Title: A Lupercalia Thing (4/6)
Rating: T
Author: jlrpuck
Characters: Rose Tyler; Peter Carlisle
Disclaimer: Characters from Doctor Who and Blackpool are the property of BBC, and are used with the greatest of love and respect. No personal profit is intended from the writing or sharing of this story.
Summary: Peter and Rose celebrate Lupercalia—Pete’s World-style.
Notes: This was written for The Gang of Many Generous People who won my services through a (ridiculously large) winning bid in the April Support Stacie auction. This is one of the stories they won, and the prompt was “Anything involving the substitution of Lupercalia (or, as we've been calling it, Happy Horny Werewolf Days) for Valentine's Day in Pete's World.”
Thank you to![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
earlgreytea68 and chicklet73 for their beta. Any and all errors in this tale are mine, and mine alone.
Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV
Quos amor verus tenuit, tenebit. ~ Seneca
Those whom true love has held, it will go on holding.
It was as they were on their return trip, having walked to the end of the festival and turned back, that they heard the sound of chimes. The entire crowd fell quiet and Rose felt a flash of fear, remembering a time so many years before when she’d been in this world, when everyone in it had stopped to listen…
“Must be closer to midnight than I thought,” Peter whispered, breaking the spell over her. He glanced at his watch, nodding decisively. “Time for the goat.”
“The goat?” Her exclamation was covered by the buzz of the crowd as they began to move again, all moving in the same direction now, pulling her and Peter along. She remembered seeing the animal sacrifices when the Doctor had taken her to Rome, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember ever hearing about them during her time in this London.
“The goat. It’s part of the holiday—and is right before the drawing of the names. Wouldn’t want to miss that, would we—seeing new couples created before our very eyes?” He winked at her, causing her to giggle. She’d never seen him so…relaxed—nor so at ease in a group.
“I thought that was when things got a bit…out of hand.” She stumbled, trying to keep up with Peter; he stopped, causing several people behind him to exclaim in annoyance. “’s alright,” she said, smiling up at him as he gazed at her in concern. “Just tripped up a bit.”
He pulled her into a swirling embrace, whirling them about before rejoining the crowd. She laughed, giddy, still slightly drunk on wine and overwhelmed by a side of Peter she’d never yet seen. “Have to do this every year, y’keep doing stuff like that.”
He grinned at her, taking care to not walk nearly so fast as he had been, making sure she was close to him now that they were moving with the flow of the crowd. “I think I could live with that.”
They reached the area of the walk which had been set aside for the ceremony proper, and the noise of the crowd rose as more and more people filtered in. Rose was arrested by the crowd—by the men in sheets fashioned as togas, by the women in bathing suits or—in several instances—bikinis, all of them crowding forward towards the stage which had been set up, and which now bore the four jars arranged neatly on a table in the centre of the platform.
Peter tugged gently on her hand, and she followed him to the side of the area—the side closest the flat, she noted with a small smile. He pulled her against him once he’d found a place he liked, her back pressing up against his front, his arms now wrapping her in a comforting embrace. He’d found a spot which was a bit of an eddy in the sea of people, and she smiled up at him gratefully before returning her attention to the panorama in front of her.
She’d expected a literal goat to be led onto stage—a small, terrified creature bleating before the crowd. So she laughed with relief when, instead, a man came out wearing a costume fashioned to looked like a goat, a large mask covering his head, what appeared to be a goat skin draped down his back. He wore next to nothing else, yet another reminder that the holiday was about the more physical aspects of love; and she watched, fascinated, as he danced around the stage ‘pursued’ by two men dressed as some sort of officiants.
“The old tradition holds that a goat was sacrificed,” Peter whispered against her ear, his voice low. “So that’s what they’re doing—in a manner of speaking.”
She could hear the smile in his voice and turned away from the pantomime before her. Peter gazed down, his eyes warm, his cheeks still flushed; he was indeed smiling, his lips curving gently upwards at the corners.
She was stunned by how badly she wanted him, just then, need washing through her in an almost tangible wave. Peter’s smile faded, his eyes darkening; he tightened his hold on her as he leaned down for a slow kiss.
