Alone, So Alone
Title - Alone, So Alone 1/1
Author - xebgoc
Rating - MA
Pairing - Peter Carlisle/Rose Tyler
Spoilers - None
Disclaimer - Characters from Blackpool and Doctor Who are the property of the BBC. I usurp them with the greatest of love and respect; no profit is intended from the writing or sharing of this story.
Summary - Rose finds herself home alone with Peter away helping a local constabulary on a case. Neither can sleep. Until after their phone conversation, that is.
Author’s Notes - This came out of a discussion on the Board Games thread of The Order of Things. I off-handedly said I’d do this but it would be 2020 before it was finished at the rate I wrote fiction. But then one morning I woke up with the story nearly fully formed in my head… not that it didn’t take considerable editing by the inestimable jlrpuck, whose willingness to let me invade her Peter/Rose territory with grace and amazing beta skills, is more than I could have hoped for… THANK YOU ! and so… follow the cut.
Alone, So Alone
Rose lay in bed staring at the clock, her arms wrapped tightly around Peter’s oversized pillow.
One-thirty. One-thirty-one. One-thirty-two.
She hated it when Peter had to go out of town to assist an investigation in northern England or Scotland.
One-thirty-three. One-thirty-four. One-thirty-five.
It was one thing when she was the one out of town on Torchwood business. When she sleeps alone then, it’s in a different bed and the memory of Peter beside her isn’t as intense. But laying here in their bed without him? It’s unbearable. So empty. So alone. So cold.
One-thirty-six. One-thirty-seven. One-thirty-eight.
This must be what Peter feels whenever she’s gone. Oh god, poor Peter. She may never be able to leave him behind again, now that she knows what it’s like for him. How could she be that cruel to him ?
One-thirty-nine. One-forty. One-forty-one.
It didn’t bother her as much early on, once Peter had finally moved to London. She would let herself believe he was still living in Kendal, and that the memory of him here beside her every night the week before was just a dream; or he had been in London on holiday but was back in Kendal again. But this was the first time he’d been away in several months and she’d grown so accustomed to him being next to her, wrapped around her, that she felt the void much more keenly than she’d ever imagined she would.
Their phone conversation as she got ready for bed earlier that night had been warm and gentle, each describing their days, and then he’d read to her for a few minutes trying to close the distance between them. It had, as usual, worked for a little while and they’d rung-off with “I love you” and a kiss through the receiver. She’d managed to slip into a restless sleep cradling the mobile in her hand as though it was Peter’s chin, and the pillow-his pillow-held tight along the length of her body in a vain attempt to feel less alone. It was a poor substitute, and she’d been awakened almost forty-five minutes later by a noise outside in the city. A noise that, on any other night, she probably wouldn’t have heard. And then she’d remembered that she was alone, that she missed Peter… OH so much.
Now she lay-alone-watching the clock.
One-forty-two. One-forty-three. One-forty-four.
And then the phone in her hand chirped. It was the ring-tone she’d assigned to “Carlisle” so long ago in Kendal, and a smile spread across her face, extending all the way down her body to her toes, as she flipped the phone open.
“Hello,” she said with a glow in her voice so obvious through the ether that she heard Peter’s breath catch a little.
“So, not asleep then ?” he asked.
“I can’t. Not without you here. I’ve been staring at the clock for I don’t know how long.” She paused. “You’re not asleep either. What’s wrong ?”
“Same,” he said. Rose could hear the edge of sleepless frustration in his voice.
“What can I do to help?” she asked.
“I just wanted to hear your voice. Will you read to me for a bit?”
“Of course I will,” she said softly as she rolled over, reaching to flip the switch at the base of the lamp on the bedstand. “What do you want to hear?”
She surveyed the small pile of books next to the lamp. Burns? Not that-she didn’t read poetry well, and that was Peter’s domain. Austen ? Again, Peter was much better with that, too. One of Peter’s rare modern fiction obsessions,Tom Robbins’ Jitterbug Perfume ? That would work, it was written in a more contemporary voice-much better suited, despite being American, to the slight cockney that tended to slip out when she wasn’t being the Vitex Heiress.
