Fic: Red Band (1/1)
Title: Red Band
Rating: R
Pairing: Ten/Donna
Word Count: 3,808
Summary: When he’d told her about the planet-wide amusement park where one booked a vacation of living through the highest grossing movies in history, she’d naturally assumed that he was suffering from one of his recurring proclivities towards exaggeration. For tristesses at the doctor_donna Secret Santa Exchange. Spoilers through Doctor Who Series Four.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: This is very nearly crackfic, which is something I’ve never done before, so we’ll see how it goes. For being generally averse to writing humor, this was actually a real treat to attempt, at any rate. For those of you unfamiliar with the concept - the title comes from the MPAA rating card system on film trailers (green, yellow, and red; red band being a preview approved for restricted audiences only, which is playable only before R, NC-17, or unrated features) and is in fact a play on Donna’s recurring ginger hair.
Red Band
When he’d told her about the planet-wide amusement park where one booked a vacation of living through the highest grossing movies in history, she’d naturally assumed that he was suffering from one of his recurring proclivities towards exaggeration.
“Filmbata,” she breathes, not quite believing it, suspicious that her eyes have been hijacked and are somehow lying to her point blank. “You’re joking, right? This is a joke.”
Apparently not - the genuine apology bleeding from his gaze is enough to steal the breath from any further doubts.
“For the first time in a very long time,” he sighs, his eyelids curving down in a resigned sort of dismay behind a comical violet mask that matches the shirt beneath his jacket, “I actually wish it was.”
“Did you know this was going to happen?” Donna seethes, teeth clenched and jaw set as she glares over at the Doctor through narrowed slits that used to be recognizable as eyes, her suddenly emerald-tinged complexion making her familiarly-plump lips stand out even more on from her tense features.
“Of course I didn’t know,” he shoots back in her direction, trying to get used to the cut of his strange leaf-shaded suit. “How was I supposed to know that they were excepting a Dr. and Mrs. Smith for a honeymoon package today of all days!” He hadn’t known of course; not to say he wouldn't have jumped at the opportunity if he had.
Heaving a dramatic breath, Donna lets the anger seep from her just a tad, and every ounce that’s lost is replaced immediately by a slightly more innocuous irritation. “Poison Ivy,” she bemoaned, fluffing her long cherry-red locks. “I mean, really?”
“At least you’re not Harley Quinn.”
Donna starts a bit at the matter-of-fact interruption of her upset, sparing him a withering glare before she goes back to picking awkwardly at the skimpy, foliage-covered leotard she is currently sporting. “How would that be any worse?”
It’s only under his breath, far lower and quieter than she is physically capable of discerning that he adds: “Doesn’t show enough skin.”
Turning to appraise him for the first time since they landed in the slums outside a city hub of towering buildings, a veritable gotham, Donna cracks a small but genuine grin. “At least they got you pinned, didn’t they?” she acknowledges with a shrug, reaching over to pluck playfully at his lapel. “Such a Riddler.” She winks before rising to her feet, feeling the distinct urge to run about and let the thin, silky cape draped across her shoulders catch in the moonlight, billow in the wind.
“Cheeky,” the Doctor straightens his tie, making sure the question mark silkscreened onto it points straight before moving to follow her lead, watching her figure bound off, feeling both slightly lecherous and entirely unrepentant as he focuses on the sway of her hips as she runs. “I like it.”
_____________________________________
“I hate you.”
“Hmmm...” the Doctor murmurs above the lip of his pint, sipping heavily at the strongly brewed ale.
“I really, really hate you.”
Finally, he glances up; more at the dismayed tone underlying Donna’s words than the actual words themselves, his eyes reflecting the amber liquid in his mug and making first the surprise, and then the sympathetic sort of suppressed amusement shining in them appear softer - brighter. “That blouse doesn’t quite fit you, does it?” he asks gently, trying not to stare at the beautiful half-moons of her breasts, the teasing blush of her areolas where the neckline hangs far too low. He distracts himself with a swipe of his hand across his lip to clear away the frothy bit of foam from his drink, able to lower his gaze with the gesture to see the taut buds of her nipples through the seam of the fabric. “Here, let me help-”
“Hands, Spaceman!” she shrieks, jumping a bit and batting his hands away; he can’t help it as he leans forward, trying in vain to reach out to her, to take the thin bunch of cotton at her bust and feel the free-falling curves, unfettered and unobstructed, brush soft and smooth against the backs of his hands.
He leans back in his chair when he sees fury ignite in her eyes, resisting the urge to just reach a bit further to at least play with the adorable plaits in her hair, braided with ribbons and daisies. “Would you rather have your...” he gestures towards her chest, blushing as she raises an eyebrow at him, “your... bits, hanging all about for all of Middle Earth to see?” He waggles his outstretched forearms for emphasis, and while Donna’s eyes soften in something like humor, her lips grow ever more thin as she sits down next to him with a frustrated sigh.
