Fic: Eclipse (14/?)
Title: Eclipse
Rating: R
Pairing: Ten/Donna (Friendship, UST)
Word Count: 1,626
Summary: If it hadn’t been so exhilarating, it may well have been absolutely humiliating. Spoilers for Doctor Who 4.13 - Journey’s End.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Story title inspired by The Frames.
Author’s Notes: Just a tiny little interlude, because while I’m still behind in writing ahead for this beast, I finally finished the two chapters that have been giving me grief for weeks! So, celebratory posting. In reference to this chapter, however - it’s really just pointless, gap-bridging fluff. And I am absolute shit at fluff. So - my sincerest apologies in advance. Still - I hope it’s not a complete waste of your time in reading; and reviews, perpetually, are food to my muses. Plus they make me positively giddy besides :)
Part One: Eulalie
Part Two: Desperate Moments In Linear Time
Part Three: Ontological Subjectivity
Part Four: Better Than One
Part Five: Ātman
Part Six: Only
Part Seven: Two To Tango
Part Eight: Sonnets To A Dark Lady
Part Nine: The Forgotten Tide
Part Ten: Fifth Symphony in Ood Minor
Part Eleven: Ragnarök
Part Twelve: Fancy Feet
Part Thirteen: The Pulse Of The Universe
Part Fourteen: Learn to Crawl
If it hadn’t been so exhilarating, it may well have been absolutely humiliating.
“You should feel lucky,” the Doctor commented offhandedly as she leaned against him. It was somewhat out of the ordinary, but it was nice as well; sitting in the lush, crushed velvet lounger in the TARDIS’s extensive library suite, with their sides pressed flush against one another as they both squeezed into the middle, but it had become decidedly apparent that she needed more than just a brush of the hand in order to keep her balance these days. “Took me a month to get used to it.”
She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t argue, because he was right; it hadn’t been anywhere near a month for her - in fact, it had barely been a week, and after sleeping through the first day and a half (curled around him like a fucking feline and waking up with her chin a bit too close to his private bits for comfort, but she tried not to think about that too much in hindsight) she’d slowly been weening herself off of the drug that was physical contact with the Doctor.
She hadn’t put up much of a fight when the Doctor had explained how adjusting to her new temporal and dimensional awareness would work. The swirling sensation in her mind would wear off like a bad bout of motion sickness - slowly and gradually, step by step as she acclimated to the new circumstances of her existence; to the new significance of her potential. Until then, however, she would need what the Gallifreyans had referred to rather aptly as an anchor - another time-sensitive being, preferably one with psychic ability, to help steady her mind until it could handle the change on its own. She felt a bit like a toddler, just graduating to her first shaking steps across the floor, only just having realized that crawling was only the beginning - every time she stayed away from him too long, every fleeting moment, it was like she was falling to the floor in a heap of confused and jumbled limbs, remembering anew why walking was considered such a feat.
“They had to call my mother into the Academy because the nurses got tired of me latching onto them,” he continued almost wistfully, leaning back into the cushion and flinging his arm along the neck rest, resting it in an arch around her shoulders. “I was a bit of a terror,” he mused, eyes studying the vaulted ceilings, “as a child.”
Donna snorted, pulling her ankles beneath her as she shifted against him, battling the nearly immediate onset of lightheadedness as she pulled away completely before settling into him once more. “That’s so not surprising.”
“It’s amazing, though,” the Doctor spoke softly, ignoring her reply as his hands lilted over her hair in demonstration for the barest of instances. “Simple contact.”
Simple, she inwardly scoffed. For him, perhaps. She’d been a bit stunned when he’d so willingly taken up post as her personal security blanket, though thinking over their past months together, and the little shifts between them, she probably shouldn’t have been. Just like she shouldn’t have been at all surprised at the tingle in the pit of her stomach every time he laid his arm against her own, every time their bare skin brushed just so; the tiny hairs on her arms tugging against the warmth of his touch and sending chills up her spine - that should not have been anywhere near as sensual for her as it had ended up being, every single time.
But it was, and after her conversation with Sarah Jane, she knew what it meant; it wasn’t so much a matter of identifying it now, of giving it a name - but instead a matter of owning up to it, of admitting it. And she would, eventually. It was just that his touch, so open and giving and unassuming, so unhesitant and willing - it was too much for her, just now. Too close, too soon, and she wanted it far too desperately. She needed more time.
