FIC: Prayers to Broken Stone
I used to read T.S. Eliot when i was depressed. Now i read T.S. Eliot and write fractured porn.
Title: Prayers to Broken Stone
Author: Amanda (lilianvaldemyer)
Pairing: Doctor/Donna
Word Count: 1200
Rating: R
Spoilers/Warnings: spoilers for 4x13; warnings for dark themes and dubious consent.
Disclaimer: Still not mine, but i'd be willing to adopt dark!Donna. The title and poem are once again the amazing Mr Eliot's.
Notes: companion piece to Not With a Bang, But With a Whimper. Both can stand alone, but they're like Ten and Donna - better together. Dedicated in part to Lil again, because she inspires me in so many ways, but for all of you who commented on the first part. Your kindness makes me want to write and that's no mean feat.
Prayers to Broken Stone
She watches him from the doorway. He’s looking at her like he’s never seen her before. It’s been a week (six days, eleven hours and fourteen minutes says the part of her mind that escaped his mental locks) since she last spoke to him. It might be childish, she thinks, but he deserves childish. He’d looked at her, the other her, stared into her eyes and seen her agony, but he hadn’t changed his mind.
She wonders what he was thinking, if he was thinking, when he apologised. I’m so sorry, like she was just any other companion, like she’d had no clue as to what he was going to do. She might have forgiven him if she hadn’t. But his mind had screamed his intentions to hers and hers had screamed right back. It had taken every ounce of willpower to force him to listen to her long enough to realise that there was another way, there was always another way and why didn’t he look for it instead of playing the martyr again?
She'd made him seal her mind off, and for a week she’d stayed in her room. A week of sneaking out to eat in the middle of the night while he was muttering to himself in the library. A week of probing the empty space where the universes had once filled her mind. A week of cursing and cussing, and then she’d realised what he needed to be told.
So she’d left the room and walked to his, ignoring his gaping expression as she spoke three solitary words.
“Pants. Boxers, too.”
He’d gone white as a sheet but he’d done as she said and absolute power had run a complete circuit through her veins in the time it took him to disrobe.
This was what it was like to be him.
And now she’s standing in the doorway, watching him sitting on the bed in front of her, all pasty white and freckles and socks. For an alien, he’s so typically male. The thought emboldens her, reminds her who is the one in control this time. She sashays towards him slowly, revelling in the way his eyes follow her movement (you never watched Martha like this, did you?) and she absently swats her hair back over her shoulders. The fingernail of her index finger finds its way to his knee and she traces the length up his leg. As she passes his hip, a cruel voice - her voice - whispers how easy it would be to just reach out, brush over the length of him and watch him squirm. For a moment she considers it.
Too easy.
She continues the motion, up, up, ever up. Over the point of his hipbone; his eyes are wide as saucers, he’s half-hard already and she smirks at his helplessness.
“Enjoying yourself?”
He flinches when she speaks. “Donna - ”
Not now. Her fingertip quickly silences what she’s sure would have been a long - and probably boring - explanation of how ‘it was the only way’ and ‘I’m so sorry, Donna. So sorry’. If she hears it again, she’ll be sick. Instead she pushes back on his chest, straddling him as she does so, delighting in the silence that fills the room. His buttons says the voice, and she begins counting; one (this is the dead land), two (this is the cactus land). The poem springs unbidden from the depths of her memory, pacing her actions. His heart-rate is quickening; she can see a tiny pulsing at his neck and the faster it goes, the slower she moves. Three (here the stone images are raised). Four (here they receive the supplication of a dead man’s hand under the twinkle of a fading star).
Appropriate, that. Her fingertips idly scrape his chest as she turns the words over in her mind, pulling them into shapes she’d never have thought of before. What she could have done if he hadn’t -
“You can’t control everything.” She speaks to stop that thought. His eyes snap back to hers, wide, pleading, and she feels the anger rise again.
“I...”
“You try, but you can’t. Look at me.” Look at what you did.
“I didn’t mean - ”
“You never do.” She’s had enough of excuses and apologies. Her fingers in his tie are angry; they pull it tight and he gasps. Forcing a breath, she regains her composure and deftly slips it off, flinging it away. It looks like one she’d bought him; weeks, months, a lifetime ago. He follows it with his eyes, as though he can somehow bring it back. If only.
He hasn’t looked back at her yet. Furious, snaking tendrils of blackness crawling up inside her, she slips back off his hips, down and then - down, down the entire length of him and yes, that made him look.