“I hate you,” she says miserably, burying her face in between her folded arms upon the table; the colorful overhead of the tent they’re situated under makes her pale skin look golden, sparkling in the red of her flowing tresses.
“I know.” He’s a little too mesmerized by the colors in her hair to argue.
“At least we can assume you would age gracefully,” she mutters with a sort of half-grin as she tugs self-consciously at her peasant top, biting her lip as it slides back down into the dip of her cleavage.
“You should have seen me a couple hundred years ago,” he muses, feeling his blood run thicker, hotter through his veins at the flush of the late-summer evening’s warmth on her collarbone. “I was rather fond of the weathered look.”
She snorts, and it’s endearing and lovely and so very much like her that he can’t help but grin as she scoffs disbelievingly; “Right.”
“It’s not so bad, though,” he says softly, leaning further into his seat and relaxing into the position as he lifts his eyes over the lines of hill-dwellings, covered in rich soil and green grass, little testaments of life dotting the horizon, illuminated by the sun as it sets. “Might as well enjoy the fireworks, yeah?”
“Easy for you to say,” Donna grumbles, flicking a wrist at him exemplarily; “You’re tall and got the pointy hat. I’m... I’m...”
Her face scrunches for a moment, and the Doctor is afraid that she might start to cry, but instead she just laments in a squeal that fits her temporarily miniaturized frame quite nicely - “I’m a hobbit.”
_____________________________________
“Wah.”
The floating white teardrop that the metallic box he’s stuck in is addressing watches him with LED-eyes that look too much like Donna for comfort. It’s not natural.
“Wah,” he tried again, knowing from the slant of those stoic blue lights that she’s unhappy, and that she blames him entirely. “Wah.... ahhhleee.” He grins as best he can, flinching inwardly and the strange squeak his eyes make as they lean into each other endearingly and he bounces a bit on his caterpillar belts, rolling forward on them a tad out of enthusiasm before noticing the silence of the floating embodiment of Donna in front of him.
“Wall-E,” he tries again, gesturing to himself with the clamp that is his left hand. “Eeee-vahh?”
No response.
“Directive?” He attempts, hoping that will break the ice - elicit some response.
In the blink of an eye, she’s pulled a blaster on him, and he’s cowering beneath the smoking remains of his last compacted cube of trash as the slice of her razor sharp, yet desperately smooth digitized voice rings through the ether:
“Directive.”
He’s in the doghouse, and he knows it.
_____________________________________
“Oh, now this is gorgeous; an island!” She looks like herself, the Doctor notices, and so does he, aside from the tacky Hawaiian shirt hanging loose from his slim frame and the strangely shaped hat covering his head. He feels a little too much like a tourist for his liking.
“Donna,” he begins, glancing around at the suspiciously high security fences lining the shore further down along the surf, noticing that they’re the only ones around.
“Look at that beach!” she exclaims without paying him any mind, already sinking her sandal-clad toes into the sand dunes and trudging towards the crystalline water, her pale skin looking almost as if she’s already getting a bit of a tan, a pinkness mixing with the natural cream of her skin like a bit of raspberry swirled in vanilla - she looks good enough to eat. “I’mma take a dip, if you don’t mind.”
“Umm, Donna...” If he’d thought before that something was off, he knows that the subtle shaking on the ground, too much like an advancing force, a stampede for comfort, the echoes of which he can still feel rumbling in his legs from too many wars, too many close shaves - it means trouble. And that’s before he picks up on the ominous squeaking, the deep-throated, bestial screeches that tangle in the trees; he knows that sound, and knows it shouldn’t be here.
Donna turns on him with a frustrated humph, rolling her eyes just as she’s about to slip off her shorts to stand just in her bathing suit. “What on earth is it-” Her shorts fall of their own accord as she freezes; he can hear the slow stalk, the crunch of leaves behind him, and he’s ninety-nine-point-nine percent certain he knows what her eyes, growing wide enough to be comical in any circumstances but the present, have seen lurking beyond where he stands.
She opens her mouth once, twice, and a third time before she finally manages a noise on the fourth; it’s not until her seventh try that she manages to shriek: “It’s a raptor!”
She’s taking off ahead of him along the line of the crashing waves, and he’s on her heels in moments, trying to ignore the steady patter of limber, dangerous claws against the ground in hot pursuit. “It’s actually a deinonychus,” he informs her breathlessly, tossing a backward glance over his shoulder to be sure of his deduction. “Velociraptors were much smaller in stature and general bone structure, they-”
“Shut up, Alien-boy!”
_____________________________________
“Honestly,” Donna sighs as she studies her unnaturally long legs appreciatively before returning disappointedly to her unchanging hair color. “Do I get no variety?”
The Doctor slides out from under the hot rod he’s tinkering with to appraise her newest reinvention of self. “You get excellent footwear.” He says it as if it’s an unquestionably even trade - which it is, of course, but she won’t say it aloud.
“Alas,” she tries desperately to sound disappointed, but the way her eyes widen as they travel up and down the crimson-lined icicle of her Louboutins betrays her with every click across the tiling.
