Requested: Rose/Ace/Brigadier, in some combination or other. I had to work VERY HARD not to include in this the line, "We're here to blow up your Yeti." BUT I WANTED TO.The Brigadier strode forcefully into the room, then halted mid-step. The source of the muffled low giggling he'd heard from outside was not, in fact, Miss Grant. And he found he had quite forgotten the errand on which he'd intended to send her, since she and the Doctor had returned from their excursion so quickly. Which evidently, of course, they hadn't, as the source of the sound turned out to be two other young women, neither of whom he had ever seen before, leaning against one of the tables and, apparently, intent on making each other even more disheveled than they already were.
Well, they probably weren't spies, at any rate. That sort of behaviour was hardly an efficient way to infiltrate an enemy base. Though of course he couldn't rule out aliens. The Brigadier cleared his throat pointedly.
The girls leapt apart, turning to stare at him. The blonde one blushed deep red and laughed, covering her mouth. The other one eyed him uncertainly for a few moments, before comprehension seemed to dawn in her eyes.
"Oh, hello," she said, with a wide smile.
The blonde laughed again and made a little wave. "Hi."
"I suppose you're wondering," said the first, "what we're doing in your top-secret headquarters?"
"The question had crossed my mind." There was something terribly--*friendly* about them, despite their behaviour. He resisted the urge to let his guard down, though, maintaining a firm grip on his baton.
"It's not actually that secret," the blonde girl said. "You've got a sign out front and everything."
"My name's Ace," continued the other one, "and this is Rose. We've come to help you with your squid."
The Brigadier let a beat pass, waiting to see if she would elaborate. "With our what?"
"Your squid?" Ace frowned and glanced at her watch. "Oh! Well, you're about to get invaded by space-squid, see, in about--well, sometime in the next few hours, I don't know the exact time."
"The Doctor's not here, is he?" asked Rose, and the Brigadier narrowed his eyes.
"How do you two know the Doctor?"
"Oh, we're friends of his," Ace said. "Well, we will be in a couple dozen years. Few hundred. It's a bit complicated, really. The important thing is, we brought explosives!"
"Er, for the squid," Rose said.
Requested: Seven/cheetah!Ace from Survival
The change is like slipping loose from a trap. She can feel the sun licking against her skin, burning out from the inside. When she touches the Doctor she can feel it inside him too. Every tremor and shift of the planet is happening inside her, and inside him, *because* of her. Burning away all the cold, ancient black of dead stars. She presses her nose to his throat, beneath his jaw, and breathes his scent.
His hands push at her, gently at first, then harder, painfully. But she holds on to him, one hand behind his neck, one arm around him. The fight is good, struggle is good, the blood pounding through her muscles. The tang of fear rising on his skin.
"Ace," he says, "you mustn't--" He shudders when she licks over his double pulse. "You mustn't give in. Don't let it inside you!"
"I want it inside," she says, and laughs. "You can feel it, Professor, can't you?" All her (new) strength against his, but he won't--can't--really hurt her, and she can do anything. Ace pins him against the sand. "Come hunt with me," she says, and smiles as his eyes flicker.
Inside his mouth she tastes blood and something else beneath it, strange and dark and--even now, still--cold.
...some sort of AU with Rose at Torchwood in this world, and...things.
There's something about the in-between corridors that makes Rose itch under her skin. The long walk down and the blank walls, the faint scent of condensation and the barest trace of bleach. Long blank hallways always tickle something in the back of her head, now. Torchwood is fantastically strange, and bleakly ordinary, which is how she feels about Gwen, though--not so cruel. Only that kissing Gwen in the corridor outside the Hub feels lush, and sexy, and utterly unadventurous.
She's kissed girls before, a little more maybe, mostly when she was drunk. Once on a strange green beach by a reddish ocean, under a perfectly Earth-blue sky, the same color as the purring woman in her arms. (That's a Doctor memory, carefully happy, but still best left in its box a while longer.) Never gone all the way though, but she did with Gwen, and it was the opposite of the daring edge-wobbling thrill she used to get from girls, the warm flush of being watched and the dizzy hot softness against her chest. It was just comfortable. Like it was *right* for Rose to slip off the couch and between Gwen's knees, right the way Gwen arched up her hips to slide her jeans off, the absolute breathless pale of her thighs next to her red cotton pants.
Sex is simple and basic and safe, Gwen's knees closing around her shoulders, holding Rose's hand inside her. Before and after--inside the Hub, outside in the city--waking sleeping, all uncertain. The endless bits of drudgery that come with staying in one place, the shock and cautious pleasure when people in the neighborhood start to recognize her, the always always pain in the line of Jack's body that wasn't there before and that she knows is somehow her fault. The weather, the laundry, the creatures locked up underneath her office, the key around her neck. Running out of space in her closet.
