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moogingFIRSTLY: if you are unspoiled for the identity of the actor playing the Eleventh Doctor and you would like to stay that way, skip straight past this entry. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Anyway, I would kind of like to know why my brain insists on making me write things I never actually mean to write. I'm not complaining (hey, I wouldn't write them if I didn't want to, right?) but, er, it does give one pause for thought when certain things drip out of your brain. Metaphorically, I mean. I imagine if actual things started dripping out of your brain, you would stop pausing for thought and run screaming for the nearest hospital.
Anyway.
Here is this.
Look, I said don't judge me.
Title: Now I Find I’ve Changed My Mind (I’ve Opened Up the Door)
Rating: R.
Fandom: Doctor Who RPF
Pairing: David Tennant/[Eleventh Doctor actor]
Word Count: ~ 1850
Disclaimer: This did not happen, I am not claiming that it did happen nor am I making any allegations about any real person mentioned in this fic. I am not making a profit, and, er, I’m sure that this really, truly, is entirely a work of fiction.
Summary: Matt should learn that agreeing to have drinks with someone whose job you’re taking is not necessarily a move that will end in sobriety.
Matt is listening to the Beatles and literally twiddling his thumbs when he is gripped by what is, in retrospect, a monumentally dim-witted idea. He googles Doctor Who. He reads more than the first page of entries. He sits back in his computer chair. “Right,” he says, and he picks up the telephone and dials.
“Hello?” says a familiar Scottish voice.
Matt gulps. He says, “Er, it’s, er, Matt. I – “
David laughs. “You’ve been on the internet, haven’t you?”
“How did you know?”
“Because I’m fairly sure that’s what I sounded like when I did that.”
“Er,” says Matt, again: his side of the conversation is scintillatingly articulate.
David says, “You’ll be fine.”
“Okay,” Matt replies.
There is a pause, and then David asks, “Look, do you want to come have a drink?”
*
David grins when he opens the door. “Come in,” he says. “You look like you’ve been slapped. With a fish. A fish that’s been left in the sun for a day.”
“Yeah, cheers,” mumbles Matt. He sidles inside. He stops on the doormat: it does not say welcome, because it does not say anything. It does, however, have a TARDIS on it. “Should I take my shoes off?”
“Unless it is your driving desire to keep them on.” David turns back into the hall. “You worry too much.”
“I’m the Doctor,” Matt mutters. “I’m supposed to worry.”
For a moment, there is an odd expression on David’s face. “That’s my line,” he says, perfectly cheerfully, but Matt feels like he really should slink back out of the door while the few shreds of his sense of self are still choosing not to abandon ship and he hasn’t managed to choke on the foot in his mouth too completely.
David squints at him in scrutiny. “That was a joke.”
“I know,” Matt says, quickly.
“Right.” David seems less than convinced. “Come on in, anyway. Let’s get you that drink.”
*
One hour and two beers later, Matt feels slightly less like his shoulders might snap out of his skin with stress. There is definitely less tension is his back: David has an extremely comfortable sofa. Matt is slumped down into the cushions; David is propped up against the arm at the opposite end, legs flung up aimlessly over the seats. He seems to have too many limbs and they are all too thin.
David lightly bats Matt on the back. “Right,” he continues. “The key is just to know who your character is.”
“You mean, Doctor Who your character is,” jokes Matt.
‘He’s called ‘The Doctor’,” David corrects.
“I know,” says Matt. “That was a joke too.”
“’Course,” says David. They lapse back into silence.
*
Another couple of hours; another couple of beers.
“But, like, the fans,” Matt says, determinedly not slurring his words, “they know everything. Everything.”
“That they do.” David nods. “And you should too.”
“But how?” Matt wails, and then, in an effort to regain some masculinity, coughs. “Is that even possible? What if – what if I just screw it all up and then Russell comes and spits in my eye?”
David chokes, chuckles, and then he leans in close, conspiratorial. His eyes are very earnest and very round. Matt shivers, despite the central heating. David whispers, “Do you want to know my secret?”
Matt’s throat is painfully dry. He nods.
David hesitates. Matt can see that just under the collar of his blue and white shirt, David is blushing a faint red up his chest, spattering out across his collarbone. Matt wrenches his focus back to what David is saying. “It’s simple,” David tells him. “I just figured out how the Doctor would come.”
“Come where?” asks Matt, and in the same instant that David heaves a faintly disgusted sigh and draws back to his end of the sofa, something clicks in Matt’s brain: he says, “Oh.” David smiles broadly at him; now Matt is the one who’s blushing.
