• flower enthusiast rose knightley • (flowercrown) wrote in valesco, @ 2015-11-26 20:16:00 |
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Entry tags: | peter fitzwilliams, rose knightley |
WHO: Peter Fitzwilliams & Rose Knightley
WHAT: every holiday deserves its own plot
WHERE: Fitchburg, Mass!
WHEN: tonight!
Peter shrugged off his jacket and unwound his scarf in a quick swoop, feeling a wave of déjà vu come over him as it had been a long time since he had donned such muggle clothing. He hung them carefully on the hooks by the front door of the flat---apartment, and even though he had been here earlier in the day, it still felt surprising to once again be here. Peter had kept the place in Fitchburg not because he thought he would visit often (even if Maximus did owl him many the invitation), but...if things fell through in England like they so often seemed to…
“I have forgotten that I could eat so much,” Peter said as he helped Rose with her coat. Thanksgiving had not confused Peter as much as his American teammates had thought it would; he actually enjoyed the holiday quite a bit. Compared to all the other holidays, there was no stress of gift giving, no scorned lovers expecting the most (or worst) from their other half. It was at its core, about being together with those you cared about.
Of course, there was the infamous Brankovitch Thanksgiving of 1983 that he’d been sworn to never speak of, but overall, the holiday had treated him well.
“How would you rate your first Thanksgiving?” Peter asked Rose, his hands lingering against the hooks of the rack. Though it was his old apartment---flat---Peter felt like a guest, and looked to Rose for a lead to the rest of their evening.
“I have never eaten so much in my life,” she lamented, absolutely needing help with her coat, because her body had never felt so stuffed and heavy. At first, the idea had seemed somewhat silly; sitting and eating for hours? That was very… American, and Brankovitch certainly did not need more ample opportunity to talk as he desired. But as the afternoon progressed, Rose had realized her first assumptions were very wrong. It wasn’t about eating (well, it was), but more enjoying a relaxed familial experience maybe away from home, or with people you didn’t expect. She liked the sentiment, and certainly enjoyed all stories that had been told.
Most of all, she had truly enjoyed learning a few things about Peter and his Fitchburg days.
“My first Thanksgiving was super great, Pete,” she puffed, her lips curling into a great smirk as she leaned back to pat his shoulder. Peter Fitzwilliams, a Pete? She had hardly believed it. How had Maximus Brankovitch managed to survive all these years? Kicking her shoes off, Rose quickly pattered away from Peter, eventually spinning on her heel to look back at him with innocent shrugging shoulders.
She could never, ever, let this go.
“Wouldn’t have had it any other way, Pete,” Rose announced, her palms rising high up into the air. Her lips pressed together amused, and anticipating him to follow her, she slowly inched back further by the tips of her toes. In a moment of near pain she almost ran into the lampstand next to the living room couch, but expertly avoided it the last second.
“What was your favorite part, Pete?” She, surely, was asking for it.
Oh, oh, oh, he had known that it was too lucky to have only been slung a very quick look of surprise at the first mention of his State-side nickname.
No matter how hard he had tried to deter it, the Finches had renamed him Pete and it had stuck throughout his time with the team. He would be surprised if some of them were even aware that his full name was Peter, but, it had been something he’d grown accustomed to, and hadn’t thought about it until the sound of the nickname sent a jolt of embarrassment through him earlier in the day, with Rose standing beside him.
Now, Peter was not one to chase, but if Rose was going to insist...He smirked a wicked (wicked awesome) smirk before picking up speed after her, his shoes being a bit detrimental in his attempts to slide around corners. Thankfully, it appeared that Rose may have wanted to be caught, and it wasn’t long before his hands were on her waist. Peter tugged her to him, expertly backing her down the hallway until they bumped into a wall.
“Now, now, Rosie,” he said, having heard her brother call her the petname on occasion. ‘Pete and Rosie,’ they sounded like an old wireless sitcom. Peter’s eyebrows went high in amusement, his hands trailing up her sides as he rather liked the close proximity they’d ended up in. “That’s not very nice, is it?”
She let out a scandalized little gasp at the production of a nickname she hardly liked people to call her. Her brother, of course, had coined it himself, and her begrudgement for it was well-known; she really shouldn’t be surprised Peter remembered that. Did he forget anything? No, Rose thought as her palms reached up to press down on his shoulders, she was quite sure he did not.
