A hefty dose of Ten/Donna
Gone Fishing, by
reserve
Donna/Ten
2,778 words, Hard R
A/N: This was written for
x_los and
marah_sarie who wanted to me to write Ten coming on Donna’s (glorious) breasts. I suppose this leads me back to my ‘shipper vs. pervert discussion, doesn’t it? I cannot believe this is my first long-ish work of DW fic. Your feedback is much appreciated.
Donna Noble was on holiday.
She was on holiday from the cosmos, from the universe at large, from food that wanted to have conversations with her, from the endless swirly-twirly of the Vortex, and she was on holiday from aliens, and being chased by them, too. Most importantly, she was on holiday from the Doctor and his silly traveling Martian space box.
Donna had put up the proverbial “Gone Fishing” sign and she was going to have a nice long soak in the tub, in her own apartment, in London, on Earth. Her Earth- not some other, semi-random, floating about, oh-look-isn’t-this-neat-you-humans-always-find-a-way-Earth.
The Doctor, she knew, would be back. He’d left the TARDIS just outside her flat, all blue and big as ever-but he had business in London to attend to. She, too, had business in London: pints at her favorite pub, a quick hello to mum and dad, bills to pay, etc. The Doctor, on the other hand, was off to see a lass called Martha.
+++
Donna filled her tub with blue bubbles she’d picked up a market somewhere abroad. That’s what she’d been calling her travels. Trips abroad. Example: “Look at these lovely holographic crystals of naked humanoids that I picked up when I was abroad in Morocco! Moroccans! So cutting edge.” Nervous laughter.
She shut off the hot water with her big toe and breathed deep. There was nothing quite like a good soak in the tub, although those hot springs they’d visited on Blothmis 5 had come close.
Slowly, very slowly, she felt herself begin to relax, the tension of traveling through time and space easing gradually away.
Even after weeks of doing it, her current occupation still sounded a bit silly. She loved traveling with the Doctor, really she did…loads of laughs, that one…but his recent inability to listen to anything other than the Libertines and 60s girl groups was driving her more than slightly mad. Plus, her bed in the TARDIS could never compare to the 6 inches of memory foam (courtesy of the home shopping network) on her own bed.
In spite of herself, and despite the foam, she found that she missed the quiet whir the TARDIS made at night. The way it sort of lulled her to sleep. Ever since she’d first met the Doctor, at her own awful, botched-up wedding, she’d felt, well, drawn to the TARDIS, as though the TARDIS knew her…and liked her. Even when she no longer had any Huon particles floating around in her, she still thought the TARDIS kind of liked her, that maybe it liked having her about the place.
Her favorite biscuits were always stocked at least.
Donna shook her head. It was mad; thinking some kind of machine liked her. Possessed the ability to like her. Did the TARDIS like other people? She wondered.
Donna rolled her eyes. Some lass called Martha.
He’d actually said that. Then he’d been all hands-in-his-pockets, and rolling-back-and-forth-on-his feet awkward.
“Well, off to visit a lass called Martha, have a good night!” he’d said, and done that weird thing where he kind of sticks a finger in one of his eyes and rubs really hard like he’s trying get out a massive piece of sleep or something.
Did he think, Donna pondered, that calling a girl “lass” was like, hip or something? And ten minutes into her soak, while she was, much to her displeasure, still thinking about the Doctor (on holiday, damnit!), the doorbell rang.
“Typical,” she said to the massive cat sitting on her bathmat. “Bloody typical.”
The cat meowed.
+++
Donna opened her front door to find the Doctor standing in the middle of her welcome mat (which actually read, “scram!”) and looking like a kicked a puppy. Or like he’d actually been kicked. He was wearing his brown suit. She was wearing a blue bathrobe with ducks on, a pair of fuzzy pink slippers, and her first thought was, “serves him right for a attempting an interplanetary booty-call.”
The Doctor solemnly said, “like your duckies,” and sidled past her into the living room before she could so much as get out an indignant Oi! And possibly kick him. Just in case a good kicking was still in order.
