somethingofthewolf:

#look  #all i’m saying is that there should be an rpf au in which david tennant and billie piper went to uni together  #and maybe he was kind of an asshole thespian who thought he was the shit  #and she was majoring in something she didn’t really care about until one day she said fuck it and signed up for an acting class  #and he’s the ta  #and ust ust ust sex sex sex drama sex ust sex 

He’s not even really anything to write home about, if she were the kind of daughter that wrote home.

He’s got big fish in a small pond written all over him, talented, sure, but it’s like — listen, if your options are a tall, skinny Scottish bloke who fancies Shakespeare or a roomful of spotty-faced twats trying to mount another production of Les Mis, you’re going to take the Scottish bloke every time.

And not only because he’s got these cheekbones she could cut herself on, or this hair that just — well, it’s good hair.

Still, he’s nice enough to her, which is to say, the looks he gives her breasts are slightly less obvious than what she usually gets in the halls.

David, though, that’s going to have to go. Maybe she could call him Dave, see how that flies. Dave could be a nice bloke, she could fancy a Dave.

She tries it out on her first day in drama class, stuck with an empty slot in her schedule and a scholarship requirement that means she has to fill it with something, even if there are no music classes left for her to take.

He’s sitting where she wants to sit — right on the end, closest to the door.

“Budge over, stage left, there, Dave.”

He arches his eyebrow at her, like that’s something people actually do in real life. Someone fucking save her, is she really going to spend the next hour with a room of actors?

“You want me to sit on the floor?” He says and there’s something about his tone she can’t nail down, like he’s stuck between genuine confusion at her request and amused condescension that she’d ask him to move.

“No, I want you to sit there,” she points at the empty desk next to him.

“That’d be stage right then, wouldn’t it?” He smiles at her and it’s another puzzle, right in the middle of a smirk and something more helpful.

“Depends on who’s the stage,” she says.

“Oh, ought to be me, don’t you think?” And there’s no mistaking his intent this time, he’s flirting with her.

“Dunno, never actually seen you in anything, you could be complete shit, for all I know,” she drops her books on his desk because, sure, she’ll flirt with him — after she gets the seat she wants.

He laughs, but stands anyway, making a grand gesture with his hand at the empty chair and bowing when she slides into it.

“Ta,” she says, and he sits down in the empty desk to stage right, or stage left, whichever.

Three weeks later he’s got her backstage at a workshop, hand up her shirt and tongue on her neck, and he’s mumbling against her skin.

“Oh, you’re the stage, you are definitely the stage.”

  somethingofthewolf    
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