“I think we’re drunk,” says Matt, looking down at his hands.
David says, “Speak for yourself, I’m Scottish,” and laughs. There is something appraising - claustrophobic - in the way David’s eyes flicker over Matt’s face. David gets to his feet. “I’ll get us some coffee, all right? How’d you take it?”
“Er –“
“How do you take your coffee?” David clarifies, sounding amused, and Matt feels even more like an idiot.
“Black, no sugar,” he says.
David raises an eyebrow. “If you say so,” he says, and disappears into the kitchen.
*
“Here.” David thrusts a dark blue mug into Matt’s hand. The colour is a little lighter than the blue stripe in David’s shirt. Matt takes a slurp of the coffee, and grimaces. David smiles at him over his own cup. “You don’t always take your coffee black, do you?”
Matt shakes his head ruefully. “I thought it would be a good idea, under the circumstances.”
“Which circumstances would that be?” David asks.
“Oh, I don’t know, we’ve both been drinking, you’re David Tennant, I’m not the Doctor yet and you’re talking to me about orgasms?”
The corner of David’s mouth quirks up in silent mirth. “Ah, those circumstances.”
“Would you stop being so bloody omniscient?” Matt snaps, abruptly, angry and petulant in one hot rush.
David seems to be unable to take even Matt’s short outburst seriously. “Well,” he says, lowering his coffee cup to sit on the carpet, “I am a Timelord.”
“So am I,” retorts Matt. “The same one.”
David says, quietly, “So you are.” He wets his lips. “But you haven’t found his character yet.”
The room falls still. Matt lets his head thump back into the cushions of the sofa.
“Sorry,” says David; at the same time, Matt says, “How do you suggest I go about finding him then?”
David blinks at him. “I’ve told you.” He mouths, “Orgasm.” He draws the word out; his cheeks hollow; his mouth makes an obscene little ‘o’.
“Oh, right,” says Matt, glancing away.
“Oh. Right,” says David. The look he gives Matt is weirdly emotional. As Matt watches, David slides off the sofa and lands with a thump on his bony knees. He shuffles over until he is positioned just in front of Matt, just between his splayed-open legs.
“What are you doing?” Matt asks, idiotically. David puts a hand the sofa, his thumb brushing the side of Matt’s thigh. With the other, he reaches for the zip at Matt’s groin. Matt half-heartedly protests, “We really should not be doing this.”
“It’s for the good of the show. And besides, I don’t see you doing anything. It’s all me.”
“Oh yeah,” bleats Matt, shifting awkwardly in place. He is aware in a rush of being, sluggishly, uncomfortably, turned-on. David’s eyes seem to be all pupils now. “Well then,” Matt says. “That makes it all right then.”
“’Course it does,” David agrees, light-heartedly, and Matt responds with “Fnnngig,” which he believes is both intelligent and articulate considering he now appears to be being given a blowjob. Matt looks down to see David Tennant bobbing between his thighs: it is ridiculous; it is mind-blowingly hot.
*
“You’re good at this,” Matt blurts out, a little later, as he twists his fingers in circles into the fabric of the seat.
David pulls away with a slurp, which would be funny in almost any other situation but which right now elicits a small, embarrassing sound of loss from the back of Matt’s throat. David says, sounding pleased, “So I’ve been told.”
Matt asks, “By whom?” It is, he thinks, a bad time to start worrying about his grammar.
David says, “I couldn’t possibly tell you,” mischievous, but under his breath he whispers something that Matt thinks could be ‘Derren Brown’ but there’s no way he would swear to that, as he is, right now, more than a little distracted. David dips his head again but pops back up, frowning, before making resuming any sort of contact.
Matt goes, “ssshhhff.” His cock throbs: wet and pink, his jeans wedged just beneath it, Matt thinks it is revolting. However, he supposes now isn’t really the time to start worrying over the state of his genitalia and more the time to realise that Tennant is much more attractive than any skinny, gangly Scottish bloke with an over-abundance of freckles has any right to be.
David says, “Be the Doctor.”
Matt says, “I am the Doctor.”
“No, I mean, be the Doctor now,” David tells him. He bats his eyelashes coquettishly and lowers his head. Matt bites his lip, and tries not to squirm like a girl.
He closes his eyes. All he sees is a long brown coat, a shock of brown hair and Tennant’s wide, anarchic grin. David lifts his head back up. “You’re not trying,” he chides. His voice changes; he sounds faintly smug as he says, “Stop thinking about me.”