Her speech patterns had changed since coming to this side of the void: The people, outside of family and Torchwood, who didn’t know that she wasn’t this Pete Tyler’s natural daughter, expected her to be-ugh she hated to even think it--‘higher class’ than the girl from the council estate where she grew up. So she and Jackie had both made a conscious effort to look and sound like what would be expected of Pete Tyler’s wife and daughter. It was second nature to them now, but when they were in particularly comfortable situations they would relax and it would just slip out.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, “I just want to hear your voice. You could just tell me about your day again, or regale me with the exploits of Mickey and Jake. I miss you. I miss hearing you breathe next to me as you sleep. I miss the feel of your cold feet on my ankles. I miss…” his voice trailed off.
“Me too,” she said, flushing a little. Remembering what happened the last time she’d felt this way when she was on the phone with Peter, she decided to take the plunge. She continued, “I miss the feel of your long, soft, fingers gently brushing the hair off my neck when you think I’m asleep. I miss the heat of your breath in my ear as you slip into sleep yourself. I miss the way your knees fit behind my thighs as we lie curled together after we’ve made love.”
Rose heard Peter’s breath begin to labor a bit, and her knickers suddenly seemed awfully tight as she felt herself grow damp and sensitive. The fingers of the hand not holding the phone wandered under her shirt to her right nipple and squeezed, causing her to gulp slightly.
Peter heard it clearly and moaned, asking softly, “What are you doing?”
“Wishing you were here to lick my nipple,” she whispered in response, as her heart began to pound in earnest and the blood rushed simultaneously to her head and her clit.
“Rose.”
“Yes, Peter?”
“I can taste your nipple,” he replied, “feel my tongue circle it, b-bite you lightly,” he breathed.
Rose inhaled suddenly as her fingers squeezed in response to his slightly stuttered proclamation. “Oh god, Peter…”
“Yes, Rose?” he asked.
“D-d-do that again, please,” she exhaled.
“What are you wearing?” Peter growled.
“The usual, a teeshirt and shorts,” Rose murmured.
“Well then, I’ll have to help you remove them so I can touch all of you, won’t I? Because Rose, I want to suckle at your beautiful breasts. I want to kiss my way down your stomach and bury my tongue in you, suck on your clit like a lolly. I want to make you cry out for me, even though I’m a 200 miles away. I want us to come together, to make the distance evaporate.”
Rose shivered and felt herself move closer to the inevitable at Peter’s forthright declaration of lust. She could hear his voice begin to grow thick and his breathing shallow and rapid as he realized what they had started. She didn’t think it would take long for either of them at this rate. She was closer than she’d thought even a couple of minutes ago, and she could tell by the slight strain in Peter’s voice that he was lying there in his pyjama bottoms, fully hard, trying desperately not to shoot off at the merest brush of his hand.
“Peter, I’m taking my shirt off… ” She could hear him groan on the other end of the phone. “I can feel your lips between my breasts, feel you breathe into the gulf, now my shirt is off.” She took a deep breath. “My nipples are hard and my fingers are buried in your hair.”
“I’m kissing my way down the middle of your stomach,” he continued, “my tongue is licking into your belly button tasting the soap you used this morning… Oh. God. Rose.” He gasped. “I’m. not. sure. I. can. last.”
“Shhhhh, I’m reaching down, untying your pyjamas, and taking you in my hand, feel my fingers wrapping around you… calming the urge… you can do this, Peter. We’ll get there together, I promise.”
She heard him heave a little sigh of relief as his breathing slowed and got a little deeper, taking in a little more oxygen, clearing his head slightly.
“Where was I?”
“I think you were nuzzling my navel,” Rose answered, “and I was about to say ‘Please, Peter, don’t stop.’”
“I kiss my way up, the bottom rib, then the next one up, towards your left breast, slowly taking your nipple between my teeth and bite down… just a little, while my left hand squeezes your other nipple simultaneously…you arch your back up into my mouth.”
Peter’s voice was beginning to falter again, and Rose took the opportunity to continue “I grab your hair and draw you face-to-face with me, kiss you lightly on the nose, the left cheek, down to the little scar just to left of your chin, a little nip and up to take your bottom lip and then both lips, as my tongue licks your upper lip. Relax into it… let me taste you. Slowly, I slide my tongue up to the roof of your mouth.”
Peter groaned. ”That’s no way to slow me down, I’m so close.” He swallowed hard. “I kiss your jaw, and follow that down your neck to your clavicle, over the top of your right breast, a little nip there to balance the earlier one on the left and on down, further, as my hands stray lower, beginning to play with the feathery hair above my target.” Peter heard Rose gasp and felt, in his minds-eye, her hips arch into his hand.
