Lover's Infiniteness (1/1)
Title: Lover’s Infiniteness
Rating: M
Author: jlrpuck
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: What if Peter Carlisle's mum hadn't died from an overdose?
Authors Notes: More scenes from Peter and Rose’s first year together.
To forestall the question I know I'll get: I'm not currently planning to post a ficlet on Thursday, but failing all else there will be two drabbles going up that day. However--I *will* be posting this Wednesday--a Doctor/Rose fic, written for time_and_chips' Advent Calendar. FYI. :)
Thank you to chicklet73 and earlgreytea68 for their beta of this!
The Sun Rising - The Good Morrow - The Triple Fool - The Undertaking - The Primrose - The Bard’s Epitaph - The Bait - On His Mistress - The Canonization - Valediction - Lover’s Infiniteness - Epithalamion
Yet I would not have all yet.
He that hath all can have no more ;
And since my love doth every day admit
New growth, thou shouldst have new rewards in store
-John Donne, Lover’s Infiniteness
Peter had asked Rose to live with him only a week before he proposed; by July, Rose moved in with Peter-officially. The town took little notice, the residents by now accustomed to seeing her strolling the streets with her Professor, or doing a bit of shopping on her own; it was only the tabloids that made a fuss, and that died down once the papers realized that exploiting personal tragedy (Catie’s death; Rose’s ‘skiing’ accident) would only sell so many papers. The general public sentiment seemed to be happiness for Rose, and envy and approval of Peter, and they were soon enough left alone.
It helped, of course, that since taking a more active role in Vitex Rose had conducted several interviews with the more reputable periodicals, advocating passionately and eloquently for whichever organization Vitex was working with at the time. The questions about her education and provenance had almost completely evaporated when she officially changed her residence, and she and Peter settled into the challenge of merging two very different lives.
It was hard, at first, the reality sinking in with a leaden finality one morning after a particularly heated argument. She was living with Peter. The town was her home now. Suddenly, the time spent staying at Peter’s house before seemed like play-acting, Rose now aware that she’d always had the security of retreating to London if things fell apart.
No longer. She was in this for the long haul; she needed to work through the arguments with him instead of running away. But he also needed to learn how to listen to her, properly, and work out how to get over his own anger after an argument.
It took time, the heady joy of living together turning into weariness after a few weeks, then settling into something approaching a normal life. They had more arguments; they got better at working through them, at learning when to let the other go and sulk, and when to pursue the argument to the bitter end, ensuring the air was clear before parting ways or going to sleep. Peter learned Rose was brilliant at cooking some basics but tended to grow frustrated when using a recipe; Rose learned Peter was a fair cook who became a great one when presented with instructions from a cookbook. Peter learned to at least pretend to care about leaving the toilet seat down; Rose learned Peter hated it when wet towels were left on the floor.
Their lives twined together, taking root in the quiet downtime of summer.
Peter started teaching again that autumn; he was excited going in, eager to see what his classes would be like, what kinds of bright young minds he’d have before him. By the end of the first week, he was exhausted-a normal state, he said, until he found his rhythm. He eventually set a pattern-re-learning how to balance work and his personal life-while Rose was learning how to function within that pattern; when to leave him be as he worked in his small office in the house, when he needed a distraction, whether through conversation, a short walk, or some other means.
With Peter’s full-time return to teaching, Rose set to working in earnest for Vitex. She’d been able to take over an office or two in the Vitex Research Institute; with a bit of assistance from her father, she’d been able to have the room kitted out so that it was not only what one would expect of the head of a Charitable Organization, but also could be used for Torchwood work. Rose would never go back to field work, but she remained one of the key consultative staff for Torchwood. Peter hadn’t been best pleased to learn of her continued work for her old employer-at least, not at first. He only knew of the bad things which had happened, had assumed that every assignment or job meant running for her life, or being shot at. He’d come to realize, however, that the role Rose filled was far more…prosaic. Odd packages would show up, some days; other days, she’d receive phone calls in the middle of the night. But-as she’d promised him on her mum’s sofa-she no longer went into the field. And, throughout it all, she continued to advocate for support to charities, and organize fundraisers, and do the thousand other little things required of her in her role as Vitex Heiress.
She learned when he most likely needed to be pulled away from his small stone office at his college, either needing rescuing from an overeager student, or from the reams of paper which seemed to have taken over his desk. “If I’m not home by eight, I need saving,” Peter had told her with a smile in the first week of term, and with that rule in mind she’d visited the office several times now, often earning a wary glare from whichever co-ed had been ogling the Professor under the auspices of needing assistance with coursework.