“Think we’ll get to stay in this one long enough for me to try on a few more pairs?”
“Unfortunately, Mrs. Smith,” a smooth, lilting accent permeated the room, causing her to jump just a tad, almost losing her balance. “Your simulation has reached its half-way point; the segments will be growing successively shorter until you’ve completed the last, and, per your prearranged request, are escorted back to your rooms for the evening.”
“Right,” Donna drawls slowly, only just noticing the shot of espresso clenched between her thumb and forefinger. “‘Least he got my name. Sort of.”
“JARVIS is never wrong,” she hears flutter up from near the antique vehicle, and it makes her smile as he sits up, covered in grease, and settles himself on the bumper of the car.
“Coffee, Mr. Stark?” she asks with an indulgent grin, her well-tailored suit pulled taut across her shoulders, her chest as she hands him the tiny cup. He can’t help but stare at her.
“Thank you, Miss Potts.”
_____________________________________
They land on top of each other, long robes of black tangling around them in the dim light streaming through the crack in a door - they’re cramped, and chest to chest as they are, it takes Donna a while to notice anything but the warmth of him pressed tight against her; it’s a full minute before she notices that she’s chewing on the thinly striped necktie of crimson and gold slung around her neck.
“I think this is illegal,” the dark, stringy-haired version of the Time Lord beneath her whispers conspiratorially - just given the jumble of their limbs she tell that he’s larger, older than her by more than a decade, has to be. “Even in the Wizarding World.”
“Oh, shove off, you,” she smirks as she gives his shoulder a push, sliding down and sticking herself on something protruding near her knee. “That,” she stutters, “that’s your wand, isn’t it?”
He grins cheekily, but moves the offending object and extracts it from between them, whispering ’Lumos’ and illuminating their surroundings to expel any doubt.
“How’d we end up in a cupboard?” Donna asks, a bit put out that if she gets to be a witch, it’s in a bloody broom closet.
“Haven’t the foggiest.”
Looking down at the state of her dress, inspecting the quality - or lack thereof - closer in the soft lighting, she finds herself asking an even more pressing question: “How’d I get to be a Weasley?”
“How d’ya think?” he quips fondly in reply, flicking at a stray strand of her now straight, but still radiantly ginger hair. “The real question,” he continues with a frustrated spreading of his arms indicatively towards his own appearance, a little darker and a little more bat-like than he’s comfortable with. “How’d I end up as the greasy git?”
She grins and him and stifles a laugh before smoothing out the voluminous folds of the Potions Master’s attire and patting him comfortingly on the shoulder before ruffling his hair encouragingly. “Aww, now, but you make a very adorable greasy git,” she assures him pleasantly, and he can’t help but return the smile she’s gracing him with, vying with the gentle light streaming form the tip of his wand and defeating it in brilliance without event trying.
He watches as she retracts her hand from his stringy locks, turning her palm back and forth at a distance from her before she admits regretfully: “I am goin’ to have to wash my hands now, though.”
_____________________________________
“Ooooo,” Donna breathes, entranced, and she watches the long lazer-like blade of sapphire slice through the air. “It really does make the little swishy noise!”
“This is all simulated,” the Doctor comments stoically, his arms folded in his long, flowing, tan-colored robes, his hood up tight around his ears. “You do realize that, don’t you?”
“Shut it,” Donna hisses, dancing around with her lightsaber. “I’m enjoying this.” She disarms a handful of invisible fiends, leaping and shouting dramatically as she slays her imaginary foes. The Doctor, on the other hand, stares out the starship’s gaping windows at the endless stream of stars that look familiar, but not enough to make his heart ache.
“I wonder...” he only vaguely hears Donna’s voice through his distraction, the wonder in it being all that penetrates his consciouses, with none of the mischief managing to get through.
“Turn around.”
He’s facing her before he knows it.
“You will stay where you are.” The mysterious wave of her hand, the way her fingers dance in midair, bar no argument.
“I will stay where I am.”
She smiles widely as she pauses, thinking of what to instruct next. “You don’t want to... wear any clothes.”
“I don’t want to wear any clothes.” He looks unfazed, perhaps a bit confused, and her features twist with a terrible sort of glee.
“You will take off your robes first.”
“I will take off my robes first.”
His hands move to the ties near his waist, and Donna can’t for the life of her think of anything better than being a Jedi.
_____________________________________
“What the fuck?!”
Given both of their states of undress, it’s a very fitting question, quite literally. She takes a quick look around, feeling the sweat-slick leather under her bum slide uncomfortably across her skin, clinging painfully to the insides of her thighs where she’s pressed against a slightly blonder, slightly younger looking version of her regular traveling companion. She shifts her weight, and feels the motion rock the compartment they’re curled inside - giving and recoiling like shocks. They’re in an automobile. An old one.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me!” she growls as she puts it together. “Of all the movies, this? This?!”
“Umm... Donna?” the Doctor asks from beneath her, his chest heaving and glistening with perspiration.
