An Alternate Thing - Story Three
Title: The Triple Fool
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: The third tale of Professor Peter Carlisle, and Vitex Heiress (and former Torchwood Field Agent) Rose Tyler.
Thank you to earlgreytea68 and chicklet73 for their beta of this. This hasn't been Brit-picked, so any failings on that front - and indeed, in general - are absolutely my own.
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
I am two fools, I know,
For loving, and for saying so
In whining poetry.
-John Donne, The Triple Fool
They’d spent the week together, hidden away in his house. After spending the entirety of the first day together, she’d emerged only long enough to collect her bags from the hotel, and to ring to London to let her family know she’d be staying in the small town for a few more days (or weeks); he’d taken the opportunity to visit the chemist and the grocer, so they’d not have to leave the house again, if they didn’t want to.
This morning, a week to the day since they’d found each other again, they were curled together in his living room; he was reading an old collection of Donne’s works, whilst she was frowning as she read the morning papers. Two half-finished cups of coffee sat on the floor next to where they reclined together on the sofa, and the bowls containing the remnants of their cereal from earlier that morning were set precariously on the edge of the low coffee table.
He remained amazed at the ease which he already felt in her presence. He knew he loved her, but he hadn’t known her when he brought her back to his house that morning when he’d so fortuitously found her, gazing intently at his favourite building in the town; over the previous six days, he’d learned not only what made her moan, or beg - but also her favourite dish from the Thai take away, the way she preferred her coffee, and what made her laugh. He’d learned she loved classical fiction, but eschewed history (awkward, to some degree, given that it was his field of expertise).
He’d learned she had a long scar running along the left side of her torso, and that she hated for him to acknowledge that he’d seen it. He had asked her about it, when he awoke next to her on their second morning together; she’d said it was from an accident.
She’d learned he slept naked, and that he wouldn’t even think about putting a stitch of clothing on until after he’d had his first cup of coffee in the morning (milk, two sugars).
She’d learned about his life before they’d met - about his mum, and Martin, and his late father, and even about his late wife.
She’d travelled the world, and had been surprised to learn that the only place he’d been to outside of the country was Iceland. He’d spent years sitting degrees, reading, lecturing, writing--finally attaining his professorship; she’d never attended school beyond tutoring, and yet he thought her one of the cleverest people he knew.
He stroked his hand along her arm, reading the verses from one of Donne’s earlier poems. Rose sighed, gently setting the paper in her lap as she leaned her head back against his shoulder.
“Penny for your thoughts,” she said, softly.
The arm holding the book dropped to rest on the back of the sofa. “Just reading.”
She turned, glancing up at him. “You’re thinking. You do that arm thing-‘s very soothing. But it’s a dead giveaway that something’s bothering you.” She gave him a small smile.
He leaned forward, kissing her nose. “I was thinking how very comfortable I am with you. And how remarkable that is, given I’ve only come to know you over the past week.”
“’s been a lovely week.” She blushed, and turned so she was facing forward once more. “And ’s been nice, getting to know you.”
“It’s been very nice, Rose.” He brushed his lips across her hair, and picked the book up to resume reading.
Rose relaxed into him, her hands resting just on her stomach; he moved his free hand, lacing his fingers through those of her left hand, and felt her sigh contentedly.
He finished reading his current page, and used their joined hands to flip to the next offering in the book. He couldn’t help but smile as he saw what he had turned to, and began to read to Rose.
“By our first strange and fatal interview,
By all desires which thereof did ensue,
By our long starving hopes, by that remorse
Which my words masculine persuasive force
Begot in thee, and by the memory
Of hurts, which spies and rivals threaten'd me,
I calmly beg.”1
Rose had gone very still, her skin flushing; she ducked her head as he paused, and he set the book down.
“Is…is this alright, Rose? My reading to you?” He craned his neck, trying to see her face.
“I...I’ve never had someone do that. Read poetry to me. ‘s…a bit weird.” She blushed further, and he closed the book, his finger marking the page.