Peter learned that Rose still grew melancholy, missing her old life in spite of loving her current one; and he learned that the best way to help her through the bouts was simply to be there for her, to listen to her if she wanted to talk, to hold her if she didn’t. He also learned that she loved to sneak into various lectures once term began, and if time allowed. She seemed to take an interest in a wide variety of subjects, attending lectures on everything from history-on the Great War, although not on the utilization of industrial fibres during its course-to theoretical physics. From what he heard, she always sat in the back of the room, paying rapt attention, asking her questions after lecture ended. His colleagues teased him mercilessly about it; he loved her the more for it, although he never told her he knew.
~ - ~
The months seemed to have flown by, everything passing in a whirlwind since she’d come across him in the spring. It still felt like a dream at times: she’d be in her office, surrounded by the warm wood lining the walls, and would suddenly realize this was her life. Or she’d be sat in the wing chair in front of the fireplace in his-their-house, reading, and would be surprised to see him across from her, writing or working or, more rarely during term, reading for pleasure. He was there. He was hers. She’d found a life she’d never thought possible.
It was only a week before end of term, and she couldn’t wait to have Peter to herself for a few short weeks over the winter holiday. He still had to finish writing, and she still had to make the trek to London for Christmas (Peter remained mystified by the holiday as she’d described it, although he’d agreed to join her) and John’s birthday, but the fact was that she and Peter would once again be able to spend time together, with relatively few distractions. At least until his mum arrived from Croy to celebrate his birthday.
Rose stumbled, her attention shifting from her thoughts back to reality. She pulled her coat more tightly around her as she walked across one of the grassy spaces; winter came early this far north, and she was still having trouble adjusting to the sharp bite of the wind. Low clouds scudded overhead, threatening some form of precipitation, and the air was heavy with moisture in spite of it not having rained for days. Her ankle throbbed, and she fought down a frown of annoyance; she hated being reminded of that injury.
It was quarter past eight when she pushed open the door to the building housing Peter’s office. The hall was dark, the air just as cold inside as out, and Rose sighed as she passed a flickering light marking a doorway. She was fairly sure the plumbing in the building was from the 19th century, and the wiring from the early 20th. It was ridiculous-the university had more than enough money to update everything in the buildings, and she had said as much to Peter. He’d been horrified by the suggestion, reminding her that it was an honour to have an office in the oldest building on the grounds, and a building that had been little changed since the college was built. When she’d protested that he surely froze in his office over winter, he had pointed out that his office had a fireplace, and that it was perfectly adequate for warming the space when it was cold.
The stairs, at least, were well-lit, and she climbed up the narrow stone spiral wondering exactly how much money was spent on providing wood to the individual professors with offices in that building. It had to cost a small fortune.
Peter’s door was cracked open, light spilling from it into the hallway; Rose slowly pushed the door inwards, and fought down a smile as she took in the scene before her. Peter was at his desk, his feet kicked up on the edge of the wood, his chair rocked back and his head tilted. He was sound asleep. The desk, amazingly, was almost clear; one corner had papers neatly stacked on it, whilst the opposite corner appeared to hold only an empty folder. It was the neatest she’d ever seen that piece of furniture, and she briefly boggled.
Rose pushed the door closed as quietly as she could before sliding out of her coat, placing it and her scarf on the chair in front of the desk. She made sure the umbrella leaned against the chair without sliding to the ground with a clatter, and tiptoed her way around to stand next to Peter. His glasses were slightly askew, his hair standing on end, and she noticed he still had a pen lightly held between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. A small pile of papers rested below his left, evidence of him having fallen asleep mid-edit. He couldn’t have been asleep for too long- a fire crackled merrily in the fireplace, and the room was almost unbearably warm compared to the temperature outside.
She crouched, gently reaching for the pen, sliding it out of his now-slack hand; it was the same fountain pen she’d seen him use when working at the house. The silver plating had worn away around the grip, although the gold and silver of the nib glinted in the light, and she quickly capped the beloved object before placing it on the desk.
Rose returned her attention to the still-dozing Peter. Resting her bum against the edge of the desk she leaned towards Peter, her hand coming forward to gently stroke his cheek. Her engagement ring caught the light, sparkling, and she felt her heart give a quick leap as she once again considered that she would soon be married to the man in front of her. Well…soon in relative terms. Jackie had insisted on a wedding one year to the day from when they’d met for the third time, and was planning the society wedding to end all society weddings in order to commemorate the event. Another four long months would pass before they were legally bound, in front of what appeared to be half the country.
Peter slowly blinked awake, his eyes heavy with sleep.
“Hello,” she whispered, not wanting to startle him.
“Mmm,” he replied, wincing at the crick in his neck as he raised his head. He tilted forward, his legs swinging off his desk, the chair coming to rest on all four legs, and he reached up to rub his neck.
“Long day?” she asked, sympathetically, her hand resting now on his shoulder. She’d had no idea how utterly exhausting it could be for a professor, until she’d started living with one.