“Well, you’re certainly no Leo, that’s for sure,” she estimates with a quick glance at him, noting that his shoulders look too narrow like this - her Doctor might be skinny, but somehow, he manages to look strong anyway.
“Donna?” The twinge of desperation in his oddly-innocent tone is lost on her.
“And by God, they made this look much more comfortable in the film...” she wiggles her hips a bit in emphasis, cringing as she bangs into the seat and pulls at her hamstring a bit too hard. “That Kate Winslet had to be sore as hell.”
“Donna?”
“And it’s freezing,” she stops, realizing that his voice had skipped up a pitch or two on that last instance of her name. “What?”
A single look down, and she sees exactly what. Or else, between the two of them, pressed not only against each other, apparently, but nearly into each other, she sees. She flushes crimson and can manage even one word as she notices that the feeling of fullness between her legs isn’t an everyday, run-of-the-mill sort of sensation. She bites her lips and feels her own voice run up an octave as she whispers: “Oh.”
“Yeah,” the youthful Doctor murmurs with a cringe, panting a bit as his eyes dart around, looking to fix upon anything but her face.
“Well, umm...” Donna fumbles, trying her best not to move too much now, with him pressed just against her, but in trying to avoid him, she only manages to guide him all the closer to her. She suddenly feels his length, his girth with a gasp, eyes flickering to him in an instant as she pins him with a questioning sort of wonder.
“Is that you, or Mr. DiCaprio?” she asks, flabbergasted, and can barely process the satisfaction glimmering in his eyes as he answers:
“Some things they just can’t simulate.”
Clearing her throat, Donna pins her eyes to the roof of the automobile, biting her lip and trying to control her breathing as every subtle inhale inches his hard shaft closer to her opening. “Well,” she hears him propose tentatively, muffled over the pounding over her heart as she closes her eyes and tries to swallow. “Maybe if we, you know, play out the scene? Then, then it’ll change quicker.”
She curses the dryness of her mouth and attempts to take one deep, steadying breath; it gets caught in her lungs and she only manages to gasp out in reply: “Good plan.”
“Well, that’s that,” he decides practically, trying to hide his discomfort. “Best get on with it, before the boat sinks. For the first time, at least. Allons-y.”
They both follow his advice at the very same moment, driving hard into one another, and with a cry, the Doctor has to steady himself against the window, his wet palm trailing steamy fingerprints down across the glass.
_____________________________________
“Now this is more than worth it,” Donna purrs, noticing with glee how slim she is as she slinks back upon the bed in the dilapidated one room apartment overlooking the heart of the city.
“Is it now?” she hears across the room, near the closet, where a just slightly post-pubescent incarnation of the infamous “Oncoming Storm” is pulling at the spandex encasing his entire figure.
“Oh yeah,” she enthuses, holding back a lustful laugh as she takes a moment to appreciate the tight, sculpted dip of his behind where the suit clings to it just so. “Just to see you in that.”
“Should I be flattered?” he asks with a grin as he turns to her, and she can’t help the tiny gasp as her heart skips a beat at the sight of him - absurd color scheme aside, the way the intricate black lines follow his muscles, ripple around his pectorals and down along his abdomen takes her breath away just a tad. Any hot blooded woman would be hard-pressed to keep their composure in the face of this.
“Why Doctor,” she asks breathlessly, a girlish giggle caught in her throat and tinging her soft question with mirth, “is that a sonic screwdriver in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”
The color his cheeks turn match the red of his costume, making the blue look all the more vibrant as he stumbles a bit in turning to approach her.
“Careful there, Spidey,” she admonishes him playfully, filled with the sort of raging, youthful hormones she’d long given up reclaiming as her own as she reaches out to pull him down on top of her before he falls there on his own. “Don’t want you to hurt yourself before we get to the good part.”
____________________________________
Donna’s always loved the water, and especially after being robbed of her beach before by those scaly sprinting lizards, she feel she deserves this indulgence. She just didn’t expect pearls, a stomach so flat it actually curves inward, flowers, and a gorgeous violet shell-bra. Hell, she wasn’t even sure there were shells big enough to make a bra for her in the first place, unless it was made from conchs.
She hadn’t been expecting the fins, either, but she finds she doesn’t mind them.
She’s twirling, and they’re singing - a symphony of aquatic life that she can’t identify half of, but they’re so colorful and mesmerizing that it doesn’t matter. She giggles and flitters in between them, weaving in and out and poking at the torrential stream of bubbles that tickle her bare skin. Her soft, candy-apple red hair floats around behind her, and when she finds a tiny little speck of a matching shade situated by himself on a rock near the ocean floor, she wastes no time going to him, whisking past him and spinning jubilantly through the water, his tiny crustaceous body held safely in her hands.
“You’re a gem, you know,” she whispers to him happily, kissing him softly on the head and cuddling him to her briefly. “A real gem.”
As she swims off to join the floating rainbow celebrating above, The Doctor smiles and curls back into his shell - he’d never imagined it was possible to feel so pleased to be a crab.