“Can we go home?” she whispered as he pulled back, his lips glistening in the light.
His smile returned, his dimple now visible. “Not just yet, I think.” The words were murmured, his eyes drifting to her mouth, and he leaned down for yet another kiss.
The kiss was broken by the roar of the crowd, and Rose blinked her eyes open as she turned to see what had happened. The ‘goat’ was now lying on the platform, red silk covering his chest as the officiants danced around him. The crowd continued to cheer, the noise swelling as several men climbed up onto the stage and assisted in carrying the ‘goat’ offstage. The officiants remained, and began to toss what appeared to be ribbons out into the crowd, causing a surge forward as people scrambled for the items.
“Instead of strips of goat skin, they use ribbons now. Used to be only men got them, but things are a bit more equal-opportunity nowadays.” Peter’s voice remained low, causing Rose’s womb to tighten.
He had to know what he was doing to her; had to know just how seductive he was being. She suspected he did indeed know, and was relishing the long, teasing foreplay of being out in the crowd.
It was going to be one hell of a shag when they got back to the flat, of that she was sure—whether he initiated things or she did.
The ribbons all collected, the crowd settled back down, the noise reducing to a steady hum of anticipation. Some men were dancing in a circle near the front of the stage; while directly to her right a group of giggling women were trying to flog each other with the ribbons.
She watched, curious; Peter, noticing, leaned down to whisper against her ear. “It’s supposed to be a blessing, to be touched by the ribbon.” His lips brushed her skin, sending a shiver up her spine, and she could all but hear the satisfied smirk Peter was surely wearing.
“Why’s that?” she asked, her voice a touch high.
His smirk was apparent in his voice as he replied, “To ensure they bear children.”
“Oh.”
“It’s a fertility festival, Rose.”
“I know,” she said defensively.
“But really, it’s all about the shagging,” he added, his lips once again brushing against her ear as he murmured.
“Oh.” Her voice this time was low, almost breathy; her eyes drifted shut as she felt Peter place a kiss just below her ear.
The officiants had taken their places behind the table with jars by the time she opened her eyes again, the two men conferring briefly before turning their attention to the crowd. Without their having to say a word, a hush fell over the assemblage; all eyes were turned towards the platform, and it seemed as though everyone held their breath.
The gentleman on the right—probably the senior of the two men on stage—reached for the black jar, pulling it towards him. Staring out into the crowd he dipped his hand into it, swirled it around, and then pulled out a small scrap of paper. Handing it over to his partner, not bothering to look at what the paper said, he took a step back.
“Dixon Murphy,” the second man bellowed, setting the paper aside.
A whoop emerged from somewhere near the front left of the stage, and a young man bounded up the stairs, beaming as he came to a stop. There was a brief discussion on stage as his identity was confirmed, with the crowd whispering about Dixon Murphy’s appearance—Rose heard several women and more than a few men comment that they’d not kick him out of bed—and then Dixon reached for the beige jar.
Silence once again fell, anticipation almost palpable amongst the group as the young man selected a piece of paper from the jar. He mimicked the actions of the first officiant, swirling his hand round, then handing the scrap of paper over to the second officiant without looking at it.
“Susanna Creith!”
A noise of glee came from the middle of the crowd, and Rose watched the shift of bodies as they parted way for the lucky woman who’d be partnered with Dixon.
Susanna reached the stage, scampering up the stairs in eager glee. Her identity was verified through brief conference, Dixon presented her with the flowers he’d collected earlier in the evening—and then he swept her into a surprisingly fiery kiss to the roaring approval of the crowd.
“I reckon they’re both pleased,” Rose said softly, turning to look up at Peter.
He glanced down at her briefly, smiling; and then returned his attention to the stage.
Once she’d been released from the kiss, a rather dazed Susanna reached for the blue jar, pulling it towards her and selecting a name.
