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thirdeyeblue · 11 months ago

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No One's Gonna Love You (1/3)

Pairing: David Tennant x Billie Piper

Rating: Eventually Explicit

Tags: First Time, Infidelity, Hurt/Comfort, RST, Smut

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For one whole weekend, David is left to his own devices in his big, empty house — but what's meant to be a gift leaves him at a loss for how to pass the time.

That is, until he gets a phone call from one of his favorite people on Earth... One who could really use a mate.

We're reeling through an endless fall We are the ever-living ghost of what once was But no one is ever gonna love you more than I do No one's gonna love you more than I do

Friday, November 11th, 2023

It’s a cool November night in Chiswick: the leafy village-within-a-city nestled just west of central London. Rain has just begun to fall, starting with a light pattering on the stone walkway out the door — but in a matter of moments, it picks up to a proper deluge.

Standing alone in the kitchen, David watches the weather rolling in through the darkness, a mug of mulled wine held beneath his lips. When he breathes in, it smells of cloves and cinnamon; of feelings it seems odd to allow himself to experience in this sort of quiet.

Drinking alone isn’t an activity he’s ever been keen on, but with the bottle being a gift from the in-laws — one they’d brewed up and bottled themselves, having insisted he enjoy it on his next ‘night off’ — it’s a request he doesn’t mind being beholden to just this once.

Furthermore, Georgia had placed the bottle right there on the marble worktop before she’d left, positioning it directly beside that ridiculous mug with his Hamlet headshot.

The message was well-received: It’s time to take the candle you’ve been burning at both ends and extinguish it once and for all.

Well, fine. Bit of a foreign concept for an admitted workaholic, but he’ll make do.

The window overlooking the garden wears fog like a lacy veil, a frame of condensation forming against the heat of his 19th-century Victorian home. It’s the first properly cold evening they’ve had all season, having been experiencing something of a heat wave over the past couple of months — and it’s happened fast, too. Just this morning, he didn't even need a jacket, and now…

‘Hate to be out in that,’ David thinks as he finally takes his first drink, savoring the rich, spicy flavor as it envelops his taste buds.

At once, a warm and dangerously pleasant sensation settles in his chest, and he thinks he won’t fault himself for heavy-handing the pour just a bit. No part of him intends to make a habit out of this sort of thing, of course, though it’s easy to see how one could — particularly given the wintery set and setting; the comfort such an indulgence brings.

Sheltered in his home, he feels comfortable and protected; shielded from the elements. Sure, autumn is a lovely season — possibly his favorite of the four, really — but rain this time of year is a ghastly thing, especially once the warmth of the sun has slipped over the horizon.

It’s soothing being on the other side of the glass, guarded within his cozy fortress, thoroughly enjoying one of the more tangible merits of years of hard work.

Except…

Well, it’s a bit weird, isn’t it?

Aside from the mounting downpour, he can’t remember the last time it’s been this quiet inside the house. It’s one thing to enjoy the peace and quiet of a trailer or hotel room, but…

The part of his brain driven by instinct sort of half-expects Birdie to pipe up with an evening fright at any moment — she’s been susceptible to those lately, what with the shorter days — or perhaps for Ty to come wandering through the foyer with his face lit by the blue light of his mobile.

Alas, no such risks exist tonight, and it’s — well. It’s odd, is all.

Another part of him wonders if he should feel guilty for taking solace in the stillness, but for a man whose familial cup usually more than runneth over, he tries (tries) to cut himself a bit of slack. He loves his family to the ends of the Earth, delighting in every opportunity he’s got to be present with his children — but it’s nice, he thinks: having one night to himself. Such a luxury is one he’s not been afforded in such a long time.

With the Evening Standard Theatre Awards happening next weekend, then the first special of Doctor Who’s sixtieth anniversary airing the following Saturday (not to mention the utter mountain of press he’s about to be contending with over it), he really ought to take reprieve anywhere he can get it.

Normally, the only times he’s properly alone, he’s still on the clock. He’s in a hotel next door to a studio or bunking alongside a dozen other trailers, running lines to the end of the page and back again until he can’t fight the weight of his eyelids any longer.

That, or he’s rushing to get enough sleep in preparation to greet the press. With the way the years have begun to show in the lines of his face, ‘beauty sleep’ is something he’s had to learn to take just as seriously as his ‘skincare regimen’. David has never fancied himself vain, but in the words of his wife and daughters, ‘Nobody wants to go on the One Show looking like they’ve just been hoisted out from their grave, do they?’

But this weekend exists outside of those personal regulations. This is just for him: A gift.

If anything, the guilt he derives should be from nothing but the fact that he hasn’t reached out to Georgia to thank her again yet. He tells himself that it’s because he’s waiting for her, not wanting to overwhelm her while she’s got her hands full.