Rating: R
Pairing: Ten/Donna
Word Count: 3,808
Summary: When he’d told her about the planet-wide amusement park where one booked a vacation of living through the highest grossing movies in history, she’d naturally assumed that he was suffering from one of his recurring proclivities towards exaggeration. For tristesses at the doctor_donna Secret Santa Exchange. Spoilers through Doctor Who Series Four.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: This is very nearly crackfic, which is something I’ve never done before, so we’ll see how it goes. For being generally averse to writing humor, this was actually a real treat to attempt, at any rate. For those of you unfamiliar with the concept - the title comes from the MPAA rating card system on film trailers (green, yellow, and red; red band being a preview approved for restricted audiences only, which is playable only before R, NC-17, or unrated features) and is in fact a play on Donna’s recurring ginger hair.
Red Band
When he’d told her about the planet-wide amusement park where one booked a vacation of living through the highest grossing movies in history, she’d naturally assumed that he was suffering from one of his recurring proclivities towards exaggeration.
“Filmbata,” she breathes, not quite believing it, suspicious that her eyes have been hijacked and are somehow lying to her point blank. “You’re joking, right? This is a joke.”
Apparently not - the genuine apology bleeding from his gaze is enough to steal the breath from any further doubts.
“For the first time in a very long time,” he sighs, his eyelids curving down in a resigned sort of dismay behind a comical violet mask that matches the shirt beneath his jacket, “I actually wish it was.”
“Did you know this was going to happen?” Donna seethes, teeth clenched and jaw set as she glares over at the Doctor through narrowed slits that used to be recognizable as eyes, her suddenly emerald-tinged complexion making her familiarly-plump lips stand out even more on from her tense features.
“Of course I didn’t know,” he shoots back in her direction, trying to get used to the cut of his strange leaf-shaded suit. “How was I supposed to know that they were excepting a Dr. and Mrs. Smith for a honeymoon package today of all days!” He hadn’t known of course; not to say he wouldn't have jumped at the opportunity if he had.
Heaving a dramatic breath, Donna lets the anger seep from her just a tad, and every ounce that’s lost is replaced immediately by a slightly more innocuous irritation. “Poison Ivy,” she bemoaned, fluffing her long cherry-red locks. “I mean, really?”
“At least you’re not Harley Quinn.”
Donna starts a bit at the matter-of-fact interruption of her upset, sparing him a withering glare before she goes back to picking awkwardly at the skimpy, foliage-covered leotard she is currently sporting. “How would that be any worse?”
It’s only under his breath, far lower and quieter than she is physically capable of discerning that he adds: “Doesn’t show enough skin.”
Turning to appraise him for the first time since they landed in the slums outside a city hub of towering buildings, a veritable gotham, Donna cracks a small but genuine grin. “At least they got you pinned, didn’t they?” she acknowledges with a shrug, reaching over to pluck playfully at his lapel. “Such a Riddler.” She winks before rising to her feet, feeling the distinct urge to run about and let the thin, silky cape draped across her shoulders catch in the moonlight, billow in the wind.
“Cheeky,” the Doctor straightens his tie, making sure the question mark silkscreened onto it points straight before moving to follow her lead, watching her figure bound off, feeling both slightly lecherous and entirely unrepentant as he focuses on the sway of her hips as she runs. “I like it.”
_____________________________________
“I hate you.”
“Hmmm...” the Doctor murmurs above the lip of his pint, sipping heavily at the strongly brewed ale.
“I really, really hate you.”
Finally, he glances up; more at the dismayed tone underlying Donna’s words than the actual words themselves, his eyes reflecting the amber liquid in his mug and making first the surprise, and then the sympathetic sort of suppressed amusement shining in them appear softer - brighter. “That blouse doesn’t quite fit you, does it?” he asks gently, trying not to stare at the beautiful half-moons of her breasts, the teasing blush of her areolas where the neckline hangs far too low. He distracts himself with a swipe of his hand across his lip to clear away the frothy bit of foam from his drink, able to lower his gaze with the gesture to see the taut buds of her nipples through the seam of the fabric. “Here, let me help-”
“Hands, Spaceman!” she shrieks, jumping a bit and batting his hands away; he can’t help it as he leans forward, trying in vain to reach out to her, to take the thin bunch of cotton at her bust and feel the free-falling curves, unfettered and unobstructed, brush soft and smooth against the backs of his hands.
He leans back in his chair when he sees fury ignite in her eyes, resisting the urge to just reach a bit further to at least play with the adorable plaits in her hair, braided with ribbons and daisies. “Would you rather have your...” he gestures towards her chest, blushing as she raises an eyebrow at him, “your... bits, hanging all about for all of Middle Earth to see?” He waggles his outstretched forearms for emphasis, and while Donna’s eyes soften in something like humor, her lips grow ever more thin as she sits down next to him with a frustrated sigh.
“I hate you,” she says miserably, burying her face in between her folded arms upon the table; the colorful overhead of the tent they’re situated under makes her pale skin look golden, sparkling in the red of her flowing tresses.