+++
After sorting out that, “No, he didn’t feel like going back to the TARDIS because it just felt very big and lonely for some reason he couldn’t put his finger on,” and “Yes, he’d love a little snack if she was offering!” and “No, Martha really hadn’t been all that pleased to see him, not as such,” Donna rolled her eyes, told him not to break very much and headed into the kitchen. The Doctor started poking around in her stuff the second she was out of sight. She could hear him.
“What’s your cat called?” he asked after a bit.
“Bob.”
“Doesn’t look like a Bob,” the Doctor said, and scooped up Donna’s orange tabby. He considered the cat. “Looks like a Hildegard.”
“Well, he’s called Bob. Did you take your trainers off?”
The Doctor looked down. He hadn’t.
“Can never tell if I like cats or not,” he called to Donna.
“I’m guessing cats don’t like you,” she called back, throwing some slices of ham onto bread.
“Quite a few don’t,” agreed the Doctor.
Bob meowed.
“Bob doesn’t seem to mind me, though.”
“Bob’s fickle,” said Donna, coming into the living room with a bit of late night tea for both of them. “Eat up,” she said, “then I’ll get you a pillow and blanket for the sofa.”
“I do love a little snack.” The Doctor smiled. He dug in straight away.
“Do you even sleep?” asked Donna after a moment. “And who says ‘lass?’ I mean, really?”
“Better than ‘bird,’ isn’t it?” The Doctor shrugged, mouth full bread.
“Yeah.”
“Right,” said the Doctor, and took another bite.
Donna sipped her tea.
“You know, I’m supposed to be on holiday,” she said, somewhat uselessly.
“So,” said the Doctor, “who keeps an eye on old Bob while you’re away?”
+++
Later, when they’d finished their tea, and after the Doctor had popped back to the TARDIS to fetch what he promised was the best scotch known to at least four galaxies as a peace offering of sorts, Donna propped her slippered feet up on the coffee table and asked rather warmly, “Why wouldn’t Martha be happy to see you, sunshine?”
The Doctor looked at her, his cheeks slightly flushed, and sighed long sufferingly. “I could think of some very valid reasons,” he said with slurred but sincere conviction.
Donna nodded sympathetically, but noted with some amusement that even Martians could get soused after a few tumblers of what really had been delightful scotch. And she was about as tried and true an ale drinker as they came, unless something with an umbrella in it wandered her way on a beach.
“She’ll get over it,” she assured him.
“Maybe,” said the Doctor. He turned to look at her, and shrugged lamely. “But maybe not.”
The grey sofa under them creaked as Donna rearranged her blue robe, and the Doctor took a delicate sip of his scotch.
“This really is the best stuff in pretty much the whole universe,” he said suddenly, his mood brightening considerably. Donna was getting used to it, his shifts. “It beats the pants off a Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster any day and it won’t leave you the hang-over that would either. It's got peat, but it's not too peaty...plus, it’s duty free where I shop.” He grinned lopsidedly at her.
Donna wanted to hug him, so she held an arm out and he took the hint, snuggling into her. Like a puppy.
The Doctor, she knew, was a sucker for contact.
“You smell nice,” he said, and put his tumbler down on the table.
“You rudely interrupted my bath.”
“I’ve never been good a baths.”
She smiled into his stupid hair. “You’re good at being rude.”
“You have no idea,” the Doctor smirked up at her.
Donna took a risk: “Martha was your companion before me, right? Walked the earth, saved your scrawny arse?” She felt the Doctor nod against her. “It’s a wonder I don’t feel any performance anxiety.”
He didn’t respond, then: “Have I ever told you that you have truly beautiful breasts, Donna Noble?”
“This what I meant when I said you were rude.” She shoved at him, but he barely budged. His body, she realized only then, was curled up against hers, his face all but pressed into her chest.
The Doctor put a hand on her thigh; it was cool through her robe.
“This is what I meant about your having no idea.”
