#charley pollard x rose tyler x eighth doctor | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gingerteaonthetardis · 4 years

Note

For the promps thing: eight andnRose have a telepathic bond but have never met, charley finds this hilarious

i sort of got carried away with this one... that’s part of why it’s taken so long. there’s a wee bit of angst mixed in here, but the ending is happy and i hope you enjoy it!

p.s. i apologize for any messiness, this received... like, no editing.

read on ao3, if you fancy.

𝕋𝕣𝕚𝕡𝕝𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕥𝕖

There is a man standing in the middle of a very nice, very spacious timeship—if he does say so himself—and he is holding a cup of tea. The cup of tea has just been gently pushed into his hands by a very nice young woman, with blonde hair and delicate features and great big eyes that look at him in a way that he hasn’t quite decided whether or not he likes. She is called Charley. And the tea she just gave him is warm, but not hot. This is important, because the tea is about to leave the confines of his hands (as well as its cup), and if the tea were hot, it would change the following sequence of events quite dramatically.

He smells the bittersweet bergamot and the fragrant orange blossoms, and he takes a deep breath, and then the man—who, it should perhaps be mentioned, is not actually a man—smiles. And then he feels something sweet and tender inside his head, like a flower unfolding. It is such a mild and soft sensation that he almost thinks it is a direct reaction to the scent of the tea. He does like tea quite a lot; perhaps a bit more than is usual. However, he does not like tea enough to let it physically inhabit his mind.

And that is what is happening: he is being inhabited.

Granted, he is not completely unused to the sensation of being inhabited, because he is a Time Lord, and he is occasionally subject to a bit of friendly (or unfriendly) telepathy. But not like this. Never by someone who feels faint and soft and peach-colored, like bleary eyes right before they blink open. Never by someone who feels so young.

It is like a finger stroking delicately over the gray matter of his brain.

And several things happen at once. Primarily, he drops his tea, and as the porcelain shatters on the ground and his trousers are spattered with a warm—luckily not hot—splash of liquid, he smiles. It is one of those real smiles that he only wears on absolutely spectacular days, when things have gone so completely right that the expression can’t help bursting out of him, bright and sunny.

“Hello,” he says, aloud, because it seems strange to begin a first conversation any other way, even if he is beginning a conversation with a person who he cannot see or hear or touch, because they are inside of his brain. “Who are you, then?”

Charley, naturally, is confused—both by his long fingers spreading wide, as if he’s waving to something unseen, and by the tea that now pools under the heels of her boots. She looks down at the puddle of rapidly-cooling liquid, and then back up at the man before her. His eyes are bright and blue and sparkling; this is an expression that she likes, but cannot trust. And so, because she is a human and the man in front of her is not to be trusted, she frowns. “Doctor?”

A moment passes. The Doctor’s face remains sort of fixed, like he’s daydreaming. She begins to wonder about the tea, whether someone shouldn’t clean it up. It looks as if the someone will have to be her, given the Doctor’s rapt expression and complete immobility.

“Yes, that’s my name.” He pauses. “That was Charley.”

Another moment of stillness. She is beginning to get concerned now, truly. “Doctor, what’s happening?”

“I know, it’s mad,” he answers, though it isn’t clear whether he’s answering her question or responding to his own interior conversation. He does talk to himself sometimes, Charley reasons, just normally not to the detriment of the china. So, whatever is happening must be quite beyond the ordinary. The tea has now spread into the vague shape of the continent of Africa in miniature, and it is growing larger every second. With a sigh, Charley hurries out of the room in search of towels.

When she returns, the Doctor is still standing stock-still—it’s almost alarming, actually. If it weren’t for his steady breathing, she would take him for a mere statue of himself. And the tea is still on the floor. She drops to her knees and begins mopping it up just in time to hear him say—in that reverent tone of new discovery, in the way he says the names of new worlds, a voice reserved for moments of near-religious fervor, if Time Lords did believe in gods, which she can’t be sure of—just one word.

“Rose.”

It gets easier after that. And funnier. Because Rose—that is, the girl inside the Doctor’s head—is quite teasing and clever and, to his pleasure, very much human. Which makes what she’s doing utterly impossible, and all the more interesting for it. Her telepathic touch is gentle, but it’s also quite persistent. There is rarely a time when he cannot feel some part of her lingering at the edge of his thoughts, and he wonders if he feels that way to her, as well.

You do, Rose replies. It’s like you’re sort of… just on the other side of a wall, only the wall is in my head. Does that make sense? Jimmy thinks I’m mad, of course, but that’s what it feels like.

He likes the ways she has of expressing things; it’s always different than how he might describe them. Everything about her is different than the way he is, really, and even the way Charley is, though he could credit much of that to Rose being very much earthbound. Charley is timeless in the way he is—like him, she lives in holes in the fabric of time, woven only loosely among them and constantly sticking out like a loose thread, begging to be pulled.

The metaphor extends fantastically far. There is a flexibility in the weft, and sometimes things—people—fall through. Like Rose, falling impossibly into their timeline and into his head.

Jimmy? That’s your boyfriend, he guesses. She’s mentioned him a few times, usually in passing.

Charley looks up from her book, as if she knows that Rose is there, or that he is thinking about the differences between herself and Rose, or something else eerie like that. She’s quite brilliant, his Charley, and perceptive. Her eyes narrow, and there is a little smile that plucks at the edges of her lips. “Is she back again?”

Sure am, Rose answers, though Charley can’t hear and it only muddies the conversation. The Doctor has to blink once, forcefully, to clear his head enough to speak. “She is.”

You could tell her what you’re thinking, you know, Rose offers, and when he doesn’t answer, he feels the mental equivalent of a huff. The clearing out of mild irritation through the lungs and mouth that he cannot see, and can only visualize in the academic sense. She clarifies. That you fancy her.

That’s ridiculous, he manages to think back. It’s easier when he says the words out loud, but sometimes—when they’re having conversations like this one, or when it’s an inconvenient time to be muttering to himself—he can clarify his thoughts enough to just… think back at her. Rose can’t quite manage that yet; when she attempts to, it all comes out at once, thoughts shoving each other out of the way, word choices selected and discarded, all with a simultaneity that would make a lesser being’s head spin to keep up with. He can only barely just manage. And so, she is relegated to only talking to him when she can do so aloud.

It’s not ridiculous. You think about her constantly.

Yes, he replies coolly, because she lives with me. He would tack on the bit about them living together in a little wooden box that travels through time and space and is substantially larger—one could even say “infinite”—on the inside, but he’s still working out exactly how much information Rose can handle. So far, he has tried to limit himself to passably human-y thoughts and observations, lest she realize that she’s talking to an alien from the future inside her head and declare herself to be mad.

She lives with you, but you’re not a couple? The tone of Rose’s thoughts are slightly confused, and also gently amused, and he would usually take that particular combination for something like condescension. But she just seems interested.

Which is interesting.

Rose really is very interesting.

He looks up, though he’s not sure why. Perhaps he’s afraid that the bare fraction of a thought has manifested on his face, where Charley might see. Strangely, he isn’t worried about whether or not Rose knows she’s interesting to him.

Of course you aren’t, because I’m not a real person to you. Yet.

It’s a good observation, one he only sort of makes note of, because Charley’s eyes are still on him, wide and observant. One of her brows is slowly, gently arching into an ashy blonde curve.

She’s blonde! Rose thinks happily. So am I. And then, a moment later: I wish I could see pictures in your head. I think it would be a lot more interesting than just talking.

“Are you saying I’m not interesting?” The words tumble out of his mouth before he remembers he’s supposed to be thinking them, and Charley’s eyes crinkle at the corners. He watches her lips press together, whitening her pink lips, as she holds back a laugh. “Charley’s laughing at me,” he adds nonchalantly, because why bother pretending this is something other than what it is? It is an awkward, three-way conversation that only two parties are privy to. It would be impolite not to fill Charley in.

I think she fancies you, too, Rose says matter-of-factly. And I think you’re both terribly interesting. I just wish I could see you. There is something like longing in her voice, and the Doctor wants to flinch back from it. He hasn’t told her where he is, because describing it would be impossible. And he hasn’t explained why he won’t come to see her—why that would probably be a very bad idea—because that is similarly not possible.

“Tell her I say hello, then,” Charley says, before glancing down at her book. Her smile is unreadable and faint. And it echoes, is redoubled, by the impression of a smile inside his head. Something like a waving hand and a giggle. Rose and Charley, he realizes, are far too similar. They both like taking the mickey out of him, and their laughter sounds—to him—like two different strains within the same song. They weave and twist together in a way that makes his head spin.

He believes that this connection is going to be much more dangerous than he’d initially thought.

When she enters the console room, he is reading by the fire—or she would assume he's reading, only his eyes have taken on a glazed appearance and he seems to have little enough interest in turning pages. His vacant eyes, his lax limbs tell a different story than the one in his book.

He's probably talking to Rose; he tends to get a bit distracted when she appears. Not that she can really blame him for it. Rose has become nearly as dear to Charley as she has to the Time Lord who she frequently inhabits. Unreal as her presence might feel, she is plainly a good, pleasant sort of person, with a spirit meant for laughter and a natural tendency toward being likeable. Someone well worth knowing.

Charley approaches his chair with care and lets her hand fall softly to his shoulder. The velvet is soft under her fingers, heated by the nearby fire that crackles happily in its hearth. He doesn’t move, or react in any way—not even to blink. "Doctor?"

His eyes snap up to hers, plainly startled. "Ah. Charley. I didn't hear you coming." And then, oddly, his eyes drop back to his book, alight with determination. It seems he intends to go back to reading. Or pretending to.

"Give Rose my best."

At the sound of Rose's name, his concentration wavers. His blue eyes flick up to hers with an odd, rather unemotional quality. His eyes are truly the windows to his soul; she has noticed this in her time spent at his traveling companion and, she believes, close friend. But there is something shuttered about them tonight.

"She's not here, actually. She's gone out," he stiffly clarifies. "With that boy she's always on about."

Confused, she asks, "Mickey?" They both have heard a good bit about the boy who is one of Rose’s closest friends.

"No. Jimmy." He says the name like he might say “garbage disposal” or “sludge” or any other word with unpleasant, rather dirty implications.

"Right," Charley nods. "Her boyfriend." The term feels unnatural on her tongue. She’s never had cause to apply it to anyone before, only ever having read it in some of the more modern books aboard the TARDIS. It feels shamefully casual as a descriptor for any sort of romantic relationship, but she likes to think of herself as adaptable.

The Doctor's reply is only an unclear, rather grumpy sort of sound and another attempt at looking busy with his reading. She smiles to herself when she sees what it is—The Time Machine. Of course. He’s been meaning to read it for years, he told her once.

“Yes, he’s her boyfriend.” The Doctor pauses, turning a page most emphatically. “But I don’t trust him.”

Several things occur to her at once: Firstly, that the Doctor appears to be sulking. And secondly, that he appears to be doing so because he is jealous. She has seen him this way before—he is awfully possessive of the things he perceives to belong to him, and that does occasionally include people; it has often included Charley herself. But there is something amusing about it now, given that he has never met Rose before and, in fact, seems quite determined not to meet her.

“Doctor,” she says, tone mild, “I believe you’re jealous.”

At this, he snaps the book shut and launches up out of his chair in order to pace across the room. “I am not jealous, Charley. I am intimately familiar with the sensation, and I can say with certainty that I am not experiencing it now. But I am… suspicious of this young man’s motives.”

“Motives?”

“Toward Rose!” he cries, throwing his arms into the air. “You know that Rose can hear your voice through my mind, of course, when we’re talking and I’m not consciously attempting to filter out the sounds from my environment?” She takes a small bit of issue to being deemed part of his “environment,” but instead Charley nods. “Well, Rose has similar experiences with this—with her boyfriend, you see? I can hear him when he speaks to her unless she’s working quite hard to block it out. And she’s only human, you know, so she’s not always able to block him out.” His footsteps speed up, wearing a familiar pattern into the rug near the hearth.