Matt stares down at David. “You are currently sucking my cock,” he points out.
“That is not the attitude of a Timelord,” says David. “You’ve got to see past the here and now.”
Matt thinks this is stupid. Matt thinks this is impossible. Matt thinks that David needs to stop watching quite so many films with an old, wise mentor in them, and then David closes his mouth tight and does something with his tongue and Matt’s toes curl up inside his shabby socks. He can see the TARDIS, sentient and murmuring and alive, and he is standing with his hands on the controls. He is ancient and newborn and knowing: he can feel the heartbeats of so many other lives than his own, seething, erotic, through his veins, and he is responsible for the duration of every single one.
He comes with a shout, and when he opens his eyes, boneless and shaking, he is plain old Matt Smith again, actor, human. David is leaning back on his haunches, looking supremely pleased with himself. “Well done,” he says, wiping the corner of his mouth delicately with the tip of one finger. “You found him.”
“You’re not bloody Yoda,” Matt mumbles. David cracks up.
“Blowjobs magic I give,” he says. He pulls himself back onto the sofa, sprawls out effortlessly and elegantly; Matt pulls his jeans up and fastened with a clumsy one-handed fumble. His limbs don’t seem to be working properly.
“Something like that,” Matt says. “Seriously though, what was – “
“I sucked you off, Matt,” David informs him, with all the gravitas of the Shakespearean actor he is breaking away to be, but he creases up again. “God, you plonker, what do you think I did? It’s great that you think I’ve got some supernatural penis power or something, but come on, it was just fellatio.” He winks. “Tricks of the trade and all that. Er. Not that I’m a whore.”
Matt giggles. “You dirty Timelord slut.”
David claps him on the shoulder, digging in his fingers. “You mean, you dirty Timelord slut.”
And Matt pauses. “Yeah,” he says, after a minute. “Yeah, I do.”
Anyway, I would kind of like to know why my brain insists on making me write things I never actually mean to write. I'm not complaining (hey, I wouldn't write them if I didn't want to, right?) but, er, it does give one pause for thought when certain things drip out of your brain. Metaphorically, I mean. I imagine if actual things started dripping out of your brain, you would stop pausing for thought and run screaming for the nearest hospital.
Anyway.
Here is this.
Look, I said don't judge me.
Title: Now I Find I’ve Changed My Mind (I’ve Opened Up the Door)
Rating: R.
Fandom: Doctor Who RPF
Pairing: David Tennant/[Eleventh Doctor actor]
Word Count: ~ 1850
Disclaimer: This did not happen, I am not claiming that it did happen nor am I making any allegations about any real person mentioned in this fic. I am not making a profit, and, er, I’m sure that this really, truly, is entirely a work of fiction.
Summary: Matt should learn that agreeing to have drinks with someone whose job you’re taking is not necessarily a move that will end in sobriety.
Matt is listening to the Beatles and literally twiddling his thumbs when he is gripped by what is, in retrospect, a monumentally dim-witted idea. He googles Doctor Who. He reads more than the first page of entries. He sits back in his computer chair. “Right,” he says, and he picks up the telephone and dials.
“Hello?” says a familiar Scottish voice.
Matt gulps. He says, “Er, it’s, er, Matt. I – “
David laughs. “You’ve been on the internet, haven’t you?”
“How did you know?”
“Because I’m fairly sure that’s what I sounded like when I did that.”
“Er,” says Matt, again: his side of the conversation is scintillatingly articulate.
David says, “You’ll be fine.”
“Okay,” Matt replies.
There is a pause, and then David asks, “Look, do you want to come have a drink?”
*
David grins when he opens the door. “Come in,” he says. “You look like you’ve been slapped. With a fish. A fish that’s been left in the sun for a day.”
“Yeah, cheers,” mumbles Matt. He sidles inside. He stops on the doormat: it does not say welcome, because it does not say anything. It does, however, have a TARDIS on it. “Should I take my shoes off?”
“Unless it is your driving desire to keep them on.” David turns back into the hall. “You worry too much.”
“I’m the Doctor,” Matt mutters. “I’m supposed to worry.”
For a moment, there is an odd expression on David’s face. “That’s my line,” he says, perfectly cheerfully, but Matt feels like he really should slink back out of the door while the few shreds of his sense of self are still choosing not to abandon ship and he hasn’t managed to choke on the foot in his mouth too completely.
David squints at him in scrutiny. “That was a joke.”
“I know,” Matt says, quickly.
“Right.” David seems less than convinced. “Come on in, anyway. Let’s get you that drink.”