It’s got nothing to do with that little voice playing at the edge of his consciousness in these quiet moments; that corner of his brain that occasionally seeks and prods and yearns to be acknowledged.

He’ll certainly not be acknowledging it now.

It’s the perfect evening for a fuzzy jumper, for which he's grown fond as of late. Tonight’s selection is white and soft, one he’s worn many times both on camera and off. The sleeves are so long that he’s got to hike them up his forearms a bit, but it’s so bloody cozy that he can’t be bothered to fuss about that. It’s like being enveloped in a hand-woven cloud; the perfect selection for a night to oneself.

There’s one problem with that, though — being the lone occupant in the normally bustling Tennant household… He’s had no idea how to fill the time.

The morning was spent with Sunshine on Leith caressing his eardrums as he enjoyed a nice workout, and to cool down, he took Myrtle on a little jaunt around the block. Even met a lovely young fan when he was rounding the tree-lined apex of Silver Cres; a girl with long red hair and infinite freckles, and one who couldn’t have been more than twelve years old.

Out of nowhere, she’d come bounding out from one of the endless narrow brick homes wielding a calendar — one he was actually surprised to see had his face on… All these years and he’s still nowhere near being used to that.

The girl — Hannah, she was called — had announced that she couldn’t believe her luck, as she’d heard that ‘her Doctor’ lived in the area but never quite knew where. Furthermore, she’d remarked (with no shortage of dread) about how she thought she might not find him in time to have him autograph her birthday. It’d already come and gone, of course — but she said it was still good enough for her as long as she’d found him by year’s end.

(Apparently, she wasn’t expecting her 2024 edition until Christmas)

The calendar was already flipped open to the appropriate page when she handed it over, and there he was: right there with the previous month printed right to the left of his wonderfully thick, Entirely Still Youthful hair. Against a backdrop of wood paneling, he stood glancing off in a white Oxford button-down, five o’clock shadow rampant in his 2009 Ellis Parrinder shoot.

David had signed the square for the fifth of October (a Thursday, he’d noted) and graciously accepted a hug, allowing Hannah to pet the older of the two family dogs to her heart’s content before he headed back to the house.

In the hours since, he’s gotten sucked into an Ishiguro novel, checked the mail, booked a roundtrip flight for a wedding next August, gotten pulled back into the same novel, and passed out on the living room sofa for some unbeknown period — long enough for the afternoon to turn to night.

Letting the dog out had been his first priority upon waking, during which time he’d sucked down a full glass of water, scrolled through photos of the kids (and a very happy Bernard; the pup they’d brought along) out on a hayride with their grandfather, belatedly solved the day’s Wordle (‘worry’ to ‘weary’ in two out of six, thank you very much), and begun the process of heating the wine.

A saucepan filled about halfway with the dark liquid sat over a low flame while he’d raced down the hall to his bedroom, changed into his jumper and lounge pants, and returned to let Myrtle inside.

It’s been about ten minutes since he re-entered the kitchen; about five since he poured the pan’s contents into a tall mug. This one is a deep shade of magenta, bearing no markings — especially of his face.

The Hamlet mug is good for a laugh with company, but while standing alone in one’s own kitchen?... Bit egomaniacal, really.

As David sips his seasonal beverage, attempting to decide what to do with the remainder of his evening, his mobile begins to buzz where he left it on a little table.

With a nearly silent yawn, he makes his way into the darkness of the adjoining hall, eyes landing on the illuminated screen. He doesn’t have to get very close before he sees his wife’s contact photo smiling up at him, along with the time — 9:37 PM.

He takes another drink and picks up the phone, swallowing as he slides to answer.

“Two guesses to ‘weary’, is it?” Georgia greets, voice thick with mock indignation. “Should I have nicked the knives and bootlaces before we left?”

After a lighthearted tiff about the merits of Wordle integrity, he enjoys a brief goodnight chat with the family — at least, as many of them as she can pull into the periphery of the speaker phone.

He’s told of the hayride, then of far-too-early Christmas cookies they’d bribed Sandra into helping them bake. There’s a bit of petty bickering in the background between Olive and Doris — clearly, a row that’d begun during the baking process; old wounds now reopened — and David settles their little squabble as quickly as he can, happy he can still prove useful even from clear across London.

After wishing everyone well, he’s rocked with a deep yawn as he crosses into the foyer: a reminder of the limits of his age. It’s bloody difficult staying up late without the energy of others to feed off of, and he decides right then and there that he’ll just go ahead and call it an early evening — sod it with the wine.

Not much to do aside from watching a bit of telly anyway. He reckons that sounds rather nice.

As soon as he hits the switch to cast the room into darkness, however, his phone buzzes again.

There’s a smirk on his lips as he reaches into his pocket, retrieving a device that’s still warm from his cheek and palm. Probably Ollie looking to regale him with another victory over her younger siblings, if he were to fancy a wager.