Charley feels her own worry rise. It is occurring to her in this moment that, while she considers herself rather familiar with the parties in question, she has only received a rather curated image of Rose via the Doctor’s willingness to communicate with her. “Is he…” She can hardly bring herself to ask. “Is he cruel to her?”

The Doctor’s eyes flash. “On occasion.”

“And yet—you think you ought not intervene?” She tries very hard to keep her tone from sounding accusatory.

“She hasn’t asked!” he cries, and with a dramatic sigh, he falls backwards into his chair once more. His cheeks are unnaturally flushed, and his hair mussed from raking his hands through it. “But… Charley, I’m not sure. I don’t know.”

She wants to arch her eyebrow. This is a rare occurrence: the Time Lord she knows tends to blunder into situations with unwarranted confidence. But at the listless droop of his shoulders, she understands that the situation is certainly more complicated than it appears to her. Something in Rose’s thoughts must be holding him back. And if she prefers them not to come, or if he thinks it would be dangerous, they ought not.

Still, the thought doesn’t leave her entirely. The days pass, weeks—adventures are had, uprisings aided, jail cells occupied. And though Rose is a frequent and amusing companion, Charley cannot bring herself to forget that night, and the look of fear in the Doctor’s eyes.

“So, Rose,” Charley begins one day, after she’s been informed that Rose has slipped back into his thoughts. They are walking, arm in arm, through a market that is almost wholly different from one a person might find on earth, and while he is quite interested in shopping, Charley seems much more interested in probing inside his head. “Tell me about what school is like,” she commands, grinning up at him. This is one of her favorite activities, it seems: learning what she can about the girl inside his head.

To be seen, but not spoken to—to be a conduit—is an odd sensation, and not one he particularly enjoys. But she seems to notice his hesitation, and softly corrects herself.

“I mean—Doctor, if you are willing. I’m terribly curious.”

It’s not that interesting, Rose hedges. I’m not that interesting. I’m not sure why she keeps asking about me.

“Of course you’re interesting,” the Doctor replies. With a glance at Charley, he adds, “She claims to be quite dull, which I don’t believe. I don’t think a dull person could take up residence in my mind.”

“Certainly not!” Charley laughs.

Her laugh sounds so lovely. That longing is back. He can hear it in the timbre of her thoughts, bouncing about inside his mind and confusing his own feelings with hers.

“She says you have a lovely laugh,” the Doctor faithfully reports.

And Charley—well, she blushes, pink and pretty under her sunhat. Humans are so strange sometimes, he wonders. After all, he is only reporting the truth of what he himself thinks, even if he is not currently the one thinking it. He places his hand over Charley’s, where it rests in the curve of his arm. Her skin is warmed by this planet’s binary suns: a pleasant change after their latest series of cold-weather adventures. It’s a very distracting sensation—so much so that he nearly forgets that he’s supposed to be talking to Rose. Nearly, but not quite. He cannot ever quite forget her.

She gives the impression of a smug smile. But it is wistful, too.

He feels a strange sense of balance when all three of them are together, conversing. Even if they can’t be together in the physical or linear sense, cannot be in one another’s presence in the same way real friends could, he still finds peace in the knowledge that Rose and Charley like one another. Neither is threatened by the other; there is no devastating clash of personalities. If anything, they seem to be even closer than is warranted by the rather… indirect nature of their friendship.

“I’m sure her laugh is beautiful,” Charley says, breaking up his thoughts. He’s honestly surprised that Rose hadn’t done so before—she’s usually the first to take advantage of his musings about his companion. But she seems oddly quiet, subdued.

“It is,” he confirms absent-mindedly as he seeks out that feeling—that warm bloom in the corner of his mind. It is still there, and yet, it feels as if it’s receded. The thought fills him with an odd, gasping sensation. Panic. He cannot get enough air. “It’s very bright. Unapologetic, you know. You’d like it.”

“I’m sure I would, but—” and he realizes that they have come to a halt in the middle of the bazaar. The crowd parts around them, like water over stone, as he remains stiff and motionless. Searching his mind. Charley’s fingers are white-knuckled under his, and she is looking up at him with a worried expression that he has only seen a few times before. And never during good times. “Doctor, what’s happened? Is something wrong with Rose? Are you all right?”

“She’s… sad.”

No, I’m fine, Rose says. But her mental voice sounds off, stifled, like she’s speaking into her hands. And watery, too, though he isn’t sure how, exactly, he knows that. He’s never heard her crying before. Does she cry often? His hearts pang in sympathy. Don’t worry about me, Doctor, Rose insists. I’ve just… had a fight with my boyfriend, that’s all. And I had to move out, but—hang on. Hearts? As in, plural?

“Oh. No, that’s nothing. Just one heart,” he corrects rapidly, hoping she won’t know that he’s lying.

“I’ve had enough of this,” Charley mutters. “Doctor, it’s time. You’ve got to tell her who—what—we are.”

What are you? Rose sounds intensely curious.

The Doctor blinks, an effort to get his thoughts straight. “Rose,” he says calmly, “are you all right? Has someone hurt you?” That is the important conversation here, not an analysis of what organs he has and doesn’t have.

She is hesitant; he can feel it. “No,” Rose says, but she is lying. Whether the hurt is internal or external, he cannot tell, but he finds that the distinction isn’t important. What is important is the sudden feeling gathering inside of him, fragments of something he tries not to let himself experience too often, for there is a destructive element to indulging in it: anger.

It beats through him like blood, filling his limbs with an unnatural energy—cortisol, adrenaline. He can break them down, understands them intimately. They’ve gotten him through more situations than he cares to admit. Fight or flight.

“She’s hurt,” he says, and the words are gritty, like grinding stones between his teeth.

Charley’s expression falls. He can almost feel her genuine worry, her despair. But there is also a fragment of knowing, too. As if she’d expected this, or seen something he couldn’t. He watches her expression carefully, trying to tune out Rose’s protestations in his head.

No, Rose is insisting, it isn’t like that. It’s not—

“What can we do?” Charley asks. “Can you find her?”

“I can.” He sounds utterly confident, though he knows he shouldn’t be. He doesn’t actually have much to go on, in regards to locating the mysterious girl who had so intertwined herself with him and his life. However, there were clues: her accent, her vocabulary and use of slang—South London, probably mid-2000s. It was something. He turned on his heel, pulling Charley along with him as they made for the TARDIS again. “Rose, what year is it?”

What?

“Tell me the year, love. Please.” His voice is gentle, and a bit pleading, and so unlike himself that Charley’s mouth falls open. He is half surprised himself.

It’s 2004. What do you… But then she stops. He can feel her dawning understanding. Time Lord. You kept trying not to think those words, over and over, but you couldn’t quite block them out.

“Yes.”

You’re an alien, she hypothesizes.

“Yes.”

“What’s she saying?” Charley hisses, pushing up on the tips of her toes, leaning in, as if her proximity will clarify the conversation she’s only partially privy to. He wraps his arm around her and walks faster.

And you’re coming to get me.

He fumbles the TARDIS key into the lock. “Yes.”

Charley follows, close on his heels. “Doctor? What’s happening?” He has no answer, so instead he squeezes her hand in his. A silent plea to be patient with him.

He hears the hitch of Rose’s laugh—subdued, choked like a sob, and the possibility that he might be doing the wrong thing is suddenly overwhelming. The doubt clouds his vision as he stumbles towards the time rotor. “Rose?”

So, you’re saying… I’m going to be abducted by an alien. And there it is. The smile. The warmth and sweetness, fanning out over his mind like the soft cover of trees. He can feel her amusement, her growing pleasure and excitement. He can feel so much, and he wonders how it’s possible; they only grow more connected with each day that passes. Will that still be true, when they meet?

“Well, I was hoping you’d like to come along of your own will,” he says, lips twitching. “But we’d be happy to abduct you, if you’d prefer.”

Beside him, Charley laughs. The sound is fractured, deeply emotional, and when he looks up at her, he can see tears in her eyes. She is happy with this decision. He realizes that they had always been heading this direction; in the end, it was always going to happen this way. He couldn’t go all his lives without knowing the human who could spark such a beautiful, fragile connection, spinning it seemingly out of nothing. The Doctor feels as if he might burst, and that is a rare feeling indeed.

“And Charley’s not an alien. She’s human, like you.”

Well, that’s a relief. I was wondering how aliens could be blonde.

He beams—he can’t help it. It’s the same smile he’d worn when he’d first discovered her inside his mind: an expression of complete happiness, of such overwhelming joy that he cannot contain it. He can feel her reflecting it. It’s in the warmth she sheds, the subtle glow of her presence. It is immensely distracting. No, it is in triplicate. Even without the emotional bond, his Charley—his sensitive, wonderful companion—seems aware of the depth, the importance of this decision.

But there are calculations to be made. Buttons to press, whirligigs to twist and spin, telepathic intentions to set. “Rose, just one moment. I have to concentrate. Charley,” he says without looking up from his tasks, “I need to borrow your fingers. Here.” And he presses them down in the necessary pattern.

She is still warm. She is still smiling. He can feel the joy radiating off of her like steam from a mug of tea.

Everything is going to be fine.

“Rose Tyler,” he says. He feels that stirring he always gets when he steps onto a planet for the first time—that indefatigable sense of adventure. “We’re coming to get you.” And all around him, the TARDIS roars to life.

#charleightrose (lmaoooo that's NOT A TAG)#eight x charley x rose #eighth doctor #charley pollard #rose tyler #dw #abbey.txt #ficlet #thanks for the prompt!#a-rose-by-any-other-doctor

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gingerteaonthetardis · 4 years

Note

Pirate Captain Charley Pollard and her first mate Rose Tyler ‘kidnap’ nobleman Eight. Shenanigans (and flirting) ensue.

ah!! this was so fun to write, thinky, so thank you for the prompt. i hope you enjoy it, even if it’s a tiny bit light on the shenanigans. as usual, please forgive any of my mistakes; without you to pre-read, nobody edits this nonsense. (also, tagging @kallianeira so you don’t miss it, dear.)

read on ao3.

𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕚𝕟𝕕𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕝𝕠𝕟𝕘𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕚𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕚𝕣 𝕤𝕒𝕚𝕝𝕤

She likes to watch her wife work.

The way she bends over her nautical charts, fingers stained with ink. The way she eagerly learns where each member of the crew is from, and if she doesn't see their homeland on the map, if she isn't familiar with the place—she will find it. Mark it. The triumph in her smile as white parchment is lost to the dark stain of discovered land, of conquered sea.

Rose has a head for navigation—always has. She can get a ship where it needs to go, plot a course based on the stars alone. But she likes to make sense of it all on paper, when she can.

And Captain Charlotte Pollard watches.

She could not ask for a better wife. Nor a better First Mate.

"Where are we going next, Charley?"

Rose asks this with her head resting in her wife's lap, her hair falling like liquid gold over faded breeches. How different they are: where Charley keeps her own hair cropped, hidden beneath her wide-brimmed hat and it's violet plumage, Rose's is long. When she sleeps, it spills over her shoulder in a glowing braid. She herself looks as bright as any treasure.

It is a quiet night—calm seas, calm crew. It has been long enough since their last victory that they are no longer eager to celebrate, and yet not so long that they are restless for another fight. Peace, the rarest of weather patterns, reigns over them all like a gentle mist. And a deeper peace—one that Charley only finds in Rose’s company—resides in the cabin they share. Captain's Quarters, still but for the gentle rocking of the ocean waves.