It was nearly enough to send him over the edge. He heard Rose swallow, and encouraging him to take his mind off his own near-to-bursting sensation, whisper, “Lower Peter… your mouth… lower, please.”
With the opposite effect than Rose had intended, it was nearly more than Peter could take and he stopped dead to gather himself together. Calmer, he continued in a husky voice, “My right hand dips just below the hair line, and finds your slickness.” His voice caught again as Rose moaned, but he persevered, “My tongue trails through your navel and I kiss you right in the middle of your mons, before my tongue follows my fingers into the damp, taking your clit in my mouth and rolling it around on my tongue.”
Rose gurgled and Peter giggled at the sound, deciding to further torture her, “First to the left, then to the right, as my finger strokes lightly just outside….”
“PETER,” Rose cried.
“Yes?” Peter answered in a maddeningly calm voice with a slight smile to it. He paused for a brief--though seemingly, to Rose, interminable--moment and then continued, “then I plunge two fingers deep inside.”
Rose’s voice was crystal clear as she wailed, “I NEED YOU, PETER! NOW,” and the two of them hit the crest, together. Their orgasms rolled through them, raising them each off their respective beds, Peter’s hand holding himself flat against his stomach as he pulsed, thread after thread across his torso, the fingers of Rose’s right hand buried deep inside herself, as, clasping the phone between her ear and her shoulder, she tweaked her right breast with her left hand, and forgot to breathe entirely for an extended moment.
Silence. On both ends of the phone. For about twenty seconds. And then fits of giggles. On both ends of the phone.
“Wow,” said Peter.
“Yeah,” said Rose, “ that was… wow.”
“Peter?”
“Mmm?”
“I think I’ll be able to sleep now,” she said with a grin in her voice, “but if you still want me to read to you, I will.”
“Oh,” Peter’s voice was a little gravely. “ I think I’ll be able to sleep too,” he chuckled.
“Same time tomorrow night?” Asked Rose.
“Yes. I think so,” he replied.
And in unison “I love you, goodnight” and they ring off.
Rose looked at the clock. Two-ten. All that in twenty-five minutes. She slipped into sleep with a smile on her face-and Peter’s oversized pillow snuggled firmly to the length of her body.
Author - xebgoc
Rating - MA
Pairing - Peter Carlisle/Rose Tyler
Spoilers - None
Disclaimer - Characters from Blackpool and Doctor Who are the property of the BBC. I usurp them with the greatest of love and respect; no profit is intended from the writing or sharing of this story.
Summary - Rose finds herself home alone with Peter away helping a local constabulary on a case. Neither can sleep. Until after their phone conversation, that is.
Author’s Notes - This came out of a discussion on the Board Games thread of The Order of Things. I off-handedly said I’d do this but it would be 2020 before it was finished at the rate I wrote fiction. But then one morning I woke up with the story nearly fully formed in my head… not that it didn’t take considerable editing by the inestimable jlrpuck, whose willingness to let me invade her Peter/Rose territory with grace and amazing beta skills, is more than I could have hoped for… THANK YOU ! and so… follow the cut.
Alone, So Alone
Rose lay in bed staring at the clock, her arms wrapped tightly around Peter’s oversized pillow.
One-thirty. One-thirty-one. One-thirty-two.
She hated it when Peter had to go out of town to assist an investigation in northern England or Scotland.
One-thirty-three. One-thirty-four. One-thirty-five.
It was one thing when she was the one out of town on Torchwood business. When she sleeps alone then, it’s in a different bed and the memory of Peter beside her isn’t as intense. But laying here in their bed without him? It’s unbearable. So empty. So alone. So cold.
One-thirty-six. One-thirty-seven. One-thirty-eight.
This must be what Peter feels whenever she’s gone. Oh god, poor Peter. She may never be able to leave him behind again, now that she knows what it’s like for him. How could she be that cruel to him ?
One-thirty-nine. One-forty. One-forty-one.
It didn’t bother her as much early on, once Peter had finally moved to London. She would let herself believe he was still living in Kendal, and that the memory of him here beside her every night the week before was just a dream; or he had been in London on holiday but was back in Kendal again. But this was the first time he’d been away in several months and she’d grown so accustomed to him being next to her, wrapped around her, that she felt the void much more keenly than she’d ever imagined she would.
