FIC: Summa (R) Donna/Doctor
Title: Summa
Characters: Donna and 10.5
Rating: R for semi-graphic smut
Word Count: ~2500
Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who or much of anything, really.
Summary: Every people has a creation story, and each person has a beginning. This is the other Doctor's.
Author's Notes: Happy birthday, darthsemicolon. Sorry it's not... better. It turned out weirder than I'd hoped.
Proof: a convincing demonstration that some statement is necessarily true.
-
He was walking down the street.
No. No, he was sitting on a curb.
No - that wasn't right. He was leaning on a fence, looking in on a playground. Yes. A playground. His toes touched the mulch border; he tested it with a trainer. Resistant. Smooshy. It'd be good for bouncing on. Like the surface of the moon - it looked hard, but really, it was like walking on a giant marshmallow.
Wait - when had he been to the moon? That was just silly.
The playground. Why was he there? Beyond the low chain link fence (chain reaction, reaction time, time machine... time machine?), a boy and a girl were conspiring. Their blonde heads were touching, and their voices were low, muffled, excited. He smiled, fondly. His children.
...no, not his. Hers.
A woman was sitting cross-legged on a bench past the conspirators. She was holding a mobile loosely in one hand, but her eyes were full of the blonde children. She was smiling a crooked smile and he felt compelled to tilt his head until it was a straight line.
He was about to call out to her, but...
He was standing in the lobby of a posh hotel. He'd been there before - the wallpaper was the same blue as the box a very special ring had come in.
No - that wasn't right. He backed into a sofa when the same woman walked in, almost bent double as she laughed with a tall bloke with dark hair. The man's eyes smiled as he brushed a lock of auburn hair back - the woman was younger than he remembered.
No... no she wasn't. She was just plain younger.
How did that happen? Was this the way of things? Everything was moving backward (background, groundhog day, daylight savings time, time machine!). Was he getting younger too, he wondered? He caught his reflection in a mirror across the way, and...
He was in a pub. Crowded, noisy, fragrant (pasties, whiskey, the fug of many old shoes). This was his first time here. He was with his mates.
No - she was.
"'Scuse me."
He blinked.
"I said shove over, sunshine," she said, but her words were soft around the edges and they seemed to hang in the air between them. The woman was younger yet, practically a girl. She gave him a smile (a not-crooked one), and his face felt hot. He scootched over a scant centimeter and she slid in front of him, reaching out a fiver toward the bartender. He really wished he knew how notes worked - he'd have loved to buy her a drink.
She said something - not to him - and all too soon, she had a glass of something in her hand. He sensed she was going to to leave him.
"Don't go."
She arched an eyebrow up at him, smirking. "I won't be far away." She laid her palm on his chest. "Donna."
He smiled (probably very crookedly) and laid his hand over hers. "Donna."
-
Integral: a number computed by a limiting process in the domain of a function.
-
He was walking down the street; she was beside him.
"You're drunk," Donna crowed. She stumbled, her hip connecting with his thigh. She laughed, and so did he. Suddenly she stopped and faced him, looking up at him with solemn, if out-of-focus, eyes. "You're very..."
His heart beat quickened, and he moved a bit closer. "Yeah?"
One corner of her mouth quirked up. "Tall." She burst out laughing again and slipped her arm through his. They trotted and skipped (not very successfully) and danced down the center of the road ("Dogwood Lane! Why would they call a tree after a dog?" she'd exclaimed. Dogwood from dagwood because the wood was best for making daggers. Why did he know that?)
Inside her house - no, it was a flat. "You don't live with your mum." As soon as he said it, he flushed - why would she?
Donna laughed. "Not for two weeks now." She tipped her head to one side, and oh, god, she was so close to him. "You been keeping tabs?"
