Word Count: 1097
Author’s Summary: Braxiatel has a special interest in Romana.
Warnings: Explicit Sex
Let’s put this as simply as possible: there isn’t a lot of het sex written in Classic Who, and this is almost certainly the hottest I’ve ever read. It’s more than a PWP, in that there’s some leadup and a great deal of atmosphere, but the sex is definitely the focus, and it’s very, very well done. The issue of Romana and Brax’s age difference is touched on (it’s set during Romana’s time at the Academy) but isn’t allowed to dominate, and it ends on just the right bittersweet note.
Truth be told, he'd wanted Romanadvoratrelundar from the first moment he saw her. She was barely forty then, coltish and brilliant. To touch her would be unthinkable -- but it was her youth that attracted him. It was a paradox that delighted him.
"A twist in time," he told her, "a thread carelessly plucked, and the fabric comes undone."
"Poetic," said Romana, "but the analogy is careless--"
"One day," he promised, "I shall teach you to appreciate beauty."
She paused, the light streaming behind her. He could see her legs silhouetted through the white fabric -- it was unbearable--
Romana smiled. "I shall look forward to it."
Story: Needs Must
Rating: All Ages
Word Count: 644
Author’s Summary: Romana and Braxiatel have some unfinished business. Post-"Panacea".
My personal headcanon on Braxiatel and his hopeless pash for Romana largely involves him being unwilling to admit to himself how much the woman who is his President isn’t the same girl he fell in love with all those years ago. This fic plays on that idea very effectively, with an additional note of him being just as ensorcelled (though differently) with the older and wiser version. Add to that a Romana who clearly has been shaped by her many experiences--as traveler, President, and captive of the Daleks--and the result is a fic that crams an enormous amount of complexity and depth into a very short word count, with a chilling ending that will stick with you long after the story ends.
He found her later, up on the surface of the planetoid. She was sitting on a rock, staring at the stars.
"You look like a primitive," he said, "seeing them for the first time and wondering what they are."
"The souls of the dead," she breathed. "That is, some low-level civilisations believe they're the souls of the dead. Put in the sky by the gods to watch over the living."
She hadn't looked him in the face since she had emerged from the TARDIS. Not once.