She runs a hand through Rose's hair. "I thought—maybe we could go home again." She doesn't say it like a command, though she could. Almost certainly, she should. She's known for weeks now that it was time. If they want to strike back at that miserable, damp little island that had borne them, they cannot wait.

Rose's movements pause, fingers half twined with Charley's free hand. "You want to hit the heart of the Navy," Rose observes. "You think we have a chance."

"More than. I've heard they have civilians onboard. Nobles."

Her wife snorts, clearly unimpressed. "Why?"

"Because that is what they do, love. They insert themselves where they are not wanted, in order to exert their fragile power over those beneath them." Charley can feel her fingers flexing, her grip too tight on Rose's hand and Rose's hair, and she forces herself to release them—and with them, the anger that boils up inside. That life is far into her past, she reminds herself. It cannot touch her. "We can do what we’ve always meant to, Rose."

Her wife smiles. "Hit them where it hurts." And then she reclaims Charley's fingers, pulling them to her pink mouth and bestowing a kiss.

She wants to laugh—after years of bloodshed, of storms, of lack and deprivation, Rose can be as sweet and soft as the blooms for which she is named. Thorned, yes, and fierce. But there is a tenderness to her which can never be entirely weeded out, not by man or sea.

"Aye." Charley says, voice reverent. "Hit them where it hurts."

"Ouch—ow, that bloody hurts!"

That is, by and large, the point. Nonetheless, Captain Pollard signals for her crew to unhand the man who has become their unwitting prisoner. It was a split second decision, the choice between execution and capture landing like a coin with a particular side up. She hadn't much cared either way, but now she is beginning to wonder.

He is a chatty thing, and that’s not entirely welcome. His accents are too familiar; they remind her unpleasantly of home.

"Honestly," he's saying, voice impossibly clear and articulate, "I'm on your side. There's no need for such—such violence!"

She can hear Rose's laugh, light as a bird catching an updraft, soaring over the sounds of everyone else. "You haven't even seen violence yet, mate," she teases, her voice so warm and genuine that even the man seems inclined to laugh with her. She has a way about her: the people around her follow her lead. When she laughs, they laugh. When she shows mercy, they are inclined to do the same.

It is she who steps forward to secure his bonds while the rest of the crew recedes, though barely. Their curiosity keeps them close.

"I can well believe you're on our side," Captain Pollard says, the sound of her voice bringing any lingering chatter to a halt. She cannot help but be pleased at the way her crew parts around her. Rose is loved and it suits her well, but as the Captain, she is respected.

The prisoner comes into view: a mess of curly hair, unkempt and brittle with sea-spray. Rose has tightened his bonds, and his hands hang limply before him. His face is chiseled and clear, undeniably noble.

"I imagine, sir," she says, "that you are on whatever side offers the best chance of saving your hide."

"You must be Captain Pollard," the prisoner says, giving a deferential nod. But when he looks up, there is a distinct sparkle in his eyes, which are bluer than the sea. His overtures at respect are, perhaps, not quite genuine.

"Must I be?" she asks, arching a brow.

The man—she'll have to learn his name soon—quirks a smile. There is blood on his mouth, whether from an intentional strike or the chaos of the battle, and when he grins, she can see how it stains his teeth. "I could tell—by the accent."

She doesn't let him—or the crew—see her anger, though Rose can almost certainly see it anyway. The presumption of the man, to remind her what she has fought so long to escape. She has scoured her skin with years of salt water, and yet it seems, she can never quite escape her own noble birth. Rose shifts closer, fingertips outstretched. Captain Pollard lets them brush her arm and takes comfort.

The man seems not to notice her silence, adding, "And by your crew. I had often heard tell of a ship run by two women, bonded by love as well as loyalty, and their growing crew of misfits." His eyes flit back to Rose, and he gives a wink. "I was curious."

"So you attempted to stow away," Rose supplies. Closer up, the Captain can hear the underlying rasp of her wife’s voice—she is hoarse from shouting over the sound of gunfire and cannon blast all morning. No one could possibly mistake her for a noble; it had been what first made her so invaluable in recruiting. Nobody wanted to work for the very sort of person they sought to escape. But they had both proven themselves more than their upbringing, in the end.

The man nods, one lank curl falling over his face. He is not a large man—there is no height or bulk to him. But she thinks she can detect a wiry strength in his arms, a clever look to his fingers. They can make use of him.

"Since you are so eager to sail with us, we will make a sailor of you, whether you will or not. Jack!" Captain Pollard barks, all business.

"Aye, Captain?" The man appears at her side. He's been onboard nearly as long as Rose, and one could scarcely ask for a better—or more good-tempered—crewman. He is grinning as he awaits her orders.

"Show him the ropes." She allows herself a slim smile as she looks back at the man.

She doesn't have to see him to hear the smile in his voice as he answers. "Aye, sir."

The man—who eventually introduces himself with the uninteresting name of John—becomes a member of the crew about as seamlessly as one could expect. He is an impressive storyteller, always willing to bend someone's ear. And at least half of them seem to contain some kernel of truth.

Within a week, he earns the nickname "Eight" for apparently being the eighth son, back where he comes from. Most of the crew are rather shocked at the idea that so many children could survive the dangerous passage to adulthood. And so, "Eight" he becomes.

Eight jokes that his father had been attempting to purchase him a commission with the Navy, that this wasn't exactly what the man had in mind. "Still," he says, "it's sailing, at any rate, which ought to make them happy enough."

He is undoubtedly posh, his accent clear and elegant—in fact, he reminds Charley quite a bit of herself when she first started out. But for all his soft hands and too-eager smile, he seems quite willing to learn.

Though, not from Jack.

That is a matter of some amusement to all: Jack, who has often been their ambassador—Jack, who is known for being unabashedly friendly, even flirtatious, with all he meets—is not at all well-liked by their new crewmember.

Instead, John seems to attach himself to Rose.

At first, both Charley and Rose are rather suspicious of this. But Rose warms to him in time, using all her experience as First Mate to turn him into a useful part of the crew.

She teaches him to read her maps, and he takes to it like a fish to water, diving in with all of his substantial enthusiasm. He is not so skilled at navigation as she, but his knowledge of the world is fascinatingly encyclopedic. He seems to know everything about lands they've never even seen—plants and animals, myths and constellations, history and art and music and the sciences. He happily helps Rose fill in the empty spots of her map, and then he goes a step further: he populates that map, filling it with fascinating people and delicious food and political intrigue and thrilling adventures.

Spellbound, the crew inevitably begins to gather while he weaves his stories, and Rose sits at his side, her smile wide and white in the lamplight. She leans toward him as a moth might approach a flame: with unguarded fascination. Her innocent attention is lovely to behold.

Charley thinks his tales are mostly, if not entirely, nonsense. But still, she watches. And listens.

"You like him," Rose teases, this time running her hands through her wife's close-cropped hair, her fingertips raking over her scalp. Charley shivers under her ministrations, and then settles against her. "You act as if you don't, but I know you better than that."

"He's a hard worker," Charley admits. "And he's kept the crew so entertained they've hardly had a spare moment to grow bored. But," and she rolls over suddenly, arms reaching out to pin Rose’s hands to the pillows, "—he's ridiculous, Rose. Utterly ridiculous."

Beneath her, she can feel her wife's ribs twitching with the effort not to laugh. But Rose's eyes are assured, almost serious, as she says, "You like him."

And Charley, God help her, does not deny it.

The first time he's hurt in a skirmish, Martha comes to her cabin after she's done binding his wounds, the beautiful young woman’s face pinched with exhaustion.

She had wanted to be a doctor, back in her own land, and she'd read every book she could get her hands on—but she'd only ever been permitted to practice aboard this vessel. Elsewhere, women were not so readily accepted in that particular profession, no matter how capable.

Martha has plenty of experience patching them all up, Charley tells herself; there is no special cause for worry.

Still, Charley's fingers knot together like the ropes overhead.

She's seen to her own wounds—mostly nicks and scrapes—and she is tired, but she still follows Martha to their makeshift sickbay, where Eight rests on a cot. And Rose sits beside him, her hand smoothing back his hair.

Her wife looks as if she's walking a narrow ridge between concern and contentment. When Charley enters, she looks up and a smile flashes over her face. "There now, Eight," Rose says, her voice teasing, "you can stop your moaning—she's come to see you."

The patient—who looks alarmingly pale, as if he's lost a lot of blood—gives another halfhearted moan, though this sounds nearly like a noise of mortification. This is confirmed when Rose giggles. "He was worried," she explains, "that you'd be angry about having to drag his miserable hide back aboard."

Charley arches a brow at him, as if to ask, Is this true?

"Evenin', Captain," Eight greets, his speech oddly slurred; she wonders if Martha had to use an awful lot of rum to sedate him. "Hate t' call your wife a liar—"

"Then you'd best watch your tongue." Charley offers him a wry grin, which is met with a more sheepish smile of his own.

"I want'd to thank you for saving my—'s Rose so… so el'quently put it—mis'rable hide." Once again, she is caught off guard by the glint in his eyes, as if he contains a carefully-cloaked light constantly threatening to spill outward. Even when he isn't fully aware of himself, he seems to glow with it.

It was nothing, she wants to say. Same thing she'd do for any of her crew that needed help. But it wasn't exactly that.

The worry she'd felt when his head had lolled against his shoulder, his legs sagging under his own weight—she'd found herself wondering what she'd tell Rose. What she'd do with her evenings if he wasn't hanging about with his ridiculous stories. She'd found herself mumbling to him as they staggered across the ship: Stay with me, John. Stay awake. Stay with me.

Charley blinks, and she sees that Rose is hiding a smile behind her hand.

"You can thank me by getting better with a blade," she says coolly, gesturing to the cutlass that hangs from her own hip. "I will train you. Or Rose will, she's nearly as good as I am."

"Nearly?" Rose cries in mock-protest. But it is just that: mock. They know who, of the two of them, is the fighter. Who had used her fists and fury to escape her old life, who had forged a new path with the business end of her blade. Rose is familiar with her wife’s fierceness.

Charley’s answering smile is fond. "Very nearly."

Her wife seems content with that. And as Rose brushes his damp hair away from his face, Charley sees that John looks equally content. Lethargic, even, like he is nearing sleep. His eyelids flutter, his long sooty lashes fanning out against the bruises under his eyes."Thank y'. I'd like that, Charley—I mean, Cap'n, sir."

She just shakes her head, wondering how she came to allow such impertinence aboard her ship. "You're welcome, John."

That night, she and Rose struggle to sleep.

Charley wonders if they are both thinking the same thing—about how wrong it would've felt to lose him, to suddenly be without their strange, soft-spoken nobleman who had turned out to be such an excellent pirate.

And an excellent friend.

The uneasy, churning sea is not the only thing which tosses and turns that night.

After that, John is somehow both closer and further away than ever.

He makes a good student, and his enthusiasm to learn the finer points of swordplay is more than enough to attract other students—the quiet C'Rizz, who usually prefers his musket; Jabe, with her long, graceful limbs, who treats battle like a beautiful dance; Amelia, who is young, fiery, and in need of guidance. More and more, they gather to her: misfits she has found herself collecting but never truly knowing before.

She feels like one of them, even as she stands at the fore and commands their movements.

They all gather together to listen to their Captain as she teaches, and Charley finds herself looking forward to the opportunity to make their crew even stronger—their trust in her, in themselves, and in one another even stronger. At the very back, Rose follows her drills with a smile, occasionally weaving through the gathered to correct someone's form or stop them from injuring themselves. Often both.

She watches as her wife corrects Eight's grip, her small fingers forming around his. She watches the hitch in his breathing, and the way his eyes skitter toward her, almost as if he's nervous. She finds her own lips to be stretched, her smile broad. And she laughs when she taunts Rose that night and her beloved First Mate blushes like her namesake. “I believe he wants more from you than simple swordplay,” she laughs, and Rose bats at her head, but she does not mean it.