Donna closed her eyes. The Doctor inhaled against her breasts and she felt his exhale across her skin, knew how superior his senses were from watching him work on their travels together. Knew he had a tendency to…lick things.
“You’re drunk,” she said, with as much reason as she could muster, because she was on holiday and holidays, in her book, were rather meant for drunkenness and men with their mouths in close proximity to her naked skin, it was just. Just that she had never intended for than man-Martian? Time Lord?-to be the Doctor. Ever. No matter how nice his arse looked in those striped trousers.
“So I am,” said the Doctor, and his hand traced the outline of one of the ducks on her robe.
Shaking her head, Donna looked at him. “Is this the sort of thing you do to your companions? Get drunk and try to shag them?”
The Doctor’s hand stopped its lazy tracing and he looked momentarily caught. He swallowed.
“No,” he said, evenly.
“You’re probably the worst liar ever,” Donna laughed too loudly.
“I’m the best liar you’ll ever meet,” said the Doctor to her breasts, and pressed a kiss to the top of one, the looseness of her robe allowing unexpected access.
“Am I going to wake up tomorrow to find both you and the TARDIS gone and my key missing?”
“No,” the Doctor said again, and she knew he wasn’t lying this time, but she also knew that like most holiday shags, if she went through with this, it was going to be a one time thing, and that the next day she would want to kick him again, perhaps with more vigor than before, but that it would be the same as always, the same Doctor and Donna-because she wasn’t going to walk across continents for him, and she wasn’t in love with him-but she certainly liked him, and his strangeness, and she liked his Martian flying box, and his breath on her skin, and the way she was convinced he could already smell her arousal and was moving this unexpected encounter forward with urgency, his hand sliding between the folds of her robe, because the scent of her was buffeting him onward.
“All right, Martian, you can fuck me if you’d like.”
The Doctor nearly knocked over the sofa when he pounced on her. Bob-the-cat scrambled hastily from the room.
+++
When it came down to it, Donna was not a passive partner. She was certainly not a lie-still-and-think-of-England kind of girl, and if she wasn’t mistaken, the Doctor was pleased as punch when she dragged a relatively long-nailed hand down his palely freckled back and ground out, “Harder, alien boy. Now.”
He looked at her body like he’d never seen a naked human before, which she knew was impossible, but she basked in it all the same.
The Doctor, though he’d managed to never mention it before, loved that she was ginger. “So sexy, really,” he said, before burying his face between her legs and paying the same attention to her clit that he often to did to unsuspecting walls and food items.
After she’d come under his mouth at least twice, they fucked. She asked him to pull out and come on her breasts, and in the moments before he did, it was as though she could feel time slowing, extending, and yet not at all, and the Doctor could tell she was feeling it because he looked at her smugly as he grasped his cock and stroked it firmly above her while she squirmed beneath him, her eyes locked on his face, waiting.
She trailed the tips of her fingers down the insides of his thighs and his whole body jerked just before he orgasmed. For that moment, the world stopped.
“Martian boys are easy,” Donna thought, and tasted alien come just for shits.
+++
The Doctor stole all of the covers, made snuffling sounds in his sleep, and had mocked her tiredly about her memory foam mattress just before he dozed off. Donna would be happy to be back in the TARDIS, where they would at least have separate bedrooms.
She'd attempted to sleep on the couch, but he threw a long arm around her and pulled her close to his sweaty flesh with the kind of body language that said, “Isn’t this what you humans do? Aren’t I doing this right?” So she stayed near him, tucked into him-- mostly so that she didn't destroy whatever he thought earth girls usually wanted after sex.
Donna usually wanted a curry.
Bob looked at her mournfully from the floor. The Doctor had usurped his place in Donna’s bed. Donna smiled fondly at the cat, as if to say, “Don’t worry, I’m all yours, really.”
Against her hair, the Doctor muttered something incoherent and possibly, actually, alien. Donna scratched her shoulder and closed her eyes. Tomorrow she’d be more than ready for the cosmos again. Tomorrow she was back in business with the universe at large. Gone fishing be damned.