He shook his head, feeling utterly foolish. She was just as beautiful as he... what? as he remembered? as he knew she was? It didn't matter, did it? The curves he'd first admired in the playground (had she really been wearing a wedding dress in a playground?) had been winnowed down to coltish angles. Her red hair was vibrant and not as dark - even in the low light, he could see strawberry streaks put there by the sun. He knew he skin would be freckled; he wondered where.
"You're staring," she teased.
He wasn't sure it'd be possible to feel any warmer than he already did without his organs cooking, but his temperature still rose. "I... you... you're..."
"I'm getting us another drink." She took a step away, then turned around and stood on her toes, a whisper away. She seemed to hover there for an unnaturally long period of time before leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth. "Don't go, all right?"
As if he could.
Donna disappeared behind a large scarf he presumed was meant to be a door and he turned in a circle in the room. There was a smashed-looking sofa that had probably had more than one owner (and had quite probably been on its way to the dump once or twice already), a scuffed table, a junk shop lamp with a violet scarf over its shade. He reached out to touch it - Donna looked great in purple.
Didn't she?
He shook his head and went to a battered bookshelf. Inquiry to Life. Western Civilization to 1860. Elementary Statistics. A photo frame, a shot glass - these things did not belong to Donna. They were Donna. He started when she cleared her throat.
Donna was holding a mug out to him. "'S pretty good, actually," she said, smiling hugely.
He sniffed it - red wine, heady and bold. Weighty. Probably pricey. Served in a ceramic mug. He grinned and tasted it. It was good.
"Housewarming gift from my grandad," she said, folding herself onto the battle-scarred sofa. She patted the cushion beside her. Swallowing hard, he joined her, banging his knee on the table in the process. Had he always been so ungainly? (Had he always been?)
"You've never done this." It wasn't a question. "It's okay."
He guessed whatever it was was going to be just bit more than okay, but he couldn't speak. She leaned closer, looking up at him from beneath sooty eyelashes. She wasn't going for seductress, he could tell - she was just searching his eyes for something. He desperately hoped it was there, whatever it was. She reached up and laid a cool palm on his cheek - he was so hot, he felt like he'd boil over at any moment. Hesitantly, he mimed her, reaching his opposite hand to her cheek. She felt like porcelain, living, breathing, pliable porcelain.
She smiled an impish smile - he felt her cheek move under his palm. "You need to breathe, else we'll never get to the good bit."
He laughed, surprising himself. "You mean there's more?" He was wound so tightly, he didn't think he'd be capable of laughing or teasing. He felt an odd sense of pride in himself.
She laid her hand on the center of his chest, heel to breastbone and fingertips just brushing the knot in his tie. "Oh yes," she said, her voice husky with promise. He looked down at her hand and she slid closer, her knee pressed against his hip. The intimacy made his breathing go shallow, but he was emboldened by it. Tilting her chin up, he leaned in and brushed his lips over hers. She sighed a little, and her warm breath on his lips made him shiver.
Donna's hands went to his shoulders, then up into his hair. She pulled him closer, deepening the kiss. She twisted, folded, gently leading him to the right spots. His hands were on her puppet strings. He touched her hot throat, felt her heart beating there, strong and sure and fast. His own heart rate picked up, and he felt his heartbeat in his fingertips. Two hearts together.
She'd somehow worked his tie loose, and he watched as it slid through her fingers to the floor. Her hot hands were under his jacket, pushing it off. "Sorry, but this has got to go."
"Don't apologize," he murmured into the shell of her ear. He could resist the temptation to taste her there, just below her ear. Donna rewarded him with a little mewl of pleasure.
"Quick study." She was moving against him in a way that was both hesitant and welcoming. It was all he could do not to have her then.
"Not that quick," he whispered into the hollow made by her clavicle (deltoid, trapezius, subclavius...). She laughed and he took another opportunity to kiss her. She tasted of coffee and cream, even though they'd been drinking wine. It reminded him of India - had he been? Had she?