“I…I can stop. If you like.” She turned to look up at him, confused and embarrassed; he removed his finger from the book, and slid the small object between his leg and the sofa back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Rose.”
“’m just - I’m not used to it. To being read to. And poetry…seems like something out of a novel. ‘s a bit…awkward.” She turned, ducking her chin.
He wrapped his arms around Rose, cradling her against his chest. “Ah, but poetry can be incredibly erotic, Rose.” He felt heat wash through her, and smiled. “Especially when it’s a poet writing to his mistress about the joys of sex.”
“Seems a bit silly, really. Why not just out and say it?” She turned to him, a challenging glint in her eye. She was taking the offensive in an effort to get past her embarrassment.
“Some of it is silly - quite a lot of it, actually, all flowery and so far into metaphor that the entire point is lost. But some of it…some of it has remarkable power.” He gazed at her seriously.
Her eyes darkened as she met his gaze. “I don’t believe you,” she whispered, her voice suddenly husky.
She was daring him to prove his point, and in a way that he wasn’t much of a mind to refuse.
“You should.” His voice was a low growl, and he leaned forward to kiss her.
She wiggled, turning in his embrace, her body now lying atop his as they kissed on the sofa. They’d made love every day but one, had spent untold hours kissing, and he still couldn’t get enough of the taste, of the sensation. He felt his body react immediately, his penis hardening as her lips worked against his.
He sat up, taking care that Rose moved to kneel as he shifted upright. He pulled back once he was fully seated, and gently stroked his knuckles down her cheek. “Let’s move to the bedroom, Rose.”
She licked her lips, leaning in for a quick kiss before pulling back and nodding her head. She stood, taking care to avoid the coffee cups, her hand sliding to take his as he stood next to her. He turned, leaning into her, kissing her fiercely as his free hand cupped her jaw; she released his hand, and he felt her fingers slide through his hair.
They really weren’t going to make it to the bedroom if this kept up. And if they didn’t make it to the bedroom, he’d not be able to make love to her. “Rose…have to…bedroom…condoms…” He gasped the words between kisses, one of Rose’s hands having moved to cup him, to tease him through the loose cotton pyjamas he’d donned that morning.
“Mmm,” was her response, her lips curving in a smile.
He wrenched himself away, turning, practically dragging her upstairs to the bedroom in his haste; he wanted out of his clothes, wanted to be sheathed in her, now.
She allowed him to get as far as the side of the bed with the table, then stopped, tugging his hand, pulling him to her for another kiss.
Her hands drifted to his bum this time, pulling his hips against hers, providing delicious pressure against his aching erection. His hands moved to the hem of her pyjama top, gently tugging it upwards, revealing more and more of her skin. She pulled back only long enough to allow him to pull the cotton over her head, before crashing her lips against his.
He began to brush his lips across her skin as his hands moved to the waist of her pyjama bottoms; as he slipped his fingers under the fabric, slowly working to slide it over her hips, he began to recite one of the many Donne poems he’d memorized over the years.
Send me some tokens, that my hope may live
He slid her pyjamas down her legs, and Rose stepped out of them; as he drifted kisses across her shoulders, he continued,
Or that my easeless thoughts may sleep and rest;
Rose paused briefly, her eyebrows quirking quizzically; he leaned in to kiss her as he slid a hand between her legs, his fingers finding the dampness there and slowly drifting into her folds.
Rose sighed, relaxing, her legs shifting apart so he could better tease her. She tilted her head back, tempting him to move his lips against her skin, to run his tongue along it; he did, interspersing the actions with words.
Send me some honey, to make sweet my hive,
hat in my passion I may hope the best.
Rose raised her head, her eyes hazy now with lust; he dipped his fingers into her, catching her gaze before raising them to his lips and swirling his tongue around them. Her lips crashed against his, her tongue plunging into his mouth; he felt a flash of electricity pass through him, felt the dampness at the tip of his penis slowly slide down his skin.