The lessons are not always such a pleasure, and her crew is not always so disciplined. Often, she wonders if these new skills will really serve anyone in the heat of conflict. And someone nearly always gets a cut or a bruise throughout the course of the training, but—

Charley is happy.

One night, there is a faint knock on her door, and when she answers, he is there. Shivering in his shirtsleeves, the late night mist swirling around him. He's paler than a ghost in the moonlight, and his expression is just as haunting. Thoughtful, as if he wants to say something but isn't sure he should. And he looks—

Uncommonly beautiful.

"Who is it, love?" Rose's voice drifts over her shoulder, and it's amusing how quickly his cheeks start to color before her eyes.

"One guess."

Rose is silent for a long moment. "Well, are you going to let him in, or do you intend for him to stand there all night?"

A smile traces John's lips, lifting the edges for a moment before releasing them. The lines at the corners of his mouth are severe, tense. He is nervous. When he looks at her, his eyes seem to drag her in like a whirlpool.

Charley's brow arches as she tries to extracts herself—fails to extract herself. He doesn’t look away. "I was considering it,” she lies.

"No, you weren't," Rose laughs.

The sound drains the tension out of Charley's posture, the arm which had protectively shielded the doorway falling. It has much the same effect on him: his mouth softens.

Rose, her tone rich with amusement, says, "Let him in."

And she does.

#eight x charley x rose #charleightrose #what a tag that is lmao #my ot3 #eighth doctor #rose tyler #charley pollard #this was so fun to write thinky!!#thanks for the prompt #abbey.txt #ficlet

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gingerteaonthetardis · 4 years

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Our favorite OT3: Eight/Charley/Rose, 4, 5, 8, 12 and 13, if you'd like

sfw 4: living space has a leak! who fixes it?

oh, god, the tardis.

okay, fine, the tardis while charley glares very hard, because nobody on this ship knows shit about plumbing, and somebody’s got to oversee these things.

so, the tardis and charley? they bond about how utterly worthless the doctor is at actually fixing things. this is just about the only thing they agree on.

sfw 5: who buys the groceries?

once again, i feel like the tardis takes care of these things as much as she possibly can. but i think rose is the one who ultimately drags one of them to tesco in search of food. usually when she has a craving.

she tends to go with charley, because she’s a slightly more responsible shopper, and anyway, the doctor has this weird lifetime ban from sainsbury’s that hasn’t expired yet. and where else are they gonna go? waitrose? what are they, made of money??

yeah, uh, rose does the shopping.

sfw 8: who knows how to swim? who doesn’t?

the doctor and rose know how to swim and charley... does not. well, she can flounder—it’s not like she’ll drown or something—but it’s not the most efficient method of aquatic transport. the doctor and his respiratory bypass aren’t particularly useful as educational tools, so it’s up to rose to try to help charley out. they experience moderate success.

in the end, the doctor is happy to fiddle with the salinity so charley can just... sort of float in the tardis pool. anyway, it’s much better for everyone’s skin. chlorine is rubbish.

sfw 12: can they stand silence? who talks the most? who talks the least?

silence isn’t exactly anybody’s native state. the closest they get to silence is when they’re all engaged in their different activities but none of them are really talking. but once can usually still hear the clack of charley’s typewriter, the scratch of rose’s pencils and the way her paintbrushes rattle against the glass of water she uses to clean them. the doctor mutters to himself, too, quite a lot while he reads or tinkers or thinks. so, it’s rarely silent, but they are all comfortable in a collective quiet. it is a warm and settled thing, something they happily share.

the doctor talks the most, by far. and i believe neither rose or charley talk noticeably less than the other.

sfw 13: who stays up late? who sleeps the most? does the other have to force them to sleep/wake up?

okay, so, rose is definitely the sleeping beauty of the trio. she goes to bed essentially whenever she feels like it, and sleeps for as long as she can manage. she likes to blame the tardis for her disjointed sleep schedule, but the truth is, she just loves sleep.

charley is a little more regimented, but she’s also just... better at functioning with limited sleep than rose is. she doesn’t mind being woken up when the doctor bursts out of bed in the night, an idea having occurred to him that must be written down or researched immediately. she’s just generally quite flexible, sleep-wise.

and the doctor, of course, rarely sleeps, stays up late, wakes up early, would rather snuggle than get proper shut-eye, and he’s always the one pleading with the other two to wake up. sometimes, though, when the moon is full and the stars have aligned and all the like, he likes to just settle in between the sleeping girls and listen to their even breathing and let the tranquility steal over them. he likes to feel how lucky he is, not to be rattling around on the tardis by himself, a lonely old time lord, his life going ‘round and ‘round with no meaning...

(sorry, i’m still thinking about that bit from chimes of midnight.)

anyway, who cares about sleep when there’s snuggling to be had?!

#charleightrose? is that a tag. that's not a tag.#eight x charley x rose #eighth doctor #charley pollard #rose tyler #dw #abbey.txt #lotsofthinkythoughts #thanks for the ask!

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gingerteaonthetardis · 4 years

Note

phone sex eight (this is a prompt)

a bit mature. be ye warned. and of course, thanks for the prompt, “anon.”

𝔽𝕣𝕠𝕞 𝕨𝕙𝕚𝕔𝕙 𝕨𝕖 𝕨𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕒𝕓𝕤𝕖𝕟𝕥

They were having a discussion about kinks.

This sort of thing would probably never have happened under regular circumstances. Because while their friendship was quite open—or rather, Rose was willing to admit, she was sometimes quite open and Charley was… well, she was Charley—they hadn’t actually touched the topic of specific fantasies or desires. Mostly because neither of them were particularly… experienced in that area. They’d both come out to one another, but it never really went beyond that. They were bisexuals, after all, not nymphomaniacs—whatever the stereotypes might say.

But presently, they were two rather drunk bisexuals, and that made all the difference.

“Oh, c'mon, Charley. Surely you’ve got something you really like.”

Charley held onto the half-empty wine bottle for dear life and shook her head vigorously. Exasperated, she insisted, “I don’t know! I really don’t! You know about everyone I’ve ever been with, and nobody’s ever been particularly… inspiring."

Rose snorted. She could say that again. She had developed strong opinions about nearly all of Charley’s exes, though she’d never actually met any of them. But how a girl so brilliant and beautiful managed to only date arseholes was completely beyond her. Sebastian had been a total prick, Cristina had been clingy, and the other bloke—she couldn’t remember his name—had seemed nice enough until he stood her up and left her stranded.

Not that Rose’s dating life was any better.

But she wasn’t thinking about that tonight. She wasn’t thinking about anything but getting pissed as fast as possible, and cuddling up in their veritable mountain of blankets, and forgetting that it was nearly the end of things.

“What about you, then?”

Rose shrugged and gestured for the bottle. “The normal ones, I suppose. Good smile, nice bum.” Charley scoffed. “And I have this thing,” she intimated, her head bowing closer to Charley’s. Her hair smelled like the sweet pine needles that littered campus. “It’s like, sometimes, when a bloke talks… I just sort of… drift away…” Charley seemed to be suppressing a grin, which she took for a good sign, letting herself sway dramatically in a pantomime of drifting away. “I feel like his voice is carrying me to distant places, or sometimes touching me all over… I dunno, it’s mad, probably…” And then her head dropped forlornly to Charley’s shoulder.

“There’s a name for that, probably,” her roommate teased. The vibration of her throat rumbled over the top of Rose’s head. “Like audiophilia or something.”

“But it’s more than what they’re saying, yeah?” Rose’s wine-slowed brain struggled for the right words as she lifted her head from Charley’s sweet-smelling shoulder. “It’s how they’re saying it. They could be reading me… I dunno, the phonebook, and I’d still be swept off to wonderland.” Her fingers tightened around the bottle—the chill glass grounded her.

Charley snorted. “No wonder you like lectures so much. Who’s your favorite prof? Doctor Sm—?”

“Don’t!” Rose burst out with a panicked giggle. “Don’t you dare.” But she knew her red cheeks said more than she ever could, and Charley gave a little elbow nudge.

“Read the phonebook, you said? What about a textbook?”

“Oh my God,” Rose groaned, “you’re awful. No, I don’t fancy Doctor Smith. He’s… he’s too old.” She said it with a sniff, feigning disapproval that she didn’t actually feel. “Anyway, I’d never go for it—pretty sure he’s married.”

“And he’s your professor, which makes shagging him completely unethical.”

Rose giggled again, rolling her eyes at Charley. Always so pragmatic. “Right, and that. But he is Scottish, so perhaps I could risk it.”

That pulled a full-throated laugh out of her friend. “I’m sure you go all gooey-eyed and stupid every time he speaks. God! I wish I had a class with you so I could see him in person!” Charley griped good-naturedly while Rose took another large sip of wine. It tasted sharp and sweet and cheap, but she could hardly complain. Smuggling it into the dorm had taken some doing, and it was worth it—seeing Charley so loose and carefree sparked something mad and rebellious in her, something that made her protective and proud all at once.

They’d been friends first, basically from orientation, and then roommates in the following years. And Rose had seen what she imagined to be every shade of Charley—happy and heartbroken, miserable and motivated, pleased and pissed off, cold and compassionate. Her roommate was a reserved person by nature, but Rose’s persistence had worn down her walls until she’d had no choice but to admit they were friends. And Rose had rejoiced.

She couldn’t imagine her life without Charley any more than she could understand the complex equations her friend studied in class.

Charley was… her best friend.

“You’d hate it,” she said, her voice nearly sticking in her throat. “He just goes on and on about old paintings.” But Charley’s grin was knowing as she prised the bottle out of Rose’s hands, taking another generous sip herself. The tip of her nose was blushy and pink, as were her ears, and she looked almost painfully lovely.

But no, Rose wasn’t thinking about that tonight. Or ever, probably.

It was just then that she had an idea. A potentially very stupid idea. Certainly a naughty one, she thought with a flush. But Charley would probably get a laugh out of it, and wasn’t that the whole point of tonight? Getting their mind off things, off of the change that was coming for them both? Graduation, and what came after?

“I’ve gotta use the loo!” she announced, picking up her mobile and darting out of the room. “Be right back—and don’t drink all the wine!”

“I make no promises!” Charley shouted after her, the sound of her drunken giggles traveling down the hall.

It had only taken a bit of Googling, a quick phone call, and a cheeky swipe of plastic—thank you, Henriks, she laughed—before Rose was on hold, waiting for her connection. She had the phone pressed to her ear, ringing her closer to her fate, when she re-entered their cramped dorm room.

Charley had apparently decided to put on pyjamas, and was half-undressed, her bra slung carelessly over the back of Rose’s desk chair. Her bare back stretched for what seemed like miles. “You’re such a slob,” Rose teased. It wasn’t true, of course. Charley didn’t like things out of place, so the scrap of white fabric draped over Rose’s chair was just about the only mess she could claim in their—admittedly rather cluttered—dorm. It was Rose and her paint sets and her sky-high canvas pile and her endless cups of pigment-tinged water that turned the room into a tornado.

“You love it!” Charley shot back, snatching the bra from where it lay and cramming it into her dresser. Rose grinned; the poor thing really couldn’t bear untidiness. “And who’s on the phone?”

Rose put the line on speaker, letting the ringing fill the room. “A phone sex operator.”

“A what?!” Charley’s voice came out muffled, seeing how she was pulling something over her head. But it was undeniably several octaves higher than it had been.

“A phone sex operator,” Rose repeated. And then, with a wicked grin, she said, “We’re going to discover what you like, Charlotte Pollard.”

Charley squeaked, her pink face emerging from inside the jumper. “Rose Marion Tyler! You can’t just—”

“Hello, ladies.”