"Yes," she murmured against his lips. "Remember it." As encouragement, she turned her hips against him expertly. Oh, god, he remembered. Salty air, bustling crowds, saturated color bleeding through the cracks in old sandstone walls. He shivered at the sensory onslaght - Donna in his arms, her memories in his head.
She made a low sound in her throat and peeled the plackets of his shirt apart, running her fingers down his chest. India melted away to reveal a lush landscape of fragrant trees and flowers with petals large enough to sit on. A bird wheeled overhead - no, not a bird. It was prehistoric (Archaeopteryx, Nemicolopterus, Quetzalcoatlus...)! He'd been there, too, without Donna. He closed his eyes tight, willing her to see what he saw.
Donna nuzzled his throat, dragging lips, tongue, and teeth over his senstive skin. "I'm there too."
One of them moaned as he moved to press more intimately against her - he could no longer tell where he stopped and she began. Her blouse rucked up and her hot skin burned his stomach. (Hadn't he been too hot earlier?) He helped her off the rest of the way with her top, discarding it as she had his tie. He slid a little lower, and her bra fell away. Had he done that?
"No, that was me." She grinned down at him, lips swollen and red. "'Fraid we're nowhere near telekinesis yet."
He dipped his head, running the blade of his tongue around one dusky nipple. "I'll have to work harder then." Donna writhed in pleasure; clearly she approved.
As their heartbeats pounded double time in his ears, he felt her fingers on his hips, nimble on the button of his trousers, there. He gasped and pressed unabashedly into her touch. Just over the horizon, he glimpsed a shining beacon, catching and throwing the light of twin suns. He ached to be there, but Donna slowed him, wrapping her legs around his hips. "Not yet - I can't go there with you." She was panting as though they'd run a marathon.
He leaned up, looking down at her. "I won't leave you."
She smiled and touched his cheek. "I know." She shimmied out of her trousers and looked up at him, smiling. I trust you.
Gently, almost-but-not-quite shy, he pressed into her, silently remaking the promise. They maintained eye contact as long as they could, neither remembering to breathe until he felt an unexpected, burgeoning heat behind his navel, spiraling down and out like electricity. Memories flashed though his mind in dizzying, disorganized succession - leaving school in full regalia, leaving home the first time, first kiss, first date, first orgasm. Some were Donna's, some were his. It didn't matter who belonged to which - they were their memories now.
After, they clung to one another, panting and glistening and perfect. He could lay there forever, memorizing every freckle, scar, and beauty mark. He closed his eyes, intending to do just that.
Once they'd cooled enough to start shivering, she brushed his damp hair back from his forehead. "You have to go now, love."
He shook his head, heavy with sleep. "I'll stay with you."
She kissed his temple and pulled back as far as the lumpy sofa would allow. She laid her hand on his heart.
"Donna," he said, covering her hand with his.
She shook her head, her smile gentle. "No. Doctor.."
-
Derivative: the measure of how a function changes as the input changes.
-
He woke up, fully formed and startlingly awake. He was different, changed. He was the Doctor plus one. Plus Donna.
He explained it to her in words she wasn't ready to understand, and by the time she could, he knew it all had to be taken away. The Doctor - the other Doctor - had told him as much. He also knew he was about to be stranded in a parallel universe with a girl he didn't really even know, but who he was meant to love. The thought nearly tore his single heart in two. How ever could Donna bear such a lonely heart?
As soon as the Doctor landed, he held Donna back as the other two stepped outside.
She smiled knowingly up at him. "You'll be brilliant, you will. Don't worry."
He brushed her hair back - so dark now, it was the color of old copper. He didn't have much time, so he just bent to kiss her forehead, squeezed her tight, and said, "I'm sorry I'm breaking my promise."
She looked up, startled. Vague recognition made her eyes go out of focus for a moment, but he stepped out onto the heavy, damp sand before she could react.
Donna looked back at him once before closing the door. She gave him a dazzling smile and laid her hand over her heart.