He pulled back, reaching for the condom packet on top of the bedside table. As he turned back to her, tearing the packet open, Rose’s hands moved to his erection. She lightly scraped her nails across the skin - almost enough to hurt, but not quite - and he arched, his breath hitching.
“Rose,” he whispered, breaking the rhythm of the poem.
She grinned, her hand now encircling him, and leaned forward. “Don’t let me interrupt you, Professor.”
He held her gaze, pulling the latex from the wrapper, as he collected himself and continued.
I beg no riband wrought with thine own hands,
She tightened her grip as she heard the words, stroking upwards firmly; he stuttered as he said the next line.
T-to knit our loves in the fantastic strain
Rose moved her hands, allowing him to roll the condom over his erection. He held her gaze as he recited,
Of new-touch'd youth; nor ring to show the stands
He checked quickly to make sure the latex was secure, then leaned forward, whispering against her lips,
Of our affection, that, as that's round and plain,
He wrapped her in his embrace, turning them so he could ease her onto the bed; Rose opened her eyes as she began to lie down, holding his gaze as they kissed, as his body covered hers.
He paused a moment to allow her to shift up the mattress, moving so he was between her legs, his hips resting against hers. She held his gaze, her eyes fathomless, as he prepared to slide into her.
So should our loves meet--
He thrust into her.
--in simplicity ;
And pulled out, watching Rose; she couldn’t stop looking at him, her lips parted slightly.
He repeated the rhythm with the next line.
No, nor the corals, which thy wrist enfold,
Rose licked her lips, her hands drifting to his head, gently pulling him towards her for a kiss. He kept the slow steady rhythm he’d set, interspersing lines now with kisses, with nips to her skin, or a languorous pull on the soft flesh of her earlobe. The words were more infrequent now, and he concentrated on working to drive Rose to orgasm.
Lac’d up together in congruity,
To show our thoughts should rest in the same hold;
No, nor thy picture, though most gracious,
And most desired, 'cause 'tis like the best
Nor witty lines, which are most copious,
Within the writings which thou hast address'd.
She was arching into him, her hands clenching and unclenching in his hair. He pulled back, watching her, her cheeks flushed; she was gnawing on her lower lip, her eyes unfocused as she turned inwards, desperate to find release. He slipped a hand between them, finding her clit, and began to stroke her in time to his thrusts.
Send me nor this nor that, to increase my score,
But swear thou think'st I love thee, and no more.2
The final words of the poem were lost in her cries as she came around him, her back arching, her hips thrusting against his as she tried to pull him further into her. He leaned forward, running his tongue over her exposed neck, increasing his pace, determined to come even as she clenched around him; she met his thrusts as her hands drifted to his bum.
“Your turn, Peter,” she whispered. Her lips found his earlobe, pulling the flesh in, sucking forcefully on it, and he felt his orgasm crash through him in a blinding wave.
He was conscious of crying out her name, of driving himself as far into her as he could; and then he was aware of being collapsed on top of her, his breath coming in gasps as the adrenaline slowly washed through him. Rose had returned her hands to his head, her fingers gently stroking through his hair, and he let out a sigh.
“Y’alright?” she whispered, her fingers now drifting down across his cheek.
“I’m better than alright.” He smiled, tilting his head up to look at her. “You?”
She smiled, her fingers resting against his jaw. “I’m just fine.”
He slid out of her, moving so he could lie next to her and pull her against him; she happily cuddled into his warmth, her hand resting on his chest.
Neither of them spoke for several moments.
“Peter?” Rose’s voice startled him - he’d been lost in daydreams, enjoying the buzz from their lovemaking.
“Hmm?”
“I…I may yet be convinced you were right.”
“About what?” he asked, bemused.
“Poetry.”
“Is that so?” he drawled, a smile pulling at his mouth.
She tilted her head up to look at him. “Don’t get cocky. I just wanted to say that I might yet be brought over to your way of thinking. Given enough evidence.” She grinned, and curled back into him.
He couldn’t wait to introduce her to Burns.
