Monday, January 30, 2012


Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Ten/Donna
Genre: PWP, hurt/comfort
Description: After a week spent in solitary confinement, the Doctor needs a little comforting, which Donna provides.
Length: Oneshot, 2700 words
Rating: Adult for explicit sex and language. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the BBC, not to me.

A week.

They'd kept him in isolation for an entire week.

Just the thought made Donna Noble's blood boil. The Doctor was by nature a sociable bloke. For him to be all alone, in that ridiculously tiny excuse for a cell, with no windows and no lights and absolutely no one to talk to--

Well, it was inhumane, that was what it was.

But she hadn't said so to the aliens, because she'd been lucky to manage to negotiate his release at all, and she didn't want to do anything to jeopardize it. And besides, the Doctor hadn't been entirely blameless (she really wished he'd get it through his thick alien skull that whoopee cushions and monarchs didn't mix well), and she was honestly grateful they'd allowed him to leave the planet at all. She'd learned more than she wanted to about the Zardenzan penal system over the past week, and she knew his punishment could have been a lot worse. So she remained uncharacteristically silent and tight-lipped until the TARDIS took off and left Zardenza behind.

"Well," he said, looking at the console as if he hardly recognized it. "I suppose the first thing I should do is take a shower..."

She thought of him stuck in that dark, small cell, barely long enough for him to stretch out in, and her heart broke for him. He looked awkward and uncomfortable, as if he could scarcely remember how to move around in an open area, and she shook her head.

"No," she said firmly. "The first thing you should do is eat. You're skin and bones, Doctor. Looks like they hardly fed you."

"I've had better cuisine," he said with a grim effort at a smile. "But gruel is enough to keep a man alive."

Barely, she thought, looking at him. His pinstriped suit was hanging off him, and it had hardly been big enough to fit round a stick to begin with. But he had a point about needing a shower, too. His hair was greasy and fell lankly about his face, his jawline was covered with scraggly brown whiskers, and his odour didn't make her think of spices and ocean breezes, the way it usually did. He wasn't human, and didn't reek the way she would have after a week with no bathing facilities-- but he definitely wasn't clean, either. He was a fastidious bloke, and would probably feel better if he bathed.

"Tell you what," she said. "You take a shower, and I'll bring some food to your quarters. All right?"

"All right," he said, his voice low, entirely devoid of its normal spirit. He turned, heading for his room, and she watched him go, observing the way his shoulders drooped and his head hung. He wasn't happy. Maybe it was the lack of food, but more likely it was the week of solitary imprisonment. She didn't think solitude was good for him, somehow.

She went to the galley and put together a trayful of his favorite things-- toast with marmalade, ginger biscuits, tea-- then carried it down the corridor to his room. When she entered, he was just emerging from the loo, much cleaner. His freshly washed hair stood up in wild disarray on top of his head, he'd shaved, and he'd discarded the old suit-- which probably needed burning at this point-- and was clad only in a dark red robe. He smelled like himself again, and she breathed in the rich fragrance of exotic spices and tropical breezes that was so much a part of his presence, and realised how much she'd missed it.

She tried not to stare at the V of pale chest exposed by his robe, but she couldn't quite help it. He was always so throroughly covered up that any exposed skin on him was...

Well, not sexy, not precisely. Just... surprising.

She perched on the side of his bed, and he dropped down beside her. "Food," he said with immense appreciation, sounding more cheerful already, and snagged a piece of toast off the tray. It disappeared in three huge bites, and he reached for more.

"Poor thing," she said, watching him. "You were really starving."

"Mmmmm," he answered, devouring another piece of toast and washing it down with a large swallow of tea. "They only fed me twice while I was there."


He looked at her face, saw the fury she knew must be written there, and laughed without humour. "Easy, Donna. It's all over now, and I survived."

"Two bowls of gruel?" Rage rose up inside her, nearly choking her. "That's all they gave you?"

"It was enough to keep me from starving." He reached for a biscuit. "What doesn't kill us makes us stronger, I suppose. Still, it's nice to have some real food again. Thanks."

She watched, still seething, while he cleaned off the entire tray-- four pieces of toast and eight biscuits-- then leaned back against the carved wooden headboard of his bed with a contented sigh.

"Are you all right otherwise?" She frowned, studying him. He was gaunt, but she didn't see any bruises or injuries. Even so, she couldn't stop worrying. "Do we need to take you to the medbay and have all those fancy machines take a look at you?"