The Doctor closed his eyes. He was walking down the street...
Characters: Donna and 10.5
Rating: R for semi-graphic smut
Word Count: ~2500
Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who or much of anything, really.
Summary: Every people has a creation story, and each person has a beginning. This is the other Doctor's.
Author's Notes: Happy birthday, darthsemicolon. Sorry it's not... better. It turned out weirder than I'd hoped.
Proof: a convincing demonstration that some statement is necessarily true.
-
He was walking down the street.
No. No, he was sitting on a curb.
No - that wasn't right. He was leaning on a fence, looking in on a playground. Yes. A playground. His toes touched the mulch border; he tested it with a trainer. Resistant. Smooshy. It'd be good for bouncing on. Like the surface of the moon - it looked hard, but really, it was like walking on a giant marshmallow.
Wait - when had he been to the moon? That was just silly.
The playground. Why was he there? Beyond the low chain link fence (chain reaction, reaction time, time machine... time machine?), a boy and a girl were conspiring. Their blonde heads were touching, and their voices were low, muffled, excited. He smiled, fondly. His children.
...no, not his. Hers.
A woman was sitting cross-legged on a bench past the conspirators. She was holding a mobile loosely in one hand, but her eyes were full of the blonde children. She was smiling a crooked smile and he felt compelled to tilt his head until it was a straight line.
He was about to call out to her, but...
He was standing in the lobby of a posh hotel. He'd been there before - the wallpaper was the same blue as the box a very special ring had come in.
No - that wasn't right. He backed into a sofa when the same woman walked in, almost bent double as she laughed with a tall bloke with dark hair. The man's eyes smiled as he brushed a lock of auburn hair back - the woman was younger than he remembered.
No... no she wasn't. She was just plain younger.
How did that happen? Was this the way of things? Everything was moving backward (background, groundhog day, daylight savings time, time machine!). Was he getting younger too, he wondered? He caught his reflection in a mirror across the way, and...
He was in a pub. Crowded, noisy, fragrant (pasties, whiskey, the fug of many old shoes). This was his first time here. He was with his mates.
No - she was.
"'Scuse me."
He blinked.
"I said shove over, sunshine," she said, but her words were soft around the edges and they seemed to hang in the air between them. The woman was younger yet, practically a girl. She gave him a smile (a not-crooked one), and his face felt hot. He scootched over a scant centimeter and she slid in front of him, reaching out a fiver toward the bartender. He really wished he knew how notes worked - he'd have loved to buy her a drink.
She said something - not to him - and all too soon, she had a glass of something in her hand. He sensed she was going to to leave him.
"Don't go."
She arched an eyebrow up at him, smirking. "I won't be far away." She laid her palm on his chest. "Donna."
He smiled (probably very crookedly) and laid his hand over hers. "Donna."
-
Integral: a number computed by a limiting process in the domain of a function.
-
He was walking down the street; she was beside him.
"You're drunk," Donna crowed. She stumbled, her hip connecting with his thigh. She laughed, and so did he. Suddenly she stopped and faced him, looking up at him with solemn, if out-of-focus, eyes. "You're very..."
His heart beat quickened, and he moved a bit closer. "Yeah?"
One corner of her mouth quirked up. "Tall." She burst out laughing again and slipped her arm through his. They trotted and skipped (not very successfully) and danced down the center of the road ("Dogwood Lane! Why would they call a tree after a dog?" she'd exclaimed. Dogwood from dagwood because the wood was best for making daggers. Why did he know that?)
Inside her house - no, it was a flat. "You don't live with your mum." As soon as he said it, he flushed - why would she?
Donna laughed. "Not for two weeks now." She tipped her head to one side, and oh, god, she was so close to him. "You been keeping tabs?"
