, mama’s watching look.

The Doctor let out a strangled little noise in his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. He shuffled awkwardly in front of the console, shifting from one foot to the other, his entire frame screaming of someone cornered. “I… well… she…” His voice cracked. “I might’ve—sort of—kicked her.”

Clara’s jaw dropped. “You… what?”

The Doctor winced, ears burning red now. “I kicked her, alright?!” He slapped his palms on the console and leaned in close. His voice dropped into a hurried whisper, his eyes flicking up sheepishly to the glowing time rotor. “I’m sorry, old girl. Shouldn’t have kicked you.”

For a long moment, there was nothing. Then—

A shudder. A pulse through the floor.

And suddenly the TARDIS gave a great lurch, her engines coughing to life with a triumphant roar. The sudden jolt nearly threw Clara straight to the floor, and even Missy had to grip the railing to keep her balance. The Doctor stumbled back a step, wide-eyed, clinging to the console.

Missy let out a delighted bark of laughter. “Well! I suppose that means she forgives you, huh?”

The Doctor’s lips tugged into the faintest, most reluctant of smiles. He smoothed his hand over the console affectionately, whispering low, “I guess she does.”

Clara, straightening her jacket, gave him a small, amused smile, the kind that said she’d finally caught on. “She just wanted an apology.”

Missy leaned in close to the Doctor, her voice dropping into a smug, velvet purr meant for his ears alone. “See, my little gremlin? Mama always makes sure her baby learns his lessons.”

The Doctor’s blush returned in full force, but despite himself, he was smiling as the time rotor lit up above them, engines singing. Clara glanced between them, still trying to piece it all together, but she didn’t press. Not this time.

The TARDIS soared forward, humming with forgiveness, and for a rare moment, all three of them were smiling, though Missy’s was just a little more smug, her dark eyes glittering with private pride in her baby Time Tot.