“Touch,” he marveled with an exhale, pressing his side into Donna’s a bit as he drew a length of slightly shiny ribbon seemingly out of nowhere, watching the lighting catch the subtle shimmer, studying the contours of the fabric almost longing as it fluttered in midair, dangling from the curves of his palms; Donna was mildly hypnotized by the dancing length of his fingers stroking the cloth, silently wishing they were stroking something a little more relevant, a little more intimate...
“It’s so important,” he murmured, tightening his hold on her shoulder as he continued to marvel at the technicalities, the correlations; “across so many stars.”
She fought a shudder as his voice spread over her from head to foot, low and sweet, slow like honey and just as thick. Fucking... fuck. She couldn’t do this.
“In your distorted version of reality,” she choked, not bothering to look towards him as she tried to calm the aching need that was sending her hearts into her throat and making her lungs overeager, “is rambling part of your charm?”
He winked as he draped the thin length of material over his hands and splayed out his fingers upon his thighs. “Could be,” he smiled softly, focused on his palms.
Like she said - needing his constant supervision (they’d showered next to one another in their swimwear, for fuck’s sake) would have been absolutely humiliating if having his undivided attention - not to mention his touch - hadn’t been so downright thrilling underneath everything else.
“Ok,” he huffed triumphantly, suddenly breaking the mood he apparently hadn’t even been aware of, having managed to tie his wrists in a gentle knot with the lacings he’d been toying with; he tugged at the ends with his teeth to tighten it just so. “Now - which setting? Before you blast me into oblivion,” he added with a cock of his head towards the small cylinder of metal Donna had almost reluctantly taken back up, and was now brandishing vaguely in his direction like a weapon.
They’d been playing around a bit all day; despite Donna’s protests, the Doctor felt distinctly uncomfortable leaving the TARDIS if Donna could barely manage walking on her own. First, he’d quizzed her playfully on the relative time zones in fifty-four different galactic regions, followed by a very long and drawn out battle of wits involving constellations and their native star systems. After considerable nagging, however, the Doctor had finally agreed to their current occupation - teaching Donna how to properly use his pride and joy; the sonic screwdriver.
“Setting...” she bit her lip, fingering the cool metal in her hand as if it would remind her given the appropriate touch, if she coaxed it just right... “thirty-four?”
His eyes shot up in misleading approval before curving with his brow as his expression fell into an exaggerated grimace, his teeth clenched behind parted lips as he shook his head in mock-disappointment. “That would vaporize me on the spot. So if that’s your goal, then yeah.”
Donna threw her weight against him indignantly, fighting a blush as she glared in his direction. “You said thirty-four would target the nylon in the ropes!”
“Forty-four does that.”
“Then,” Donna huffed with a roll of her eyes. “Forty-four.”
The Doctor grinned cheekily over at her, shaking once with a somewhat-suppressed laugh. “At your leisure then,” he beckoned her with a toss of his bound-wrists, and with a slight turn of the dial near the tip of the screwdriver, she closed her eyes and aimed at his hands.
“Nicely done,” he replied smoothly as she cracked open her eyelids, watching as he shook his hands limply at the wrist, the confining strip of cloth nowhere to be found.
“Now,” he asked critically, “if those had been handcuffs, which setting would you use to reverse the mechanism?”
Donna cocked her eyebrow in only half-exaggerated disappointment. “What, no demonstration for this one?”
He looked dumbfounded for a fraction of a second, something indeterminate flashing across his features. “I don’t have any handcuffs,” he finally admitted flippantly, shrugging off the inquiry.
“We’ll most certainly need to be remedy that.” He laughed, and she smiled - but she wondered if he would have reacted the same way if he’d known she hadn’t been joking.
“You’d use setting eighty-six,” Donna answered with greater certainty than before, once the silence echoing after his laughter had stretched to the breaking.
“Very good,” he squeezed her shoulder with pride. “I’m almost convinced I could toss this to you and you could save our necks satisfactorily enough for my standards.”
She scoffed and pushed him away, only touching barely at the hip. “Shove off,” she managed, fighting the subtle heave at the back of her vision as her body registered the lack of his touch.
“You’ll get dizzy,” he whispered into her ear as he pulled her close once more, just before the lightheadedness grabbed hold, wrapping an arm around her and tucking her briefly beneath his chin.
“You’re a menace,” she hissed, burrowing against him a little too eagerly to make her words effective.
“Been called worse,” he grinned down at her, wide and genuine; and it may have been her imagination - may have been nothing more than wishful thinking - but she could have sworn that she fit against him just a bit closer than before as she pressed against his side once more.
She could definitely get used to this.