END.
reserve
Donna/Ten
2,778 words, Hard R
A/N: This was written for
x_los and
marah_sarie who wanted to me to write Ten coming on Donna’s (glorious) breasts. I suppose this leads me back to my ‘shipper vs. pervert discussion, doesn’t it? I cannot believe this is my first long-ish work of DW fic. Your feedback is much appreciated.
Donna Noble was on holiday.
She was on holiday from the cosmos, from the universe at large, from food that wanted to have conversations with her, from the endless swirly-twirly of the Vortex, and she was on holiday from aliens, and being chased by them, too. Most importantly, she was on holiday from the Doctor and his silly traveling Martian space box.
Donna had put up the proverbial “Gone Fishing” sign and she was going to have a nice long soak in the tub, in her own apartment, in London, on Earth. Her Earth- not some other, semi-random, floating about, oh-look-isn’t-this-neat-you-humans-always-find-a-way-Earth.
The Doctor, she knew, would be back. He’d left the TARDIS just outside her flat, all blue and big as ever-but he had business in London to attend to. She, too, had business in London: pints at her favorite pub, a quick hello to mum and dad, bills to pay, etc. The Doctor, on the other hand, was off to see a lass called Martha.
+++
Donna filled her tub with blue bubbles she’d picked up a market somewhere abroad. That’s what she’d been calling her travels. Trips abroad. Example: “Look at these lovely holographic crystals of naked humanoids that I picked up when I was abroad in Morocco! Moroccans! So cutting edge.” Nervous laughter.
She shut off the hot water with her big toe and breathed deep. There was nothing quite like a good soak in the tub, although those hot springs they’d visited on Blothmis 5 had come close.
Slowly, very slowly, she felt herself begin to relax, the tension of traveling through time and space easing gradually away.
Even after weeks of doing it, her current occupation still sounded a bit silly. She loved traveling with the Doctor, really she did…loads of laughs, that one…but his recent inability to listen to anything other than the Libertines and 60s girl groups was driving her more than slightly mad. Plus, her bed in the TARDIS could never compare to the 6 inches of memory foam (courtesy of the home shopping network) on her own bed.
In spite of herself, and despite the foam, she found that she missed the quiet whir the TARDIS made at night. The way it sort of lulled her to sleep. Ever since she’d first met the Doctor, at her own awful, botched-up wedding, she’d felt, well, drawn to the TARDIS, as though the TARDIS knew her…and liked her. Even when she no longer had any Huon particles floating around in her, she still thought the TARDIS kind of liked her, that maybe it liked having her about the place.
Her favorite biscuits were always stocked at least.
Donna shook her head. It was mad; thinking some kind of machine liked her. Possessed the ability to like her. Did the TARDIS like other people? She wondered.
Donna rolled her eyes. Some lass called Martha.
He’d actually said that. Then he’d been all hands-in-his-pockets, and rolling-back-and-forth-on-his feet awkward.
“Well, off to visit a lass called Martha, have a good night!” he’d said, and done that weird thing where he kind of sticks a finger in one of his eyes and rubs really hard like he’s trying get out a massive piece of sleep or something.
Did he think, Donna pondered, that calling a girl “lass” was like, hip or something? And ten minutes into her soak, while she was, much to her displeasure, still thinking about the Doctor (on holiday, damnit!), the doorbell rang.
“Typical,” she said to the massive cat sitting on her bathmat. “Bloody typical.”
The cat meowed.
+++
Donna opened her front door to find the Doctor standing in the middle of her welcome mat (which actually read, “scram!”) and looking like a kicked a puppy. Or like he’d actually been kicked. He was wearing his brown suit. She was wearing a blue bathrobe with ducks on, a pair of fuzzy pink slippers, and her first thought was, “serves him right for a attempting an interplanetary booty-call.”
The Doctor solemnly said, “like your duckies,” and sidled past her into the living room before she could so much as get out an indignant Oi! And possibly kick him. Just in case a good kicking was still in order.
