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Things these three have in common: They're short, (mostly) unapologetically cracky and the only fics I've finished since... january 2012, yes.

Title: The Bride of Chauvelin
Author: stalkerbunny
Fandom, pairing: The Adventures of the Scarlet Pimpernel (1956), Percy/Chauvelin
Warnings: Mostly some kissing and cross dressing. It's all pretty tame.
Summary: Chauvelin finds love. Sort of. (~700 words)

A.N: So, imo Percy/Marguerite is the ultimate OTP in this fandom... EXCEPT in this particular version where 1)she doesn't seem to exist and 2)Percy kisses ALL the characters. Also Chauvelin is mostly kind of pathetic and it's adorable. Hence this. (Oh, and that thing at the end is quoted from one of Percy's love notes messages to Chauvelin in the tv-series. JSYK)


Sir Percy Blakeney had a deadly serious look on his face as he paced the floor in front of his compatriots. Suddenly he stopped, hands crossed behind his back.

“It looks like we have no other option,” he declared. “Chauvelin must be suitably distracted and away from Paris for the duration of the plan.” his eyes narrowed, glinting with steel. “I will take care of that part.”

Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Richard Hastings glanced helplessly at one another. When Percy got like this, they knew, there wasn’t much that could sway him. And yet, the plan this time…

“You know, I suppose I could…” Ffoulkes began with some hesitation, but Sir Percy stopped him with a raised hand.

“No, no, absolutely not. What would Collette say? Indeed, I daren’t risk her wrath should anything happen to you at the hands of that dastardly Citizen Chauvelin. It must be me.”

“But Percy…” Hastings protested, and was similarly silenced.

“Trust me; I know how to handle Chauvelin.” Percy said confidently, staring into the distance in heroic fashion.

*

The wedding of one Citizen Chauvelin was a small affair, conducted in a small country church several hours ride from Paris, and officiated by a doddering old priest whose bushy eyebrows seemed to vie for attention over his hawkish nose. The obligatory witnesses were two farm hands from a field nearby, who ogled at the unexpected spectacle with wide eyes. It was not entirely in line of the ideals of the revolution, of course, but had been insisted upon by the blushing bride on account of her harking from a village nearby.

She herself, mistress Marganita of humble origin but of no little charm, as evidenced by how quickly she’d charmed the ruthless Citizen Chauvelin, was wreathed in a simple yet elegant dress, voluminous veils and wildflowers. As the priest finished the vows in a choked voice, Chauvelin took hold of the hand of his bride, and gave her an almost manic smile.
As they drove away, the “priest” muttered a decidedly un-priestly oath under his breath. He really hoped Percy wasn’t in deeper than he knew how to swim out of this time…

*

Some hours later the happily married couple stumbled into a room at a small country inn, where Chauvelin sat down heavily into a chair, his new bride settling into his lap a moment later, her arms around his neck and her veils flung back from her face. Chauvelin’s bride might not be the most conventionally attractive woman ever, but at the moment her cheeks bloomed bright with excitement, and she had a glow of such happiness to her that it was near blinding.

“Oh Armand, we’re alone at last…” she purred in a low alto, and brushed a silk glowed hand over his brow, before jumping up as the inn keeper brought in a pitcher of wine. “A toast!” the new Citizenette Chauvelin exclaimed. “A toast to our new life together!”

Handing him a cup and holding onto her own, she settled on his lap again.

Chauvelin’s mood, however, seemed to have turned for brooding in the meanwhile. He took his cup with a deep sigh, staring moodily into its blood red depths.

“A new life… oh, my dearest flower…” his voice drifted away.

“Dear Armand, is something wrong?” Marganita Chauvelin asked with concern.

Chauvelin clutched her close, his forehead pressed tenderly to his wife’s, and laughed, the laugh of a broken man.

“You think I don’t know?” he asked.

“W-what are you talking about Arm—“

Chauvelin raised his head, brushing his thumb along the line of his bride’s jaw.

“The Scarlet Pimpernel,” he intoned almost reverently. And then, suddenly, a fire seemed lit in his eyes. “I knew! I knew all along,” he declared feverishly. “I’ve chased you so long, always so close, and yet so far away. But now, now I have you!”

With that, he dipped his bride into a kiss.

Poor Chauvelin, Percy reflected as he was kissed passionately. The man had clearly cracked under the pressure. Still, for all he was a ruthless villain, he wasn’t a bad kisser… oh, to hell with it, he decided, picking Chauvelin up by the shoulders and toppling them onto the bed.

He could always escape in the morning.


They seek him here, they seek him there,
those Frenchies miss him everywhere…
That damned elusive Pimpernel!


*


Title: An Intervention
Fandom, pairing: Withnail & I / Scream of the Shalka, Doctor/Master (sort of)
Warnings: Well, Withnail is considering suicide even if the story doesn't dwell on that?
Summary: There really was something living among the dirty dishes. Or working on it anyway. (~250 words)


Withnail was sloughed on the chair, bottle in one hand and the other absently stroking the butt of the shotgun at the reach of his right, when something cold and sticky wrapped around his ankle.

He glanced down, made a face and then threw one arm over his face theatrically.

“Go away, I’m not that high.” he mumbled, and the hallucination gave a gurgling hiss and crawled higher up his leg. It smelled rather pungently of unwashed dishes.