~ fin ~
1. ELEGY XVI: ELEGY ON HIS MISTRESS. by John Donne
2. THE TOKEN., by John Donne
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: The third tale of Professor Peter Carlisle, and Vitex Heiress (and former Torchwood Field Agent) Rose Tyler.
Thank you to earlgreytea68 and chicklet73 for their beta of this. This hasn't been Brit-picked, so any failings on that front - and indeed, in general - are absolutely my own.
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
I am two fools, I know,
For loving, and for saying so
In whining poetry.
-John Donne, The Triple Fool
They’d spent the week together, hidden away in his house. After spending the entirety of the first day together, she’d emerged only long enough to collect her bags from the hotel, and to ring to London to let her family know she’d be staying in the small town for a few more days (or weeks); he’d taken the opportunity to visit the chemist and the grocer, so they’d not have to leave the house again, if they didn’t want to.
This morning, a week to the day since they’d found each other again, they were curled together in his living room; he was reading an old collection of Donne’s works, whilst she was frowning as she read the morning papers. Two half-finished cups of coffee sat on the floor next to where they reclined together on the sofa, and the bowls containing the remnants of their cereal from earlier that morning were set precariously on the edge of the low coffee table.
He remained amazed at the ease which he already felt in her presence. He knew he loved her, but he hadn’t known her when he brought her back to his house that morning when he’d so fortuitously found her, gazing intently at his favourite building in the town; over the previous six days, he’d learned not only what made her moan, or beg - but also her favourite dish from the Thai take away, the way she preferred her coffee, and what made her laugh. He’d learned she loved classical fiction, but eschewed history (awkward, to some degree, given that it was his field of expertise).
He’d learned she had a long scar running along the left side of her torso, and that she hated for him to acknowledge that he’d seen it. He had asked her about it, when he awoke next to her on their second morning together; she’d said it was from an accident.
She’d learned he slept naked, and that he wouldn’t even think about putting a stitch of clothing on until after he’d had his first cup of coffee in the morning (milk, two sugars).
She’d learned about his life before they’d met - about his mum, and Martin, and his late father, and even about his late wife.
She’d travelled the world, and had been surprised to learn that the only place he’d been to outside of the country was Iceland. He’d spent years sitting degrees, reading, lecturing, writing--finally attaining his professorship; she’d never attended school beyond tutoring, and yet he thought her one of the cleverest people he knew.
He stroked his hand along her arm, reading the verses from one of Donne’s earlier poems. Rose sighed, gently setting the paper in her lap as she leaned her head back against his shoulder.
“Penny for your thoughts,” she said, softly.
The arm holding the book dropped to rest on the back of the sofa. “Just reading.”
She turned, glancing up at him. “You’re thinking. You do that arm thing-‘s very soothing. But it’s a dead giveaway that something’s bothering you.” She gave him a small smile.
He leaned forward, kissing her nose. “I was thinking how very comfortable I am with you. And how remarkable that is, given I’ve only come to know you over the past week.”
“’s been a lovely week.” She blushed, and turned so she was facing forward once more. “And ’s been nice, getting to know you.”
“It’s been very nice, Rose.” He brushed his lips across her hair, and picked the book up to resume reading.
Rose relaxed into him, her hands resting just on her stomach; he moved his free hand, lacing his fingers through those of her left hand, and felt her sigh contentedly.
He finished reading his current page, and used their joined hands to flip to the next offering in the book. He couldn’t help but smile as he saw what he had turned to, and began to read to Rose.
“By our first strange and fatal interview,
By all desires which thereof did ensue,
By our long starving hopes, by that remorse
Which my words masculine persuasive force
Begot in thee, and by the memory
Of hurts, which spies and rivals threaten'd me,
I calmly beg.”1
Rose had gone very still, her skin flushing; she ducked her head as he paused, and he set the book down.
“Is…is this alright, Rose? My reading to you?” He craned his neck, trying to see her face.
“I...I’ve never had someone do that. Read poetry to me. ‘s…a bit weird.” She blushed further, and he closed the book, his finger marking the page.