+++
After sorting out that, “No, he didn’t feel like going back to the TARDIS because it just felt very big and lonely for some reason he couldn’t put his finger on,” and “Yes, he’d love a little snack if she was offering!” and “No, Martha really hadn’t been all that pleased to see him, not as such,” Donna rolled her eyes, told him not to break very much and headed into the kitchen. The Doctor started poking around in her stuff the second she was out of sight. She could hear him.
“What’s your cat called?” he asked after a bit.
“Bob.”
“Doesn’t look like a Bob,” the Doctor said, and scooped up Donna’s orange tabby. He considered the cat. “Looks like a Hildegard.”
“Well, he’s called Bob. Did you take your trainers off?”
The Doctor looked down. He hadn’t.
“Can never tell if I like cats or not,” he called to Donna.
“I’m guessing cats don’t like you,” she called back, throwing some slices of ham onto bread.
“Quite a few don’t,” agreed the Doctor.
Bob meowed.
“Bob doesn’t seem to mind me, though.”
“Bob’s fickle,” said Donna, coming into the living room with a bit of late night tea for both of them. “Eat up,” she said, “then I’ll get you a pillow and blanket for the sofa.”
“I do love a little snack.” The Doctor smiled. He dug in straight away.
“Do you even sleep?” asked Donna after a moment. “And who says ‘lass?’ I mean, really?”
“Better than ‘bird,’ isn’t it?” The Doctor shrugged, mouth full bread.
“Yeah.”
“Right,” said the Doctor, and took another bite.
Donna sipped her tea.
“You know, I’m supposed to be on holiday,” she said, somewhat uselessly.
“So,” said the Doctor, “who keeps an eye on old Bob while you’re away?”
+++
Later, when they’d finished their tea, and after the Doctor had popped back to the TARDIS to fetch what he promised was the best scotch known to at least four galaxies as a peace offering of sorts, Donna propped her slippered feet up on the coffee table and asked rather warmly, “Why wouldn’t Martha be happy to see you, sunshine?”
The Doctor looked at her, his cheeks slightly flushed, and sighed long sufferingly. “I could think of some very valid reasons,” he said with slurred but sincere conviction.
Donna nodded sympathetically, but noted with some amusement that even Martians could get soused after a few tumblers of what really had been delightful scotch. And she was about as tried and true an ale drinker as they came, unless something with an umbrella in it wandered her way on a beach.
“She’ll get over it,” she assured him.
“Maybe,” said the Doctor. He turned to look at her, and shrugged lamely. “But maybe not.”
The grey sofa under them creaked as Donna rearranged her blue robe, and the Doctor took a delicate sip of his scotch.
“This really is the best stuff in pretty much the whole universe,” he said suddenly, his mood brightening considerably. Donna was getting used to it, his shifts. “It beats the pants off a Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster any day and it won’t leave you the hang-over that would either. It's got peat, but it's not too peaty...plus, it’s duty free where I shop.” He grinned lopsidedly at her.
Donna wanted to hug him, so she held an arm out and he took the hint, snuggling into her. Like a puppy.
The Doctor, she knew, was a sucker for contact.
“You smell nice,” he said, and put his tumbler down on the table.
“You rudely interrupted my bath.”
“I’ve never been good a baths.”
She smiled into his stupid hair. “You’re good at being rude.”
“You have no idea,” the Doctor smirked up at her.
Donna took a risk: “Martha was your companion before me, right? Walked the earth, saved your scrawny arse?” She felt the Doctor nod against her. “It’s a wonder I don’t feel any performance anxiety.”
He didn’t respond, then: “Have I ever told you that you have truly beautiful breasts, Donna Noble?”
“This what I meant when I said you were rude.” She shoved at him, but he barely budged. His body, she realized only then, was curled up against hers, his face all but pressed into her chest.
The Doctor put a hand on her thigh; it was cool through her robe.
“This is what I meant about your having no idea.”