She would rather be here in this long and blank-walled corridor, kissing Gwen, back to the wall. Heat blooming out from her middle washing over everything.
Requested: Ten/TARDIS
He took off, once, by accident, while he was working on her. Grating pulled up and him halfway under the console, fiddling with the wires by the blue light, when his elbow slipped and he jogged something not meant to be jogged, and next thing he knew he could hear the rotor beginning to pump and the whistling groan of the dematerialization circuit. When he tried to push himself back up, his hands sunk in, right up to his elbows.
It was two or three months after this latest regeneration, and his body was still new, still twitched occasionally as it settled. Now the TARDIS was taking hold of it, time energy surging through every shiny-new cell and lighting him up, sending signal after signal to the time-sensitive areas of his brain until they were spasming. Every upwards surge of the column, every downward thrust, shook through his body like a stampede, the noise drowning out his own sounds and struggles, the noise swallowing every sensation, setting every nerve to rhythmic shivering.
And then it stopped, faded in a second to silence. The Doctor became slowly, faintly aware of the edge of the open grating, digging into his midsection as he dangled over it. He waited--not breathing just yet--until he could move without setting off little flares of light inside his skull.
Then he noticed the wet spot.
Requested: Jack/Toshiko
Toshiko perched on the edge of the desk, trying not to fall over backwards. She had the edge in a fierce grip, and Jack's big hands holding her thighs open were keeping her in place, but he kept doing this quick flickery thing with his tongue, just around her clit, that was about to make her lose her balance. He peered up from between her legs, mouth glossy and wet.
"You all right there?"
"Yes," she hissed, and spared one precious handhold to push him back down.
Requested: Jack/Gwen
"It seems to me," Gwen said, between urgent wet kisses, "that this happens a lot."
Jack undid her jeans with one hand, the other still cupped behind her head. "Really?" he said, chuckling.
She laughed a little breathlessly. "Well, not this precise thing, no--ohhhh, Jack--" She broke off into a moan as he pushed his fingers inside her, slick and easy as anything. God, she was wet, had been since the second they stumbled through that shimmery wall-thing.
Jack was sucking on her neck now, biting, and her own noises echoed in the strange little chamber. Her jeans pooled around her ankles as he drove her up onto her toes with hard, fast thrusts, curling his fingers inside her. She pulled weakly at his braces, her skin itching to feel his, but it would have to wait. He had four fingers inside her now, she could feel the swell where his palm rounded out, and his thumb worked her clit like a button, pressing hard in little not-quite-rhythmic pulses. Christ, she was going to come before she could get another breath, and they'd only stepped in here a minute ago.
Jack bit up and down her throat while she screamed, and kissed her as she panted and whined her way back down, shivering on his hand. When she could finally make her toes uncurl, she settled more firmly on her feet, biting her lip as he eased out of her. The scent of sex--of *her*--hit her like a sudden wave, and Jack too, licking his lips.
"I mean, I think I'd remember if I'd done *that* before," he said. Good God, he looked smug, but Gwen supposed he'd earned it.
Requested: Turlough/C'rizz (and thus only mildly my fault)
"--no," C'rizz said, "no, I'm sorry, that isn't doing anything for me."
Turlough looked up, feeling rather cross and slightly fatigued. "I'm sorry?"
"I'm sure you're very skilled at doing this to humans--"
"Trion, thank you. *And* human. And Gallifreyan. Quite high marks from the Gallifreyan."
"--but it just doesn't work on someone with an exoskeleton. It feels...faintly like being tickled, actually. From a distance."
"I see," Turlough said. He sat back and crossed his arms. The heat of the moment was rapidly fading. "Do I dare to ask what your people *do* enjoy in bed?"
"It's not that complicated, really," C'rizz said, with what Turlough had to admit was a remarkable degree of patience. "Here, give me your hand."
Turlough extended it warily. The sexy exoticism of cross-species bedroom antics was all very well, but he couldn't help thinking about that exoskeletal sentients he'd once met on a Terzian moon-colony, whose females devoured the males after sex.
"You are male, aren't you?" he asked abruptly. C'rizz was pulling his hand down a thick seam between the two plates on his chest and midsection, but he paused and--to Turlough's moderate irritation--burst out laughing. "It's a reasonable question!"
C'rizz just pulled on his hand, pressing it harder into the seam, and then suddenly there was a thick wet noise and the plates slid open, just enough to let his hand inside, where--
"Ah," Turlough said, back on familiar ground at last. "Good answer."
