Fic Post

[settiai]

This post is where everything happens. All stories/ficlets/drabbles go in the comments here. If your story's too long to fit in a single comment, please post it in your own journal and leave the link in a comment here along with your next pairing request(s). Make certain that you include the pairing you've written as the title of the comment, so that specific pairings can be found easily.

Please don't post any comments that aren't stories. That way, this post will show an accurate count of all the written stories. If you make a mistake or forget something, just edit your comment. If you write a story featuring a specific pairing but somebody posts their story before you post yours, please post it in the overflow post instead of the main one.

If you need help thinking of a pairing to request next or getting inspiration, don't forget The Doctor Who Random Pairing Generator. It includes all of the "main" characters from the various shows, audios, books, and spin-offs. People who aren't participating in the writing can list pairings here that authors can write and/or use as requests in this post.

The rules can be found on the community profile. The masterlist of all written pairings can be found here, while all requested pairings that are still open can be found here. If you want to leave feedback for one of the authors, please go to this post. Any other questions can be asked here.

Note: If you're writing a story for someone's request, please post it as a reply to their comment. Only create a new thread if you've written a pairing that nobody has requested yet.

Comments

Ten/Romana

[in-the-end.livejournal.com]

“I did what you asked me to,” he says, almost pleading for forgiveness for something he already knows no one can forgive. No one needs to. Except himself, of course.

She makes no immediate response to his plea and simply stares at him. He can see her mind working.

Feels it.

She’s counting, almost. Stripes on his suit? Freckles, maybe. “And this is what you have become?” she asks.

And now he knows the answer: battle scars.

“I see it cost you, too.” She is taller now. Her hair reminds him of someone on some American TV show that Rose used to watch. It suits her, though. She is still very ... her, he thinks.

“A new body and a few decades stuck in the Matrix, Doctor. Not too much. I think it cost you a lot more.”

And it did. So he tells her. Tells her about the Daleks and about Rose. He tells her about the woman who walked the Earth for him.

He doesn’t tell her about the Master because, well, he doesn’t have to.

And it’s good, remembering. He has focussed on the distant past for so long; he forgets what he has become.

“It’s how they heal,” she says, almost absentmindedly as she sits down next to him. It’s as if she could hear his thoughts, he thinks. Then he chuckles because, of course, that is exactly what she was doing.

“What’s funny?” she asks.

And he kisses her because he’s pretty sure that will help him heal as well.

Requests: Martha/Master, Rose/Jo, Jack/Romana

Martha/Master

[allfireburns.livejournal.com]

Martha Jones is not particularly interested in politics. Sorting out her family drama is politics enough for one lifetime. Studying takes up enough of her time, and she has dreams of one day having some semblance of a social life. In all of that, she doesn't have time to be particularly interested in politics.

She knows Harold Saxon is speaking, not far from the hospital, if only because the preparations for it meant she had to take a detour this morning and arrived at the hospital late. It's over by the time she leaves the hospital, the crowd gone, for which she's very grateful. She just wants to go home right now, have a cup of tea, watch stupid television and maybe take a nap before she absolutely has to study.

Instead, she bumps into someone, walking down the street, and stumbles back, the apology faltering on her tongue when she sees the man, realizes she recognizes him. He smiles in a way that makes her breath stop momentarily, and tells her it's quite alright, and asks her name.

Martha Jones tells Harold Saxon she's not particularly interested in politics, and that she's already voting for him. She's a little surprised, honestly, when that doesn't give him pause at all, when his smile doesn't change in the least as he mentions that she looks tired, and asks if she's alright, and God, she can't help but be charmed by it.

*

For some reason, Harold Saxon likes her. He thinks she's bright and interesting, or at least gives a very convincing impression of it. He listens when she talks. He takes her out to lunch, once, and asks question after question – innocent questions, not prying, and maybe because of that she somehow ends up telling him the story of her life, silly things like childhood games she and Tish used to play, important things like her parent's divorce...

She just wants to keep talking to him. She wants him to keep talking to her, she just wants to stay around him, because the world somehow comes into sharper focus when he's around, while at the same time sidling away so it's merely a background for him. Harold Saxon isn't in the world, he is the world, and everything else is merely an accessory to him.

Before he leaves, he passes Martha a card with his number on it, tells her to call him if she needs anything at all. Her fingertips brush his, and she draws a startled breath despite herself – his touch is like ice.