The pattern would continue until the names were exhausted: a man seeking a woman would select her name; she then would select the name of a man seeking a man. When that man had found a partner, he in turn would select the name of a woman seeking a woman; and when her partner had been found, she’d select the name of a man seeking a woman. Over and over again the pattern was repeated, each new pair greeting each other with unabashed, lingering kisses on stage, each kiss celebrated with joy by the crowd. The pairs returned to the main group after they’d been introduced, and Rose began to see just why the festival had gained its reputation as she watched many of them continue to kiss, hands roaming, seemingly not caring at all that they were surrounded by strangers.
She began to grow uncomfortable, the throbbing and dampness between her legs increasing as the crowd became more and more demonstrative, as Peter continued to hold her, periodically whispering to her when something notable or unusual occurred. He seemed remarkably unmoved by the carnality around them, and she felt herself grow even more restless.
The majority of the matches had been made when she decided enough was enough. Turning in Peter’s embrace, her hands now resting against his lower back, she rocked up into him. His eyes were dark as she took pains to drag her body along his, and the corner of his mouth was curved in a small smile as he leaned down to hear her whisper, “Let’s go home, Peter.”
He turned to kiss her; she pulled back, dodging the kiss, smiling as his gaze intensified. The flower was still tucked behind his ear, and she reached up to pluck it from his hair before breaking free of his embrace.
She skipped back from him, teasing, laughing, the flower held in her extended hand; he paused, watching her for a moment, before moving forward, reaching for her. She turned, still laughing, now dancing her way through the small bit of crowd between them and the path to her—their—flat; and she began to run once she broke free, certain Peter would waste no time at all trying to catch her and knowing that he could outpace her given no obstacles.
She was proven right after several yards, Peter reaching for her hand, capturing it, spinning her around and into his embrace. She beamed up at him as he cupped her cheek, then felt her breath hitch as he leaned forward, speaking softly against her skin. “Did ye think to run away, Rose? That I’d nae catch ye?” Both hands now cradled her jaw, and he drifted his lips across her cheek before giving her a gentle kiss.
It was as she was slightly dazed that he nicked the flower out of her hand and scampered back, tucking the flower behind his ear once more. She shook herself out of her stupor, and joined in Peter’s infectious delight at their situation. She lunged forward, reaching to tickle him; he danced away, before turning to run pell-mell down the path.
~ - ~
Part V
Rating: T
Author: jlrpuck
Characters: Rose Tyler; Peter Carlisle
Disclaimer: Characters from Doctor Who and Blackpool are the property of BBC, and are used with the greatest of love and respect. No personal profit is intended from the writing or sharing of this story.
Summary: Peter and Rose celebrate Lupercalia—Pete’s World-style.
Notes: This was written for The Gang of Many Generous People who won my services through a (ridiculously large) winning bid in the April Support Stacie auction. This is one of the stories they won, and the prompt was “Anything involving the substitution of Lupercalia (or, as we've been calling it, Happy Horny Werewolf Days) for Valentine's Day in Pete's World.”
Thank you to
earlgreytea68 and chicklet73 for their beta. Any and all errors in this tale are mine, and mine alone. Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV
Those whom true love has held, it will go on holding.
It was as they were on their return trip, having walked to the end of the festival and turned back, that they heard the sound of chimes. The entire crowd fell quiet and Rose felt a flash of fear, remembering a time so many years before when she’d been in this world, when everyone in it had stopped to listen…
“Must be closer to midnight than I thought,” Peter whispered, breaking the spell over her. He glanced at his watch, nodding decisively. “Time for the goat.”
“The goat?” Her exclamation was covered by the buzz of the crowd as they began to move again, all moving in the same direction now, pulling her and Peter along. She remembered seeing the animal sacrifices when the Doctor had taken her to Rome, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember ever hearing about them during her time in this London.
“The goat. It’s part of the holiday—and is right before the drawing of the names. Wouldn’t want to miss that, would we—seeing new couples created before our very eyes?” He winked at her, causing her to giggle. She’d never seen him so…relaxed—nor so at ease in a group.
“I thought that was when things got a bit…out of hand.” She stumbled, trying to keep up with Peter; he stopped, causing several people behind him to exclaim in annoyance. “’s alright,” she said, smiling up at him as he gazed at her in concern. “Just tripped up a bit.”