Requested: Eight/Fitz
It was the sort of snog, Fitz reflected, that you saw in movies. After the hero--blond, muscled, disgustingly well-groomed--landed a good square right hook for justice on the weaselly mugs of the spies, or the Nazis, or the evil mastermind with the doomsday machine at the center of the earth, and the brassy-but-softhearted dame rushes over to him, bosom heaving with relief, and the music swells as they glue their faces together.
Of course, that metaphor made him as the dame, which was the kind of thought Fitz could do without at the moment; his confidence in his manhood was never exactly overpowering, and it didn't help matters to have the Doctor's hands clasping his face and the Doctor's--rather large, for a short bloke--body pressing Fitz hard against the wall as they kissed with tongues.
Well, all right, it helped *certain* matters quite a lot. And Fitz hadn't exactly tried to get away, either. An impartial observer might reasonably argue, in fact, that he'd initiated the whole snogging business, seeing as he did more or less leap into the Doctor's arms and go at him with the sort of hunger Fitz hadn't quite thought himself capable of until just then. But he'd thought the Doctor was dead--*really* dead, this time, not having-an-adventure-dead, not your-friend-is-dead-surrender-to-me-earth-man, not actually-he's-got-two-hearts-dead. The real thing, Fitz had believed, and then there he'd been with the movie-star right hook of justice--metaphorical, of course, he was the Doctor--and Fitz had sort of lost control of the proceedings from that point on.
The Doctor pulled back to breathe--well, for Fitz to breathe, probably, as the Doctor could just do that funny lung thing--and stared at him with an intensity that made Fitz squirm, and turn red, and briefly wonder if the snog and hoped-for follow-up activities were going to be worth the awkward discussion that the Doctor would undoubtedly insist on having. Or maybe the Doctor was about to explain something terribly alien and bizarre about Time Lord sexuality--at least Fitz knew he didn't have two of them, you couldn't share a TARDIS, and frequent mortal peril, this long with another man and not get an eyeful now and then. But maybe he had to do something--alien to it, or it only worked with other Time Lords, or Fitz had picked up a hideous space VD and the Doctor had been waiting for the right time to tell him.
"Good to see you too," the Doctor said, and beamed. And moved a bit closer, which--right, definitely not "only works with other Time Lords," then.
"Er, yeah," Fitz said, unable to hold back a matching grin. "Hello."
Requested: Three/Brigadier/Liz
Alastair returned from the bathroom, glass of water in hand, and paused in the doorway, raising his eyebrows. He'd left the Doctor and Miss Shaw--*Liz,* he corrected himself for the hundredth time--half-dozing, and he *had* only been gone a few minutes. Apparently that was sufficient time for both of them.
Liz straddled the Doctor's lap, her head tossed back in abandon as she rode him. Her smaller hands clutched with evident urgency at the Doctor's, which gripped her waist firmly, lifting her and settling her back down at a pace brisk enough to make her breasts bounce attractively. As Alastair watched, she groaned and dug her nails in to the Doctor's forearms.
"Harder, you bastard," she growled, "I said harder, come on--"
"Are you sure?" the Doctor said, sounding amused. He nodded to Alastair with an air of casual camaraderie that seemed faintly absurd, under the circumstances, but nonetheless comfortingly familiar. "I wouldn't want to hurt you, you know."
"Doctor," Liz said through what sounded like clenched teeth, and followed it with a string of profanity of which Alastair would hardly have imagined her capable. He set the glass down on the dresser and went to them, feeling himself grow warm and eager despite his fatigue minutes earlier. It wouldn't be at all sporting to let the Doctor face such dire threats without assistance from a fellow soldier.
Requested: Jack/Ten/Martha, written before Utopia
"You know what this place needs?" Jack said. His voice caught for a second as he thrust in deep.
The Doctor made a muffled questioning noise, wisely not lifting his head from between Martha's thighs. Very nice thighs, all spread and tensing and pale where the Doctor's fingers were digging in.
Jack thrust again, catching his rhythm, finally. "A dog. You need a dog, one of those big ones--ah--the kind that jump up on you and knock you down. Sniff your crotch."
"Bit like you then," said Martha, panting. Then she moaned and thrust her hips up hard, and Jack felt the Doctor rocking back against him, shifting Jack inside him. The slim hips under his hands shifted, spasmed. Jack held on tighter, pulled him up a little to work this new angle that made the Doctor arch his back and *squeeze* like that.
"Fuck--" *Just* like that. "Yeah, you like that, yeah--" He kept thrusting and the Doctor kept up what *he* was doing and Martha kept groaning and rocking so her breasts bounced up and down, sweat-shiny with tight flushed nipples just out of reach of his mouth. He'd have to do that next, suck and bite and taste her, and maybe the Doctor could fuck him at the same time, and they could do it every way, do everything they wanted with each other.