*

Harold Saxon has a wife. Martha Jones has no interest in being second best to anyone, and she's not going to be some politician's mistress. She has better things to do with her life than be someone's dirty secret, or the person he turns to when he's tired of pretty and sweet and blonde.

Somehow, she forgets all of that when he's in her flat, which always seemed a comfortable size before but with him here suddenly seems too small, too cramped, like now that he's here, there's not enough air to breathe. Or maybe it's just that he's always left her breathless.

Martha opens her mouth to tell him that maybe he should leave.

Harold Saxon steps forward and kisses her instead, before the words even reach her lips, and like some stupid cliche, she goes a little weak at the knees. Eyes closed, Martha rests a hand against his chest, just to steady herself, and tells herself she's imagining the steady, four-beat heartbeat she feels under her palm, on the wrong side of his chest.

*

The Doctor says he'll recognize the Master when he sees him. Martha has the sinking feeling she already knows, growing more and more certain with every second that ticks by.

She swallows hard, eyes flickering over the stark black and white Saxon posters on the wall of every building, the T-shirts, the...

Martha Jones knows the voice she heard at the end of the universe. She's heard it hundreds of times, on television, on the street, sitting across from her at lunch, murmuring in her ear while they're both lying in her bed...

"That was the voice of Harold Saxon."

It's a realization that comes several hundred billion years or just a few months too late, depending how you count.




Requests: Yvonne Hartman/Ianto Jones, Martha Jones/Grace Holloway, Liz Shaw/Toshiko Sato

Liz/Tosh

[carawj.livejournal.com]

A scientific adviser. That was what Jack had said they needed. Tosh hadn't wanted to phone UNIT, but he'd asked her to, and they really did need some help. Owen was a doctor, but there was only so much that he knew about the chemical compound of this new alien slime thing, and the computer had still been drawing a blank after she'd run twenty-seven different analysis programs.

One thing Tosh certainly hadn't expected was the beautiful blonde woman in the incredibly short lab coat who had swept into the hub the next day, with legs that practically went to the moon and back. Owen's jaw had just about hit his knees, and Jack had followed her around with puppyish tenacity, dropping charm and innuendo right, left and centre.

"Captain Harkness," Doctor Shaw said eventually, in a voice made of equal parts ice and honey. "I was under the impression that you needed scientific advice, not a sexual playmate. But as you're clearly as capable and highly intelligent as you keep making yourself out to be, I seem to be superfluous. In which case, I'll be on the next train back to Cambridge, and I'll let you get on with it."

Tosh had caught Gwen's eye and had to pretend to fix some cabling under her desk to mask her giggles.

Of course, they solved the whole mess in the end. Doctor Shaw had figured out a vastly complex formula for the substance needed for the slime's destruction and Tosh had located it using her favourite new tracking system, right before it completed its breeding cycle. The team had staggered off in various directions afterwards, mostly heading for hot showers to remove the leftover goo, but as Tosh turned to leave, a hand rested on her shoulder and that fantastic voice asked her if she wanted to go for a quick drink first.

And it turned out that Doctor Shaw didn't work for UNIT at all, really (which made Tosh feel a little better about having said yes so quickly), but as she had more degrees than should be physically possible, they liked to call her in to freelance from time to time. It had changed a lot since she had started with them in the 70s, she said.

The other thing Tosh hadn't expected when she'd made the phone call, was that the gorgeous and frankly brilliant Doctor Shaw - Liz - would be standing in her kitchen the following morning wearing nothing but one of Tosh's long sweaters, making tea and toast. And humming to herself.

She looked up, smiling as she realized Tosh was watching her, and came over to kiss her good morning. Tosh felt herself tense a little.

"What is it?" Liz looked kind, and a little sad, as though she'd been expecting this. "Second thoughts?"

Tosh shook her head. "No! No, it's not that." She wondered faintly if she sounded ridiculous and shut her eyes. "I... I don't have the best track record with, with this sort of thing. People I care about, they tend to, well, die."

Liz shook slightly against her, and Tosh opened her eyes to see her laughing. "I've survived far worse than you in my time, Toshiko," she said gently.

Tosh let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding and reached up to capture Liz's mouth. Seconds or hours passed.

"That's the toast burning."

This time, maybe this time, things might just turn out alright.

