Reel Me In

Ten and nine fighting over who is Rose's favorite.

prompt: tenrose bed sharing trope + resolved tension 😳 ps your fics are incredible i literally read them daily

If you're still accepting prompts I'm craving some sexy-intense-lounging-like-a-panther!Nine x Rose! (SFW or NSFW, whatever your comfortable with)

okay, this prompt made me craaaazy (in a good way). i had to stop it before it grew out of my control. mature-ish, but not nsfw. and anon, bless you for this blatant permission to objectify nine.

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𝕋𝕠𝕦𝕔𝕙

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“You know you do this… thing,” Rose begins conversationally, rolling onto her side. Her hair fans out over the pillow behind her, catching gold in the light from their bedside lamp, by which the Doctor is currently reading. But he pauses at her words, looking down over the top of his horn-rimmed glasses.

“A ‘thing’?”

Rose nods, her flushing cheek rubbing against the cotton. “Mhm, a thing.”

“What sort of ‘thing’?” he asks, putting aside his book. It’s interesting, of course, but not as interesting as whatever is bringing that heat to Rose’s cheeks.

“You were doing it just now,” she evades. “Like, sort of a… lounging thing.”

He doesn’t laugh outright, but he grins despite himself at her tentative tone. It must be good, whatever Rose is thinking, to make her look like that. And her heart speeds along like the wings of a butterfly. “What ‘lounging thing’?”

Her smile is the sun where his is the moon—similarly shaped, but hers is infinitely brighter. He can remember a time, not terribly distant, when he had thought that smile to be as separate from him as any star in the sky. But then, their relationship had evolved into this—nighttime rituals and shared airspace and having a side of the bed that belonged to her—and her smiles had only grown. Brighter, the closer he came. And more focused: she has special smirks and fond grins, reserved only for him. He is part of her orbit.

Still, it occasionally catches him off-guard, to see her twinkling up at him like a patch of starlight.

“Tell me,” he insists, leaning down over her as if his proximity might overcome her uncharacteristic timidity. And she huffs, though he doesn’t know why; she’s the one who mentioned the so-called “thing.”

“It’s a sort of… lounging… broody,” and at some point her eyes drift away from his, unable to maintain the contact, “intense… ‘look at my long limbs, Rose, don’t you want to just… climb me like a tree,’ sexy kind of… thing.” And as if to prove her point, her gaze drags down over him, taking in the deep vee of his maroon sweater, his loose track pants—her purchase, of course—and his boldly bare feet. 

He thinks that maybe she sees something in the careless sprawl of his limbs, one leg bent while the other stretches, head propped on one hand, chin at an angle. And maybe there is—has always been—a part of him, trying to tell her:

I am open.

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Another Prompt for you friend: Forest Nymph Rose Tyler, in her floral house meeting a poor lost adventurer Doctor of your choosing (bonus points for including a reference to other companions as her 'sisters' because they're also nymphs just of different kinds)

hey, thinky, i LOVED writing this. that’s really the only excuse for it being over three thousand words long. also, i went with the ninth doctor, because… well, you know why. hopefully you enjoy this fevered, unedited little daydream.

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𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕘𝕒𝕣𝕕𝕖𝕟 𝕨𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕓𝕖𝕒𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕖𝕤 𝕓𝕖

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The hour was late when he stumbled through her gate.

He should not have been able. He should not have been close enough to throw stones, let alone to wander in with his hulking human footsteps, leaving muddy tracks through her garden. But it little mattered what should and should not have been; the fact remained that he came in the night.

She had duties to attend to before bed. Small things. Strengthening the stems of her night-bloomers. Wishing a good evening to her moonflowers and rain lilies. Reminding the lilacs to save some sweetness for the morning. In a garden this size, one could spend all night wandering and only return to the house come dawn. But it was late, and Rose was tired.

(She could be forgiven, then, for her reaction.)

She gave a final adieu to the evening primroses.

(If he had only called out—)

(But he did not. He caught her by surprise. And so she was most ungracious.)

He came into the little clearing. The space between her home and her garden, filled with tidy grass and a hutch, where she kept her cow, Beau. She was just wishing her bovine companion good night when the man appeared. He came out of the mist, and through her garden—one moment shrouded and silent, and the next with all the rumpus of those who walk heavy on the earth.

He was large. Tall. Towering. It made her feel afraid.

“Who are you?” Rose demanded, trying not to sound fearful. But her body betrayed her, as did her power. He was so close to her plants, to her friends. He stepped toward her, arms outstretched—no doubt, he meant to tread carefully—but the vines went to him before her sense did, tangling around his dirty boots. Holding him fast. She was stronger than she knew. The vines hurried upward in a tangled bramble, shapely and spiked. “Don’t move another step.” Her voice shook.

The man spoke. “I couldn’t even if I wished to.”

He had a very human voice. Some call their sounds rough, or harsh. Unnatural.

But Rose could not bring herself to think so.

His voice was earthy—it reminded her of sweet, loamy soil, overturned and exposed. And yes, he was gruff. He sounded unused to speaking.

“Who are you?”

“A tired traveler, too long on the road.” It didn’t sound like a lie.

She approached, her footsteps soft and even and right on the ground. How humans got around in such hard-soled bodies was beyond her. But then, much of their world was.

She stopped at the border where garden met grass, her body between him and the cottage.

“Why are you in my garden?”

The traveler did not answer immediately. 

(And so, perhaps, she can be forgiven for this, too.)

Her vines reared back, as if in threat. Or, not as if—they were impossible to mistake. Thorns have a purpose in a garden, and so did they in her power. The spikes sharpened, lengthened into spears, and they pressed against his chest. Against where, she had heard, the human heart lay.

“Tell me,” she pressed. Her thorns pressed. Her fear pressed.

“Because I am lost, lady, and your flowers bloomed so brightly.”

She looked over his shoulder, at his path. The bootprints were easy to spot. And admittedly, he had not crushed anything. 

Unconscious of doing so, she smiled at her flowering friends. At the trembling-overflowing-with-life-vernal-softness of it all. Even in the dark, the garden did emit its own sort of light. He had seen it as a beacon? A guide, perhaps, to light his way in this moonless night.

It should not have been possible.

(But it was.)

Her vines began to loosen. She watched as the man shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable. “You can come,” she said. “You can stay. For one night, only.” She held up one finger.

In the darkness, he smiled and his teeth gleamed lily-white.

“To whom do I owe my thanks?”

Her head tilted. “To me.”

The man laughed, and it was a good sound. Like something shooting up out of the ground, though perhaps out of season.

“And what am I to call you, lady?”

Rose turned on her heel, and with a delicate flick of her fingers, the vines gave way. They reshaped, rounded into a bush. And from it, blooms. Pink and sweet. 

Roses.

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