Their phone conversation as she got ready for bed earlier that night had been warm and gentle, each describing their days, and then he’d read to her for a few minutes trying to close the distance between them. It had, as usual, worked for a little while and they’d rung-off with “I love you” and a kiss through the receiver. She’d managed to slip into a restless sleep cradling the mobile in her hand as though it was Peter’s chin, and the pillow-his pillow-held tight along the length of her body in a vain attempt to feel less alone. It was a poor substitute, and she’d been awakened almost forty-five minutes later by a noise outside in the city. A noise that, on any other night, she probably wouldn’t have heard. And then she’d remembered that she was alone, that she missed Peter… OH so much.
Now she lay-alone-watching the clock.
One-forty-two. One-forty-three. One-forty-four.
And then the phone in her hand chirped. It was the ring-tone she’d assigned to “Carlisle” so long ago in Kendal, and a smile spread across her face, extending all the way down her body to her toes, as she flipped the phone open.
“Hello,” she said with a glow in her voice so obvious through the ether that she heard Peter’s breath catch a little.
“So, not asleep then ?” he asked.
“I can’t. Not without you here. I’ve been staring at the clock for I don’t know how long.” She paused. “You’re not asleep either. What’s wrong ?”
“Same,” he said. Rose could hear the edge of sleepless frustration in his voice.
“What can I do to help?” she asked.
“I just wanted to hear your voice. Will you read to me for a bit?”
“Of course I will,” she said softly as she rolled over, reaching to flip the switch at the base of the lamp on the bedstand. “What do you want to hear?”
She surveyed the small pile of books next to the lamp. Burns? Not that-she didn’t read poetry well, and that was Peter’s domain. Austen ? Again, Peter was much better with that, too. One of Peter’s rare modern fiction obsessions,Tom Robbins’ Jitterbug Perfume ? That would work, it was written in a more contemporary voice-much better suited, despite being American, to the slight cockney that tended to slip out when she wasn’t being the Vitex Heiress.
Her speech patterns had changed since coming to this side of the void: The people, outside of family and Torchwood, who didn’t know that she wasn’t this Pete Tyler’s natural daughter, expected her to be-ugh she hated to even think it--‘higher class’ than the girl from the council estate where she grew up. So she and Jackie had both made a conscious effort to look and sound like what would be expected of Pete Tyler’s wife and daughter. It was second nature to them now, but when they were in particularly comfortable situations they would relax and it would just slip out.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, “I just want to hear your voice. You could just tell me about your day again, or regale me with the exploits of Mickey and Jake. I miss you. I miss hearing you breathe next to me as you sleep. I miss the feel of your cold feet on my ankles. I miss…” his voice trailed off.
“Me too,” she said, flushing a little. Remembering what happened the last time she’d felt this way when she was on the phone with Peter, she decided to take the plunge. She continued, “I miss the feel of your long, soft, fingers gently brushing the hair off my neck when you think I’m asleep. I miss the heat of your breath in my ear as you slip into sleep yourself. I miss the way your knees fit behind my thighs as we lie curled together after we’ve made love.”
Rose heard Peter’s breath begin to labor a bit, and her knickers suddenly seemed awfully tight as she felt herself grow damp and sensitive. The fingers of the hand not holding the phone wandered under her shirt to her right nipple and squeezed, causing her to gulp slightly.
Peter heard it clearly and moaned, asking softly, “What are you doing?”
“Wishing you were here to lick my nipple,” she whispered in response, as her heart began to pound in earnest and the blood rushed simultaneously to her head and her clit.
“Rose.”
“Yes, Peter?”
“I can taste your nipple,” he replied, “feel my tongue circle it, b-bite you lightly,” he breathed.
Rose inhaled suddenly as her fingers squeezed in response to his slightly stuttered proclamation. “Oh god, Peter…”
“Yes, Rose?” he asked.
“D-d-do that again, please,” she exhaled.
“What are you wearing?” Peter growled.
“The usual, a teeshirt and shorts,” Rose murmured.
“Well then, I’ll have to help you remove them so I can touch all of you, won’t I? Because Rose, I want to suckle at your beautiful breasts. I want to kiss my way down your stomach and bury my tongue in you, suck on your clit like a lolly. I want to make you cry out for me, even though I’m a 200 miles away. I want us to come together, to make the distance evaporate.”
