RPF Fic: that age old saying
So I've been writing ridiculous snippets for mylittlepwny for ages. It's all about ballet and Billie Piper and David Tennant and ballet or something. There's Liam Neeson too and it's kind of complicated and stuff. But she asked me for a playlist and then a playlist became a mix and then I said I'd do something to accompany it so here we go. I'll link to her mix too when she posts. HEY IT'S A MIX with beautiful art by takethewords/Kat. Melissa, you're awesome and I love you and will do this for you forever - no one else watches the stupid movies that we watch. I'm in good company and stuff. ♥
that age old saying
they always write songs about the prettiest ballerina.
rpf | billie piper/david tennant | 1,045 words, R
He starts it.
Billie is in her second year when he walks into one of workshops. They stretch as their instructor reads some sort of riot act to the guy that they call the General. The problem is that there is a line of girls sitting next to her who are grinning and giggling as he watches them.
"Fuck the swan," she mutters when he passes, and it's that grin, it's that stupid grin that she gets that makes her head spin.
She hates him already.
It's not until her fourth year, until things actually get incredibly serious, until Lucy Ripley walks her glissade en arrière and snaps her ankle, that Billie becomes a fixture. She hates it. She hates that she's still here. It's ridiculous, the amount of apathy she has for the place when she knows she'd rather be off elsewhere, traveling and some nonsense, with just a few cigarettes and some pounds.
The General hosts her fall workshop. And of course, it's the swan. David Tennant is a legend, the legend; he makes them walk through runs and pirouettes until toes bleed and snap. Of course, most of the girls adore him - no different from that first time she saw him. It's blind devotion and she's honest, the real reason she's started to put up with it is because she loves to dance.
They have weeks of late rehearsals before he pulls her aside, mid-stretch, his fingers pressing against her leg and then bar.
"You're the swan, Pips."
Her eyes narrow. His mouth turns. "Okay," she says, after awhile.
"Show some enthusiasm," he tells her, and her leg arches back, her head falling forward as she starts to pull her hair into a braid. She feels his fingers touch her hair. "You're not just a pretty face, love."
"You're just nipped because I don't do the fawning thing."
He laughs.
"You're lucky I like you."
Her eyes narrow. Her throat is tight and when she drops her leg from the bar, she stands with her hands on her hips.
She salutes him. "Remains to be seen."
This is still for mum and dad, and some self-professed guilt that she has. It still doesn't keep her from going to club and having a bit of time for drinks and such, wearing an awful dress and picking at the sequins when she gets to the bar.
There is sweat sliding down her throat, and her hair wraps around her fingers, her ears humming with the dull, dark hum of the music. There are a couple of bodies that pass her, hip to hip, a hand catching the back of her leg - which, well, those are what the heels are for. But when the bartender finally brings her the whiskey, she turns into body, eyes wide when she sees the General standing in front of her.
"Pips!" he greets, delighted. He flashes a wide smile. His hands drop to the bar on either side of her and she's just trapped. "You look almost, well, human."
His smirk pisses her off. She can only drop her eyes and narrow them, her lashes catching against her cheeks.
"Small world," she says.
"What?"
"Small world!" she yells, and she leans in, pressing her mouth against his ear. He laughs at her. His hand moves to her hip and she's annoyed now too. So she bites at his ear. "You're not an instructor here."
His hand slides along her hip, down the curve of her ass.
"Nope," he says cheerfully. "And it's David, Pips."
She says nothing because there's nothing to say and she's throwing her head back, finishing her whiskey and craving a cigarette. He keeps her close and she lets him, if only because there's no place to go.
Neither of them say let's dance.
It's sex. It's totally sex. Or the closest thing she's had in awhile.
His hand presses against her belly, pulling at the fabric of her dress as she's half-bent against him. She withers slowly, her mouth twitching as his fingers turn and drag up against the base of her throat. She turns her head and her hair spills against her shoulders, out of the lose, lazy knot at the back of her neck.
His mouth grazes hers. Then it happens again. He's sharp and she can't quite place the taste of him, somewhere between heavy and something and something distinctly like smoke. He's not kissing her, but he's not backing away from her either and that, that is the worst idea possible.
She lets her hand press back over his. His fingers curl into her skin and she lets out a soft, soft moan. They're lost in the middle of the dance floor and the music's picking up, just as she turns her body into him. His leg slides between hers and he presses his hand back of her ass, dragging her flushed against him.
"I like a challenge," he says into her ear.
She turns her head and hides a smile.
The sweat drags against her throat, along the back of her neck, and she's stretching, bloody hell to the point where she can't even think anymore. He's the worst. He's the worst.
There are a couple of girls that kind of spill back, some in tears, some in so much pain that fighting through it seems rather pointless. There's talk about girls breaking down, girls leaving, and a couple of the boys, her partner, the prince, is so ready to shove his fist into David's face.
But he's watching her, he's watching her and she can feel his eyes digging into her back, into her skin, and into each move that she makes. There's something about it, something that sort of drives her to go hard, to push herself in a way that is open and that it hurts.
After, when she sits, and the workshop is in whispers. He stands over her.