Part Fifteen: Sunday Best
Rating: R
Pairing: Ten/Donna (Friendship, UST)
Word Count: 1,626
Summary: If it hadn’t been so exhilarating, it may well have been absolutely humiliating. Spoilers for Doctor Who 4.13 - Journey’s End.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Story title inspired by The Frames.
Author’s Notes: Just a tiny little interlude, because while I’m still behind in writing ahead for this beast, I finally finished the two chapters that have been giving me grief for weeks! So, celebratory posting. In reference to this chapter, however - it’s really just pointless, gap-bridging fluff. And I am absolute shit at fluff. So - my sincerest apologies in advance. Still - I hope it’s not a complete waste of your time in reading; and reviews, perpetually, are food to my muses. Plus they make me positively giddy besides :)
Part One: Eulalie
Part Two: Desperate Moments In Linear Time
Part Three: Ontological Subjectivity
Part Four: Better Than One
Part Five: Ātman
Part Six: Only
Part Seven: Two To Tango
Part Eight: Sonnets To A Dark Lady
Part Nine: The Forgotten Tide
Part Ten: Fifth Symphony in Ood Minor
Part Eleven: Ragnarök
Part Twelve: Fancy Feet
Part Thirteen: The Pulse Of The Universe
Part Fourteen: Learn to Crawl
If it hadn’t been so exhilarating, it may well have been absolutely humiliating.
“You should feel lucky,” the Doctor commented offhandedly as she leaned against him. It was somewhat out of the ordinary, but it was nice as well; sitting in the lush, crushed velvet lounger in the TARDIS’s extensive library suite, with their sides pressed flush against one another as they both squeezed into the middle, but it had become decidedly apparent that she needed more than just a brush of the hand in order to keep her balance these days. “Took me a month to get used to it.”
She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t argue, because he was right; it hadn’t been anywhere near a month for her - in fact, it had barely been a week, and after sleeping through the first day and a half (curled around him like a fucking feline and waking up with her chin a bit too close to his private bits for comfort, but she tried not to think about that too much in hindsight) she’d slowly been weening herself off of the drug that was physical contact with the Doctor.
She hadn’t put up much of a fight when the Doctor had explained how adjusting to her new temporal and dimensional awareness would work. The swirling sensation in her mind would wear off like a bad bout of motion sickness - slowly and gradually, step by step as she acclimated to the new circumstances of her existence; to the new significance of her potential. Until then, however, she would need what the Gallifreyans had referred to rather aptly as an anchor - another time-sensitive being, preferably one with psychic ability, to help steady her mind until it could handle the change on its own. She felt a bit like a toddler, just graduating to her first shaking steps across the floor, only just having realized that crawling was only the beginning - every time she stayed away from him too long, every fleeting moment, it was like she was falling to the floor in a heap of confused and jumbled limbs, remembering anew why walking was considered such a feat.
“They had to call my mother into the Academy because the nurses got tired of me latching onto them,” he continued almost wistfully, leaning back into the cushion and flinging his arm along the neck rest, resting it in an arch around her shoulders. “I was a bit of a terror,” he mused, eyes studying the vaulted ceilings, “as a child.”
Donna snorted, pulling her ankles beneath her as she shifted against him, battling the nearly immediate onset of lightheadedness as she pulled away completely before settling into him once more. “That’s so not surprising.”
“It’s amazing, though,” the Doctor spoke softly, ignoring her reply as his hands lilted over her hair in demonstration for the barest of instances. “Simple contact.”
Simple, she inwardly scoffed. For him, perhaps. She’d been a bit stunned when he’d so willingly taken up post as her personal security blanket, though thinking over their past months together, and the little shifts between them, she probably shouldn’t have been. Just like she shouldn’t have been at all surprised at the tingle in the pit of her stomach every time he laid his arm against her own, every time their bare skin brushed just so; the tiny hairs on her arms tugging against the warmth of his touch and sending chills up her spine - that should not have been anywhere near as sensual for her as it had ended up being, every single time.
But it was, and after her conversation with Sarah Jane, she knew what it meant; it wasn’t so much a matter of identifying it now, of giving it a name - but instead a matter of owning up to it, of admitting it. And she would, eventually. It was just that his touch, so open and giving and unassuming, so unhesitant and willing - it was too much for her, just now. Too close, too soon, and she wanted it far too desperately. She needed more time.