Martha had been mostly quiet so far but it turned out she was just saving it all up for the finale. The Doctor took one hand from her thigh, shifted his weight a little awkwardly and pushed his fingers up inside her. The noise she made was like an electric punch straight to Jack's spine. She howled and came and came, her stomach muscles clenching and breasts bouncing, never loosening her merciless grip on the Doctor's hair.
Jack thrust faster, jerky, frantic. He slid one hand round to take hold of the Doctor's cock and somehow the feel of it, hot and damp and alive in his grip--the Doctor was here, real, *wanted him*--made him lose it finally. A few seconds later, his head still swimming and blurred, he felt the Doctor shuddering underneath him and groaned as another frisson shivered down his body. God. *God.* Jack didn't want to move. He stayed there, pressed against the Doctor's back and smelling that strange spicy scent of that skin, mixed with Martha's smells, and his own.
The Doctor's new body still seemed unnaturally small, wrong in so many ways, but Jack thought maybe he could learn to appreciate its finer points.
Requested: Eight/Fitz, umbrella
"What do you *mean* you've only got one umbrella," Fitz said. "How can you only have one anti-acid-rain umbrella in the entire TARDIS?"
"I used to have a full set, I think," the Doctor said. "Unfortunately I neglected to replace the ones that melted last time--"
"They *melted*?"
"--but I'm sure we can share. It's very roomy!" He opened the umbrella again, demonstrating. Admittedly, it was a good bit wider than any ordinary umbrella Fitz had ever seen, but as far as the diameter of anti-acid-rain umbrellas went Fitz considered ten meters an absolute minimum acceptable measurement, and preferably made of steel, or perhaps concrete. Special anti-acid concrete. The fact was, Fitz was decidedly uncomfortable with the whole concept of anti-acid-rain *anything,* since it implied that wandering around outside with acid rain pouring down on you was something you ought to be doing under any circumstances.
"I am *extremely* down on this plan," Fitz said, shrugging on the oversized anti-acid-raincoat the Doctor had given him. "I just want to say that now, before we get melted down into puddles."
"Acknowledged," the Doctor said, smiling. "Boots too, don't forget."
There was a bit of finagling at the doorway to get the thing open and covering them before they could step outside, and then it was all slow trudging across an increasingly runny countryside, up the road towards town. The umbrella was large enough to cover them both, but they had to walk close enough to get in the way of each other's footsteps, and a few drops licked in now and then to bounce off Fitz's raincoat. When it became clear that the coats and boots would hold up all right, though, his immediate panic subsided to an occasional worried glance upwards.
As they drew closer to town, the real devastation grew clearer--not just steaming messes of tree-stumps and melting branches, but fences and buildings collapsed and eaten away. Then they passed a house, or what used to be one, and Fitz felt an intense need to make conversation about something else.
"We used to pull that umbrella trick on girls, you know. It's a classic, really."
The Doctor raised his eyebrows and 'mm'ed.
"Yeah," Fitz went on, "you wander about with an umbrella while it's raining out, find a girl who's been caught out without one and offer to share, since you both happen to be headed in the same direction."
"How gentlemanly," the Doctor remarked. Fitz grinned.
"Suppose it was. Mind, you make sure to carry one of those pocket umbrellas, to encourage a bit of cuddling. The big broad ones aren't--" He paused. Deep in his brain, alarms started going off.
"Ah, ulterior motives. How disappointing." The Doctor shook his head, but a small smile played across his face.
Two seconds later, Fitz blushed.
Requested: Ten/Face of Boe, although I FAILED AT THE SLASH. thank god. Written post-Gridlock and, uh, pre-LotTL. Really very.
For a moment--just one sweet, precious moment--Martha could tell the Doctor was as surprised as she was.
He recovered straight away, of course. "Hello," he said, with a little bow, and pressed his open palm against the glass, "it's so wonderful to meet you. I'm the Doctor, and this is my friend, Martha Jones."
The enormous eyes shifted slightly in her direction, and Martha quickly imitated the Doctor's movements, still feeling somewhat shaken. Of course it wasn't so strange if she thought about it--*time travel,* after all--but it hadn't been so long ago, in her own personal timeline, she'd watched this--creature? person? was there a Body of Boe wandering around on some planet, somewhere, like a decapitated chicken?--it hadn't been so long ago that she'd watched it die, and here it was, looking decidedly more youthful and sprightly, at least so far as Martha was any judge of what made a disembodied giant head with tentacles look youthful. It seemed more lively, mainly--well, relatively more--and its orange skin was a bit brighter and less mottled. And the tentacles weren't drooping as much as they had been, surely that was a good sign.