It felt so very good to finally have Peter here. Rose had missed him, more that she would like to admit (and certainly more than she should say aloud). They had written, of course, over the past two months, and his image and presence were (literally) all around her here in Fitchburg, but it was not the same as the real thing. Had he longed for her like she longed for him? As one of her hands slid under his collar, to lightly brush her fingers along his warm skin, she found herself hoping so.
“You don’t like your American name?” Rose asked innocently, raising up onto her toes to press closer to him. In tilting her head to stare, perhaps with a glint in her eye, the back of her head rested against the wall. “I would have never guessed.”
Rose Knightley was far from innocent, as her second application of lipstick indicated after a quick, but heated snog in the loo of the Brankovitch home. Peter had been admittedly quite eager to see Rose, to kiss her, to make up for lost time, and it had been difficult to keep his hands to himself. It was no surprise that they’d barely gotten through the door before his eyes were glued to the exposed skin of her neck, that his hands teased with the idea of slipping under her shirt.
Peter found himself startled at how much he craved Rose. Physically was a problem he couldn’t be blamed for, but it shook everything he knew or thought he knew about himself that he had so quickly allowed his once-thought-lost feelings come screaming back to life. It had puzzled him, he had thought that over the years his life had settled with his decisions and with how it was to play out without her, but the moment Peter had felt a glimmer of a chance to be with Rose, his mind was tangled with only the idea of it.
They could have been married for years, by now, if he had proposed like he’d wanted, if she’d accepted. Marriage, a home. Peter hadn’t had a real home, he didn’t think, his entire life. Wasn’t a home a place you wanted to be, and where people were happy you were? You didn’t take up space in your own home, you fit perfectly. He’d wanted that with Rose. He would have enjoyed that, and he had thought she would have too.
“You can call me whatever you like,” Peter said, his hands pulling her even tighter to him. His lips curled up from their thoughtful twist.
Her breath caught in her throat at his words, and Rose’s quiet wonder of where Peter had just gone fainted away. Instead, she found her chest rising in anticipation, her ribs constricting with a shaking inhale as her arms wrapped tighter around his neck. And for a moment, a very small one, Rose experienced the long-hidden shyness that she had once always felt when Peter Fitzwilliams looked at her like he was now.
But seven years ago had been a very different time, and she was a different person now. So shuffling away that meekness, wanting nothing to do with it because she knew better, Rose finally picked her head up off the wall to bring her face closer to his. Looking at his lips, Peter’s beautifully salty-sweet lips, she was almost tempted to kiss him then. But, no. They were playing, and didn’t he know how terribly competitive she could get?
Rose blinked slowly as she turned her head away, intent instead on pressing her lips to the side of his head. As she whispered into Peter’s ear, her leg picked up to rub against his.
“We’ll see what you have me moaning,” she breathed, and because she could, Rose trailed her mouth down to a supple part of his neck to press it there, too.
He liked to win, too, but he wasn’t particularly fond of waiting. Peter’s hand on her waist had been unconsciously bunching the skirt of her dress and he reached under to grasp Rose’s thigh to hike up her leg even further. He knew what she was doing, she knew what she was doing, and though he had been waiting all these months to be with her again (longer, since before All-Stars…), Peter could not relinquish the victory to Rose just yet.
His arm around her waist loosened and his hand dropped, but not for long. Peter feigned compliance with Rose’s attempt to subdue him, and when her lips pressed against his skin again, his hand raced up the thigh of her other leg and expertly under the elastic of her knickers so that he could capture her off guard.
“Only moan?” he asked innocently, though his eyes were alight with desire for her. Without warning once again, savoring the element surprise, Peter knelt down to the floor. Finding it quite easy to hook Rose’s leg over his shoulder, he wondered briefly if the silencing spells on the flat had been reinforced before he pushed the fabric of her skirt and anything else that would be a hindrance away.
He quickly found that he did not give a damn if anyone heard what name Rose called him tonight.
“Peter,” Rose dragged, her gasp shallow and sharp at his touch. It was a rather pitiful attempt that she made at withholding herself, but nonetheless, her head knocked back against the wall again as she tried to press her lips together and stop the loud moan he was slowly, purposefully building within her. It was more than a moan, he was working to achieve something much greater than that, and as her jaw dropped, Rose thought herself on fire.
Writhing, he had her writhing before him, and it was not long before---
Later, Rose would remember she had purposely taken down all silencing wards on the apartment, finding she experienced a small comfort at the sound of others going about their lives around her. Now, it was the farthest thing from her mind as, with one hand gripping his hair, she moaned loudly in defeat.
“Peter--- Peter----!”
Perhaps, Rose still had the composure to discern, Peter had some idea of what he wanted to hear her cry out.