“I…I can stop. If you like.” She turned to look up at him, confused and embarrassed; he removed his finger from the book, and slid the small object between his leg and the sofa back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Rose.”
“’m just - I’m not used to it. To being read to. And poetry…seems like something out of a novel. ‘s a bit…awkward.” She turned, ducking her chin.
He wrapped his arms around Rose, cradling her against his chest. “Ah, but poetry can be incredibly erotic, Rose.” He felt heat wash through her, and smiled. “Especially when it’s a poet writing to his mistress about the joys of sex.”
“Seems a bit silly, really. Why not just out and say it?” She turned to him, a challenging glint in her eye. She was taking the offensive in an effort to get past her embarrassment.
“Some of it is silly - quite a lot of it, actually, all flowery and so far into metaphor that the entire point is lost. But some of it…some of it has remarkable power.” He gazed at her seriously.
Her eyes darkened as she met his gaze. “I don’t believe you,” she whispered, her voice suddenly husky.
She was daring him to prove his point, and in a way that he wasn’t much of a mind to refuse.
“You should.” His voice was a low growl, and he leaned forward to kiss her.
She wiggled, turning in his embrace, her body now lying atop his as they kissed on the sofa. They’d made love every day but one, had spent untold hours kissing, and he still couldn’t get enough of the taste, of the sensation. He felt his body react immediately, his penis hardening as her lips worked against his.
He sat up, taking care that Rose moved to kneel as he shifted upright. He pulled back once he was fully seated, and gently stroked his knuckles down her cheek. “Let’s move to the bedroom, Rose.”
She licked her lips, leaning in for a quick kiss before pulling back and nodding her head. She stood, taking care to avoid the coffee cups, her hand sliding to take his as he stood next to her. He turned, leaning into her, kissing her fiercely as his free hand cupped her jaw; she released his hand, and he felt her fingers slide through his hair.
They really weren’t going to make it to the bedroom if this kept up. And if they didn’t make it to the bedroom, he’d not be able to make love to her. “Rose…have to…bedroom…condoms…” He gasped the words between kisses, one of Rose’s hands having moved to cup him, to tease him through the loose cotton pyjamas he’d donned that morning.
“Mmm,” was her response, her lips curving in a smile.
He wrenched himself away, turning, practically dragging her upstairs to the bedroom in his haste; he wanted out of his clothes, wanted to be sheathed in her, now.
She allowed him to get as far as the side of the bed with the table, then stopped, tugging his hand, pulling him to her for another kiss.
Her hands drifted to his bum this time, pulling his hips against hers, providing delicious pressure against his aching erection. His hands moved to the hem of her pyjama top, gently tugging it upwards, revealing more and more of her skin. She pulled back only long enough to allow him to pull the cotton over her head, before crashing her lips against his.
He began to brush his lips across her skin as his hands moved to the waist of her pyjama bottoms; as he slipped his fingers under the fabric, slowly working to slide it over her hips, he began to recite one of the many Donne poems he’d memorized over the years.
Send me some tokens, that my hope may live
He slid her pyjamas down her legs, and Rose stepped out of them; as he drifted kisses across her shoulders, he continued,
Or that my easeless thoughts may sleep and rest;
Rose paused briefly, her eyebrows quirking quizzically; he leaned in to kiss her as he slid a hand between her legs, his fingers finding the dampness there and slowly drifting into her folds.
Rose sighed, relaxing, her legs shifting apart so he could better tease her. She tilted her head back, tempting him to move his lips against her skin, to run his tongue along it; he did, interspersing the actions with words.
Send me some honey, to make sweet my hive,
hat in my passion I may hope the best.
Rose raised her head, her eyes hazy now with lust; he dipped his fingers into her, catching her gaze before raising them to his lips and swirling his tongue around them. Her lips crashed against his, her tongue plunging into his mouth; he felt a flash of electricity pass through him, felt the dampness at the tip of his penis slowly slide down his skin.
He pulled back, reaching for the condom packet on top of the bedside table. As he turned back to her, tearing the packet open, Rose’s hands moved to his erection. She lightly scraped her nails across the skin - almost enough to hurt, but not quite - and he arched, his breath hitching.