As soon as he glances at the screen, he freezes.

Bills

It’s so unexpected; such a shock that he forcibly blinks to make sure his eyes aren’t deceiving him. His gaze flicks back and forth over the letters a few times before he finally picks his brain off the ground for long enough to answer, bringing the mobile to his ear, a massive grin already lighting up his face.

“If it isn’t Ms. Billie Piper,” he says, his smile shining through his greeting. Propping his shoulder against the wall, he crosses one ankle over the other. “To what do I owe the pleasure on this dreariest of evenings?”

A few seconds pass in silence where he thinks they might’ve gotten disconnected, but right as he’s about to check, a small, shaking voice comes across.

“Dave,” she says, sniffling. “Erm… Hi, I-I...”

And then, as David's still wrapping his head around hearing her voice again, Billie breaks down.

His heart crumbles as, with a swift kick, his sudden wondrous mood is knocked out from beneath him, toppling to the floor like a glass off a table. There’s nothing but sobbing on the other line, and the helplessness he feels — the powerlessness — is overwhelming.

“Oh, no no no — what’s happened? What’s wrong?” He licks his dried lips, glancing around as though he might find the solution hanging in mid-air; something to comfort his mate through her fits and starts. “Billie. Talk to me — are you hurt?”

“I-I… I’m sorry, I know this is…” She snivels heavily. “Bloody hell, this is so… s-so stupid, I shouldn’t’ve—”

“Shhh, shhh, c’mon, love — you’re alright.” Setting his mug on a table near the front door, he collapses on his father’s worn leather chair beside it, running his hand back through his hair. “Just — deep breaths, I’m right here….”

More sniveling, more sobbing, and David’s face falls further, to the point that he has to prop an elbow on his knee to press his forehead into his hand. “Oh, Bill.”

“I… was just,” Billie tries again after a moment, “I’ve been — at – at a wedding. M-My mate Candyce, sh-she got… married today.”

Each second of her grief makes his heart plummet a bit further. “Did something happen there?” he asks, a little jolt of panic shuddering through him. In today’s world, you never know what sort of loonies you might encounter at large events. “Is everyone alright?”

“No… I-I mean, yes, they’re — nothing’s… Everyone’s sort of, y’know, fine. Just… It’s John. It’s — h-he and I, we… We, erm…”

She trails off, her breath shuddering against the mouthpiece.

Another tight clenching in his chest, and David squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge between them. He’s not had a chance to meet this particular bloke of hers, but when he and Billie recorded a podcast in 2020, some words were exchanged off-mic and off-the-record — words regarding more than a bit of trouble in paradise.

That was three years ago, though. He thought they must have worked it out.

Not that he thinks about it too much, of course.

Still, he recognizes that tone. He’d heard it one too many times, once upon another life.

“Where are you?” he asks, and without hesitation, she tells him.

That’s how he learns that Billie Piper is not only in West London — she’s at the Pilot: a bar right there in Chiswick.

She’s a five-minute walk from his house.

“Stay there,” he says, determined; already on his feet as he turns for the coat hooks. “I’m coming to get you.”

#david tennant #billie piper #david x billie #rpf #dw rpf #doctor who #my fics #my absurd almost 2007-esque graphic design ‘skills’ wreaking havoc again

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slasherscream · 10 months ago

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the absolute INSANITY of the pushing your s/o away thing with the crazy ass boy gang… it’s like triggering a dog’s prey drive but for serial killers w abandonment issues

CRAZY ASS BOYS GANG + PUSHING THEIR HAND AWAY/REJECTING AFFECTION

❥ who gets pissed the fuck off ❥

Billy Loomis - Is irritated off rip. Billy plays it cool but he needs physical affection from you. He’s casual about it so he flies under the radar, but this is a stage five clinger. He’s always doing something small. Touching your fingers. A hand on your back. Neck. Sitting behind you instead of putting you directly in his lap. It’s little stuff. Hovering. Smack his hand away one of these times and his jaw clenches right away. “What the hell is your problem?” Please snuggle up to him and don’t start world war 3. It’s not worth the joke.

Kevin Khatchadourian - Quick question, why do this to yourself? Kevin does not need, nor does he particularly enjoy, physical contact. Period. He is gracious enough to give you physical contact because he knows you’re built different (pathetic). For you to then turn around and spit in the face of him being kind enough to meet your needs? …. Quite crazy of you. The look he gives you is pure confusion because he’s honest to God baffled. What do you want to accomplish here? Go ahead and start begging now, because he’s not touching you for a long while.