“I know.” He’s a little too mesmerized by the colors in her hair to argue.
“At least we can assume you would age gracefully,” she mutters with a sort of half-grin as she tugs self-consciously at her peasant top, biting her lip as it slides back down into the dip of her cleavage.
“You should have seen me a couple hundred years ago,” he muses, feeling his blood run thicker, hotter through his veins at the flush of the late-summer evening’s warmth on her collarbone. “I was rather fond of the weathered look.”
She snorts, and it’s endearing and lovely and so very much like her that he can’t help but grin as she scoffs disbelievingly; “Right.”
“It’s not so bad, though,” he says softly, leaning further into his seat and relaxing into the position as he lifts his eyes over the lines of hill-dwellings, covered in rich soil and green grass, little testaments of life dotting the horizon, illuminated by the sun as it sets. “Might as well enjoy the fireworks, yeah?”
“Easy for you to say,” Donna grumbles, flicking a wrist at him exemplarily; “You’re tall and got the pointy hat. I’m... I’m...”
Her face scrunches for a moment, and the Doctor is afraid that she might start to cry, but instead she just laments in a squeal that fits her temporarily miniaturized frame quite nicely - “I’m a hobbit.”
_____________________________________
“Wah.”
The floating white teardrop that the metallic box he’s stuck in is addressing watches him with LED-eyes that look too much like Donna for comfort. It’s not natural.
“Wah,” he tried again, knowing from the slant of those stoic blue lights that she’s unhappy, and that she blames him entirely. “Wah.... ahhhleee.” He grins as best he can, flinching inwardly and the strange squeak his eyes make as they lean into each other endearingly and he bounces a bit on his caterpillar belts, rolling forward on them a tad out of enthusiasm before noticing the silence of the floating embodiment of Donna in front of him.
“Wall-E,” he tries again, gesturing to himself with the clamp that is his left hand. “Eeee-vahh?”
No response.
“Directive?” He attempts, hoping that will break the ice - elicit some response.
In the blink of an eye, she’s pulled a blaster on him, and he’s cowering beneath the smoking remains of his last compacted cube of trash as the slice of her razor sharp, yet desperately smooth digitized voice rings through the ether:
“Directive.”
He’s in the doghouse, and he knows it.
_____________________________________
“Oh, now this is gorgeous; an island!” She looks like herself, the Doctor notices, and so does he, aside from the tacky Hawaiian shirt hanging loose from his slim frame and the strangely shaped hat covering his head. He feels a little too much like a tourist for his liking.
“Donna,” he begins, glancing around at the suspiciously high security fences lining the shore further down along the surf, noticing that they’re the only ones around.
“Look at that beach!” she exclaims without paying him any mind, already sinking her sandal-clad toes into the sand dunes and trudging towards the crystalline water, her pale skin looking almost as if she’s already getting a bit of a tan, a pinkness mixing with the natural cream of her skin like a bit of raspberry swirled in vanilla - she looks good enough to eat. “I’mma take a dip, if you don’t mind.”
“Umm, Donna...” If he’d thought before that something was off, he knows that the subtle shaking on the ground, too much like an advancing force, a stampede for comfort, the echoes of which he can still feel rumbling in his legs from too many wars, too many close shaves - it means trouble. And that’s before he picks up on the ominous squeaking, the deep-throated, bestial screeches that tangle in the trees; he knows that sound, and knows it shouldn’t be here.
Donna turns on him with a frustrated humph, rolling her eyes just as she’s about to slip off her shorts to stand just in her bathing suit. “What on earth is it-” Her shorts fall of their own accord as she freezes; he can hear the slow stalk, the crunch of leaves behind him, and he’s ninety-nine-point-nine percent certain he knows what her eyes, growing wide enough to be comical in any circumstances but the present, have seen lurking beyond where he stands.
She opens her mouth once, twice, and a third time before she finally manages a noise on the fourth; it’s not until her seventh try that she manages to shriek: “It’s a raptor!”
She’s taking off ahead of him along the line of the crashing waves, and he’s on her heels in moments, trying to ignore the steady patter of limber, dangerous claws against the ground in hot pursuit. “It’s actually a deinonychus,” he informs her breathlessly, tossing a backward glance over his shoulder to be sure of his deduction. “Velociraptors were much smaller in stature and general bone structure, they-”
“Shut up, Alien-boy!”
_____________________________________
“Honestly,” Donna sighs as she studies her unnaturally long legs appreciatively before returning disappointedly to her unchanging hair color. “Do I get no variety?”
The Doctor slides out from under the hot rod he’s tinkering with to appraise her newest reinvention of self. “You get excellent footwear.” He says it as if it’s an unquestionably even trade - which it is, of course, but she won’t say it aloud.
“Alas,” she tries desperately to sound disappointed, but the way her eyes widen as they travel up and down the crimson-lined icicle of her Louboutins betrays her with every click across the tiling.