Charley groaned and fell into a heap on the floor, nearly missing their nest of slumber party pillows. She dropped her head in her hands. “Oh my God.”

The man on the line chuckled, low and warm. “No, just John. Or… you can call me Professor Smith.” His voice was crisp and cultivated, but there was something deep about it—earthy, maybe. Rose felt a slight shiver going down her spine.

Charley didn’t say anything, electing instead to shoot her roommate a withering glare. Rose only grinned. “Nice to meet you, John. That was Charley.”

“Charley,” he repeated, almost tasting the name. For a moment, she could practically see his tongue working it over, and she felt her cheeks go crimson. Charley’s face was still hidden. “What an intriguing name. Is it short for something?”

“Yes, it is,” Charley answered brusquely, as Rose settled down into the cushions beside her. She almost laughed at her friend’s dry tone and the residual pink stain on her cheeks. “And a bit more interesting than ‘John Smith,’ I’d say.”

That produced another low chuckle. “Fair enough. And there are two of you?”

Rose nodded, momentarily forgetting that he couldn’t see her. “Oh, uh—yes, hi.” She glanced sideways at Charley, who appeared to be coming around; she looked more amused than anything else, chewing desperately on her lips to keep from laughing.

“And your name is?” God, but his voice was gorgeous. Rich and textured, like it was something edible.

“Rose,” she croaked, before clearing her throat. “Sorry. Rose.” Well, she thought fleetingly, her voice certainly couldn’t be described the same way. Her words and accent sounded thick and stupid compared to his.

“Rose,” he repeated, same as before. Once again, he seemed to linger around the edges of the name, balancing it on the tip of his tongue. This time, she did shiver. “No need to apologize. I understand the nerves. ‘Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days! Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways…’”

Her eyes were wide as she glanced at Charley, and both of their shoulders shook in silent laughter, though for Rose’s part, she had to fight down a shiver. He was perfect. She tried to put on her best, most carefree tone, saying, “Oh, you’re very good, aren’t you?”

“I like to think so.”

She could hear his smile, she realized. Hearing him without seeing him added an element of excitement she hadn’t expected, like a mild sort of sensory-deprivation.

“Not a fan of poetry, Rose?”

She was, actually, though she preferred the more modern stuff. “Bunch of dead blokes waxing poetic about… white throats and heteronormativity? No, ta.”

He laughed—not in that low, seductive way he’d done before. He just laughed outright, like she’d caught him a bit off-guard.

And oh, what a sound. It was bright and alive, so lovely that she wanted to provoke it again, and again—

“I see,” he mused slowly, his voice returning to that dark, even tone. “Perhaps I could try something else? Let’s see… ‘For by my side, you put on many wreaths of roses… and garlands of flowers around your soft neck… and with precious and royal perfume you anointed yourself. On soft beds, you satisfied your passion. And there was no dance, no holy place… from which we were absent.’”

Rose’s stomach dropped.

Oh.

On soft beds, her mind echoed, taking on his particular timbre and spreading it thick, like honey into tea, you satisfied your passion. On soft beds… on soft beds, you satisfied… your passion…

“Which dead bloke is that then?” But she couldn’t quite muster the same bravado as before. He really was very good. Her whole body was starting to feel floaty, like it sometimes got in Doctor Smith’s class, or when she was listening at open mic nights. Her limbs felt weightless and numb, and her heart thundered in her chest.

“It’s Sappho,” Charley whispered.

“Correct, Charley!” John—Professor Smith—sounded quite proud, but Rose’s eyes went wide, glancing over at her friend. Charley knew poetry? Charley, who loathed Tennyson and loved logarithms? “Am I to assume you’ve read her?”

“A little,” Charley muttered, her cheeks pinking once again. “And not by choice. I was tutored… anyway, it’s much prettier when you say it.”

Rose, catching herself agape, snapped her mouth shut and wiggled her eyebrows.

“Well, that is sort of my job,” the man on the line said, suddenly reminding them of what his purpose here was. How could she have got so distracted? “Speaking of—lovely as this is, ladies, we’re approaching the five minute mark. Would you like to continue for seven more?” His tone was gently interested without appearing desperate, and his sophisticated style of speech had never felt more intentional. And then he added, “I assure you, I can tell you about a lot more than mere poetry,” his voice taking on that low, urging quality that made Rose’s stomach roll.

The girls exchanged a glance, wordlessly communicating. Charley nodded in encouragement, and Rose wondered if her friend really was enjoying herself, or if she was simply aware of how this little experiment was affecting Rose.

But to her surprise, it was Charley who pronounced, “Let’s do twenty.”

“Finally!” Rose exclaimed, just as Charley hissed, “Shhh! You’re on speaker, you—”

John chuckled, the sound crackling over the line like kindling, cutting them both off. “So, we’re sneaking around, are we? Naughty.”

Charley groaned in something like embarrassed horror, but Rose managed to keep her wits about her and answer his question, smiling impishly. Finally, they were getting to the meat of things, so to speak. “I’m just wearing sweatpants. I know it’s not very sexy, but I wasn’t really expecting—”

Once again, John cut her off. “Nonsense,” his voice wasn’t dismissive or brusque, but decisive. He spoke with such certainty, like he knew something she didn’t—like he understood her. “I’m sure you’re perfect the way you are. Actually, how about we do a little exercise? Would you be interested?”

And once again, Charley and Rose exchanged a silent glance. They’d squashed closer together, nestled down in their pile of blankets with their legs tangled as they mutually hovered over Rose’s little mobile, which lay cradled between them. It was Charley who answered, “Maybe?”

“What’s the exercise, Professor?” Rose teased. She was all too happy to play along with whatever the dulcet-toned man on the line suggested.

“Thank you for asking, Rose.” He answered, and his soft-voiced approval felt like a caress. “I’d like you to describe to me what the other is wearing, how she looks to you. Rose, you’ll tell me about Charley. Charley, you’ll tell me about Rose. Does that sound all right?”

Rose nodded at Charley, who looked just a touch nervous.

“Sure,” Rose breathed faintly. “We can do that.”

“Excellent,” he said, warmly affirming. How did he do it? “Rose, you can get us started.”

She took a deep breath, and looked at the girl she’d spent nearly three years living with. “She’s dressed like she does for bed,” she began hesitantly.

“Very good, Rose. Tell me more.”

Her response to the gentle command was instantaneous, her eyes skimming Charley’s body. “She’s wearing an oversized jumper with our uni’s crest on it, and the neckline’s all stretched, so it hangs off her shoulder a bit. And she’s got on pyjama shorts—yellow ones? Almost a sort of… cream…”

“That sounds lovely,” John enthused. Charley blushed. “How does the color look against her skin?” His words drew Rose’s eyes down to Charley’s exposed thighs, and she took a slow inhale to keep her reactions even and cool. It wouldn’t do to give herself away now.

Rose suddenly wondered why she’d ever thought this was a good idea, when it was so obviously asking for trouble. They didn’t need more sexual tension in their tiny dorm room.

“Beautiful,” her brain supplied. “Like a bronzed statue, almost. She’s tanner than I am, from swimming. She’s got some freckles on her right kneecap.” Said knee shifted against hers, and she swallowed. “Her legs are quite long for such a small person. And—” Her eyes slid the rest of the way, down over Charley’s calves, all the way to her feet. She smiled. “And she’s got violet polish on her toes. I don’t go in for feet myself, but Charley has really pretty ones. I’m quite jealous!”

“Jealous?” Charley echoed, shaking her head. The action ruffled her short, blonde hair, the static from her pillow making her pixie cut stand on end; she looked like a shocked fairy. “Don’t be ridiculous. Rose has nothing to be jealous of.”

“Tell me about her, please, Charley.” John’s voice was passive now, almost as if he’d stepped back and was acting as a conduit for their self-exploration. Rose wondered if he was bored of talking to them—what he was actually doing. Was he scrolling through BBC articles while they took stock of one another’s bodies? Was he watching telly?

Charley’s little throat-clearing drew Rose’s attention back. “Well,” she said primly, “Rose is probably the prettiest girl at our university.”

Rose scoffed.

“I’m serious! She’s got this perfect blonde hair—”

“So do you!”

“Now, Rose,” John chided, “don’t interrupt. Fair is fair. I want to know everything Charley has to say about you.”

That shut her up, and sent her gut twisting. He seemed actually interested.

Or he was just a very good actor.

Probably that.

“Fine,” she muttered, “though you’re the one who oughtta be talking.”

“Ah, but this is so much more fun.” He sounded downright amused. “Anyway, I won’t know what to compliment if I don’t have some idea of what you look like. Charley, please continue.”

“Rose always wears bright colors. Lots of pinks and peaches and reds… I used to think it was just to play on her name, but they really suit her.”

“I can imagine.” John’s voice was so low that a warmth bloomed unexpectedly in Rose’s navel. She hadn’t expected the cumulative effect of Charley’s compliments and John’s appreciation, but it felt more good than mortifying. She had that drifty feeling she got, but Charley was grounding her.

“She’s wearing a red tank top right now,” Charley detailed, her eyes sliding over Rose’s body. Was she seeing things, or had Charley’s pupils dilated? “You’ll be interested to know that I can see…” Her best friend blushed again; it seemed to be an almost-perpetual state of being just now. But it suited Charley well, giving her a healthy glow. “I can see her bra straps,” Charley finished, shooting Rose a shy grin. “Do you want to know what color?”

“Desperately.”

He sounded a bit terse that time, and Rose’s eyebrows twitched. Charley noticed it too, it seemed, because the corner of her mouth hitched in a mischievous smile.

“Can you guess?”

John huffed a laugh. “Rose, I believe your friend is a tease.”

“I’m as surprised as you are,” she laughed. “Charley’s normally as buttoned-up as can be.”

“And yet she sleeps in oversized jumpers and skimpy little shorts?” He hummed. “Doesn’t sound very buttoned-up to me. But you won’t distract me from my mission, Rose. Tell me about the bra straps.”

“We’ll give you a hint,” Rose offered.

His laugh seemed surprised again, like he was thrown off by her continued flirtation, though she wasn’t sure why—or at what point his gratification and participation had become so important to her. She couldn’t help grinning, her tongue poking out of the corner as it tended to when she was giddy. Rose wasn’t mistaken; Charley’s eyes definitely dilated that time.

“Alright,” he conceded. “A hint.”

Rose winked at her roommate, a silent signal.

“They’re the same color as the rest of my bra.”

And like a balloon bursting, Charley exploded into laughter, full-bodied and warm. Her spine curled in on herself as she held her shaking stomach. John, nearly drowned out by Charley’s merriment, groaned melodramatically. “Minx!” he declared. Rose felt all the tension draining out of her body, barely aware that it had been steadily growing, churning in her gut. It had been a good sort of build up, but releasing the pressure had somehow let air back into the room. She felt wicked and wild, as if she could say anything—do anything—so long as they were still listening.

“I’ve got to keep some element of mystery!” she cried.

“You’re nothing but mystery, woman!” John protested. “The both of you! I can’t see you, I can’t picture you anywhere, the only thing I know is what you sound like—it’s maddening. Not,” he swiftly corrected, his voice lowering into that familiar, deep tone, “that I have any right to know those things.”

“No,” Rose preened, “you don’t, but it’s nice to know you’d like to.”

“So,” Charley interrupted, “what normally comes next?” Her body tensed, as if preparing for some very lewd things.

But John simply laughed—though it also sounded a bit like a sigh. “I suppose I could join in the fun and tell you what I’m wearing.”

“That’s rather dull,” said Rose. “Why don’t you tell us what you like instead?”

“What I like?”

“Yes!” Charley supplied enthusiastically. “Aren’t you supposed to be a professor? What do you teach?”

Once again, that half-laugh, half-sigh.