She begins to move, slowly at first, making sure he can’t take his eyes off her. Her hands splay across his chest, holding him down as she fucks him. He won’t forget this in a hurry; even the almighty Time Fool can only ignore what’s under his nose for so long before he’s forced to take note. You never really knew what I was capable of, did you?
One of these days she’ll remember to thank him for the spare hand and the resulting metacrisis. Because she was brilliant, she believed that now. More brilliant than he deserved, he’d say, and she’d have to agree with him.
He’s breathing faster now, and she can feel the ache inside her, the desperate clawing need for more; she moves faster, harder, but it doesn’t help. Nothing helps; she’s empty where she was once so full of knowledge and light and life, and he’s saying her name like she’s a goddess that can grant his prayers, but she’s only a shell of what she could have been. His fault.
She grabs his wrists, pinning him down, breathing her demands into his ear. “Tell me you love me.”
“I love you.” He didn’t hesitate. She believed him, of course she believed him, but he’d never have said it if she hadn’t made him. A hollow victory.
“More than Rose?” The question is out of her mouth before she can think about it, and in the millisecond it takes him to answer her, she sees herself dying at his hands. His words. His sword.
“So much more.”
He’s wriggled out from under her slightly; he arches up, kisses her and she couldn’t stop the hunger now if she tried. She takes it from him, her head ringing with her heart and his hearts and the pulsing of their veins. She’s not the one in control now. She’s the girl from Earth, trapped in the TARDIS and scared out of her mind, and she grabs his wrists, squeezing, choking on the need to centre herself again. She can feel her nails bending under the pressure.
He made her and unmade her in the space of a heartbeat. Now it’s her turn.
Gritting her teeth, she pushes down on him, hears her own name echoing in her ears as he comes. She flings herself over that proverbial cliff with him, sobbing and shaking, longing for the depths where she can drown in blissful release and forget. Forget what she could have been. Forget that he made her ordinary again.
Her body collapses of its own accord. She feels his arms wrap around the small of her back; she hears his hearts slowing. As she drifts into the oblivion she’s sought so hard for, she feels him place a kiss on the top of her head and thinks that she might start to forgive him.
Tomorrow.
COMMENTS ARE LOCKED. If you wish to leave feedback, please do so here using OpenID.
Part Three: Eyes I Dare Not Meet in Dreams.
Title: Prayers to Broken Stone
Author: Amanda (lilianvaldemyer)
Pairing: Doctor/Donna
Word Count: 1200
Rating: R
Spoilers/Warnings: spoilers for 4x13; warnings for dark themes and dubious consent.
Disclaimer: Still not mine, but i'd be willing to adopt dark!Donna. The title and poem are once again the amazing Mr Eliot's.
Notes: companion piece to Not With a Bang, But With a Whimper. Both can stand alone, but they're like Ten and Donna - better together. Dedicated in part to Lil again, because she inspires me in so many ways, but for all of you who commented on the first part. Your kindness makes me want to write and that's no mean feat.
Prayers to Broken Stone
She watches him from the doorway. He’s looking at her like he’s never seen her before. It’s been a week (six days, eleven hours and fourteen minutes says the part of her mind that escaped his mental locks) since she last spoke to him. It might be childish, she thinks, but he deserves childish. He’d looked at her, the other her, stared into her eyes and seen her agony, but he hadn’t changed his mind.
She wonders what he was thinking, if he was thinking, when he apologised. I’m so sorry, like she was just any other companion, like she’d had no clue as to what he was going to do. She might have forgiven him if she hadn’t. But his mind had screamed his intentions to hers and hers had screamed right back. It had taken every ounce of willpower to force him to listen to her long enough to realise that there was another way, there was always another way and why didn’t he look for it instead of playing the martyr again?
She'd made him seal her mind off, and for a week she’d stayed in her room. A week of sneaking out to eat in the middle of the night while he was muttering to himself in the library. A week of probing the empty space where the universes had once filled her mind. A week of cursing and cussing, and then she’d realised what he needed to be told.
So she’d left the room and walked to his, ignoring his gaping expression as she spoke three solitary words.
“Pants. Boxers, too.”
He’d gone white as a sheet but he’d done as she said and absolute power had run a complete circuit through her veins in the time it took him to disrobe.
This was what it was like to be him.