He shook his head, feeling utterly foolish. She was just as beautiful as he... what? as he remembered? as he knew she was? It didn't matter, did it? The curves he'd first admired in the playground (had she really been wearing a wedding dress in a playground?) had been winnowed down to coltish angles. Her red hair was vibrant and not as dark - even in the low light, he could see strawberry streaks put there by the sun. He knew he skin would be freckled; he wondered where.
"You're staring," she teased.
He wasn't sure it'd be possible to feel any warmer than he already did without his organs cooking, but his temperature still rose. "I... you... you're..."
"I'm getting us another drink." She took a step away, then turned around and stood on her toes, a whisper away. She seemed to hover there for an unnaturally long period of time before leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth. "Don't go, all right?"
As if he could.
Donna disappeared behind a large scarf he presumed was meant to be a door and he turned in a circle in the room. There was a smashed-looking sofa that had probably had more than one owner (and had quite probably been on its way to the dump once or twice already), a scuffed table, a junk shop lamp with a violet scarf over its shade. He reached out to touch it - Donna looked great in purple.
Didn't she?
He shook his head and went to a battered bookshelf. Inquiry to Life. Western Civilization to 1860. Elementary Statistics. A photo frame, a shot glass - these things did not belong to Donna. They were Donna. He started when she cleared her throat.
Donna was holding a mug out to him. "'S pretty good, actually," she said, smiling hugely.
He sniffed it - red wine, heady and bold. Weighty. Probably pricey. Served in a ceramic mug. He grinned and tasted it. It was good.
"Housewarming gift from my grandad," she said, folding herself onto the battle-scarred sofa. She patted the cushion beside her. Swallowing hard, he joined her, banging his knee on the table in the process. Had he always been so ungainly? (Had he always been?)
"You've never done this." It wasn't a question. "It's okay."
He guessed whatever it was was going to be just bit more than okay, but he couldn't speak. She leaned closer, looking up at him from beneath sooty eyelashes. She wasn't going for seductress, he could tell - she was just searching his eyes for something. He desperately hoped it was there, whatever it was. She reached up and laid a cool palm on his cheek - he was so hot, he felt like he'd boil over at any moment. Hesitantly, he mimed her, reaching his opposite hand to her cheek. She felt like porcelain, living, breathing, pliable porcelain.
She smiled an impish smile - he felt her cheek move under his palm. "You need to breathe, else we'll never get to the good bit."
He laughed, surprising himself. "You mean there's more?" He was wound so tightly, he didn't think he'd be capable of laughing or teasing. He felt an odd sense of pride in himself.
She laid her hand on the center of his chest, heel to breastbone and fingertips just brushing the knot in his tie. "Oh yes," she said, her voice husky with promise. He looked down at her hand and she slid closer, her knee pressed against his hip. The intimacy made his breathing go shallow, but he was emboldened by it. Tilting her chin up, he leaned in and brushed his lips over hers. She sighed a little, and her warm breath on his lips made him shiver.
Donna's hands went to his shoulders, then up into his hair. She pulled him closer, deepening the kiss. She twisted, folded, gently leading him to the right spots. His hands were on her puppet strings. He touched her hot throat, felt her heart beating there, strong and sure and fast. His own heart rate picked up, and he felt his heartbeat in his fingertips. Two hearts together.
She'd somehow worked his tie loose, and he watched as it slid through her fingers to the floor. Her hot hands were under his jacket, pushing it off. "Sorry, but this has got to go."
"Don't apologize," he murmured into the shell of her ear. He could resist the temptation to taste her there, just below her ear. Donna rewarded him with a little mewl of pleasure.
"Quick study." She was moving against him in a way that was both hesitant and welcoming. It was all he could do not to have her then.
"Not that quick," he whispered into the hollow made by her clavicle (deltoid, trapezius, subclavius...). She laughed and he took another opportunity to kiss her. She tasted of coffee and cream, even though they'd been drinking wine. It reminded him of India - had he been? Had she?