"Get up," he says. "Do it again."
Her eyes narrow and he's totally and completely serious, the slight turn of his mouth the only indication that he's somewhat human and that she's still not following for the strange game he seems driven to play.
Billie still pushes herself up to stand again.
She'll finish it.
that age old saying
they always write songs about the prettiest ballerina.
rpf | billie piper/david tennant | 1,045 words, R
He starts it.
Billie is in her second year when he walks into one of workshops. They stretch as their instructor reads some sort of riot act to the guy that they call the General. The problem is that there is a line of girls sitting next to her who are grinning and giggling as he watches them.
"Fuck the swan," she mutters when he passes, and it's that grin, it's that stupid grin that she gets that makes her head spin.
She hates him already.
It's not until her fourth year, until things actually get incredibly serious, until Lucy Ripley walks her glissade en arrière and snaps her ankle, that Billie becomes a fixture. She hates it. She hates that she's still here. It's ridiculous, the amount of apathy she has for the place when she knows she'd rather be off elsewhere, traveling and some nonsense, with just a few cigarettes and some pounds.
The General hosts her fall workshop. And of course, it's the swan. David Tennant is a legend, the legend; he makes them walk through runs and pirouettes until toes bleed and snap. Of course, most of the girls adore him - no different from that first time she saw him. It's blind devotion and she's honest, the real reason she's started to put up with it is because she loves to dance.
They have weeks of late rehearsals before he pulls her aside, mid-stretch, his fingers pressing against her leg and then bar.
"You're the swan, Pips."
Her eyes narrow. His mouth turns. "Okay," she says, after awhile.
"Show some enthusiasm," he tells her, and her leg arches back, her head falling forward as she starts to pull her hair into a braid. She feels his fingers touch her hair. "You're not just a pretty face, love."
"You're just nipped because I don't do the fawning thing."
He laughs.
"You're lucky I like you."
Her eyes narrow. Her throat is tight and when she drops her leg from the bar, she stands with her hands on her hips.
She salutes him. "Remains to be seen."
This is still for mum and dad, and some self-professed guilt that she has. It still doesn't keep her from going to club and having a bit of time for drinks and such, wearing an awful dress and picking at the sequins when she gets to the bar.
There is sweat sliding down her throat, and her hair wraps around her fingers, her ears humming with the dull, dark hum of the music. There are a couple of bodies that pass her, hip to hip, a hand catching the back of her leg - which, well, those are what the heels are for. But when the bartender finally brings her the whiskey, she turns into body, eyes wide when she sees the General standing in front of her.
"Pips!" he greets, delighted. He flashes a wide smile. His hands drop to the bar on either side of her and she's just trapped. "You look almost, well, human."
His smirk pisses her off. She can only drop her eyes and narrow them, her lashes catching against her cheeks.
"Small world," she says.
"What?"
"Small world!" she yells, and she leans in, pressing her mouth against his ear. He laughs at her. His hand moves to her hip and she's annoyed now too. So she bites at his ear. "You're not an instructor here."
His hand slides along her hip, down the curve of her ass.
"Nope," he says cheerfully. "And it's David, Pips."
She says nothing because there's nothing to say and she's throwing her head back, finishing her whiskey and craving a cigarette. He keeps her close and she lets him, if only because there's no place to go.
Neither of them say let's dance.
It's sex. It's totally sex. Or the closest thing she's had in awhile.
His hand presses against her belly, pulling at the fabric of her dress as she's half-bent against him. She withers slowly, her mouth twitching as his fingers turn and drag up against the base of her throat. She turns her head and her hair spills against her shoulders, out of the lose, lazy knot at the back of her neck.
His mouth grazes hers. Then it happens again. He's sharp and she can't quite place the taste of him, somewhere between heavy and something and something distinctly like smoke. He's not kissing her, but he's not backing away from her either and that, that is the worst idea possible.
She lets her hand press back over his. His fingers curl into her skin and she lets out a soft, soft moan. They're lost in the middle of the dance floor and the music's picking up, just as she turns her body into him. His leg slides between hers and he presses his hand back of her ass, dragging her flushed against him.
"I like a challenge," he says into her ear.
She turns her head and hides a smile.
The sweat drags against her throat, along the back of her neck, and she's stretching, bloody hell to the point where she can't even think anymore. He's the worst. He's the worst.
There are a couple of girls that kind of spill back, some in tears, some in so much pain that fighting through it seems rather pointless. There's talk about girls breaking down, girls leaving, and a couple of the boys, her partner, the prince, is so ready to shove his fist into David's face.
But he's watching her, he's watching her and she can feel his eyes digging into her back, into her skin, and into each move that she makes. There's something about it, something that sort of drives her to go hard, to push herself in a way that is open and that it hurts.
After, when she sits, and the workshop is in whispers. He stands over her.
"Get up," he says. "Do it again."
Her eyes narrow and he's totally and completely serious, the slight turn of his mouth the only indication that he's somewhat human and that she's still not following for the strange game he seems driven to play.
Billie still pushes herself up to stand again.
She'll finish it.