Doctor Who Ficlet: Bleep!
Jun. 26th, 2012 12:53 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hwcTitle: Bleep!
Fandom: Doctor Who (2005)
Pairing/Characters: Ten, Martha Jones
Genre/Category/Contains: Gen, cracky, swearing
Rated: PG-13
Word count: ~400
Spoilers/Setting: Set season three
Disclaimer: Doctor Who does not belong to me.
Summary: In the 47th fucking century, cussing is a fucking Olympic sport.
A/N: Written ages ago in response to a rant at fanficrants. Basically, the rant was about Ten and that he would never throw the word 'fuck' around. I agreed, and then turned around to write a ficlet where he did exactly that.
“--stuff that's none of your fucking business and expect us to just fucking roll over and let you fuck us over? Not with me, fucker! You can stick your fucking nose into other people's business or I'll rip it the fuck off your fucking face and stuff it where the fucking suns never fucking shine! What happens on this space station--”
Martha tried to pick up her jaw from the floor, she really did, but.... The man in the neon green uniform in front of them continued his tirade, not even noticing that at least half his audience wasn't even really listening anymore. She sneaked a peek at the Doctor and had to stifle a laugh.
The Doctor had a petulant little frown on his face, the one that said But I'm the Doctor! You can't talk to me like that!
The official suddenly turned to her, and Martha smoothed her expression back to properly chastised, like when poor Mr. Stoker had caught her day-dreaming during his lectures.
“No fucking chance!” the man bellowed, red-faced. “You're gonna turn the fuck around and go back to your fucking little box and you're gonna take your fucking little girlfriend--”
“She's not my girlfriend!” the Doctor tried to interrupt, and Martha glared at him.
Gee, thanks, Doctor. Next time, object a bit faster, would you? People might start to think you're not allergic to the very idea.
The Doctor, of course, was oblivious to her thoughts. So was their delightful new friend.
“-- got me? Because I will fuck you up if you don't! So fuck off, assholes!” he finished, panting, and Martha was tempted to check his blood pressure to make sure the poor bloke wouldn't suffer a heart attack right here and then.
She didn't though. She and the Doctor stared at the little man in respectful silence while he tried to get his breath back. Martha used the time to try and remember whether or not the man had paused to breath during his tirade and what that meant in terms of lung capacity of humans in the 47th century, but was interrupted when the Doctor blew out a deep breath next to her.
“Well,” he drawled, the beginnings of the grin on his face that always made Martha's belly flutter, “you heard the man, Martha!” He turned to her, wriggled his eyebrows in a way that said, 'let's pretend we're doing what they say until we're out of sight and then we run straight towards trouble!'.
(The Doctor had expressive eyebrows.)
“Off we fuck, then!”
Fandom: Doctor Who (2005)
Pairing/Characters: Ten, Martha Jones
Genre/Category/Contains: Gen, cracky, swearing
Rated: PG-13
Word count: ~400
Spoilers/Setting: Set season three
Disclaimer: Doctor Who does not belong to me.
Summary: In the 47th fucking century, cussing is a fucking Olympic sport.
A/N: Written ages ago in response to a rant at fanficrants. Basically, the rant was about Ten and that he would never throw the word 'fuck' around. I agreed, and then turned around to write a ficlet where he did exactly that.
“--stuff that's none of your fucking business and expect us to just fucking roll over and let you fuck us over? Not with me, fucker! You can stick your fucking nose into other people's business or I'll rip it the fuck off your fucking face and stuff it where the fucking suns never fucking shine! What happens on this space station--”
Martha tried to pick up her jaw from the floor, she really did, but.... The man in the neon green uniform in front of them continued his tirade, not even noticing that at least half his audience wasn't even really listening anymore. She sneaked a peek at the Doctor and had to stifle a laugh.
The Doctor had a petulant little frown on his face, the one that said But I'm the Doctor! You can't talk to me like that!
The official suddenly turned to her, and Martha smoothed her expression back to properly chastised, like when poor Mr. Stoker had caught her day-dreaming during his lectures.
“No fucking chance!” the man bellowed, red-faced. “You're gonna turn the fuck around and go back to your fucking little box and you're gonna take your fucking little girlfriend--”
“She's not my girlfriend!” the Doctor tried to interrupt, and Martha glared at him.
Gee, thanks, Doctor. Next time, object a bit faster, would you? People might start to think you're not allergic to the very idea.
The Doctor, of course, was oblivious to her thoughts. So was their delightful new friend.
“-- got me? Because I will fuck you up if you don't! So fuck off, assholes!” he finished, panting, and Martha was tempted to check his blood pressure to make sure the poor bloke wouldn't suffer a heart attack right here and then.
She didn't though. She and the Doctor stared at the little man in respectful silence while he tried to get his breath back. Martha used the time to try and remember whether or not the man had paused to breath during his tirade and what that meant in terms of lung capacity of humans in the 47th century, but was interrupted when the Doctor blew out a deep breath next to her.
“Well,” he drawled, the beginnings of the grin on his face that always made Martha's belly flutter, “you heard the man, Martha!” He turned to her, wriggled his eyebrows in a way that said, 'let's pretend we're doing what they say until we're out of sight and then we run straight towards trouble!'.
(The Doctor had expressive eyebrows.)
“Off we fuck, then!”