"Yes," she murmured against his lips. "Remember it." As encouragement, she turned her hips against him expertly. Oh, god, he remembered. Salty air, bustling crowds, saturated color bleeding through the cracks in old sandstone walls. He shivered at the sensory onslaght - Donna in his arms, her memories in his head.
She made a low sound in her throat and peeled the plackets of his shirt apart, running her fingers down his chest. India melted away to reveal a lush landscape of fragrant trees and flowers with petals large enough to sit on. A bird wheeled overhead - no, not a bird. It was prehistoric (Archaeopteryx, Nemicolopterus, Quetzalcoatlus...)! He'd been there, too, without Donna. He closed his eyes tight, willing her to see what he saw.
Donna nuzzled his throat, dragging lips, tongue, and teeth over his senstive skin. "I'm there too."
One of them moaned as he moved to press more intimately against her - he could no longer tell where he stopped and she began. Her blouse rucked up and her hot skin burned his stomach. (Hadn't he been too hot earlier?) He helped her off the rest of the way with her top, discarding it as she had his tie. He slid a little lower, and her bra fell away. Had he done that?
"No, that was me." She grinned down at him, lips swollen and red. "'Fraid we're nowhere near telekinesis yet."
He dipped his head, running the blade of his tongue around one dusky nipple. "I'll have to work harder then." Donna writhed in pleasure; clearly she approved.
As their heartbeats pounded double time in his ears, he felt her fingers on his hips, nimble on the button of his trousers, there. He gasped and pressed unabashedly into her touch. Just over the horizon, he glimpsed a shining beacon, catching and throwing the light of twin suns. He ached to be there, but Donna slowed him, wrapping her legs around his hips. "Not yet - I can't go there with you." She was panting as though they'd run a marathon.
He leaned up, looking down at her. "I won't leave you."
She smiled and touched his cheek. "I know." She shimmied out of her trousers and looked up at him, smiling. I trust you.
Gently, almost-but-not-quite shy, he pressed into her, silently remaking the promise. They maintained eye contact as long as they could, neither remembering to breathe until he felt an unexpected, burgeoning heat behind his navel, spiraling down and out like electricity. Memories flashed though his mind in dizzying, disorganized succession - leaving school in full regalia, leaving home the first time, first kiss, first date, first orgasm. Some were Donna's, some were his. It didn't matter who belonged to which - they were their memories now.
After, they clung to one another, panting and glistening and perfect. He could lay there forever, memorizing every freckle, scar, and beauty mark. He closed his eyes, intending to do just that.
Once they'd cooled enough to start shivering, she brushed his damp hair back from his forehead. "You have to go now, love."
He shook his head, heavy with sleep. "I'll stay with you."
She kissed his temple and pulled back as far as the lumpy sofa would allow. She laid her hand on his heart.
"Donna," he said, covering her hand with his.
She shook her head, her smile gentle. "No. Doctor.."
-
Derivative: the measure of how a function changes as the input changes.
-
He woke up, fully formed and startlingly awake. He was different, changed. He was the Doctor plus one. Plus Donna.
He explained it to her in words she wasn't ready to understand, and by the time she could, he knew it all had to be taken away. The Doctor - the other Doctor - had told him as much. He also knew he was about to be stranded in a parallel universe with a girl he didn't really even know, but who he was meant to love. The thought nearly tore his single heart in two. How ever could Donna bear such a lonely heart?
As soon as the Doctor landed, he held Donna back as the other two stepped outside.
She smiled knowingly up at him. "You'll be brilliant, you will. Don't worry."
He brushed her hair back - so dark now, it was the color of old copper. He didn't have much time, so he just bent to kiss her forehead, squeezed her tight, and said, "I'm sorry I'm breaking my promise."
She looked up, startled. Vague recognition made her eyes go out of focus for a moment, but he stepped out onto the heavy, damp sand before she could react.
Donna looked back at him once before closing the door. She gave him a dazzling smile and laid her hand over her heart.
The Doctor closed his eyes. He was walking down the street...