“End of term-the days are always longer.” He captured her hand, and brushed a kiss over the palm.
She nodded sympathetically.
“How late is it?”
Rose smiled. “Near to half-eight.”
“I missed supper.”
“There will be others.”
“I didn’t ring. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not the end of the world, Peter.” She leaned forward, brushing a kiss over his cheek. “I’d reckoned on you being busy,” she added, smiling as she straightened.
“How so?” He leaned back, stretching and-blast him-smirking as he noticed her watching.
“Mm? Oh. Supper’s in the fridge. We can heat it when we get back.”
Peter finished stretching, turning his attention briefly to the pile of papers on the floor next to him. As he leaned over, straining to gather the last of the sheets, his shirt rode up and exposed a small sliver of his pale torso.
Rose couldn’t resist: she leaned forward, and gently traced a finger across the exposed skin, causing Peter to yelp.
“Then don’t tease me like that, Peter!” she grinned as he let the papers flutter back to the floor so he could hastily move to tug his jumper over his waist.
“I wasn’t teasing.”
“I think you were.” Rose moved, straddling Peter’s legs and settling in his lap. “I think you knew exactly what you were doing.” She leaned into him, brushing a kiss over his jaw.
She didn’t miss the flush which stole across his skin, or the way his eyes darkened as she pulled back.
“Are you trying to seduce me?” he whispered, his hand reaching forward to gently brush her hair back from her face.
“Yes.” Her hands, which had been resting against his chest, slid up and over his shoulders. “Absolutely.”
She leaned forward again, her fingers now resting in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him to her for a kiss. His lips met hers, opening immediately; he kissed her deeply, his arms wrapping around her and holding her to him.
She pulled back several moments later, gasping for air, her head spinning. Peter slowly opened his eyes, his lips curving into a small smile as he gazed at her. “Was that what you had in mind, Rose?” His voice was gravelly and low, and she felt desire pool within her.
“No,” she whispered, savoring her small victory when doubt briefly flashed across Peter’s face. She ducked in, brushing a kiss over the corner of his mouth, before pulling back and standing. “I had another idea.”
She hurriedly pulled her boots off, tossing them aside, before moving to stand directly in front of him, her bum just brushing against the edge of his desk. She leaned over, turning the desk lamp off; the room was cast in a warm golden glow, the fire still burning brightly in the fireplace.
“I want you to make love to me, Peter. Here.” She whispered the words, not moving, steadily watching him even though her heart was racing.
Holding his gaze she reached down, unbuttoning her trousers, pulling the zip down; he moved faster than she’d ever seen, standing and kissing her and pressing her against his desk, his hands moving to her trousers, pushing the fabric down over her hips as his tongue stole into her mouth. She could feel his erection pressing against her, and wiggled against him to help the wool of her trousers slide down her legs.
He arched against her, pressing his erection into her hip, and she gasped. As he relaxed, her hands moved to the waist of his trousers, working to undo the clasp, to free him from the denim.
The zip slid down, and she wasted no time in slipping her hand into his pants, cupping him, giving him a light squeeze as she stroked her tongue across the roof of his mouth. She was only vaguely aware of the heavy splattering of raindrops against the window behind him as he retaliated by dancing his fingers across the waist of her panties.
She’d expected to make love to him on the bedroll he kept in his office for long nights, or mid-day naps; he instead broke their kiss, pulling her into an embrace as he reached around her. He straightened, the pile of papers in his hand, and turned to deposit them safely on the chair behind him before returning his attention to Rose.
“I don’t want to be distracted,” he whispered, his lips hovering just out of reach, his dark eyes boring into hers. “I want to be able to focus on you…on the feel of being in you, of driving into you as you orgasm…”
Rose swallowed, feeling her clit twinge. Peter loved to tell her what he’d do, then make good on his promises in the most exquisite ways.
His thumbs looped under the waist of her knickers, tugging them down; she matched his movements, her hands working to slide his trousers and pants down from his hips, freeing his erection. Her hand immediately encircled him, tightening, stroking upwards, and she whispered, “I can’t wait for you to be in me, Peter.” She slammed her hand down, against the base of his penis, her thumb slowly rubbing a circle around the head.
“Why is that, Rose?” He watched her, his hands resting on her hips; he ducked back as she leaned in for a kiss. “Tell me, Rose,” he whispered.
“Because I love how it feels, Peter. How you make me feel.” She stroked upwards again, tightening her hand, then releasing him, dancing her fingers down his length in a random pattern. She slowly used her forefinger to circle upwards in a spiral, teasing him, trying to push him to the edge first. “I want you,” she said, softly, as her finger slid through the crease at the head of his penis.
She won. Peter leaned forward, kissing her, lifting her onto the edge of his desk before slipping a hand down, two fingers plunging immediately into her. She moaned, arching her back; giving up her torment of him, she reached down for the hem of her jumper and ripped it over her head.