“Rose,” he whispered, breaking the rhythm of the poem.
She grinned, her hand now encircling him, and leaned forward. “Don’t let me interrupt you, Professor.”
He held her gaze, pulling the latex from the wrapper, as he collected himself and continued.
I beg no riband wrought with thine own hands,
She tightened her grip as she heard the words, stroking upwards firmly; he stuttered as he said the next line.
T-to knit our loves in the fantastic strain
Rose moved her hands, allowing him to roll the condom over his erection. He held her gaze as he recited,
Of new-touch'd youth; nor ring to show the stands
He checked quickly to make sure the latex was secure, then leaned forward, whispering against her lips,
Of our affection, that, as that's round and plain,
He wrapped her in his embrace, turning them so he could ease her onto the bed; Rose opened her eyes as she began to lie down, holding his gaze as they kissed, as his body covered hers.
He paused a moment to allow her to shift up the mattress, moving so he was between her legs, his hips resting against hers. She held his gaze, her eyes fathomless, as he prepared to slide into her.
So should our loves meet--
He thrust into her.
--in simplicity ;
And pulled out, watching Rose; she couldn’t stop looking at him, her lips parted slightly.
He repeated the rhythm with the next line.
No, nor the corals, which thy wrist enfold,
Rose licked her lips, her hands drifting to his head, gently pulling him towards her for a kiss. He kept the slow steady rhythm he’d set, interspersing lines now with kisses, with nips to her skin, or a languorous pull on the soft flesh of her earlobe. The words were more infrequent now, and he concentrated on working to drive Rose to orgasm.
Lac’d up together in congruity,
To show our thoughts should rest in the same hold;
No, nor thy picture, though most gracious,
And most desired, 'cause 'tis like the best
Nor witty lines, which are most copious,
Within the writings which thou hast address'd.
She was arching into him, her hands clenching and unclenching in his hair. He pulled back, watching her, her cheeks flushed; she was gnawing on her lower lip, her eyes unfocused as she turned inwards, desperate to find release. He slipped a hand between them, finding her clit, and began to stroke her in time to his thrusts.
Send me nor this nor that, to increase my score,
But swear thou think'st I love thee, and no more.2
The final words of the poem were lost in her cries as she came around him, her back arching, her hips thrusting against his as she tried to pull him further into her. He leaned forward, running his tongue over her exposed neck, increasing his pace, determined to come even as she clenched around him; she met his thrusts as her hands drifted to his bum.
“Your turn, Peter,” she whispered. Her lips found his earlobe, pulling the flesh in, sucking forcefully on it, and he felt his orgasm crash through him in a blinding wave.
He was conscious of crying out her name, of driving himself as far into her as he could; and then he was aware of being collapsed on top of her, his breath coming in gasps as the adrenaline slowly washed through him. Rose had returned her hands to his head, her fingers gently stroking through his hair, and he let out a sigh.
“Y’alright?” she whispered, her fingers now drifting down across his cheek.
“I’m better than alright.” He smiled, tilting his head up to look at her. “You?”
She smiled, her fingers resting against his jaw. “I’m just fine.”
He slid out of her, moving so he could lie next to her and pull her against him; she happily cuddled into his warmth, her hand resting on his chest.
Neither of them spoke for several moments.
“Peter?” Rose’s voice startled him - he’d been lost in daydreams, enjoying the buzz from their lovemaking.
“Hmm?”
“I…I may yet be convinced you were right.”
“About what?” he asked, bemused.
“Poetry.”
“Is that so?” he drawled, a smile pulling at his mouth.
She tilted her head up to look at him. “Don’t get cocky. I just wanted to say that I might yet be brought over to your way of thinking. Given enough evidence.” She grinned, and curled back into him.
He couldn’t wait to introduce her to Burns.
~ fin ~
1. ELEGY XVI: ELEGY ON HIS MISTRESS. by John Donne
2. THE TOKEN., by John Donne