*
One hour and two beers later, Matt feels slightly less like his shoulders might snap out of his skin with stress. There is definitely less tension is his back: David has an extremely comfortable sofa. Matt is slumped down into the cushions; David is propped up against the arm at the opposite end, legs flung up aimlessly over the seats. He seems to have too many limbs and they are all too thin.
David lightly bats Matt on the back. “Right,” he continues. “The key is just to know who your character is.”
“You mean, Doctor Who your character is,” jokes Matt.
‘He’s called ‘The Doctor’,” David corrects.
“I know,” says Matt. “That was a joke too.”
“’Course,” says David. They lapse back into silence.
*
Another couple of hours; another couple of beers.
“But, like, the fans,” Matt says, determinedly not slurring his words, “they know everything. Everything.”
“That they do.” David nods. “And you should too.”
“But how?” Matt wails, and then, in an effort to regain some masculinity, coughs. “Is that even possible? What if – what if I just screw it all up and then Russell comes and spits in my eye?”
David chokes, chuckles, and then he leans in close, conspiratorial. His eyes are very earnest and very round. Matt shivers, despite the central heating. David whispers, “Do you want to know my secret?”
Matt’s throat is painfully dry. He nods.
David hesitates. Matt can see that just under the collar of his blue and white shirt, David is blushing a faint red up his chest, spattering out across his collarbone. Matt wrenches his focus back to what David is saying. “It’s simple,” David tells him. “I just figured out how the Doctor would come.”
“Come where?” asks Matt, and in the same instant that David heaves a faintly disgusted sigh and draws back to his end of the sofa, something clicks in Matt’s brain: he says, “Oh.” David smiles broadly at him; now Matt is the one who’s blushing.
“I think we’re drunk,” says Matt, looking down at his hands.
David says, “Speak for yourself, I’m Scottish,” and laughs. There is something appraising - claustrophobic - in the way David’s eyes flicker over Matt’s face. David gets to his feet. “I’ll get us some coffee, all right? How’d you take it?”
“Er –“
“How do you take your coffee?” David clarifies, sounding amused, and Matt feels even more like an idiot.
“Black, no sugar,” he says.
David raises an eyebrow. “If you say so,” he says, and disappears into the kitchen.
*
“Here.” David thrusts a dark blue mug into Matt’s hand. The colour is a little lighter than the blue stripe in David’s shirt. Matt takes a slurp of the coffee, and grimaces. David smiles at him over his own cup. “You don’t always take your coffee black, do you?”
Matt shakes his head ruefully. “I thought it would be a good idea, under the circumstances.”
“Which circumstances would that be?” David asks.
“Oh, I don’t know, we’ve both been drinking, you’re David Tennant, I’m not the Doctor yet and you’re talking to me about orgasms?”
The corner of David’s mouth quirks up in silent mirth. “Ah, those circumstances.”
“Would you stop being so bloody omniscient?” Matt snaps, abruptly, angry and petulant in one hot rush.
David seems to be unable to take even Matt’s short outburst seriously. “Well,” he says, lowering his coffee cup to sit on the carpet, “I am a Timelord.”
“So am I,” retorts Matt. “The same one.”
David says, quietly, “So you are.” He wets his lips. “But you haven’t found his character yet.”
The room falls still. Matt lets his head thump back into the cushions of the sofa.
“Sorry,” says David; at the same time, Matt says, “How do you suggest I go about finding him then?”
David blinks at him. “I’ve told you.” He mouths, “Orgasm.” He draws the word out; his cheeks hollow; his mouth makes an obscene little ‘o’.
“Oh, right,” says Matt, glancing away.
“Oh. Right,” says David. The look he gives Matt is weirdly emotional. As Matt watches, David slides off the sofa and lands with a thump on his bony knees. He shuffles over until he is positioned just in front of Matt, just between his splayed-open legs.
“What are you doing?” Matt asks, idiotically. David puts a hand the sofa, his thumb brushing the side of Matt’s thigh. With the other, he reaches for the zip at Matt’s groin. Matt half-heartedly protests, “We really should not be doing this.”
“It’s for the good of the show. And besides, I don’t see you doing anything. It’s all me.”
“Oh yeah,” bleats Matt, shifting awkwardly in place. He is aware in a rush of being, sluggishly, uncomfortably, turned-on. David’s eyes seem to be all pupils now. “Well then,” Matt says. “That makes it all right then.”