"I'm fine." He shrugged. "They didn't do anything to me, Donna. Nothing at all. That's the whole point of solitary confinement. They just... left me."

There was a grimness in his tone, but his face was expressionless. "You must have been miserable," she said softly.

"Nah." He tried to smile, but she knew him well enough to know it wasn't really sincere. "Brain the size of a planet, y'know. I had plenty to think about."

"I can't imagine you all cooped up in that little cell," she said with a shudder. "You're always so... active." She'd almost said hyper, but bit it back. Right now he didn't look hyper, not exactly, but there was something about him...

He looked like something was simmering underneath his skin, a sort of repressed energy bubbling just beneath the surface. Maybe he needed to go to the console room and do some tinkering, or read in the library, or something comforting and familiar along those lines. Or maybe he just needed to relax a bit.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, as if basking in the comforting hum of the TARDIS. "It's good to be home," he said softly.

"I bet it is, Spaceman." She smiled a bit, because it was good to have him home. "You look tired."

"I am tired." He didn't open his eyes. "Stupid, yeah? You'd think the last thing I'd be after a week alone would be tired. But I couldn't sleep properly in that place. It was so... it was so small and confined, and it made me twitch-- almost literally climbing the walls-- I just couldn't--"

His voice rose, the first hint he'd given that he wasn't really as calm as he was trying to pretend. He cut himself off, but not before she'd noticed the high, almost panicky note in his voice.

He'd been a lot more stressed by his isolation than he wanted to let on, the poor bloke.

"Maybe I should go, then," she said. "Let you sleep."

"No." His eyes snapped open, and he looked at her with imploring dark eyes. "Don't go, Donna. Don't leave me."

Of course, she thought. The absolute last thing he wanted right now, after a week of enforced solitude, was to be alone. "Okay," she said, as soothingly as she could manage. "I don't mind staying."

"Do you think..." He kept on staring at her with big eyes, and his voice dropped almost to a whisper. "You didn't hug me when you rescued me, Donna. Do you think maybe you could hug me now?"

She'd been too intent on getting him off Zardenza to even think about hugging him. But she knew that the Doctor very much enjoyed being hugged. She leaned over and wrapped her arms around his neck, and he put his arms around her and squeezed so hard she thought her ribs might be in danger. But she didn't protest.

He pressed his face into her hair and sighed, and held her against him for a long, long moment.

At last he let her go. She straightened up, and smiled at him.

"Want me to lie down with you?" she offered.

"Would you?"

He looked both very pleased at the idea, and a little shy. That was no surprise, as the two of them had never slept in the same bed before. Under normal circumstances, she never would have dreamed of offering, and would have smacked his head right off his shoulders if he'd suggested it. But this was a special situation. She wasn't going to make him try to sleep all by himself, not after everything he'd been through. Not if he was more comfortable with her beside him.

She stretched out on the bed next to him, pulling the covers up over her. She was wearing jeans and a knit shirt, which were comfortable enough to sleep in. He wriggled around, burrowing down under the covers and stretching out his long legs, then pulling the quilt up to his shoulders. He looked warm and cosy and almost happy, and she reached out a hand and caressed his cheek, very lightly.

His eyes instantly fluttered shut, and a soft moan of pleasure rose from his throat.

She yanked back her hand, startled by his reaction. She'd touched the Doctor in friendly, affectionate ways before, and not once had he responded with a--

Well, a sex noise.

But then again, he'd never been starved of human contact for a whole week, either.

Sympathy flooded her, and she reached out and stroked his cheek again. He turned his face into her hand, and made a soft whimpering sound.

Poor thing, she thought, imagining him all alone in the dark, with no one to talk to and nothing to do. All that manic, hectic energy, trapped in a dark, tiny cell, barely able to move. He must have been so lonely, must have felt so trapped...

Without any conscious decision on her part, she found that her hand was in his hair, her thumb stroking over his too-high cheekbone, and he was making desperate little sounds of pleasure, moans of need and want that really couldn't be described as anything except sex noises. He sounded like she was touching...

Well, the sounds he was making were totally out of proportion for the simple caress of her hand against his face.

He'd obviously been starving for touch. And that didn't surprise her, not really. He was a touchy-feely sort of bloke. Always hugging, holding hands, bumping his shoulder against hers. He seemed to need physical contact the way most people needed food and air.