“Is that really what you want to talk about? You’re not even remotely interested in hearing about what I’m imagining about you two?”

Rose’s breath caught in her throat then, and she knew Charley saw it. Both of their eyes grew wide. Where had all the air gone? Rose was chasing her breaths, trying to appear calmer than she felt. He couldn’t know—there was no way, she insisted. It was standard dirty talk. He was trying to move their session along.

“Tell us,” Charley said, much to Rose’s surprise. Her voice was steady. She didn’t break eye contact. And it set the whole world spinning.

“I’m imagining you, Rose,” John murmured in that velvety tone, “running your hand over Charley’s bare thigh, down to her knee—the one with the freckles—just lightly… like you’re trying to dip your fingers into water without breaking the surface tension. She feels like silk beneath your hand. You’re wondering what it would feel like… beneath your mouth.”

Her hand twitched at her side, clenched into a fist.

“And Charley, you lift your hand—see, look, how it trembles!—to run your fingers over Rose’s blushing cheek… and into her hair. You feel it between your fingers, slipping slowly… and then you glide down—down… over the column of her neck, exposing the curve of her shoulder, the flash of—what color was that bra strap again?”

“Pink,” both girls said, their voices a breathless unison. Their faces were so close, their breathing synced. Rose felt as if she’d been placed under a spell, her whole body attuned to the story he was weaving for them. An impossible story, some ragged part of her mind cried. Not their story.

“Pink,” he repeated thoughtfully. Was he pleased? Rose wondered why she cared, how she could hold these two painful wants at once—one so near, one at an unknowable distance. “Charley, you slide the strap down over her shoulder, right as you, Rose, lean in—finally give in to what you’ve both been wanting for what feels like forever—finally letting your breath mingle… your hearts beat in tandem… your hands slide over smooth skin… and your lips touch… in the gentlest, the most hesitant of kisses… Can you feel it?”

“Yes,” Rose said, her voice shaking. Charley was barely a breath away, and her eyes—her eyes were darting down to her lips, led by the steady hand of their guide.

“That’s good. I want you to feel it, everywhere in your bodies—that kiss, it travels through you like lightning, doesn’t it? A strike of soft heat… blurred at the edges. You feel it growing, blossoming into a slow-churning want—but hasn’t it been there all along? Hiding beneath the surface of everything? I wouldn’t be here now if you didn’t already feel it, sparking between you…” His voice hung, suspended on the edge. “Desire.” The word dropped like a stone. “True companionship, yes. But passion, too. You want each other.”

Rose watched it happen—she watched something snap in Charley’s eyes. One moment, the breath between them might as well have been a chasm. And the next, their lips—

Her lips—

“Oh my God,” Rose muttered, the words and her teeth catching against Charley’s plush mouth.

Because Charley was kissing her.

The kiss wasn’t anything like John had described—not really. But then, maybe it was. It was searing, traveling straight through Rose’s body until she felt it into her toes. The rightness. The sense of balance. Her best friend’s lips. Charley tasted like wine and smelled like the wind in the trees, and Rose felt her whole world shift just slightly on its axis, because… because Charley was reaching for her. For more.

It started to be just like he’d described then—Charley’s hands tangling in her hair, Charley’s hands dragging over her throat. Their legs locked together like a three-dimensional puzzle, their chests flush, their breathing perfectly synced. As one inhaled, the other exhaled, so there was never an inch of space between them.

And John was still speaking, lending an audial presence that was somehow comforting and illicit at once. There was no battling, no real search for a rhythm between her and Charley; they just fell into a slow, rolling give and take that he seemed to guide with his low, rolling syllables and even cadence. It was a structure they could cling to. Even though she could hardly tell what he said—only what it did to her body, and to her mind, which seemed to have floated far away from earth—she felt his speech over every inch of skin.

A nip from Charley brought her back to earth, making her abruptly conscious of her own lightheadedness. She pulled back, gasping for breath, in time to see Charley’s eyes fluttering open as well. Conscious recognition of their position came like cold water.

“Oh my God,” Rose repeated her earlier exclamation.

Shock slid over Charley’s features. “Oh—oh, I’m so sorry.”

“No, it’s—”

“I got totally carried away—”

“—fine, I promise. I’ve—”

“—and now I’ve ruined—”

“—wanted this for ages.”

“—everything! Wait, what?”

John’s laugh came down the line—so honest and bright—and Rose’s eyes were drawn to the phone. “Oh my God. John.”

“You two are completely adorable—did you know that?”

“What?” Charley protested, her voice strained. It was unlike anything Rose had ever heard from her before. She sounded like she’d run a mile uphill—or had the life snogged out of her. “You… you like me?”

Oh my God, she’d snogged Charley.

Rose cleared her throat. “Well, I guess we need to talk.”

“And that,” John piped up, “is my cue to go. Ladies, it’s been a complete pleasure. Send me an invite to the wedding, if you please. I do love love.” His last words sounded wistful. And then, before they could say anything—protest, entreat, or otherwise—the line went dead. John Smith, whoever he was, was gone.

Charley looked at her, lips swollen and pink and, to Rose’s chagrin, still imminently kissable.

Yeah, she decided, there was going to be a good bit of talking.

In just a few minutes.

Two weeks after graduation, the girls walked hand-in-hand into their favorite off-campus coffee shop. It had been an indulgence during school, too far and too expensive to be convenient, but now—it felt like a reward. For all their hard work in their final term. For surviving to graduation.

And they were celebrating other news, too. Rose’s internship at the gallery. Charley finally deciding on an advanced degree program. Their new flat.

And silly as it was, it felt a tiny bit like a rebellion. Against all the stares and sighs they’d put up with while still keeping their spines straight. Against the disapproval from Charley’s mum, and the overbearing questions from Rose’s.

She’d always known that love was an act of rebellion in an unkind world. But she’d gotten particularly lucky, she thought, in who she’d be walking through the world with. Charley… she was the best person Rose had ever known. They’d only been together a few months, but it already felt… right. Like it had that night, growing steadily more so more every day. Permanent. All the little reasons not to, all the little fears that she’d built up had crumbled into nothing once they’d actually communicated about them. Because, when it came down to it, Rose loved Charley. And Charley loved her. And that was just that.

They were happy.

They were in line for syrupy, sugar-sweet coffee, and they were happy.

“He’s fit,” Rose whispered, clasping Charley’s hand tightly for balance as she leaned to get close to her ear. They had a habit of doing this, when someone took their fancy. After all, they were in love—not stone dead. They never acted on anything, anyway.

“You think?” Charley whispered back, her words stirring the hair falling out of Rose’s ponytail. Goosebumps rose in response, and Rose did her best not to shiver. “He’s got quite the hair.”

She snorted. It was true; the bloke had an outrageous mass of chestnut curls. Something about it made her fingers itch to comb through them. She bet he even used a conditioner.

She was contemplating how to get that same texture and lift in her own hair when the line shifted, and Fit Guy was next at the counter.

Both girls went quiet. This was a habit, too—of listening. Rose knew Charley would be eyeing her, waiting for a reaction to this random bloke’s coffee order. If Rose blushed, tender teasing awaited her. Five months and a very happy relationship hadn’t been enough to dampen her so-called audiophilia, and Charley loved to torment her about it—playing audiobooks while Rose tried to study, asking about Professor Smith’s lecture notes, and generally taking delight in her girlfriend’s rather innocent obsession.

“Just tea, please,” the man said. “No cream, and extra sugar.”

Charley’s eyes went wide.

Rose’s jaw dropped.

“Oh my God.”

At that, the man’s shoulders stiffened. It was almost amazing, Rose thought, how fast it seemed to happen. One second, they were all just strangers standing in line at a café; the next, he was turning, his expression one of recognition. He had a little headset hanging from his neck, one earbud in, and one hand was plunged in his messenger bag, probably digging for money.

Before she could stop herself, Rose was saying, “Oh, that’s not fair.” Because he would be gorgeous. Of course.

Charley, with her hand still tightly in Rose’s, appeared to be largely speechless. “Is… are you…?”

John Smith—God, what a rubbish name; she hoped it wasn’t his real one—smiled at them. He laughed, one singular and familiar sound, bright and brilliant. And Rose, right there in the coffee shop, felt her world—their world—shift. Again.

“Hello, ladies.”

#eight x rose x charley #ficlet #dw #rose tyler #eighth doctor #charley pollard #abbey.txt #thanks for the prompt!#eileen i promised you 5k and i delivered!

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gingerteaonthetardis · 4 years

Note

phone sex eight sequel (this is a prompt)

well, anon… (”anon.” lol!) this prompt really came into my house and beat me up!! writing this, i attempted to follow up the first installation of this story, heightening the emotional (and sexual) stakes and providing a sense of completion. i can’t say i’m happy with the result, but i did my best to make things make sense for my beloved ot3. thank you for the prompt, even if it was unexpectedly challenging! (and thinky, thank you for pre-reading. you’re a saint.) this ficlet is not safe for work.

read on ao3

𝕆𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕠𝕡𝕞𝕠𝕤𝕥 𝕓𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕙

His name, it turned out, was actually John Smith—a comical twist of fate, given how unconventional he was in nearly every other sense. Charley was so disbelieving about it, in fact, that she asked to see his identification on their first unofficial date (the next morning, in the coffee shop). But there it was in ink: John Paul Smith, born on the twenty-seventh of May, 1983. Brown hair, blue eyes, and an organ donor.

It turned out that he was a graduate student working on his thesis, and the phone sex operator thing was a side-gig to keep him housed and fed. “I keep odd hours,” he explained unabashedly, “so I needed something… flexible.” (Rose felt a little thrill tremble down her spine at the way he said “flexible.” And under the table, Charley knowingly squeezed her hand.)

“It pays well, then?” Charley prompted.

John snorted. “Oh, yeah. Fairly. You should see the bill.” His eyes shifted over to Rose, who was sipping industriously at her cup of glorified caramel milk-foam. He grinned. “That is, you will. I knocked a bit off your time because you two were such fun, but… generally, it pays rather well, yes.”

Rose’s belly swooped, and she tried not to feel too pleased by his supposed special treatment. “So,” she asked, nose wrinkling, “I take it most callers aren’t like us?”

But John’s pale eyes sparkled. “A couple, you mean?"

At that, she bit her lip and exchanged a shy look with Charley; they’d both agreed, long before yesterday’s unbelievable meeting, that without that fateful call to break down their barriers, they might have gone on denying their feelings until graduating, and possibly even parted ways after that. Though, it was hard to believe such a thing possible, with how close they were now.

Eyes darting between them, John chuckled outright at their silent communication. "You two really are adorable, you know.”

“Well, it’s all really your doing.” Rose watched him carefully as she admitted what he likely already knew. “You led us somewhere we hadn’t allowed ourselves to go before, except in the privacy of our own heads. But,” her mouth pursed thoughtfully, “I guess that’s what you do, isn’t it?”

Shit.

Rose winced at herself, at her clumsy thoughtlessness.

It was impossible to miss the way his smile went wistful before sliding off his face, and the way he only shrugged with one tense shoulder. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“No, that’s not what I—”

“Right,” he cut in, “I know you didn’t—”

To her surprise, it was Charley who reached across the table and touched John’s hand—the one wrapped around his paper cup, fingers flexing and relaxing as he and Rose struggled to speak. Beneath the table, her grip on Rose was tight. “We’re not judging you,” Charley said firmly. “We're… it’s silly, but we’re grateful. Really.” And then she released him.

Rose watched Charley’s hand. The way it fisted on the table, as if trying to contain that simple touch, to keep it tight in her palm. And she felt like a top shelf idiot for nearly spoiling something that could, if she let it, be so good.