“Touch,” he marveled with an exhale, pressing his side into Donna’s a bit as he drew a length of slightly shiny ribbon seemingly out of nowhere, watching the lighting catch the subtle shimmer, studying the contours of the fabric almost longing as it fluttered in midair, dangling from the curves of his palms; Donna was mildly hypnotized by the dancing length of his fingers stroking the cloth, silently wishing they were stroking something a little more relevant, a little more intimate...
“It’s so important,” he murmured, tightening his hold on her shoulder as he continued to marvel at the technicalities, the correlations; “across so many stars.”
She fought a shudder as his voice spread over her from head to foot, low and sweet, slow like honey and just as thick. Fucking... fuck. She couldn’t do this.
“In your distorted version of reality,” she choked, not bothering to look towards him as she tried to calm the aching need that was sending her hearts into her throat and making her lungs overeager, “is rambling part of your charm?”
He winked as he draped the thin length of material over his hands and splayed out his fingers upon his thighs. “Could be,” he smiled softly, focused on his palms.
Like she said - needing his constant supervision (they’d showered next to one another in their swimwear, for fuck’s sake) would have been absolutely humiliating if having his undivided attention - not to mention his touch - hadn’t been so downright thrilling underneath everything else.
“Ok,” he huffed triumphantly, suddenly breaking the mood he apparently hadn’t even been aware of, having managed to tie his wrists in a gentle knot with the lacings he’d been toying with; he tugged at the ends with his teeth to tighten it just so. “Now - which setting? Before you blast me into oblivion,” he added with a cock of his head towards the small cylinder of metal Donna had almost reluctantly taken back up, and was now brandishing vaguely in his direction like a weapon.
They’d been playing around a bit all day; despite Donna’s protests, the Doctor felt distinctly uncomfortable leaving the TARDIS if Donna could barely manage walking on her own. First, he’d quizzed her playfully on the relative time zones in fifty-four different galactic regions, followed by a very long and drawn out battle of wits involving constellations and their native star systems. After considerable nagging, however, the Doctor had finally agreed to their current occupation - teaching Donna how to properly use his pride and joy; the sonic screwdriver.
“Setting...” she bit her lip, fingering the cool metal in her hand as if it would remind her given the appropriate touch, if she coaxed it just right... “thirty-four?”
His eyes shot up in misleading approval before curving with his brow as his expression fell into an exaggerated grimace, his teeth clenched behind parted lips as he shook his head in mock-disappointment. “That would vaporize me on the spot. So if that’s your goal, then yeah.”
Donna threw her weight against him indignantly, fighting a blush as she glared in his direction. “You said thirty-four would target the nylon in the ropes!”
“Forty-four does that.”
“Then,” Donna huffed with a roll of her eyes. “Forty-four.”
The Doctor grinned cheekily over at her, shaking once with a somewhat-suppressed laugh. “At your leisure then,” he beckoned her with a toss of his bound-wrists, and with a slight turn of the dial near the tip of the screwdriver, she closed her eyes and aimed at his hands.
“Nicely done,” he replied smoothly as she cracked open her eyelids, watching as he shook his hands limply at the wrist, the confining strip of cloth nowhere to be found.
“Now,” he asked critically, “if those had been handcuffs, which setting would you use to reverse the mechanism?”
Donna cocked her eyebrow in only half-exaggerated disappointment. “What, no demonstration for this one?”
He looked dumbfounded for a fraction of a second, something indeterminate flashing across his features. “I don’t have any handcuffs,” he finally admitted flippantly, shrugging off the inquiry.
“We’ll most certainly need to be remedy that.” He laughed, and she smiled - but she wondered if he would have reacted the same way if he’d known she hadn’t been joking.
“You’d use setting eighty-six,” Donna answered with greater certainty than before, once the silence echoing after his laughter had stretched to the breaking.
“Very good,” he squeezed her shoulder with pride. “I’m almost convinced I could toss this to you and you could save our necks satisfactorily enough for my standards.”
She scoffed and pushed him away, only touching barely at the hip. “Shove off,” she managed, fighting the subtle heave at the back of her vision as her body registered the lack of his touch.
“You’ll get dizzy,” he whispered into her ear as he pulled her close once more, just before the lightheadedness grabbed hold, wrapping an arm around her and tucking her briefly beneath his chin.
“You’re a menace,” she hissed, burrowing against him a little too eagerly to make her words effective.
“Been called worse,” he grinned down at her, wide and genuine; and it may have been her imagination - may have been nothing more than wishful thinking - but she could have sworn that she fit against him just a bit closer than before as she pressed against his side once more.
She could definitely get used to this.
Part Fifteen: Sunday Best