A Laundry Thing, 1/1
Title - A Laundry Thing, 1/1
Author -
jlrpuck
Rating - MA
Pairing - Peter Carlisle/Rose Tyler
Spoilers - For both Blackpool and S2 of Doctor Who.
Disclaimer - Characters from Blackpool and Doctor Who are the property of the BBC, and are used with the greatest of love and respect; no profit is intended from the writing or sharing of this story.
Summary - Peter reflects on just how much he misses Rose Tyler
Author’s Notes - Another short fic this week; travel has wreaked havoc with my writing schedule. I'm only posting it on LJ, as well.
The title, by the way, comes from a euphemism that cropped up after the posting of Chapter 22 of The Way of Things.
A Laundry Thing
Rose had been gone for two weeks-two long weeks, mostly out of touch, somewhere on the other side of the world. Two weeks without someone with whom to share tales from work, or of amusing things he saw on the subte; fourteen mornings spent waking up to an empty bed, fourteen evenings spent dining alone, fourteen nights spent going to sleep alone.
Not a year before, two weeks alone would have been wholly unremarkable. He’d gone years, in fact, living alone, waking up alone, dining alone, sleeping alone. And yet a few scant months of living with Rose Tyler had rendered him wholly unable to enjoy the quiet as he used to.
Perhaps it was the length of time involved; since he’d moved in with Rose, they’d rarely spent more than a couple of days apart. It wasn’t unusual for him or Rose to take short trips out of the city for work-but those were almost always in-country, a short train ride away from each other.
Peter sighed, stepping into the shower, resigned to the thought of another Saturday alone. He’d heard from Rose two days prior, knew she’d be back within the week-“Almost done-I promise,” she’d said.
“I miss you.” He’d been able to hear how lost he sounded, but had decided he didn’t much care how much Rose knew he missed her.
“And I you.” Her voice had softened. “Just a few more days. And then...then I’ll take a day off, and we can say hello properly.”
We can say hello properly. As he stood under the spray, remembering their conversation, he felt his pulse quicken; imagining having Rose next to him in bed once more, of feeling her warmth along his body, her soft curves melding into his. Of her rolling on top of him, as she sometimes did, kissing him, her hips pressing against his...
He turned, allowing the water to sluice over him as he let his mind wander.
He, rolling them again, pinning Rose beneath him, brushing kisses across her skin...
He shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts from his mind. He reached for the shampoo and washed his hair fiercely, trying to work out some of his frustration. When they’d first moved in together, they’d had sex nearly every night-and some afternoons and mornings, too-- each of them seemingly unable to get enough of the other. As they’d settled down into life together, they’d slowed down; they still made love several times a week, but not nearly at the rate they had done. Two weeks without Rose, though...it was too much.
He rinsed his hair, turning, tilting his head back into the spray before straightening and opening his eyes. He winced in the bright light of the space before relaxing, allowing the water to work his muscles. Rose had made love to him in that very space on the second night he’d ever spent in her flat-the consequences of him mocking her gently for her posh shower. Standing there now, the water pounding against his skin, he could see Rose in front of him as she had been that day, her eyes glinting mischievously, her tongue peeping from the corner of her mouth as she worked to undress him. His clothes had been soaked through, but even with that difficultly she’d undressed him with alacrity, her hands gliding across his skin.
As he remembered, he let his hands stray, following the path Rose had taken that day. His fingers drifted across his stomach, down the line of hair she loved to play with, ghosting across his hardening penis. As her hand had wrapped around him-he closed his fist around his erection, remembering what she had done-he’d reached forward and worked to undress her, untying the bow holding her wrap dress closed and pulling the fabric apart to reveal her skin.
He stroked upwards, once, hard-remembering what Rose had done as he’d leaned forward, as he’d nipped at her breast, at the hardened nipple still clad in lace. He’d slid her dress from her shoulders; she’d released him only long enough to remove the fabric entirely before reaching toward him once more, taking him in her hand again.
He wrapped his right hand around his penis once more, feeling the weight in his hand, wondering what it felt like to Rose. He began to stroke, a slow rhythm, his hand tightening every now and again on the upstroke before he rubbed his thumb around the tip. He leaned his left hand against the tile wall, bracing his weight, imagining that instead of his hand working himself to orgasm, it was Rose; that she had knelt in front of him, and was taking him in her mouth.
She loved to run her tongue along his erection, loved to swirl it around the head of his penis before taking him into her mouth fully; he let his fingers dance along his skin, trying to recreate the sensation, finding it a poor substitute but better than nothing at all. She’d run her hand along his thigh, sliding her fingers over the curve of his arse, holding him still as she repeatedly slid her mouth over him, as she sucked, as she gently scraped her teeth over the sensitive skin before laving it with her tongue. He clenched his eyes, seeing her in front of him, remembering how she’d made him come more than once in that shower, a wicked gleam in her eyes as she worked him to completion.
He increased his pace, jerking sharply upwards now, wishing it was Rose who was working him but desperate for release. His hips began to jerk, meeting his fist as it slammed against the base of his erection. The water was growing cold but he didn’t care; he was intent on finishing this.
“Rose...” he growled into the small space, the first tendrils of his orgasm creeping through his bloodstream. He tightened his hand, increasing his pace, imagining Rose’s hand doing these things to him.
He felt himself harden further just before he came, groaning with the sensation, the rush of endorphins almost painful as he spent himself into the shower, his hand working the orgasm until he grew too sensitive for the touch. He let go of himself, raising his arm, bracing his weight on his forearms against the shower stall.
He missed Rose.
Peter turned, rotating the dial to bring more warm water into the space before moving to finish showering. With luck, Rose would be back in a few days, and he’d be able to show her exactly how much he missed her. Maybe even in the shower.