He pulled her into a swirling embrace, whirling them about before rejoining the crowd. She laughed, giddy, still slightly drunk on wine and overwhelmed by a side of Peter she’d never yet seen. “Have to do this every year, y’keep doing stuff like that.”
He grinned at her, taking care to not walk nearly so fast as he had been, making sure she was close to him now that they were moving with the flow of the crowd. “I think I could live with that.”
They reached the area of the walk which had been set aside for the ceremony proper, and the noise of the crowd rose as more and more people filtered in. Rose was arrested by the crowd—by the men in sheets fashioned as togas, by the women in bathing suits or—in several instances—bikinis, all of them crowding forward towards the stage which had been set up, and which now bore the four jars arranged neatly on a table in the centre of the platform.
Peter tugged gently on her hand, and she followed him to the side of the area—the side closest the flat, she noted with a small smile. He pulled her against him once he’d found a place he liked, her back pressing up against his front, his arms now wrapping her in a comforting embrace. He’d found a spot which was a bit of an eddy in the sea of people, and she smiled up at him gratefully before returning her attention to the panorama in front of her.
She’d expected a literal goat to be led onto stage—a small, terrified creature bleating before the crowd. So she laughed with relief when, instead, a man came out wearing a costume fashioned to looked like a goat, a large mask covering his head, what appeared to be a goat skin draped down his back. He wore next to nothing else, yet another reminder that the holiday was about the more physical aspects of love; and she watched, fascinated, as he danced around the stage ‘pursued’ by two men dressed as some sort of officiants.
“The old tradition holds that a goat was sacrificed,” Peter whispered against her ear, his voice low. “So that’s what they’re doing—in a manner of speaking.”
She could hear the smile in his voice and turned away from the pantomime before her. Peter gazed down, his eyes warm, his cheeks still flushed; he was indeed smiling, his lips curving gently upwards at the corners.
She was stunned by how badly she wanted him, just then, need washing through her in an almost tangible wave. Peter’s smile faded, his eyes darkening; he tightened his hold on her as he leaned down for a slow kiss.
“Can we go home?” she whispered as he pulled back, his lips glistening in the light.
His smile returned, his dimple now visible. “Not just yet, I think.” The words were murmured, his eyes drifting to her mouth, and he leaned down for yet another kiss.
The kiss was broken by the roar of the crowd, and Rose blinked her eyes open as she turned to see what had happened. The ‘goat’ was now lying on the platform, red silk covering his chest as the officiants danced around him. The crowd continued to cheer, the noise swelling as several men climbed up onto the stage and assisted in carrying the ‘goat’ offstage. The officiants remained, and began to toss what appeared to be ribbons out into the crowd, causing a surge forward as people scrambled for the items.
“Instead of strips of goat skin, they use ribbons now. Used to be only men got them, but things are a bit more equal-opportunity nowadays.” Peter’s voice remained low, causing Rose’s womb to tighten.
He had to know what he was doing to her; had to know just how seductive he was being. She suspected he did indeed know, and was relishing the long, teasing foreplay of being out in the crowd.
It was going to be one hell of a shag when they got back to the flat, of that she was sure—whether he initiated things or she did.
The ribbons all collected, the crowd settled back down, the noise reducing to a steady hum of anticipation. Some men were dancing in a circle near the front of the stage; while directly to her right a group of giggling women were trying to flog each other with the ribbons.
She watched, curious; Peter, noticing, leaned down to whisper against her ear. “It’s supposed to be a blessing, to be touched by the ribbon.” His lips brushed her skin, sending a shiver up her spine, and she could all but hear the satisfied smirk Peter was surely wearing.
“Why’s that?” she asked, her voice a touch high.
His smirk was apparent in his voice as he replied, “To ensure they bear children.”
“Oh.”
“It’s a fertility festival, Rose.”
“I know,” she said defensively.
“But really, it’s all about the shagging,” he added, his lips once again brushing against her ear as he murmured.
“Oh.” Her voice this time was low, almost breathy; her eyes drifted shut as she felt Peter place a kiss just below her ear.