Rose shivered and felt herself move closer to the inevitable at Peter’s forthright declaration of lust. She could hear his voice begin to grow thick and his breathing shallow and rapid as he realized what they had started. She didn’t think it would take long for either of them at this rate. She was closer than she’d thought even a couple of minutes ago, and she could tell by the slight strain in Peter’s voice that he was lying there in his pyjama bottoms, fully hard, trying desperately not to shoot off at the merest brush of his hand.
“Peter, I’m taking my shirt off… ” She could hear him groan on the other end of the phone. “I can feel your lips between my breasts, feel you breathe into the gulf, now my shirt is off.” She took a deep breath. “My nipples are hard and my fingers are buried in your hair.”
“I’m kissing my way down the middle of your stomach,” he continued, “my tongue is licking into your belly button tasting the soap you used this morning… Oh. God. Rose.” He gasped. “I’m. not. sure. I. can. last.”
“Shhhhh, I’m reaching down, untying your pyjamas, and taking you in my hand, feel my fingers wrapping around you… calming the urge… you can do this, Peter. We’ll get there together, I promise.”
She heard him heave a little sigh of relief as his breathing slowed and got a little deeper, taking in a little more oxygen, clearing his head slightly.
“Where was I?”
“I think you were nuzzling my navel,” Rose answered, “and I was about to say ‘Please, Peter, don’t stop.’”
“I kiss my way up, the bottom rib, then the next one up, towards your left breast, slowly taking your nipple between my teeth and bite down… just a little, while my left hand squeezes your other nipple simultaneously…you arch your back up into my mouth.”
Peter’s voice was beginning to falter again, and Rose took the opportunity to continue “I grab your hair and draw you face-to-face with me, kiss you lightly on the nose, the left cheek, down to the little scar just to left of your chin, a little nip and up to take your bottom lip and then both lips, as my tongue licks your upper lip. Relax into it… let me taste you. Slowly, I slide my tongue up to the roof of your mouth.”
Peter groaned. ”That’s no way to slow me down, I’m so close.” He swallowed hard. “I kiss your jaw, and follow that down your neck to your clavicle, over the top of your right breast, a little nip there to balance the earlier one on the left and on down, further, as my hands stray lower, beginning to play with the feathery hair above my target.” Peter heard Rose gasp and felt, in his minds-eye, her hips arch into his hand.
It was nearly enough to send him over the edge. He heard Rose swallow, and encouraging him to take his mind off his own near-to-bursting sensation, whisper, “Lower Peter… your mouth… lower, please.”
With the opposite effect than Rose had intended, it was nearly more than Peter could take and he stopped dead to gather himself together. Calmer, he continued in a husky voice, “My right hand dips just below the hair line, and finds your slickness.” His voice caught again as Rose moaned, but he persevered, “My tongue trails through your navel and I kiss you right in the middle of your mons, before my tongue follows my fingers into the damp, taking your clit in my mouth and rolling it around on my tongue.”
Rose gurgled and Peter giggled at the sound, deciding to further torture her, “First to the left, then to the right, as my finger strokes lightly just outside….”
“PETER,” Rose cried.
“Yes?” Peter answered in a maddeningly calm voice with a slight smile to it. He paused for a brief--though seemingly, to Rose, interminable--moment and then continued, “then I plunge two fingers deep inside.”
Rose’s voice was crystal clear as she wailed, “I NEED YOU, PETER! NOW,” and the two of them hit the crest, together. Their orgasms rolled through them, raising them each off their respective beds, Peter’s hand holding himself flat against his stomach as he pulsed, thread after thread across his torso, the fingers of Rose’s right hand buried deep inside herself, as, clasping the phone between her ear and her shoulder, she tweaked her right breast with her left hand, and forgot to breathe entirely for an extended moment.
Silence. On both ends of the phone. For about twenty seconds. And then fits of giggles. On both ends of the phone.
“Wow,” said Peter.
“Yeah,” said Rose, “ that was… wow.”
“Peter?”
“Mmm?”
“I think I’ll be able to sleep now,” she said with a grin in her voice, “but if you still want me to read to you, I will.”
“Oh,” Peter’s voice was a little gravely. “ I think I’ll be able to sleep too,” he chuckled.
“Same time tomorrow night?” Asked Rose.
“Yes. I think so,” he replied.
And in unison “I love you, goodnight” and they ring off.
Rose looked at the clock. Two-ten. All that in twenty-five minutes. She slipped into sleep with a smile on her face-and Peter’s oversized pillow snuggled firmly to the length of her body.