Donna closed her eyes. The Doctor inhaled against her breasts and she felt his exhale across her skin, knew how superior his senses were from watching him work on their travels together. Knew he had a tendency to…lick things.
“You’re drunk,” she said, with as much reason as she could muster, because she was on holiday and holidays, in her book, were rather meant for drunkenness and men with their mouths in close proximity to her naked skin, it was just. Just that she had never intended for than man-Martian? Time Lord?-to be the Doctor. Ever. No matter how nice his arse looked in those striped trousers.
“So I am,” said the Doctor, and his hand traced the outline of one of the ducks on her robe.
Shaking her head, Donna looked at him. “Is this the sort of thing you do to your companions? Get drunk and try to shag them?”
The Doctor’s hand stopped its lazy tracing and he looked momentarily caught. He swallowed.
“No,” he said, evenly.
“You’re probably the worst liar ever,” Donna laughed too loudly.
“I’m the best liar you’ll ever meet,” said the Doctor to her breasts, and pressed a kiss to the top of one, the looseness of her robe allowing unexpected access.
“Am I going to wake up tomorrow to find both you and the TARDIS gone and my key missing?”
“No,” the Doctor said again, and she knew he wasn’t lying this time, but she also knew that like most holiday shags, if she went through with this, it was going to be a one time thing, and that the next day she would want to kick him again, perhaps with more vigor than before, but that it would be the same as always, the same Doctor and Donna-because she wasn’t going to walk across continents for him, and she wasn’t in love with him-but she certainly liked him, and his strangeness, and she liked his Martian flying box, and his breath on her skin, and the way she was convinced he could already smell her arousal and was moving this unexpected encounter forward with urgency, his hand sliding between the folds of her robe, because the scent of her was buffeting him onward.
“All right, Martian, you can fuck me if you’d like.”
The Doctor nearly knocked over the sofa when he pounced on her. Bob-the-cat scrambled hastily from the room.
+++
When it came down to it, Donna was not a passive partner. She was certainly not a lie-still-and-think-of-England kind of girl, and if she wasn’t mistaken, the Doctor was pleased as punch when she dragged a relatively long-nailed hand down his palely freckled back and ground out, “Harder, alien boy. Now.”
He looked at her body like he’d never seen a naked human before, which she knew was impossible, but she basked in it all the same.
The Doctor, though he’d managed to never mention it before, loved that she was ginger. “So sexy, really,” he said, before burying his face between her legs and paying the same attention to her clit that he often to did to unsuspecting walls and food items.
After she’d come under his mouth at least twice, they fucked. She asked him to pull out and come on her breasts, and in the moments before he did, it was as though she could feel time slowing, extending, and yet not at all, and the Doctor could tell she was feeling it because he looked at her smugly as he grasped his cock and stroked it firmly above her while she squirmed beneath him, her eyes locked on his face, waiting.
She trailed the tips of her fingers down the insides of his thighs and his whole body jerked just before he orgasmed. For that moment, the world stopped.
“Martian boys are easy,” Donna thought, and tasted alien come just for shits.
+++
The Doctor stole all of the covers, made snuffling sounds in his sleep, and had mocked her tiredly about her memory foam mattress just before he dozed off. Donna would be happy to be back in the TARDIS, where they would at least have separate bedrooms.
She'd attempted to sleep on the couch, but he threw a long arm around her and pulled her close to his sweaty flesh with the kind of body language that said, “Isn’t this what you humans do? Aren’t I doing this right?” So she stayed near him, tucked into him-- mostly so that she didn't destroy whatever he thought earth girls usually wanted after sex.
Donna usually wanted a curry.
Bob looked at her mournfully from the floor. The Doctor had usurped his place in Donna’s bed. Donna smiled fondly at the cat, as if to say, “Don’t worry, I’m all yours, really.”
Against her hair, the Doctor muttered something incoherent and possibly, actually, alien. Donna scratched her shoulder and closed her eyes. Tomorrow she’d be more than ready for the cosmos again. Tomorrow she was back in business with the universe at large. Gone fishing be damned.
END.