“Think we’ll get to stay in this one long enough for me to try on a few more pairs?”
“Unfortunately, Mrs. Smith,” a smooth, lilting accent permeated the room, causing her to jump just a tad, almost losing her balance. “Your simulation has reached its half-way point; the segments will be growing successively shorter until you’ve completed the last, and, per your prearranged request, are escorted back to your rooms for the evening.”
“Right,” Donna drawls slowly, only just noticing the shot of espresso clenched between her thumb and forefinger. “‘Least he got my name. Sort of.”
“JARVIS is never wrong,” she hears flutter up from near the antique vehicle, and it makes her smile as he sits up, covered in grease, and settles himself on the bumper of the car.
“Coffee, Mr. Stark?” she asks with an indulgent grin, her well-tailored suit pulled taut across her shoulders, her chest as she hands him the tiny cup. He can’t help but stare at her.
“Thank you, Miss Potts.”
_____________________________________
They land on top of each other, long robes of black tangling around them in the dim light streaming through the crack in a door - they’re cramped, and chest to chest as they are, it takes Donna a while to notice anything but the warmth of him pressed tight against her; it’s a full minute before she notices that she’s chewing on the thinly striped necktie of crimson and gold slung around her neck.
“I think this is illegal,” the dark, stringy-haired version of the Time Lord beneath her whispers conspiratorially - just given the jumble of their limbs she tell that he’s larger, older than her by more than a decade, has to be. “Even in the Wizarding World.”
“Oh, shove off, you,” she smirks as she gives his shoulder a push, sliding down and sticking herself on something protruding near her knee. “That,” she stutters, “that’s your wand, isn’t it?”
He grins cheekily, but moves the offending object and extracts it from between them, whispering ’Lumos’ and illuminating their surroundings to expel any doubt.
“How’d we end up in a cupboard?” Donna asks, a bit put out that if she gets to be a witch, it’s in a bloody broom closet.
“Haven’t the foggiest.”
Looking down at the state of her dress, inspecting the quality - or lack thereof - closer in the soft lighting, she finds herself asking an even more pressing question: “How’d I get to be a Weasley?”
“How d’ya think?” he quips fondly in reply, flicking at a stray strand of her now straight, but still radiantly ginger hair. “The real question,” he continues with a frustrated spreading of his arms indicatively towards his own appearance, a little darker and a little more bat-like than he’s comfortable with. “How’d I end up as the greasy git?”
She grins and him and stifles a laugh before smoothing out the voluminous folds of the Potions Master’s attire and patting him comfortingly on the shoulder before ruffling his hair encouragingly. “Aww, now, but you make a very adorable greasy git,” she assures him pleasantly, and he can’t help but return the smile she’s gracing him with, vying with the gentle light streaming form the tip of his wand and defeating it in brilliance without event trying.
He watches as she retracts her hand from his stringy locks, turning her palm back and forth at a distance from her before she admits regretfully: “I am goin’ to have to wash my hands now, though.”
_____________________________________
“Ooooo,” Donna breathes, entranced, and she watches the long lazer-like blade of sapphire slice through the air. “It really does make the little swishy noise!”
“This is all simulated,” the Doctor comments stoically, his arms folded in his long, flowing, tan-colored robes, his hood up tight around his ears. “You do realize that, don’t you?”
“Shut it,” Donna hisses, dancing around with her lightsaber. “I’m enjoying this.” She disarms a handful of invisible fiends, leaping and shouting dramatically as she slays her imaginary foes. The Doctor, on the other hand, stares out the starship’s gaping windows at the endless stream of stars that look familiar, but not enough to make his heart ache.
“I wonder...” he only vaguely hears Donna’s voice through his distraction, the wonder in it being all that penetrates his consciouses, with none of the mischief managing to get through.
“Turn around.”
He’s facing her before he knows it.
“You will stay where you are.” The mysterious wave of her hand, the way her fingers dance in midair, bar no argument.
“I will stay where I am.”
She smiles widely as she pauses, thinking of what to instruct next. “You don’t want to... wear any clothes.”
“I don’t want to wear any clothes.” He looks unfazed, perhaps a bit confused, and her features twist with a terrible sort of glee.
“You will take off your robes first.”
“I will take off my robes first.”
His hands move to the ties near his waist, and Donna can’t for the life of her think of anything better than being a Jedi.
_____________________________________
“What the fuck?!”
Given both of their states of undress, it’s a very fitting question, quite literally. She takes a quick look around, feeling the sweat-slick leather under her bum slide uncomfortably across her skin, clinging painfully to the insides of her thighs where she’s pressed against a slightly blonder, slightly younger looking version of her regular traveling companion. She shifts her weight, and feels the motion rock the compartment they’re curled inside - giving and recoiling like shocks. They’re in an automobile. An old one.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me!” she growls as she puts it together. “Of all the movies, this? This?!”
“Umm... Donna?” the Doctor asks from beneath her, his chest heaving and glistening with perspiration.