Requests: Four/Sarah Jane/Harry, Four/Leela, Leela/Sarah Jane

Martha/Grace

[brewsternorth.livejournal.com]

“This is such bullshit,” sighed the American woman at length. “C’mon, let’s go for a walk.”



It was a good enough day for a walk on the South Bank, Martha thought, but not your usual job interview procedure.

“This isn’t a job interview,” the American, Dr Holloway, sighed. “This is just to make sure the paperwork’s filled in. Martha – we know what happened to your family. It’s kinda our fault. We just wanted to make good.”

Martha stopped dead. “How’d you know -?”

“I’m chief medical adviser to the Unified Intelligence Taskforce,” said Dr Holloway, seriously. “And I’m not hiring an assistant, I’m training an apprentice.”

“What, like Obi-Wan and Luke Skywalker?” Martha giggled, and to her surprise Dr Holloway was laughing too.

“Exactly! Man, you have no idea how long it’s been since someone cracked a Star Wars joke to me. Nine years, nearly. Miz Jones -” she lapsed into a bad Bogart imitation - “this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship!”

Pairings: Jabe/Chan’tho, Five/Turlough, Cassandra/Chip

Control/Redvers Fenn-Cooper

[brewsternorth.livejournal.com]

The man who once was Redvers Fenn-Cooper is no longer afraid. Indeed, he has moved to the point where he can acknowledge that he had once been afraid. Not with scorn, but with understanding. He had been dazzled by the light, and had had to wander in the dark until his sight returned.

He and Control (he still calls her that, though more as an honorific, for she is master of this extraordinary craft) left Nimrod behind on a peaceful world many flights ago to gather his wits. Now they travel on alone together, exploring and experimenting and experiencing. Not a day goes by without his being awestruck at the unceasing newness of it all. He sees things he cannot even think of names for.

Not a night goes by, either. The old Redvers might have found her sexual frankness superficially appealing, but he, now, has learned to delight in its complexity. They have, together, woven and rewoven their relationship, the rules evolving to adapt to new situations, until his imagination can delight in actions and sensations that the old buffer would have been too afraid to do more than observe from the sidelines, smugly seeing them as “what the savages did”. He becomes at once alien to all worlds and at the same moment embodied in them, explorer and native all at once, a far better yardstick of experimental variables than that creature still entombed in the brig.

Finally, Control rechristens him, ecstatic in his arms in a hot-spring on a world of ice, their joy an ember in the emptiness of potentials: “Voyager.”

Reinette/Rose fill

[ainekatt.livejournal.com]

Completo! And a little long, so it can be found here: http://ainekatt.livejournal.com/2803.html
That was surprisingly fun to write, and by the end of it, I actually find myself shipping them a little. Tee hee! Thanks for the suggestion.

Hm... let's see, PROMPTS:
Jamie McCrimmon/Ianto Jones, Sally Sparrow/Ace McShane, Jamie/Two/Ianto, Harriet Jones/Sarah Jane, Amy Pond/Jamie, and Jenny/Amy/Sally Sparrow/Ace.

Cassandra/Chip

[hobbit-feets.livejournal.com]

While the Mistress sleeps, Chip examines her brain in its jar. It's a beautiful thing, breathtaking, and he gazes at it with eyes wide and lips half-parted. Sitting cross-legged on the cold floor with a stolen blanket wrapped around his shoulders, he can press fingertips to the glass of its jar. He traces patterns on the glass, follows the whorls, the wrinkles and creases and furrows in the surface of the organ.

The Mistress tried to explain it to him, once, on one of their quiet days. Convolutions was the word she used for those furrows, sulci and gyri. He can't remember now the precise words she'd used, but those convolutions, she'd said, that's why the Mistress is so clever. Thoughts run along them, little sparks of electricity, neurons and synapses jumping on cue, all the quicker for their presence, and keep the Mistress vibrant and beautiful and sharp.

Chip hadn't understood, then, when she'd explained it to him, and the Mistress had laughed, crisp and amused, at that.

'Of course you don't, darling, you haven't got them. Well,' pretty red lips had pursed as she corrected herself absently, 'Not all of them, anyway; I didn't grow you to be a rocket scientist, and brain tissue is valuable, after all.'

'Oh,' Chip had said, only partially understanding, and the Mistress had given him a little smile and a lift of where one eyebrow ought to be.