“’Course it does,” David agrees, light-heartedly, and Matt responds with “Fnnngig,” which he believes is both intelligent and articulate considering he now appears to be being given a blowjob. Matt looks down to see David Tennant bobbing between his thighs: it is ridiculous; it is mind-blowingly hot.
*
“You’re good at this,” Matt blurts out, a little later, as he twists his fingers in circles into the fabric of the seat.
David pulls away with a slurp, which would be funny in almost any other situation but which right now elicits a small, embarrassing sound of loss from the back of Matt’s throat. David says, sounding pleased, “So I’ve been told.”
Matt asks, “By whom?” It is, he thinks, a bad time to start worrying about his grammar.
David says, “I couldn’t possibly tell you,” mischievous, but under his breath he whispers something that Matt thinks could be ‘Derren Brown’ but there’s no way he would swear to that, as he is, right now, more than a little distracted. David dips his head again but pops back up, frowning, before making resuming any sort of contact.
Matt goes, “ssshhhff.” His cock throbs: wet and pink, his jeans wedged just beneath it, Matt thinks it is revolting. However, he supposes now isn’t really the time to start worrying over the state of his genitalia and more the time to realise that Tennant is much more attractive than any skinny, gangly Scottish bloke with an over-abundance of freckles has any right to be.
David says, “Be the Doctor.”
Matt says, “I am the Doctor.”
“No, I mean, be the Doctor now,” David tells him. He bats his eyelashes coquettishly and lowers his head. Matt bites his lip, and tries not to squirm like a girl.
He closes his eyes. All he sees is a long brown coat, a shock of brown hair and Tennant’s wide, anarchic grin. David lifts his head back up. “You’re not trying,” he chides. His voice changes; he sounds faintly smug as he says, “Stop thinking about me.”
Matt stares down at David. “You are currently sucking my cock,” he points out.
“That is not the attitude of a Timelord,” says David. “You’ve got to see past the here and now.”
Matt thinks this is stupid. Matt thinks this is impossible. Matt thinks that David needs to stop watching quite so many films with an old, wise mentor in them, and then David closes his mouth tight and does something with his tongue and Matt’s toes curl up inside his shabby socks. He can see the TARDIS, sentient and murmuring and alive, and he is standing with his hands on the controls. He is ancient and newborn and knowing: he can feel the heartbeats of so many other lives than his own, seething, erotic, through his veins, and he is responsible for the duration of every single one.
He comes with a shout, and when he opens his eyes, boneless and shaking, he is plain old Matt Smith again, actor, human. David is leaning back on his haunches, looking supremely pleased with himself. “Well done,” he says, wiping the corner of his mouth delicately with the tip of one finger. “You found him.”
“You’re not bloody Yoda,” Matt mumbles. David cracks up.
“Blowjobs magic I give,” he says. He pulls himself back onto the sofa, sprawls out effortlessly and elegantly; Matt pulls his jeans up and fastened with a clumsy one-handed fumble. His limbs don’t seem to be working properly.
“Something like that,” Matt says. “Seriously though, what was – “
“I sucked you off, Matt,” David informs him, with all the gravitas of the Shakespearean actor he is breaking away to be, but he creases up again. “God, you plonker, what do you think I did? It’s great that you think I’ve got some supernatural penis power or something, but come on, it was just fellatio.” He winks. “Tricks of the trade and all that. Er. Not that I’m a whore.”
Matt giggles. “You dirty Timelord slut.”
David claps him on the shoulder, digging in his fingers. “You mean, you dirty Timelord slut.”
And Matt pauses. “Yeah,” he says, after a minute. “Yeah, I do.”
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no subject
Date: 2009-01-18 10:56 pm (UTC)Also askdjjhks lol being musically involved in the inspiration of this fic is the most hilarious thing ever and I am really proud.
I can't even tell you how much I want to be writing anything at all about Derren Brown right now, but unfortunately I NEVER HAVE IDEAS FOR ANYTHING EVER ;_;
no subject
Date: 2009-01-18 11:01 pm (UTC)Did I help?
When there is more you can totes see some of that but right now there is not a lot and it is not very good
Be proud of your musical involvement! Tennant and Matt thank you for getting them some sexual gratificationz!
no subject
Date: 2009-01-18 11:46 pm (UTC)ps looking forward to it omggggggg
no subject
Date: 2009-01-18 11:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-18 11:22 pm (UTC)nothing
no subject
Date: 2009-01-18 11:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-18 11:54 pm (UTC)It is up to Loz to make me actively like him by the end of this behemoth. It is her ~*challenge*~ (it might help if I told her this, though, lol what)