“Well, you’re certainly no Leo, that’s for sure,” she estimates with a quick glance at him, noting that his shoulders look too narrow like this - her Doctor might be skinny, but somehow, he manages to look strong anyway.
“Donna?” The twinge of desperation in his oddly-innocent tone is lost on her.
“And by God, they made this look much more comfortable in the film...” she wiggles her hips a bit in emphasis, cringing as she bangs into the seat and pulls at her hamstring a bit too hard. “That Kate Winslet had to be sore as hell.”
“Donna?”
“And it’s freezing,” she stops, realizing that his voice had skipped up a pitch or two on that last instance of her name. “What?”
A single look down, and she sees exactly what. Or else, between the two of them, pressed not only against each other, apparently, but nearly into each other, she sees. She flushes crimson and can manage even one word as she notices that the feeling of fullness between her legs isn’t an everyday, run-of-the-mill sort of sensation. She bites her lips and feels her own voice run up an octave as she whispers: “Oh.”
“Yeah,” the youthful Doctor murmurs with a cringe, panting a bit as his eyes dart around, looking to fix upon anything but her face.
“Well, umm...” Donna fumbles, trying her best not to move too much now, with him pressed just against her, but in trying to avoid him, she only manages to guide him all the closer to her. She suddenly feels his length, his girth with a gasp, eyes flickering to him in an instant as she pins him with a questioning sort of wonder.
“Is that you, or Mr. DiCaprio?” she asks, flabbergasted, and can barely process the satisfaction glimmering in his eyes as he answers:
“Some things they just can’t simulate.”
Clearing her throat, Donna pins her eyes to the roof of the automobile, biting her lip and trying to control her breathing as every subtle inhale inches his hard shaft closer to her opening. “Well,” she hears him propose tentatively, muffled over the pounding over her heart as she closes her eyes and tries to swallow. “Maybe if we, you know, play out the scene? Then, then it’ll change quicker.”
She curses the dryness of her mouth and attempts to take one deep, steadying breath; it gets caught in her lungs and she only manages to gasp out in reply: “Good plan.”
“Well, that’s that,” he decides practically, trying to hide his discomfort. “Best get on with it, before the boat sinks. For the first time, at least. Allons-y.”
They both follow his advice at the very same moment, driving hard into one another, and with a cry, the Doctor has to steady himself against the window, his wet palm trailing steamy fingerprints down across the glass.
_____________________________________
“Now this is more than worth it,” Donna purrs, noticing with glee how slim she is as she slinks back upon the bed in the dilapidated one room apartment overlooking the heart of the city.
“Is it now?” she hears across the room, near the closet, where a just slightly post-pubescent incarnation of the infamous “Oncoming Storm” is pulling at the spandex encasing his entire figure.
“Oh yeah,” she enthuses, holding back a lustful laugh as she takes a moment to appreciate the tight, sculpted dip of his behind where the suit clings to it just so. “Just to see you in that.”
“Should I be flattered?” he asks with a grin as he turns to her, and she can’t help the tiny gasp as her heart skips a beat at the sight of him - absurd color scheme aside, the way the intricate black lines follow his muscles, ripple around his pectorals and down along his abdomen takes her breath away just a tad. Any hot blooded woman would be hard-pressed to keep their composure in the face of this.
“Why Doctor,” she asks breathlessly, a girlish giggle caught in her throat and tinging her soft question with mirth, “is that a sonic screwdriver in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”
The color his cheeks turn match the red of his costume, making the blue look all the more vibrant as he stumbles a bit in turning to approach her.
“Careful there, Spidey,” she admonishes him playfully, filled with the sort of raging, youthful hormones she’d long given up reclaiming as her own as she reaches out to pull him down on top of her before he falls there on his own. “Don’t want you to hurt yourself before we get to the good part.”
____________________________________
Donna’s always loved the water, and especially after being robbed of her beach before by those scaly sprinting lizards, she feel she deserves this indulgence. She just didn’t expect pearls, a stomach so flat it actually curves inward, flowers, and a gorgeous violet shell-bra. Hell, she wasn’t even sure there were shells big enough to make a bra for her in the first place, unless it was made from conchs.
She hadn’t been expecting the fins, either, but she finds she doesn’t mind them.
She’s twirling, and they’re singing - a symphony of aquatic life that she can’t identify half of, but they’re so colorful and mesmerizing that it doesn’t matter. She giggles and flitters in between them, weaving in and out and poking at the torrential stream of bubbles that tickle her bare skin. Her soft, candy-apple red hair floats around behind her, and when she finds a tiny little speck of a matching shade situated by himself on a rock near the ocean floor, she wastes no time going to him, whisking past him and spinning jubilantly through the water, his tiny crustaceous body held safely in her hands.
“You’re a gem, you know,” she whispers to him happily, kissing him softly on the head and cuddling him to her briefly. “A real gem.”
As she swims off to join the floating rainbow celebrating above, The Doctor smiles and curls back into his shell - he’d never imagined it was possible to feel so pleased to be a crab.