Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: The Tenth Doctor/Donna
Length: Oneshot, 1400 words
Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the BBC, not to me.
Sequel to Personal Spaces.
“So how does this hair thing work, exactly?”
Donna Noble was seated on the worn leather sofa in the TARDIS library, the Doctor next to her. That was nothing new, really, since the two of them spent much of their spare time together in the library.
What was new was that the Doctor's arms were wrapped around her, and one of his long legs was tangled between hers. This was a rather striking innovation.
“It’s not my hair, not really,” he answered. She ran her fingers through his fringe, and he panted. “It’s my scalp.”
“Right. I knew that.” She scratched experimentally at the top of his head, and his eyes drifted shut. He wore the same ecstatic expression he’d worn in front of the Isara earlier in the day, when the two of them had pretended to have sex by running their hands through each other's hair.
Only he hadn’t been pretending, as it turned out.
“Do that some more.”
“Greedy.” She let her nails scrape a little harder, and he whimpered. “Pitiful,” she said. “Just pitiful. Give him a head rub, and the great Time Lord turns into a puppy.”
“Oi yourself, Time Boy. Bet you like it when I scratch behind your ears, too.” She tried it, and he leaned into her hand so hard he practically fell over. “Pitiful,” she said again, fondly.
“Just… don’t… stop.”
“Oh, Rassilon. Right there. Yes.”
She rather liked seeing him like this, breathless and dishevelled and a little sweaty, but as she rubbed his scalp, something occurred to her. “Wait a minute,” she said, and her fingers stilled.
“You are stopping.” His eyes flickered open, and he fixed her with his Oncoming Storm glare. The effect was slightly marred by the fact that his hair was sticking up all over his head. “I thought we agreed. No stopping.”
“I was just thinking…”
“Think all you want. Just don’t stop.”
She snorted, and rubbed the hair just behind his ear. He actually wriggled with delight, and she was hard pressed not to laugh. “Here’s the thing,” she said, stroking lightly. “How many times have I seen you in front of that big mirror in the wardrobe room, playing with your hair?”
“Um.” His ears turned a little red, whether from arousal or embarrassment she couldn’t guess. “Well. I have really good hair this time around. Nice and thick. It’s natural to enjoy, er, styling it…”
“Oh, Doctor.” She sighed, doing her best to look disappointed in him, and shook her head. “Excuses, excuses. I reckon this explains why you're so fond of... personal grooming.”
He tried for an arrogant, superior expression, which was rather foiled when she made him wriggle again. “What exactly are you implying?”
“You naughty, naughty boy.” She snickered. “You’ll go blind, y’know.”
His ears turned redder. “It’s not like that,” he muttered.
“You sure?” She laughed softly. “All that pomade… all that brushing... all that rubbing with your fingers… come on, Doctor. I can do the math. No wonder you like styling your hair so much.”
He lowered his eyelashes, veiling the dark eyes. “S’not like anyone else has been offering to do it for me.”
“Didn’t know you liked it.”
“And you wouldn’t have touched it if you had.”
“True.” She wound a lock of his hair around her finger and pulled, experimentally, and his eyes drifted closed. A long, anguished noise ground in his throat. “If you want,” she said, “I can start styling it for you. Braiding it, maybe. Ribbons. A nice pink bow…”
The noise in his throat started to sound more like an outraged growl. “Don’t you dare.”
“Fine.” She snorted again, imagining him facing down villainous aliens with a pink bow in his hair. “I guess you’ll just have to keep doing it yourself. But do me a favor, and close the wardrobe room door next time.”
He opened his eyes, and gave her a surprisingly cheeky grin. “What, you don’t like to watch?”
She yanked on the lock of hair again, a little harder. She meant it as punishment for his cheek, but she’d forgotten that he liked it a little rough. His eyes went dark with unmistakable lust. “Blimey. Do that again.”
She yanked, and he made another one of those grinding, desperate sounds.
His voice was breathless. She did it again, and he gasped as if his respiratory bypass system just couldn't keep up.
“I thought you were going to show me your other erogenous zones,” she said, without ceasing the yanking. “You said you had quite a few that humans didn’t…”
“Not. Right. Now.”
“Oh. Enjoying this, then, are we?”
“Enjoying it. Yes. Rather.” He sounded as if he could barely get words out. “Is there any chance you could stop talking for just a moment?”
She yanked, and considered the question. “It’s possible.”
“But not very likely.”
“Not really, no.” He was trembling, his breath coming in unsteady gulps, and she decided to take pity on him. She opened her hand, grasped a nice big handful of his tawny hair, and pulled even harder. He threw his head back, his eyes clenching shut, his mouth dropping open, and she watched him while he cried out her name, his whole body shaking.
Really, alien though he was, he looked just like any other bloke in the throes of orgasm. Except she'd never before been with a bloke who got off on having his hair pulled.
After a while his long, lanky body relaxed, and she let go of his hair. He fell forward onto her shoulder, gasping, and she found herself pressed into the leather sofa with a rather large lapful of inert Time Lord.
“God, you’re easy,” she said.
He drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “No one has done that for me in decades,” he muttered into her shoulder. “I mean, till today. Forgotten how much I liked it.”
“Decades.” She laughed, trying to conceal the sympathy that flickered through her. “Oi, and I thought my sex life was pitiful.”
He lifted his head, offering her a shy and rather endearing grin. It was a constant source of amazement to her that a nine-hundred-year-old alien could manage to look so like an awkward teenage boy. “We can work on fixing that.”
“Well, I was trying to get you around to that earlier, actually, but you got distracted.”
“Yes. Distracted. Sorry.” He raked a hand through his hair in his usual absentminded way, then suddenly stopped, turned red, and lowered his hand. “Er. Well. I think you were showing me your erogenous zones…”
“Your hair is a right mess,” she said, lifting a hand to stroke through it.
He sighed, and his eyes fluttered shut.
“Donna,” he said softly. “You’re distracting me again.”
“Am I?” She smoothed his sweaty, tangled hair back into some semblance of order with her fingers. “Imagine that.”
He lowered his head, pressing his face into her shoulder. “Donna, I honestly think that it’s my turn to…”
“Doctor,” she said, very gently. “If it’s really been decades, I think it’s okay for you to have a little attention paid to you for once. We can get around to me later.”
"I'm just..." Her fingers stroked through his hair, and he quivered, but he went determinedly on. "A little. Concerned. That we might. Um. Never leave. This sofa."
"You like it that much, do you?"
He heaved a long, contented sigh. "Yeah. I do."
"I'm glad," she said, and was surprised to realise how much she meant it. She'd never really thought of the Doctor in a sexual way before today-- in fact she'd intentionally refused to think of the Doctor in a sexual way-- but she was starting to feel like she should have run her hands through his hair a whole lot sooner. She lowered her head, and spoke into his ear.
"From now on," she whispered, "I'm going to do this so often that you won't need to do personal grooming any more."
He shivered. "I'd like that," he said. "Just... no bows."
"No bows," she agreed. "Just a whole lot of touching. Now... quiet down, and pay attention to what I'm doing."
"I am paying attention," he answered, his voice hoarse. "I am so very much paying attention. Absolutely, positively, definitely paying attention. You wouldn't believe how much attention I'm paying..."
"Doctor." She yanked. "Shut up."
He shut up.
Well, until they got to the part where he cried out her name.