And now she’s standing in the doorway, watching him sitting on the bed in front of her, all pasty white and freckles and socks. For an alien, he’s so typically male. The thought emboldens her, reminds her who is the one in control this time. She sashays towards him slowly, revelling in the way his eyes follow her movement (you never watched Martha like this, did you?) and she absently swats her hair back over her shoulders. The fingernail of her index finger finds its way to his knee and she traces the length up his leg. As she passes his hip, a cruel voice - her voice - whispers how easy it would be to just reach out, brush over the length of him and watch him squirm. For a moment she considers it.
Too easy.
She continues the motion, up, up, ever up. Over the point of his hipbone; his eyes are wide as saucers, he’s half-hard already and she smirks at his helplessness.
“Enjoying yourself?”
He flinches when she speaks. “Donna - ”
Not now. Her fingertip quickly silences what she’s sure would have been a long - and probably boring - explanation of how ‘it was the only way’ and ‘I’m so sorry, Donna. So sorry’. If she hears it again, she’ll be sick. Instead she pushes back on his chest, straddling him as she does so, delighting in the silence that fills the room. His buttons says the voice, and she begins counting; one (this is the dead land), two (this is the cactus land). The poem springs unbidden from the depths of her memory, pacing her actions. His heart-rate is quickening; she can see a tiny pulsing at his neck and the faster it goes, the slower she moves. Three (here the stone images are raised). Four (here they receive the supplication of a dead man’s hand under the twinkle of a fading star).
Appropriate, that. Her fingertips idly scrape his chest as she turns the words over in her mind, pulling them into shapes she’d never have thought of before. What she could have done if he hadn’t -
“You can’t control everything.” She speaks to stop that thought. His eyes snap back to hers, wide, pleading, and she feels the anger rise again.
“I...”
“You try, but you can’t. Look at me.” Look at what you did.
“I didn’t mean - ”
“You never do.” She’s had enough of excuses and apologies. Her fingers in his tie are angry; they pull it tight and he gasps. Forcing a breath, she regains her composure and deftly slips it off, flinging it away. It looks like one she’d bought him; weeks, months, a lifetime ago. He follows it with his eyes, as though he can somehow bring it back. If only.
He hasn’t looked back at her yet. Furious, snaking tendrils of blackness crawling up inside her, she slips back off his hips, down and then - down, down the entire length of him and yes, that made him look.
She begins to move, slowly at first, making sure he can’t take his eyes off her. Her hands splay across his chest, holding him down as she fucks him. He won’t forget this in a hurry; even the almighty Time Fool can only ignore what’s under his nose for so long before he’s forced to take note. You never really knew what I was capable of, did you?
One of these days she’ll remember to thank him for the spare hand and the resulting metacrisis. Because she was brilliant, she believed that now. More brilliant than he deserved, he’d say, and she’d have to agree with him.
He’s breathing faster now, and she can feel the ache inside her, the desperate clawing need for more; she moves faster, harder, but it doesn’t help. Nothing helps; she’s empty where she was once so full of knowledge and light and life, and he’s saying her name like she’s a goddess that can grant his prayers, but she’s only a shell of what she could have been. His fault.
She grabs his wrists, pinning him down, breathing her demands into his ear. “Tell me you love me.”
“I love you.” He didn’t hesitate. She believed him, of course she believed him, but he’d never have said it if she hadn’t made him. A hollow victory.
“More than Rose?” The question is out of her mouth before she can think about it, and in the millisecond it takes him to answer her, she sees herself dying at his hands. His words. His sword.
“So much more.”
He’s wriggled out from under her slightly; he arches up, kisses her and she couldn’t stop the hunger now if she tried. She takes it from him, her head ringing with her heart and his hearts and the pulsing of their veins. She’s not the one in control now. She’s the girl from Earth, trapped in the TARDIS and scared out of her mind, and she grabs his wrists, squeezing, choking on the need to centre herself again. She can feel her nails bending under the pressure.
He made her and unmade her in the space of a heartbeat. Now it’s her turn.
Gritting her teeth, she pushes down on him, hears her own name echoing in her ears as he comes. She flings herself over that proverbial cliff with him, sobbing and shaking, longing for the depths where she can drown in blissful release and forget. Forget what she could have been. Forget that he made her ordinary again.
Her body collapses of its own accord. She feels his arms wrap around the small of her back; she hears his hearts slowing. As she drifts into the oblivion she’s sought so hard for, she feels him place a kiss on the top of her head and thinks that she might start to forgive him.
Tomorrow.
COMMENTS ARE LOCKED. If you wish to leave feedback, please do so here using OpenID.
Part Three: Eyes I Dare Not Meet in Dreams.