"Doctor," the Face said, although Martha couldn't tell *how.* It swiveled its eyes towards her again. "Martha. Greetings." It curled two tentacles forth and pressed them against the glass where their hands were still splayed. Despite the barrier, Martha could feel the ghost of warm, damp pressure against her palm, and leapt back, startled.
"Sorry!" she said hurriedly, hoping she hadn't just mortally offended it or breached any kind of secret space etiquette. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude. You just startled me."
The face blinked at her, very slowly. "Tactile contact is traditional for new acquaintances among my people," it said.
"Just a handshake," the Doctor said. "Well, tentacle-shake, really. Appendage-shake." He grinned. "I like tentacles."
The face obligingly waved its set. Martha did her best not to think about anime.
Written before Lazarus Experiment. Because people wanted more Ten/Martha porn, and I am slightly helpful.
The causal chain of events, so far as Martha could see, went something like this: She said, yeah, okay, and took that impossible dimension-shifting step for the fifth time, and the grille seemed to vibrate under her feet just the tiniest bit, and they smiled at each other big stupid smiles--the sort where the awkwardness between you isn't an embarrassing failure but a promise--and he hopped over to the console and went into hyperactive lever-flipping mode while she walked slowly around the edge of the room, taking it all in more closely than she had done those first few days, when it was all just information-shock and overload. As she made her way round closer to his side, the Doctor smacked a large glowing button and said, "Right, now hold on, you may go a bit inside out for a second--" and the room began to shake. She caught a piece of railing, steadying herself and grinning helplessly, and he turned round and *then*--this being the part where the 'causal' part of 'causal chain' seemed to break down--she stepped forward, lost her footing in the shaking and sort of stumbled him up against the controls and into a kiss.
It just *happened,* except it didn't feel as creepy and romance-novelly as that sounded when she said it to herself. More like a natural consequence, gravity, something with a formula and a tidy-looking graph. The shaking and grinding of the TARDIS was surrounding her, up from her feet and through his hips against the controls and even his hands on her face, his tongue and teeth and lips seemed to carry the vibration. Then the last tremors stopped and left just them, together. Materializing, that's what he had said before, they'd materialized again.
"Where are we?" Martha asked, not peeling herself off of him one bit.
"Ga'ar Ta, should be. Rather like Earth, but the dominant life form's a sort of sentient bunny rabbit."
She opened her eyes. "Really? Bunnies?"
"Oh yes. Quite clever bastards too, spaceships and everything."
"Bunnies," Martha said again, "huh. Good place for a shag, then?"
The Doctor made a noise like he'd swallowed his own tongue. She pulled him down, or he pushed her, both, whichever, she sat down hard on the grille floor and he landed half on top of her and they were off again. On. Whichever. His body pressed heavy against hers, cooler than normal--than human normal, anyhow. It made her feel hotter, fevered. When she tugged on his lip with her teeth he shivered all over and she felt it up and down, rocked up against him in response. He hadn't even got his coat off yet but she didn't care, she could hitch one leg up around him and get him right where she needed, nudged up tight against the seam of her jeans where she could, could--"Ah, god," she gasped, almost shocked at herself.
"Go on," the Doctor said, eyes dark, "go on, Martha, that's good, take what you need, oh, *very* good, Martha, yes..." He slid one hand under her bottom, pulling her up tighter, but otherwise he kept still. Let her--oh god, the heat crawling up behind her ears, let her rub herself off against him, dense and solid between her legs and watching her so hard, like she was the birth of the universe or something else suitably cosmic. She heard herself groaning, helpless little huh-uhh noises, watched him soak up each one hungrily. Then her head jerked back when she came, couldn't see him, couldn't even see the ceiling.
She lay there and breathed through the aftershocks for a minute. He was moving above her, she heard the coat hit the floor, heard his trousers open. No other clothing-removal sound effects followed, and she turned her head back to look at him.
"You've still got your *tie* on," she said incredulously.
The Doctor looked slightly embarrassed, at least. "Yes, well. I don't want to, er, scandalize the TARDIS too much. She gets a bit twitchy about her console room sometimes."
"The TARDIS--oh my god, it's not going to electrocute us or something, is it?" She started scrabbling to sit up.
"No! No, of course not," the Doctor said, sounding rather offended. "She's just got some very firm ideas about the appropriate time and place for activities. Hm. I suppose we should migrate to a more suitable room..."
"The *hell* we should," Martha said, and yanked his pants down to his knees.