"Stump the Author" drabble 1: canaana
A few days ago on my regular journal, I posted a Stump the Author meme. Five folks stumped me, so they each have a mini-fic (too long for a drabble, not quite long enough to be a ficlet) written to their prompt. This one belongs to canaana, who wanted any two or more of Nine, Jack, and Rose, and gave me this comic strip as a prompt. (Not exactly safe for work, but not graphic, either.)
Trashy Romance Novels
Rose snuggled down into the corner of the sofa, feet tucked underneath her, and pulled out the book she'd been hiding between the cushions. Learning history and science and all was fascinating, and she wouldn't give up her life with the Doctor and Jack for the world, but sometimes all a girl wanted was a cup of tea and a trashy romance novel.
It couldn't have been ten minutes later when Jack said, over her shoulder and very close to her ear, "So that's where you've gotten to."
Rose shrieked and levitated off the couch, her numb fingers letting go of the book. Jack reached out and caught it mid-air, turning it over to look at the cover. "The Mists of Autumn?" he read aloud, raising an eyebrow. "Hm. Hadn't heard of that one before. And hey, who knew that seventeenth-century men walked around with their shirts unlaced while their women fell out of their corsets every time they fainted?"
Rose, mortified, couldn't help but giggle. "Don't tell the Doctor," she pleaded.
"Sweetheart, I wouldn't do any such thing. It's none of his business what you read, unless you want to let him know." He vaulted over the back of the sofa and landed gracefully beside her, tossing the book gently onto the coffee table. "Of course," he added, in a much softer tone and with a look that could melt iron, "you could give me a chance to show you what I can do. I promise, I'll make you forget all about mister bare-chest over there."
Flushing now for an entirely different reason, Rose cocked her head to look into his eyes. "Only," she said with a grin, "if you wear what he's wearing."
Trashy Romance Novels
Rose snuggled down into the corner of the sofa, feet tucked underneath her, and pulled out the book she'd been hiding between the cushions. Learning history and science and all was fascinating, and she wouldn't give up her life with the Doctor and Jack for the world, but sometimes all a girl wanted was a cup of tea and a trashy romance novel.
It couldn't have been ten minutes later when Jack said, over her shoulder and very close to her ear, "So that's where you've gotten to."
Rose shrieked and levitated off the couch, her numb fingers letting go of the book. Jack reached out and caught it mid-air, turning it over to look at the cover. "The Mists of Autumn?" he read aloud, raising an eyebrow. "Hm. Hadn't heard of that one before. And hey, who knew that seventeenth-century men walked around with their shirts unlaced while their women fell out of their corsets every time they fainted?"
Rose, mortified, couldn't help but giggle. "Don't tell the Doctor," she pleaded.
"Sweetheart, I wouldn't do any such thing. It's none of his business what you read, unless you want to let him know." He vaulted over the back of the sofa and landed gracefully beside her, tossing the book gently onto the coffee table. "Of course," he added, in a much softer tone and with a look that could melt iron, "you could give me a chance to show you what I can do. I promise, I'll make you forget all about mister bare-chest over there."
Flushing now for an entirely different reason, Rose cocked her head to look into his eyes. "Only," she said with a grin, "if you wear what he's wearing."