karaokegal (karaokegal) wrote,

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"Great Performances" David Tennant/John Barrowman RPS NC17

Title: Great Performances
Fandom: Dr. Who RPS
Genre: Wankfic
Pairing: David Tennant/John Barrowman (Contains references to John/Scott, David/Georgia and just a hint of Tennant/Simm.)
Wordcount: 1335
Rating: NC17
Notes: Takes place during John's run in La Cage Aux Folles during September/October 2009. Written for my darling filthgoblin, from a prompt she gave me of "David Tennant-Crossdressing". I've been owing her this for quite awhile and here it is. Thanks to beta_goddess, for much-needed pushing and all-around awesomeness. This is a stand-alone fic and NOT part of my John/David verse.
Disclaimer: None of this happened and I'm not making any money for saying it did.
Warnings: This is RPS. It's about real people and contains references to their significant others, including pets. There's also public wanking and cross-dressing kink. Read at your own risk for triggering or offense.
Summary: David goes to see John in La Cage and ends up being grateful for a private box.

It’s a good thing the Confidential crew isn’t following your every move any more. This is not the kind of moment you necessarily want to share with the Whovians. You’ve waved at a load of fans and paps as you and Georgia entered the theatre, but now you’re in the darkness, listening to John belt his signature song, and dealing with…a problem.

A large problem. A ten-inch problem, as Billie was kind enough to tell all and sundry. A problem you’ve been trying to ignore since John made his first appearance as Zaza and which is failing to take direction.

The funny part is you never saw it coming and in this state even a lame joke like that is only making things worse. Why not go see John’s triumphant return to the West End? Enjoy the spectacle of a great musical. Actually get out with Georgia instead of holing up around the flat as you’ve been wont to do for the last few months. In the words of a certain TV presenter, “What could possibly go wrong?”

It’s not like you didn’t know what the show was about or anything. You can barely walk down the street in London these days without running into a poster of John showing off a pair of legs that some actresses would kill for. Nor are you fool enough to deny that the sight of a bloke in a dress has a certain effect on you. It was all you could do to keep your hands off Simm the day the poor bastard had to don tights and heels and the ugliest dress in the history of television to create the effect of a female reporter among the “Master Race” at a TV press conference.

But this is John and that’s different. You’ve seen his not-so-privates on the numerous occasions he chose to flash them on the Who set and you’ve smelled his pungent farts in the giggling privacy of the TARDIS, with Freema shrieking in horror in the background. Somewhere along the line you even shared a few furtive kisses in his trailer with one of the dogs giving you a disapproving look as though he’d be on the phone calling Scott if he could just figure out that opposable thumb and human speech thing.

None of those intimacies had prepared you for the effect of John in full, glorious drag, complete with wig and make-up, looking as gorgeous and glamorous as anything you’ve ever seen. Your gasp was covered by the fact that the whole crowd was cheering John’s entrance, but you doubt that most of the audience is having this particular reaction.

Here? Now? Really? you want to say to it, and can practically imagine the damn thing smirking at you--an eminently unnerving thought. You’ve been accused of thinking with that part of your anatomy on more than one occasion, but right now it clearly has control of the situation, because you certainly don’t.

On your side, the seclusion of a private box, the darkness of the theatre and a large souvenir programme to serve as a makeshift modesty shield. Against you, the fact that Georgia is sitting next to you, an unfortunately well-tailored pair of plaid trousers and the fact that time is running out. Once John finishes singing, the house lights will come up for intermission and it will be nearly impossible to conceal the situation, especially if you need to venture past the safety of the box, and even if you don’t, Georgia is bound to notice something.

And there’s the fact that you’re sitting in the bloody Playhouse Theatre, and even if you’ve officially filmed your last scenes as the Doctor, you still hold the keys to the TARDIS until the finale is broadcast over the holidays. Until then, you are the Doctor and it would hardly do for you to be caught wanking in a public place because your mate Barrowman happens to look unbelievably fetching as a drag queen.

Well then, you’d better not get caught, the sleazy bastard voice of your cock says, urging you on.

All right. Fine, then. Programme tented over the relevant area, hand moving to undo your buttons and release the beast.

Georgia appears to be engrossed by John’s performance as Albin sings his anthem of fierce self-awareness. At another time and place, you might enlist her assistance. You’ve done kinkier things together and it’s one reason you love her so much, but this needs to be a stealth operation, performed as quickly and quietly as possible.

Luckily, you suspect it won’t take much in the way of action or friction to accomplish your goal, and god bless it, there’s enough moisture from sitting through the whole first act in a state of heightened arousal to get things moving fairly smoothly.

You bite your lower lip to muffle any unseemly sounds and focus on John and what it would be like to shag him…in that dress, in his dressing room, in front of a mirror so you can see John’s made up face as you push your cock in, your hands feeling the smooth silk of stockings encasing John’s legs.

John, you say somewhere inside yourself as the scenario develops. You’ve thought about John sexually before, but never like this, never taking part in one of your more private fantasies, never panting in your arms as you fondle the fake boobs through the rough fabric of the dress and moaning while your thrusts pick up speed.

Your strokes are short, your grip tight as you imagine the scene of post-show debauchery right down to the crowd outside the door waiting to get in while you’re fucking John’s arse, not caring about anything but the heat and tightness and the tension rising in your own body, and somehow end up matching the tempo of the orchestra at the end of the song.

There’s one life and there’s no return and no deposit, one life so it’s time to open up your closet…

John sails into the climax of the song just as you clench your teeth and curl your toes while your fantasy self gives a final thrust into John’s arse, taking great care not to damage the gown that has made it all possible and deeply necessary.

“Life’s not worth a damn ‘til you can say, hey world….I am what I am.”

John milks that last note for all it’s worth, culminating in Zaza’s defiant exposure of herself as Albin, giving you time to do your milking and still get everything tucked away and covered up just before the audience rises as one in a euphoric standing ovation.

The screaming goes on and on and on around you, including Georgia’s whooping; you can imagine what it feels like for John up there, basking in the love of the crowd. The lights make his face shine with the mixture of sweat and tears and the expression is nearly what you’ve always thought he’d look like while coming under you. It makes you feel like you’ve actually shared the moment, even though John’s done all the work.

The house lights finally come up, signalling intermission, and Georgia tells you she’s heading for the loo, where there’s bound to be a mad queue.

You nod and say something about getting a cold drink, although you don’t move, can’t really. You’re still sharing the afterglow with John, even though he’s backstage right now getting ready for the second act. You wonder how he’d react if you told him what you did tonight. Knowing John he’d probably laugh like a loon and write about it in his next book, so you’ll have to keep this little adventure to yourself when you make the obligatory visit to John in his dressing room. You do know exactly what you’ll say when you see him, even if it means cribbing a bit from the previous Doctor. John will definitely appreciate it, even if he won’t completely understand.

You were absolutely fantastic.

Tags: david tennant, fanfic, john barrowman, john barrowman/david tennant, nc17, rpf, rps

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