And obviously being without any sort of physical contact for a week had driven him just about barmy.

She let her hand move down, stroking his freshly shaved jawline, and down along his throat, and he tilted his head back, granting her access. She ran her finger along the sensitive area just beneath his ear, and he groaned in what sounded like pure sexual ecstasy.

She kept running her finger back and forth between his ear and his collarbone, and he twisted beneath her hand, writhing against the mattress and making low growling sounds in his throat. Either Gallifreyans were ridiculously sexual creatures-- and she'd never before seen anything to make her believe that he was any hornier than the average human-- or he was simply terribly starved for touch.

All that energy she'd sensed bubbling beneath his skin, she realised, had been sexual energy. The pure, basic need for physical contact. He might be a highly evolved alien, but he apparently had needs that were just as primitive as any human. And being all alone for a week had brought those needs boiling to the surface.

"Maybe," he muttered, sounding as if he were forcing the words out through a fierce act of will, "you should go."

"I don't think so," she answered, and lowered her head, brushing her lips over the spot she'd just been caressing. He shuddered violently and cried out, as if she'd put her mouth somewhere very intimate. She opened her lips and let her tongue touch him there, and he trembled and sighed and moaned.

"Donna-- oh, Donna--"

He'd rolled onto his side to encourage what she was doing. She shifted so she was behind him, and began brushing kisses over the nape of his neck, while her hand slid down his front. His hips jerked, offering himself to her in a surprisingly unsubtle suggestion, and she took the hint, shoving his robe out of the way and gently taking him into her hand. He was swollen with need, and when her fingers wrapped around him, he gasped out a word she'd never imagined she'd hear him say.


She smiled against the back of his neck, because the idea of making the proper Time Lord forget himself to such an extent was rather entrancing. Very slowly, she began to stroke him, and his hips moved urgently, driving into her hand.

He felt just like a human, like smooth satin over granite, except his skin was a bit cooler than a human's would be. The scent of spice and ocean breezes grew stronger, and the taste of his skin beneath her tongue grew more... well, alien. Not salty, as a human's skin would be, but more like cinnamon. She decided she quite liked it. She let her tongue tease his earlobe and his throat and his jaw, and at the same time her hand moved on his cock in a slow, deliberate motion.

"Please--" He was gasping out the word, over and over again. "Please, Donna-- please, let me-- please--"

She refused to move her hand any faster, and his pleading trailed off into frantic sobs. His whole body vibrated with need, and he twisted and arched, desperately seeking release.

"Soon," she promised softly.

"I can't... I can't wait..." He turned his head toward her just a bit, his face contorted with hunger, his eyes wide and desperate. "Ahhhhh, Donna. Please."

Unable to refuse when he needed it that badly, she moved her hand a little faster, and watched as his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth dropped open. "Oh, fuck, fuck," he whispered again, and then a long sound rose from his chest, a deep, resonant groan of pleasure and release, and he came hard into her hand and all over the sheets, his body shaking with the force of his climax.

At last his muscles all relaxed, and she let go of him, wiping her hand against the sheets, and wrapped her arm around his waist. He curled up, letting her spoon against his back, and his arm draped across hers. She breathed in his unique fragrance, then pressed her ear against his back, listening to the distinctive pounding of his double heartbeat.

There was a long silence. At last he spoke.

"I didn't mean--" He sounded hesitant, and a bit embarrassed. "I didn't mean for that to happen, Donna."

"Neither did I." She shifted slightly, and kissed the back of his neck again. "But I'm glad it did."

"Yeah," he said, his voice blurred with sleepiness. "Me too."

The TARDIS sensed his growing exhaustion and dimmed the lights-- low, but not to complete darkness-- and Donna wrapped herself around the Doctor, reassuring him wordlessly that he wasn't alone any longer. His body relaxed, and his arm grew heavy on hers, and moments later she heard a soft buzzing snore, and knew that he was fast asleep.

She closed her own eyes, grateful to have him back, and fell asleep with her arm around him.

It felt strangely right.

-The End-


Sarah said...

This was perfectly written. Of course 10 is in need of some physical attention. Excellent work.

EllyF said...

Thanks so much for the kind words! I've noticed you're reading my Who stories (and kindly leaving comments-- thanks!). I don't think they're all over here; if you want to go through them all, I think you can find them on Teaspoon here:

If that link doesn't work, the name I used there is EllyF. I will warn you that some stories are abandoned, so proceed with caution:-).