Sparrow!Ben Hargreeves - Swings wildly between damn near dodging any physical affection you attempt to give him to hanging off you like a squid on a ship. No in-between. For you to have the audacity to reject him when he’s feeling clingy? How dare you. He doesn’t have to beg anyone for attention! Did you forget who you’re dating? Doesn’t even care if you did it with obvious playfulness. He’s sensitive. He’s tender. He’s a bitch. He goes to get up and leave entirely and you have to grab him and beg him to cuddle so this doesn’t become a week long cold war. Happy ego stroking!

Stu Macher - What you’re not about to do is ruin his mood. Baby, he’s about to ruin yours. How about that? If you push his hands off you once he enjoys a little playful bitchiness. Playing hard to get. He likes to chase, it’s cool. Twice? Okay…. We’re irritating him. Three times? He’s gonna grab your hand, stop smiling, and stare at you. When he places his hand back where it belongs, on your thigh, don’t act up again. He could make your whole week go to shit. Don’t start wars you won’t win. He’s the king of playing stupid games and winning stupid prizes.

Nathan Prescott - Has to bluster and get visibly pissed off because he is rejection sensitive to a degree that is astounding, frankly. Let you see him upset after he tried to be affectionate and you said no? Hah! Not fucking likely. Being physically affectionate in the first place doesn’t come easy to him. Quality time is more his speed. Even worse if it wasn’t a sexual advance he was making. He tried to wrap an arm around you and you shrug him off? You’ll be lucky to get a hello out of him for the next week. Good luck soldier.

David Mccall - Outwardly, he pretends to be despondent and sheepish when you bat his hand away. He’s using sadness as a shield. If he’s sad then you might feel bad and give in. He’ll use any tool in his arsenal to get his way. One of his greatest skills is speaking in a soft voice, just shy of how you’d speak to a toddler, and telling you: “I didn’t mean to upset you, sweetheart. I’m sorry.” This is all to hide the fact that you rejecting him in any way, shape, or form makes him so angry he can barely think. You might be able to catch the rage hidden behind the veil. If you’re quick enough. David puts on a convincing show, but his gentle smile is twitching at the edges.

❥ who gets sad and mopey ❥

Jordan Li - Oh you pushed them away? No, that’s cool, it’s totally fine. You can want space. Everyone’s entitled to their own space bubble. Of course. Are you having a bad day? Are you mad at them? Did they do something wrong? Did they piss you off? These are the types of questions Jordan is going to “casually” ask for the next ten minutes while they sit really close to you. They’re not touching you! They always sit with their legs spread so wide. Their arm isn’t around you, it’s on the back of the couch. You’re nitpicking here, babe. They’re staring at you with their big brown eyes. No, they didn’t get any closer while you weren’t looking.

Josh Washington - Why would you do this to him? Don’t push his hand off you unless you mean it or you’re being obviously playful about it. If you pretend to be mad at him while you do it, no matter how unconvincing of an actor you are, he will believe you. Sensitive king. He also won’t go to touch you again until you initiate the contact. Physical touch is reassuring and comforting to him but even he (category five clinger) gets touch aversion at times. As observant as he is, he knows some people are uncomfortable asserting their boundaries, so they’ll try to soften the blow of saying no by being “playful”. He cannot take the risk! You could mean it but don’t want to hurt his feelings. Josh interprets many playful no’s as real ones. Better safe than sorry.

❥ secret third worse thing ❥

Sebastian Valmont - Doesn’t take it for anything more than what it is. If you’re being playful he recognizes it. If you’re seriously not wanting to be touched at any given moment he understands that as well. However, in the case of being playful, you’ve started a war you can’t win. Because, as much as Sebastian enjoys chasing you… Sebastian also likes to be chased. Ten minutes from now you’ll go to give Sebastian’s cheek a kiss and he’s going to dodge you. Hard. To such an extent it’s bordering on insult. He’ll be wearing a cat that got the canary grin all the while.

Jason Dean/JD - Doesn’t take you seriously even if you are dead serious. I’m sorry, you’ve discovered his worst character trait by far. Most boundaries are a joke to him. He always wants to touch you. He loves you! He craves you like a drug. You should feel the same for him, in equal measure and desperation. So why wouldn’t you want him touching you? Holding you close. He’s so gentle with you (usually). His arms should feel like home. No matter how long a day you’ve had. No matter how overwhelmed you might be with sound, sight, touch. In JD’s eyes you’re one soul in two bodies. He always wants you near. He knows you want the same. You’re just a little dramatic sometimes.

#crazy ass boys gang #this was SOOOOO fucking fun to write nonny #i remembered how scary some of these fucking attack dogs are midway through writing #billy loomis x reader #stu macher x reader #jordan li x reader #josh washington x reader #kevin khatchadourian x reader #black!reader #jd x reader #sebastian valmont x reader #nathan prescott x reader #david mccall x reader #ben hargreeves x reader #umbrella academy imagine #jordan li imagine #gender neutral reader

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