'Don't worry your head about it, Chip; it's not built for it.'

He thinks about it sometimes, times like now, looking at the Mistress's brain. It's only right that she should have more than him; she's beautiful and clever, magnificent. She's bested the years that ought to have cut her down long ago. So it's right, surely, that she's better than Chip. He is lucky to have her. He'd be nothing without her, just a snatch of skin somewhere on a petri dish (he can't really conceive of that either, but the Mistress has told him it's true, and he trusts that it is).

Sometimes, though, he wonders if he ought to miss those sulci and gyri in his brain. Should he want to have as many as the Mistress has? If it meant he'd be as clever as she...

But he never seems quite able to decide.

Pairings: Delgado!Master/Queen Galleia, Delgado!Master/Jo Grant, Tenth Doctor/Novice Hame

Five/Turlough

[lycoris.livejournal.com]

It was easy to seduce the Doctor. Particularly with that voice purring in his ear, encouraging him, coaxing him. Ordering him.

Trick him. Make him vulnerable. Kill him!

It hardly took any effort. The Doctor was alone and sad, mourning over Nyssa’s departure. It only took a few shy touches, nervous words of condolence and faked comfort, shy anxiety, confusion. The Doctor smiled at him, kind and open and Turlough kissed him, soft and careful and shy as he could be. Still playing the innocent, the uncertain, the frightened school boy who had wandered on the TARDIS almost by accident, who didn’t really understand but wanted to. Wanted to understand everything.

Destroy him! You will destroy him!

The Doctor was a surprisingly good kisser. He didn’t push Turlough away. He didn’t fight or try to stop him. He kissed Turlough quite gently back, hand on the back of Turlough’s head. When Turlough deepened the kiss, he responded in kind. It was only when Turlough began to tug at his clothes that he stopped him with one light hand.

“Turlough,” he said. “Are you sure?”

Kill the Doctor! Kill him!

Turlough didn’t bother to answer with words, just with another kiss, more frantic this time. He didn’t want the Doctor to stop. He didn’t want to think. He didn’t want that voice to speak to him any more. He didn’t want to think about what anything meant.

The Doctor seemed willing to be a distraction. He half-lifted Turlough and pulled him into what Turlough supposed was his bedroom. He allowed Turlough to push him onto the bed, allowed Turlough to tear at his clothes, allowed Turlough to kiss him roughly and bite at his exposed throat. He seemed willing to allow Turlough to do anything that he wanted. To allow Turlough to take control.

I control you, boy! Kill him! Destroy him!

“No … ”

He whimpered the word into the Doctor’s mouth and felt the Doctor frown, knew he would ask what was wrong, try to stop and Turlough didn’t want that. He didn’t want to stop. He didn’t want …

He kissed the Doctor furiously, raked his fingers down his sides, struggled with their clothes. The Doctor moaned and arched his back and tilted his head back, exposing his naked throat.

Now, boy! Now!

It would be so easy. He just had to lay his hand on the throat. It would barely take any pressure. He could pretend it was a game. Pretend until it was all over, just as he always did. He reached up a trembling hand and the Doctor shivered at the touch, his eyes closed. He had no idea, he had no inkling, he didn’t understand –

Do it! Do it now! DO IT!

“I can’t! I can’t!”

He screamed the words and half-collapsed onto the Doctor, shaking with wretched rage, his energy oozing from him. The voice in his mind roared and jeered at him, cursing him, hating him, threatening him. Turlough cowered and shook and tried to shut the voice out, tried to make it go away, knowing all the while that there was no way to block it out because it was in his head and he would never be free, never.

The Doctor rolled him gently over so they were lying side by side. To Turlough’s surprise, he wrapped his arms around Turlough’s body, holding him close, hand in his hair again, stroking very gently.

“It’s all right, Turlough. Everything’s all right. It’s all right.”

He said it over and over as Turlough sobbed into his shoulder. He didn’t ask what was wrong. Turlough didn’t even try to tell. He just huddled at the Doctor’s side and slowly, the voice faded away to nothing and Turlough fell into the first dreamless sleep that he’d had since joining the TARDIS, comforted by the Doctor’s reassurance.

“It’s all right, Turlough. It will all be all right.”
____
Requests: Brigadier/Turlough, Ainley!Master/Turlough, Tobias Vaughn/Packer (both from The Invasion)