She reached forward, desperate now to get Peter out of his shirt; he pulled away from her, pausing long enough to lick his fingers slowly before setting to unbuttoning his shirt with a smirk.
That simply wouldn’t do. Rose reached forward again, this time sliding her fingers past the base of his erection, cupping his balls, her fingers gently brushing the skin behind them. Ensuring she had Peter’s attention-and she did, now, his eyes riveted to her as she teased him-she slid her other hand to her breast, teasing herself briefly before dipping her hand between her legs.
Peter leaned forward, kissing her fiercely, the nip of his teeth and swipe of his tongue interspersed with Gaelic. He reached between them, taking her hand in his, guiding it away from where she cupped him, guiding her to encircle his erection again; with his hand still wrapped around hers, he guided her to stroke him, roughly upwards, then down; up and down, his hand tightening around hers as he encouraged her to speed up. She lost interest in pleasuring herself, instead focusing on Peter, on the feel of him guiding her.
Peter pulled back from the kiss; when she opened her eyes, he reached for her free hand and brought it to his lips, drawing her fingers into his mouth one at a time, his tongue taking care to slowly swipe across her skin as he sucked gently. He continued to guide her as she stroked him, and she felt herself tip towards her orgasm, her eyes closing and her head falling back.
“Rose. Look at me.” Peter’s voice was a growl, his breath hot against her still-damp fingers. She raised her head, looking at him, at his flushed face, at the beads of sweat on his forehead and his damp hair.
She loved him more than anything else in the world.
“Tell me how it feels, Rose,” Peter growled before pulling her forefinger into his mouth once more.
“It…warm, and hot…like I imagine I feel around you…love feeling you in my hand…how heavy you are…warm and solid and I want you in me, Peter, oh god…please…” Her orgasm washed through her, almost painful, her body clenching around nothingness, her eyes tearing as she strained to keep watching Peter.
He released her hands, and in one fluid motion had aligned himself and pushed into her.
“God! Peter!” She couldn’t help the shout which ripped from her throat at the feeling of him in her, rotating his hips in a circle as he buried himself fully. He pulled out, drove into her; Rose felt her breath hitch, a half-sob tearing from her throat.
“More…don’t stop…” she gasped, desperate for him to keep moving, to prolong the feeling.
“Tell me why, Rose,” Peter whispered, holding still.
“Please.”
“Why?”
“I love it. I love you, want more…please, Peter…”
He pulled out, slid into her slowly, the gentleness of the action erotic in the extreme. He set up a slow, steady rhythm, watching her, his hand cupping her jaw, his thumb brushing across her lips just before he leaned in to kiss her.
She buried her hands in his hair, holding him to her, desperate to ground herself in something as he began to drive her on to a second orgasm. She lost track of time, lost track of where she was, or of anything outside of him, in her, of them.
“Tha gaol agam ort. Mo ghaol, mo ghràdh…” He whispered the endearments between kisses, slowly increasing his rhythm and the force behind his thrusts; Rose brought her hands forward to cup his jaw, making sure he was watching her before she reached between them, her fingers finding her clit, working to encourage her second orgasm. Peter’s hand found hers, replacing it, teasing her as he continued to push into her.
“Peter!” she whispered his name as her orgasm crested again. “I love you. My Peter.” She leaned in, brushing a kiss across his jaw, moving to whisper against his ear, “Tha gaol agam ort.”
She knew he loved it when she used his second language with him, even if it was something so simple as “I love you.” He turned his head, once more capturing her lips, almost desperate this time, his thrusts growing more erratic as his orgasm hit. He pressed as far into her as he could, his arms now holding her to him in a crushing embrace, and she brushed a kiss over his temple as he finally relaxed.
“My Peter,” she repeated, her hand gently stroking his hair. He turned to rest his cheek on her shoulder, the tension slowly leaving his body.
The fire had died down, the room now chilly to her sweat-soaked skin. She tilted her head, and whispered, “’s rainin’.”
“Yes.” Peter raised his head, bringing a hand to cradle her jaw. He leaned forward, kissing her; a light brush of his lips against hers, his body still flush against hers and in her. She brought her legs around his hips, holding him to her, savouring the press his skin against hers and the general feeling of completeness.
“I love this, Peter. Love you,” she whispered, breaking the kiss to say the words.
“The desk?” he asked, a smile in his voice, leaning in to kiss her.
“No. Well, yes. But…I love just being with you.” She’d blinked open her eyes, was watching Peter’s once-more dark brown eyes.
“I love being with you, Rose. Love knowing that you’ll always be there.”
“’s a good thing we’re getting’ married, then.” She gave him a small smile, her tongue sliding to the corner of her mouth.
“That it is.”
~ fin ~