“God, yes,” she rushed out, voice faint with panic. “We’re the last people who would judge you for how you make your money. I mean,” she smiled impishly, “at least you’re earning a living. I want to be an artist! I’ll be paying back loans forever, if I can pay them at all.” The feeble joke dissipated the tension in John’s shoulders, and she felt herself relax with him. “What I mean is… thank you. For helping us… be honest, when we didn’t know how to be.”

“Yes, exactly,” Charley echoed. “Thank you.”

“In fact, let us thank you with dinner,” Rose blurted impetuously. “Or lunch. Or, I mean, I suppose we could do coffee again, but—”

Before Rose could talk herself into a tangled knot of incoherence, John stopped her. He reached across the table, and touched the tips of her fingers, just as Charley had touched him. It felt like the completion of a circuit, sending Rose running through with electricity.

“I’d like that,” he said softly.

On their fifth date—though the word “date” was perhaps a stretch—he got a call.

Not just any call. A work call.

“I’m sorry,” he cried, scrabbling for the remote control while the sound of rattling metal and heavy footsteps echoed throughout the flat. The Army of Mordor was marching right there in the living room, but all the hordes of darkness seemed unable to capture the trio’s attention. The girls watched John flap and flutter like a panicked bird. “I forgot to tell them I wouldn’t be on—I’m so sorry, it’s a Friday, you know… and—and that’s one of my busiest nights—Hello?” His voice changed to a very brusque, professional tone for a moment. “Girls, I’m sor—Yes, this is he.”

“John!” Rose laughed.

“It’s fine,” Charley soothed.

“Really,” the girls said in tandem, voices rising over the cinematic swells of music and John’s frantic muttering. Charley glared across the couch at Rose, who was sprawled out like a lounging queen despite all the upset. “God, are you sitting on it? You’re such a sofa hog!”

Rose shifted and—finding the remote wedged beneath her thigh—hastily reached down to pause the film. “Sorry,” she whispered to the room at large.

Into the sudden silence, John said—almost too loudly, “Got it. Dominant, emphasis on threats of spanking.” His cheeks went a bright pink, and he tried to duck out from between the couch and the coffee table, but the girls had him rather boxed in with their legs. “Right, and praise. Anything else?”

Rose’s eyes went wide, and she grinned at Charley. “Blimey.”

“Yes, you can put him on.” They heard the faint sound of the line clicking, and then John turned to them—head whipping back and forth like he wasn’t sure where to look—expression unbelievably apologetic. “I can go,” he began again, his voice a low whisper over the sound of ringing. “I don’t know how long… how long this will take. Or I can use your terrace, so you can keep—”

“John.” Charley reached out and snaked an arm around his waist, spinning and tugging him forcefully back down to the sofa. “It’s perfectly alright. We’ve seen Return of the King loads of times.”

“Mhm,” Rose mumbled, rising to her knees so she could look him in the face. There was something endearing about his nerves, about the flush rising up his neck and into his cheeks; she wondered if he’d been anxious before taking the call with them. Or if this was just performance anxiety. “You’re welcome to sit right here on our couch and take your call.”

“And you’ll both… just stay? Here?”

With a mischievous grin, Rose replied, “Oh, I’d love to see a ‘Master’ at work.”

Charley just rolled her eyes at the pun, and dropped her hand to John’s arm to get his attention. His eyes ducked over her fingers before sliding up to her face. “Or we can stick to the kitchen. Maybe make some more popcorn.” Her fingers smoothed over his bare forearm, tracing along the pale blue veins that stretched between his rolled sleeves and his open palm. “Whatever you’re comfortable with. We don’t want to interfere with your job.”

John opened his mouth to speak—

Right as the line picked up. “Hello?”

His eyes squeezed shut in concentration. “Is that how you address your Master?” he clipped out, sounding a bit breathless. And his voice had that low tone again that he’d put on over the phone—like each word was a stone rolling around on his tongue. The girls couldn’t hear much, but the man on the other end certainly seemed contrite. “That’s much better,” John purred. “Very good. I would hate to have to tan that backside of yours. Now, Adam, you’re going to tell me exactly what you want me to do to you. Can you do that?”

He paused, eyes fluttering open again, following the gentle caress of Charley’s fingers. “I’m going to take very good care of you, but in order to do that, I need to know what you can handle. I need a… firm grasp of your limits. Do you understand?” He swallowed, and his head darted back and forth between the girls again. “If you do, say, ‘Yes, sir.’”

Rose took a breath as if to reply herself before remembering herself. This is a job. He’s working.

That time, the caller’s answer was quite distinct. She could hear the moan belying the bloke’s tone. And small wonder; John’s voice was positively edible.

Across his body, Rose and Charley exchanged heavy glances, uncertain whether to leave or stay. On the one hand, Rose was already riveted by John’s performance. He just turned it on, like he could flip some sort of switch that transformed his voice into a conduit for fantasy. She was almost embarrassingly interested in hearing more. But based on the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, and the way his eyes couldn’t quite settle on either of them, their presence seemed to make him unsettled, if not totally uncomfortable.

Charley nodded slightly and began to rise from the sofa—but in a flash, John’s hand flipped from beneath hers and squeezed. He turned to Rose, blue eyes wide in entreaty, and mouthed, “Stay.”

Rose nodded, lips quirking up in a little smile.

And then, satisfied that Charley and Rose weren’t going anywhere, John was silent for a while as the man on the line shakily detailed his fantasies. It was quite amazing to see in action: the way John seemed to listen so intently, like he was taking mental notes on the man’s most personal—possibly even shameful—revelations, which he would then find a way to transform and embody without even being in the room. He would occasionally make noises of interest, though even those sounded bored, superior—inexperienced Rose’s very ideal of a haughty Master. She hadn’t expected him to be such a skilled actor.

On the screen, the orcs were left frozen in mud and pixels, completely forgotten.

And then—a break in the façade. John glanced over at Rose and winked, one side of his mouth twitching in the faintest of grins, as if to say, I’m still here.

In response, Rose stuck out her tongue and rolled her eyes. She wasn’t sure what possessed her; it just seemed like the only way to dissipate the silence that built steadily in the room. And John didn’t disappoint, pulling the phone away from his cheek even though his laugh was nearly silent. Seeing that familiar amusement—so perfectly him, so real and warm—made something in her jump with the desire to draw it out, again and again.

“Well, I hope you’ve been honest with me about your limits,” John said finally, his tone almost a theatrical growl. “I intend to… rise to meet them. Are you in position?” An affirmative. Rose mimicked it non-verbally, nodding eagerly and bouncing on her knees, drawing John’s eye back to her. On his other side, Charley’s shoulders shook with barely-contained laughter.

“Adam,” John said, nearly in his normal voice, “do you have a safe word you would like to use for the duration of this session?” He paused and waited for an answer, during which time Rose gripped her own ears and puffed out her cheeks like a squirrel.

Charley shook her head, whispering, “What are you doing?”

“Entertaining myself,” Rose whispered back, reddening cheeks finally releasing their collected air. Charley snorted.

“Making a fool of yourself, more like.”

John pulled the phone away from his ear once again and whispered, “That’s a good look for you.” As he spoke, his fingers curled again around Charley’s hand. Once again, Rose got that full-circle feeling that made her chest swell with warmth. She paused, nibbling on her bottom lip in sudden thought.

She realized, all at once, that she’d be quite content to do this every day.

The sitting together on the too-small couch and the films and the three of them all doing dishes in the narrow little kitchen and the interruption and the teasing. The job and the oddness of them being unconventional, more than what was usual.

She would take it all, happily.

But instead of giving voice to her thoughts, she went cross-eyed and listened for the muffled sound of Charley’s giggles. That was all a conversation for another night.

And John spoke, his phone voice cracking. “All right. Let’s begin. Spread your legs.”

There were more nights like that one, though their loosely-defined “dates” were only occasionally interrupted. John seemed to be intentionally scheduling his work hours around their movie nights and lunch outings and thesis writing sessions and—to Rose and Charley’s delight—their occasional sleepovers.

Granted, he usually slept on the couch.

But Rose knew they would cross that bridge sooner, rather than later. There was no rush.

As the weeks had passed—turning into two months, three, four—their casual dating evolved into something with more depth, more unspoken intensity. None of them said it, but it started to feel a bit like a habit. The girls kept John’s favorite wine in the pantry, and he dropped by the gallery some nights to walk Rose home from work, unexpected and always welcome. Charley had sensibly purchased him a toothbrush, which lolled in their cup—a tangible reminder of his presence, even when he wasn’t there. “Did you tell John?” and “Have you asked John?” became common phrases in the Pollard-Tyler flat, the reminder of their invisible third and the steady impact he had on their plans, their thoughts—their lives.

And, of course, with everything else came an element of physicality that Rose found herself constantly looking forward to. The first time John had stopped her in the kitchen—one hand covered in soap suds, the other clutching a sponge—and leaned in to kiss her, it had felt like a door unlocking. Something undeniably right, she’d whispered that night while she and Charley shared a pillow. Do you feel it, too?

Charley apparently did, though she indicated such with a lot more blushing and a lot less specificity. But Rose had popped in unexpectedly to find them snogging more than once, hands roaming like two teenagers, bathed in blue light from the telly.

She and Charley had talked about it—about the three of them, together. Or, as usual, Charley listened and tried to make sense of things while Rose unloaded her feelings and fears. It would undoubtedly be complicated; presumably, none of them had had a threesome, and the girls’ physical experiences with men had been somewhat limited. But it felt as inevitable as every other part of their relationship had been.

It would be good, because it would be right. Because it would be them.

John’s voice over the telephone was still something that made Rose’s cheeks heat, and she often wished she could replicate the intensity of that first night—the night he’d cut straight to the heart of her feelings for Charley without her even realizing it. He’d moved her limbs with his voice, like a physical presence possessing her. And she wanted that. She wanted it again, but with him there—with his long fingers in her hair, his real and present pulse hammering, the smell of his aftershave in the air.

“Is that what you want?” John coaxed, his voice low and honey-sweet on the line.

He’d yet again forgotten to request the night off, so he’d gotten an unexpected call in the middle of their reruns of The Bachelor—thankfully with minimal fuss and panic on his part. But Rose could hardly complain anyway, because tonight’s caller had some very specific needs.

Needs she was very interested in.

“I can just imagine how good you feel… your soft, pink lips wrapped around my cock…”

Charley’s snort drew his gaze as she looked up from her book, and he rolled his eyes dramatically. But Rose had a sudden idea—a flash of inspiration that made her shiver where she sat. It was risky, perhaps. But hadn’t they had enough lead-up? Months of it.

Slowly, Rose let her hand drift—down, down, to rest on his denim-clad knee. He usually sat in the middle of the couch so the girls could stretch their legs over him, but tonight, he was on the far side, leaving Rose in the middle. While her hand soothed lazy circles into the denim, she turned to Charley and reached out, grabbing her knee, upon which her book was propped. Her girlfriend looked up again, brows furrowed in question.

“I’m gonna try something,” Rose whispered, faint as a breath.

“All… right?”

When she turned back, John looked rather inquisitive, despite the fact that he was currently complimenting his client on the shape, texture, and color of her allegedly talented tongue. “I can’t wait to feel it,” he said enthusiastically while eyebrows quirked in that adorable way that made him look like a confused puppy. Rose chewed her lip to keep from smiling. Now was the time for serious, sensual expressions. Not silly grins.

Her fingers slid up his thigh, tangling with the hand that rested open-palmed, just waiting for her touch. She liked that about him—the way his hands always seemed on the verge of reaching for one of them, or her and Charley both, as if he couldn’t get enough. Tactile. But at present, he just looked confused.

He looked even more confused as she tightened her grip and slowly drew his hand upwards and away from him, right until the tips of his fingers bumped her lips. John’s eyes narrowed and he rumbled, “You look gorgeous like that, on your knees.” Though it was undeniably he who spoke, the voice sounded foreign out of his mouth: smooth as silk, wrapping around Rose and making her more determined to carry out her still-forming plan.