“I have finally gained physical form again, and will not sit by idly while you do something even more idiotic,” the thing said, and Withnail made another attempt at shaking it away. Ugh.

“If I wanted to listen to nagging I’d have… asked him to stay,” he mumbled, and the hallucination gave a wet snort.

“You are both nearly as bad,” it replied sulkily.

There was a long silence, broken only by rancid dishwater dripping onto an almost equally dirty floor, and then Withnail slowly took his arm from over his face and looked down, his eyes widening in something like horrified fascination.

“What… are you supposed to be my conscience? Didn’t know I had one…”

“Hardly. I will say, though, that you might want to check your pocket.”

Withnail did so, and found a… since when did he keep a pocket watch?

“Did I nick this from someone?” he asked, puzzled, and the hallucination hissed irritably. It looked kind of expensive, maybe he could try to pawn it...

“No! Now open it you idiot!”

He made a face at the Thing, and almost didn’t just out of spite, but… oh, what the hell. Funny, maybe he was high after all, because he could swear he could—

*

The Doctor looked around the apartment that greatly resembled a trash heap.

“Oh,” he said.

*


Title: Domestic meme
Fandom: Scream of the Shalka, Doctor/Master
Summary: Series of ficlets based on the domestic meme, some a bit longer, some just a sentence. Or a word. (~600 words all together).


who is the big spoon/little spoon

When the Doctor regenerated, to their universe with all it’s frayed edges and stitched up reality, he wandered back to the Tardis and looked around like he didn’t quite recognize it. “It’s done,” he said, blankly, devoid of the manic energy his last regeneration had had, in the end. Then he collapsed.

The Master considered just leaving him there, but… well, he’d be in the way, wouldn’t he? So he carried the Doctor to his bed instead, noting that it was yet another obnoxiously tall body, though a thin, bony sort.

When he was about to leave, a hand shot out to grasp his arm. “Stay,” the Doctor mumbled, not opening his eyes (pale, washed out blue). “Please.”

He should have shaken off the hold and gone. Post-regeneration, not when one wanted to establish bad habits. Or indulge them, at that.

Instead, he allowed himself to be pulled into the bed, held onto like a child would clutch a toy. Hard enough that it would have hurt if the Master hadn’t turned off the feeling in his synthetic skin. Needfull, and he smiled inwardly at that, a slow, vicious smile. Perhaps this could be made into something he could use.


//Alternatively://


The Master was sure The Doctor had done something to his servos that noted temperature, made him feel too cold during the night on the Tardis. The Doctor denied it, but he was a liar. That, or he’d botched something up during their “maintenance sessions” the Master wouldn’t put that past him either.

“Must we? You always kick me if your update mode is disturbed too soon…” the Doctor complained.

“Then don’t disturb it,” the Master replied, brushing off his pyjama shirt. “Now move over.”

The Doctor sighed gustily, but he did move over on the bed, and even wrapped himself around the Master without further whinging.

Just like him to complain about something that he’d arranged for in the first place.


what is their favorite non-sexual activity

Alison has never before met two people who got so serious about board games. Or who enjoyed it as much.


who uses all the hot water in the morning

“You don’t even need showers, damn it!”

“Don’t I? I do get dusty, not to mention when you—”

“Yes fine! I’ll just… go take a cold shower.”

As the Doctor stormed out, high spots of red on his normally pale cheeks, Alison wondered how it was possibly for the the Master to look so smug and expressionless at once. She was also glad she tended to get up earlier than those two.


what they order from take out

“You could have told me he was going to have a strop about it, you know. “

“Hm?”

“The Chinese! Pretty sure he’s planning to put arsenic into the next meal… or worse.”

“Oh he won’t do that… I think.”


what is the most trivial thing they fight over

Everything


who does most of the cleaning

“Look, I could… help?”

“…”

“No need to look at me like that!”


who calls up the super/landlord when the heat’s not working

“There, that should fix it! Told you I could do it just fi—”

“…”

“Oy, Doctor! Why did all the light go out?”


who leaves their stuff around

The Doctor has a tendency to leave things lying around and utterly out of place. The umbrella stand in the zeppelin hangar is hardly even the worst example, it is simply, at the time, the last straw. They leave it there as a sort of memorial.


who remembers to buy the milk

It was just milk, the Doctor reasoned grumpily as he tried to make himself comfortable in the strange bedroom. And the Master didn’t even need food himself! Surely he could have just remade the dinner plans…


who remembers anniversaries

The Master remembers. Everything.



*

Comments

( 4 comments — Leave a comment )
liadtbunny
May. 19th, 2013 01:54 pm (UTC)
Well, I'm not a Pimpernel Expert but I enjoyed reading! Here's to more of your fics in 2014 \o/
stalkerbunny
May. 19th, 2013 07:39 pm (UTC)
Thanks. :'D
gluecookie
May. 19th, 2013 03:47 pm (UTC)
Oh god the Bride of Chauvelin is still the best thing. And that WIthnail-fic is so perfect. I love that Withnail's sub-conciousness is the thing living in the unwashed dishes.
stalkerbunny
May. 19th, 2013 07:39 pm (UTC)
u//u I blush.

You did figure out it's the Master, right? He's just... goosnaked again from sink filth :'D That said, if it was his sub-consciousness, it... probably would be.
( 4 comments — Leave a comment )

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