The officiants had taken their places behind the table with jars by the time she opened her eyes again, the two men conferring briefly before turning their attention to the crowd. Without their having to say a word, a hush fell over the assemblage; all eyes were turned towards the platform, and it seemed as though everyone held their breath.
The gentleman on the right—probably the senior of the two men on stage—reached for the black jar, pulling it towards him. Staring out into the crowd he dipped his hand into it, swirled it around, and then pulled out a small scrap of paper. Handing it over to his partner, not bothering to look at what the paper said, he took a step back.
“Dixon Murphy,” the second man bellowed, setting the paper aside.
A whoop emerged from somewhere near the front left of the stage, and a young man bounded up the stairs, beaming as he came to a stop. There was a brief discussion on stage as his identity was confirmed, with the crowd whispering about Dixon Murphy’s appearance—Rose heard several women and more than a few men comment that they’d not kick him out of bed—and then Dixon reached for the beige jar.
Silence once again fell, anticipation almost palpable amongst the group as the young man selected a piece of paper from the jar. He mimicked the actions of the first officiant, swirling his hand round, then handing the scrap of paper over to the second officiant without looking at it.
“Susanna Creith!”
A noise of glee came from the middle of the crowd, and Rose watched the shift of bodies as they parted way for the lucky woman who’d be partnered with Dixon.
Susanna reached the stage, scampering up the stairs in eager glee. Her identity was verified through brief conference, Dixon presented her with the flowers he’d collected earlier in the evening—and then he swept her into a surprisingly fiery kiss to the roaring approval of the crowd.
“I reckon they’re both pleased,” Rose said softly, turning to look up at Peter.
He glanced down at her briefly, smiling; and then returned his attention to the stage.
Once she’d been released from the kiss, a rather dazed Susanna reached for the blue jar, pulling it towards her and selecting a name.
The pattern would continue until the names were exhausted: a man seeking a woman would select her name; she then would select the name of a man seeking a man. When that man had found a partner, he in turn would select the name of a woman seeking a woman; and when her partner had been found, she’d select the name of a man seeking a woman. Over and over again the pattern was repeated, each new pair greeting each other with unabashed, lingering kisses on stage, each kiss celebrated with joy by the crowd. The pairs returned to the main group after they’d been introduced, and Rose began to see just why the festival had gained its reputation as she watched many of them continue to kiss, hands roaming, seemingly not caring at all that they were surrounded by strangers.
She began to grow uncomfortable, the throbbing and dampness between her legs increasing as the crowd became more and more demonstrative, as Peter continued to hold her, periodically whispering to her when something notable or unusual occurred. He seemed remarkably unmoved by the carnality around them, and she felt herself grow even more restless.
The majority of the matches had been made when she decided enough was enough. Turning in Peter’s embrace, her hands now resting against his lower back, she rocked up into him. His eyes were dark as she took pains to drag her body along his, and the corner of his mouth was curved in a small smile as he leaned down to hear her whisper, “Let’s go home, Peter.”
He turned to kiss her; she pulled back, dodging the kiss, smiling as his gaze intensified. The flower was still tucked behind his ear, and she reached up to pluck it from his hair before breaking free of his embrace.
She skipped back from him, teasing, laughing, the flower held in her extended hand; he paused, watching her for a moment, before moving forward, reaching for her. She turned, still laughing, now dancing her way through the small bit of crowd between them and the path to her—their—flat; and she began to run once she broke free, certain Peter would waste no time at all trying to catch her and knowing that he could outpace her given no obstacles.
She was proven right after several yards, Peter reaching for her hand, capturing it, spinning her around and into his embrace. She beamed up at him as he cupped her cheek, then felt her breath hitch as he leaned forward, speaking softly against her skin. “Did ye think to run away, Rose? That I’d nae catch ye?” Both hands now cradled her jaw, and he drifted his lips across her cheek before giving her a gentle kiss.
It was as she was slightly dazed that he nicked the flower out of her hand and scampered back, tucking the flower behind his ear once more. She shook herself out of her stupor, and joined in Peter’s infectious delight at their situation. She lunged forward, reaching to tickle him; he danced away, before turning to run pell-mell down the path.
~ - ~
Part V
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