She disentangled her hand from his, letting his bare knuckles brushing the seam of her mouth. The contact drew his gaze like a magnet. Slowly, Rose slid her thumb back up his palm, using it to extend his long middle finger. And then, gradually, she did not so much pull the digit into her mouth as let her lips give way around it, giving him plenty of time to grow curious—and to pull away, if he wanted.

But he did not want, it seemed. His gaze was fixed on her even as he spoke pretty nothings to someone else.

Millimeter by millimeter, she drew the finger further into her mouth, letting her tongue swipe over the slightly calloused pad and curve beneath the first knuckle—and then, in time, the second. By the time he was fully seated in her mouth, her pink lip gloss leaving a ring around the base of his finger, his eyes were no longer narrowed, but wide open. John’s pupils rapidly dilated, black swallowing blue. “Yes, that’s perfect,” he crooned, though his voice sounded a bit more ragged than before.

Smiling inwardly, she eased back, his finger emerging from her lips with a shine. Right before the tip could slip out, she bobbed forward, taking it all back in a long, smooth motion.

His breath caught, and she felt a rush of pleasure down her spine, unspooling low in her belly. Something like satisfaction, only more potent. She wriggled slightly, the motion causing her to tug on John’s fingertip. His whole body followed, leaning toward her.

Tactile, indeed.

Without dropping his finger from her mouth, she shuffled off the sofa and down to the floor, relishing the way John blinked rapidly and his lips parted, leaving him momentarily unable to speak. She took the moment to get comfortable, shifting on her knees, bobbing her head once again, impulsively swirling her tongue around the entirety of his finger and then—with her eyes glittering up at him—sucking.

Once again, she released him, just as slow and deliberate as she’d been taking him in. She let his finger leave her mouth with a dull pop, guiding his hand back to rest on his thigh.

While she contemplated what exactly she wanted to do next, Rose slid both her palms over his knees, taking in the radiant heat through his jeans and the low, even timbre of his voice. Her tongue darted out to re-wet her lips, and she decided there was nothing for it but to go straight for his fly. At this point, there was no denying what she was after.

He was describing it, after all. In a decent bit of detail.

Still, she looked back up—directly, so that eye contact was utterly unavoidable—and she mouthed, “This okay?” She let her hands pass intentionally closer to the apex of his thighs, brushing against what was starting to look a bit—or more than a bit—like a bulge.

His mouth popped open. “Yes,” he husked into the phone, gaze unwavering.

Rose tilted her head.

And, unmistakably, John nodded.

Hands still making slow-moving circuits over his lap, she glanced over at Charley.

Her girlfriend had put down her book—a textbook, from the look of things—and appeared to be watching the proceedings with naked interest, though just to be sure, Rose waited for her nod of approval.

Odd as it was, Charley’s signal of support grounded her: she wasn’t alone in this. Her inexperience was not a revelation to anyone here, and regardless of the outcome, she would still be loved—if not by John, then by her constant Charley. It felt right for her to be present, for the experience of it all to be shared between them.

As if reading her thoughts, John’s gaze turned to Charley, too, his face an open question. Charley answered with a slow smile, a quirk of brow—and another nod.

The moment held between the three of them in tenuous silence, except for the constant rhythm of John’s faux-ragged breathing.

Rose grinned. If she had anything to do with it, he’d be doing a lot more than panting in a minute.

She rose on her knees and slid her hands up to John’s fly, where she let her hands stroke up and down a few times, cupping around the shape of him. He filled her hand in a way she hadn’t quite expected, but it was undeniably gratifying. She felt him pulse under her fingers.

She gave herself a moment to adjust before starting to undo his zipper. As the teeth parted, she peered back up at John, who looked—

Who looked hungry.

It gave her the courage to slide her hand between the layers of fabric and gently withdraw his cock, careful to avoid the zipper’s teeth. As she chewed her lip in concentration, head tilted to analyze the possible angles, John kept up a steady flow of words that coursed down her back like a current. “You’re so good, so perfect—I’ve been wanting you to do this for ages… imagining it when I close my eyes… Have you been?” She nodded up at him wickedly, as if he spoke only to her, and his eyes flared, lashes fanned out around blown-out pupils.

Slowly, she slid her hand up and down, watching the smooth slide of skin, and wondering at the feeling—like velvet. She tightened and twisted experimentally: watching the bob of his Adam’s apple, waiting for jumps and drops in his voice that indicated arousal, feeling him grow ever warmer and more solid under her hand.

A quick look at Charley revealed another set of eyes, as hungry and intent as John’s, focused on the rhythm of Rose’s hand and the subtle flexing of John’s hips. Every time her thumb smoothed over the tip, his body stuttered and twitched, tendons taut in his neck. The power of it, of moving him the way his voice moved her, felt intoxicating. Charley’s head lolled to the side, and Rose shot her a quick smile.

Through heavy lashes, Rose looked back at John and mouthed the word, “Good?”

“So good,” he rasped, gaze hot on hers. “More. Can you give me more?” The words raced through her, the sensation so heady that she nearly forgot the phone in his hand. It was all for her: each tense of his jaw, each flex of his fingers near her cheek. And the tighter her hand, the quicker her pace, the less eloquent he got—his voice cracking and breaking under the strain of sensation, his beautiful, flowing phrases truncated by earthy moans. Until all he could do was ask for more.

For what she was already willing to give him.

Rose nodded.

She gave him more; she gave him all she had in her.

When he moaned, she felt it vibrate through his chest and hips, through her lips, touching the back of her throat like she’d made the noise herself. Every bit of pleasure in his body had its origin in her, and it seemed to redouble between them, passed back and forth like an open-mouthed kiss. When he rumbled out more—more gorgeously incoherent words—the tone was increasingly desperate. “You look so—so beautiful like this, like… like a dream. Like—oh, like some sort of—I dunno, cock-sucking angel, bloody fucking hell—”

Charley snorted; it sounded closer than she’d expected, but Rose didn’t look up to see if her girlfriend had moved. And she tried not to let her shoulders shake or her teeth scrape him as she laughed at his unexpectedly foul mouth. But when she hummed her amusement around him, John groaned.

It was a shredded sound, like she’d torn it out of him, prompting her to work harder, faster, until her jaw ached. Her fringe fell heavily over her face, making her nose twitch, but John swiped the hair aside in a second, his thumb grazing the edge of her stretched jaw softly, reverently. “Please don’t stop—Rose—”

The way he said her name echoed and bounced through her head, which felt surprisingly empty—like a balloon floating on an open sky. It was a delicious, dreamy sort of feeling, like she sometimes got when he talked to her. About his thesis. About what he thought of her paintings. About how brilliant Charley was. And her name—his unearthly groan, Rose—felt like a tether, coiling in her belly and holding her fast.

Somewhere over her head, there was the sound of a tinny, distant voice. Very far away. Certainly nothing for Rose to worry about, what with her mouth so intently occupied.

“Oh!” John said, in an abruptly changed tone. His hand left her face. She paused, her mouth stopped still while her tongue still twisted. She dragged along a particularly prominent vein, and his protest turned into a moan. “No, wait, I didn’t—I’m so sor—oh, sod it—”

And she heard the dull thump of his phone hitting the couch. It was briefly distracting, enough that she released him and looked up to see—

John, red-faced and panting. One of his arms—hand now blessedly free from his phone—had begun to wrap around Charley, who seemed to have inched progressively closer, filling the space where Rose had previously sat.

He looked down at Rose in a daze, a disoriented smile on his lips. “Well, she’s certainly never calling back.”

Rose frowned, and she felt a little stab of guilt. “Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—should I stop?”

“God, no,” he panted as Charley settled closer, her fingers twining with his. Rose watched as she pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw, by how pleased Charley looked when his eyelids fluttered. Blinking, he looked back and forth between them, utterly baffled. “This is so—it’s just—”

It seemed he had no words. A rarity, Rose thought with a smile.

“Good?”

He exhaled in a huff, blush sustained on his cheeks. “Very.”

“Well, since she’s gone, talk to me,” she commanded hoarsely, biting down on her smile. “I want to hear you.”

She bent back toward him, but waited for the sound of his voice before taking him between her lips.

“‘Like a sweet-apple,’” John said in a low rush, “‘turning red… high… on the tip—’” Her tongue swirled, and his mouth fell open on another groan. His fingers returned to her hair as if magnetized. He seemed unable to stop himself raking through it, no doubt mussing it horribly. As his hand tightened, he groaned. “Charley, I—she—”

Charley let out a breathy little laugh. “I know. She’s good.” Rose knew her girlfriend well—knew her tells. She smiled at the pleasure she heard buried in the words, remembered the feeling of kissing Charley for the first time while John spoke into their airspace. She remembered tasting her for the first time, christening their brand new bedsheets, still creased from their package. How everything just seemed to get more and more perfect, the better they knew each other. Reaching new heights…

She hummed, calling his attention back.

“Right. ‘On—on the tip… of the topmost branch. Forgotten‘—oh, God—’by pickers,‘” John sighed, his fingers flexing in her hair, rasping breaths coming out like an ancient chant in a hot, halting rhythm. “‘Not forgotten,’” he added, almost an afterthought. As if only barely remembering that he needed to finish the poem. “‘They couldn’t… reach it’—fuck, Rose, I’m—” She felt the pulse in her throat and pulled back, smirking as he gave one long, final convulsion, accompanied by an even longer, almost musical cry.

“John,” Rose whispered, her voice still raspy from the abuse her throat had taken earlier. “Are you awake?”

There was no light in the room except what came from Charley’s little side lamp, her textbook long abandoned in favor of more snogging and writhing on the couch, once more starring Rose’s rather spectacular tongue. Then the three of them had snuggled up under pillows and fallen into various states of sedation, a giddy grin plastered to Rose’s lips.

“Mhm,” John mumbled sleepily.

“Charley and I have been talking…”

That seemed to perk him up. He shifted more upright, to look down at her where she rested on his shoulder. “Talking?”

“Yeah, and we thought—would you… maybe wanna move in?”

His arm shifted around her, and she felt Charley stir a bit at their shuffling. Rose’s palm fluttered down to her thigh, running a hand over the tanned skin. If she were to let her hand drift lower, she’d find the smattering of those beloved freckles on Charley’s knee. But she contented herself with the radiant heat, sandwiched happily between two sleep-warmed bodies.

John was still silent, his mouth slightly open. “You really want that?”

Rose nodded. “I know it’s… sort of fast. Only a few months. But I promise I’ll try not to get you fired,” she added with a faint laugh. “We’ll keep our hands off when you’re working.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he shot back with a crooked grin, higher on one side. And he pressed a warm kiss to her temple. “I think I’d like that. The three of us… we’ve got something, haven’t we?”

“‘Something’ is right.” Rose giggled. “You’re not nearly so eloquent when you’re not on the phone, you know.”

“And you can live with that?”

She could. She would, happily.

John was another puzzle piece in her life, every bit as important as Charley—and just as unexpected. He was more than his voice, or his job, and she’d felt it tonight like an ache in her chest. She wanted all of him, all of them, together.

“Yeah,” she answered softly. “I can.”

Charley’s leg shifted, her bare foot brushing Rose’s calf. “So can I, in case anyone was asking.”

Rose reached down to tickle her foot, prompting a kick that pushed her and John entirely off-balance. And so she collapsed on top of her girlfriend, squished pleasantly by John’s chest, as they all dissolved into laughter. Three bodies on that too-small couch.

Rose couldn’t imagine a better life.

#eight x charley x rose #my ot3 #eighth doctor #charley pollard #rose tyler #dw #abbey.txt #ficlet #thanks for the prompt!#for anon

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