Author -
jlrpuck
Rating - MA
Pairing - Peter Carlisle/Rose Tyler
Spoilers - For both Blackpool and S2 of Doctor Who.
Disclaimer - Characters from Blackpool and Doctor Who are the property of the BBC, and are used with the greatest of love and respect; no profit is intended from the writing or sharing of this story.
Summary - Peter reflects on just how much he misses Rose Tyler
Author’s Notes - Another short fic this week; travel has wreaked havoc with my writing schedule. I'm only posting it on LJ, as well.
The title, by the way, comes from a euphemism that cropped up after the posting of Chapter 22 of The Way of Things.
A Laundry Thing
Rose had been gone for two weeks-two long weeks, mostly out of touch, somewhere on the other side of the world. Two weeks without someone with whom to share tales from work, or of amusing things he saw on the subte; fourteen mornings spent waking up to an empty bed, fourteen evenings spent dining alone, fourteen nights spent going to sleep alone.
Not a year before, two weeks alone would have been wholly unremarkable. He’d gone years, in fact, living alone, waking up alone, dining alone, sleeping alone. And yet a few scant months of living with Rose Tyler had rendered him wholly unable to enjoy the quiet as he used to.
Perhaps it was the length of time involved; since he’d moved in with Rose, they’d rarely spent more than a couple of days apart. It wasn’t unusual for him or Rose to take short trips out of the city for work-but those were almost always in-country, a short train ride away from each other.
Peter sighed, stepping into the shower, resigned to the thought of another Saturday alone. He’d heard from Rose two days prior, knew she’d be back within the week-“Almost done-I promise,” she’d said.
“I miss you.” He’d been able to hear how lost he sounded, but had decided he didn’t much care how much Rose knew he missed her.
“And I you.” Her voice had softened. “Just a few more days. And then...then I’ll take a day off, and we can say hello properly.”
We can say hello properly. As he stood under the spray, remembering their conversation, he felt his pulse quicken; imagining having Rose next to him in bed once more, of feeling her warmth along his body, her soft curves melding into his. Of her rolling on top of him, as she sometimes did, kissing him, her hips pressing against his...
He turned, allowing the water to sluice over him as he let his mind wander.
He, rolling them again, pinning Rose beneath him, brushing kisses across her skin...
He shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts from his mind. He reached for the shampoo and washed his hair fiercely, trying to work out some of his frustration. When they’d first moved in together, they’d had sex nearly every night-and some afternoons and mornings, too-- each of them seemingly unable to get enough of the other. As they’d settled down into life together, they’d slowed down; they still made love several times a week, but not nearly at the rate they had done. Two weeks without Rose, though...it was too much.
He rinsed his hair, turning, tilting his head back into the spray before straightening and opening his eyes. He winced in the bright light of the space before relaxing, allowing the water to work his muscles. Rose had made love to him in that very space on the second night he’d ever spent in her flat-the consequences of him mocking her gently for her posh shower. Standing there now, the water pounding against his skin, he could see Rose in front of him as she had been that day, her eyes glinting mischievously, her tongue peeping from the corner of her mouth as she worked to undress him. His clothes had been soaked through, but even with that difficultly she’d undressed him with alacrity, her hands gliding across his skin.
As he remembered, he let his hands stray, following the path Rose had taken that day. His fingers drifted across his stomach, down the line of hair she loved to play with, ghosting across his hardening penis. As her hand had wrapped around him-he closed his fist around his erection, remembering what she had done-he’d reached forward and worked to undress her, untying the bow holding her wrap dress closed and pulling the fabric apart to reveal her skin.
He stroked upwards, once, hard-remembering what Rose had done as he’d leaned forward, as he’d nipped at her breast, at the hardened nipple still clad in lace. He’d slid her dress from her shoulders; she’d released him only long enough to remove the fabric entirely before reaching toward him once more, taking him in her hand again.
He wrapped his right hand around his penis once more, feeling the weight in his hand, wondering what it felt like to Rose. He began to stroke, a slow rhythm, his hand tightening every now and again on the upstroke before he rubbed his thumb around the tip. He leaned his left hand against the tile wall, bracing his weight, imagining that instead of his hand working himself to orgasm, it was Rose; that she had knelt in front of him, and was taking him in her mouth.
She loved to run her tongue along his erection, loved to swirl it around the head of his penis before taking him into her mouth fully; he let his fingers dance along his skin, trying to recreate the sensation, finding it a poor substitute but better than nothing at all. She’d run her hand along his thigh, sliding her fingers over the curve of his arse, holding him still as she repeatedly slid her mouth over him, as she sucked, as she gently scraped her teeth over the sensitive skin before laving it with her tongue. He clenched his eyes, seeing her in front of him, remembering how she’d made him come more than once in that shower, a wicked gleam in her eyes as she worked him to completion.
He increased his pace, jerking sharply upwards now, wishing it was Rose who was working him but desperate for release. His hips began to jerk, meeting his fist as it slammed against the base of his erection. The water was growing cold but he didn’t care; he was intent on finishing this.
“Rose...” he growled into the small space, the first tendrils of his orgasm creeping through his bloodstream. He tightened his hand, increasing his pace, imagining Rose’s hand doing these things to him.
He felt himself harden further just before he came, groaning with the sensation, the rush of endorphins almost painful as he spent himself into the shower, his hand working the orgasm until he grew too sensitive for the touch. He let go of himself, raising his arm, bracing his weight on his forearms against the shower stall.
He missed Rose.
Peter turned, rotating the dial to bring more warm water into the space before moving to finish showering. With luck, Rose would be back in a few days, and he’d be able to show her exactly how much he missed her. Maybe even in the shower.