A Lupercalia Thing (2/6)
Title: A Lupercalia Thing (2/6)
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
earlgreytea68 and
chicklet73 for their beta. Any and all errors in this tale are mine, and mine alone.
Part I | Part II
Quos amor verus tenuit, tenebit. ~ Seneca
Those whom true love has held, it will go on holding.
And so it was that Peter and Rose found themselves entering the pulsing crowd lining the south bank of the River Thames. Rose had listened to the revellers for years now, the festival-well, part of it-occurring practically below her flat. The year before, she’d finally worked up the courage to watch from her small balcony, living vicariously through the happy crowd below, many of them with lovers, others alone but looking for someone with whom they could partner.
And now she was part of the crowd, her hand held tightly by Peter as he took the lead, snaking them along paths only he could see, navigating them through the first wave of people to a place where the crowd thinned slightly and they could once again walk side-by-side. Peter’s eyes were scanning the crowds-a policeman through-and-through-and she squeezed his hand. He glanced over to her, his expression immediately relaxing, and she smiled happily back at him.
“You doing alright?” She had to lean into him to be heard over the cheerful noise of the crowd.
“Aye.” His smile reached his eyes as he answered her, and she couldn’t resist rocking up and brushing a hasty kiss across his cheek.
He looked surprised, but pleased, at the display of affection, and she couldn’t resist doing it again before laughingly leading him still further into the crowd.
There were stalls set up all along the riverside walk-some sold trinkets for purchase, others sold drinks and food. Interspersed within the merchants, however, were smaller booths, set up for the express purpose of honouring the festival itself. Single men and women would drop their names into the strategically located jars; blue jars for men looking for a male partner, red for women hoping to find women. Women on the lookout for a male partner would drop their names into the beige jars, while those men hoping for a woman would use black. Come midnight, the jars would be collected, a single name drawn from a black jar-and thus would begin the cycle of drawing names to determine who would be one’s “sweetheart” for the following year. It was at that point, as the new couples met, that the party would really get rowdy; the papers invariably had pictures from the events that unfolded as hormones and alcohol took over, giving the festival its slightly debauched reputation.
Rose knew of more than a few couples who’d met through the system, although she still found it a bit odd; she wondered what Peter thought of it.
“You ever do that, as a child?” She tilted her head towards one of the jars as they passed.
“Put my name in as a woman seeking another woman? I might have had the usual heterosexual male fantasy relating to lesbianism, but I can’t say I ever took it that far.”
Rose blinked, taken aback by Peter’s casual and humorous frankness. He winked at her, then added, “They used to do it, in the schools. You had to treat your ‘sweetheart’ nicely all year, which was a challenge when your sweetheart kicked you in the shins. But it stopped by the time we reached puberty. Probably for the best, really-schools didn’t want the reputation for teaching things other than reading, ‘riting, and ‘rithmetic.”
Peter seemed happy as he thought back to those days, and Rose felt a wave of joy at finding something which he could look back upon without grief or regret.
“We used to exchange little cards-valentines. Well, up until we were ‘bout eight; they stopped, after that, too many boys using them as weapons against girls, and vice-versa.” She remembered well the terror of going to school on Valentine’s Day, worrying that she’d not get even a single card, carefully carrying the pile of valentines she and her mum had made over the week leading up to the day.
“You could get more than one card?”
“Oh, yeah-used to keep score of who got most in the room.”
“But…how did you know who was your sweetheart for the year?” Peter looked genuinely confused.
“We didn’t do that-it was just the day, and that was it. I used to have a few cards, from back then-they were in my room, tucked away…” She trailed off, wondering what had become of the small bits of folded paper. One of them had been a picture of a favourite cartoon character from her childhood, the inside containing a shakily drawn heart and the name ‘Shireen’.
She’d slowed as she thought, was only dimly aware of a tear slipping down her cheek. Peter had stopped them, turning her towards him, and he gently wiped the tear away with his thumb. “’m sorry, Rose,” he whispered, leaning down to brush his lips across the still-damp trail the tear had left.
She came back to the present, to the crowd now eddying around them, to the palpable joy in the air and the concerned pair of brown eyes gazing steadily at her.
“’s okay.” She gave him a tremulous smile, turning as she slipped her arm through his. “Just…haven’t really thought about it for a while, y’know?”
“Yeah,” he replied softly, his hand reaching over to cover hers where it rested in the crook of his arm.
They walked quietly for a while longer, both of them pensive and reserved in amongst the milling, cheerful crowd. Peter finally pulled her to a stop at one of the stands, quietly ordering them both a glass of mulled wine upon reaching the front of the queue. The man handing over their glasses recognized her, his eyes briefly widening before hastily darting away; she patiently waited for the man to sneak a second peek-they always did-before smiling graciously at him and raising her glass in toast.
If she was going to be at the biggest festival of the year-next to Twelfth Night-she may as well enjoy it, she decided.
The wine was lovely, and she savoured her glass as she and Peter continued to stroll through the festival, the remainder of her melancholy slowly melting away. They paused in front of the Tate Modern-the Tate Modern even in this world, which amused Rose to no end on most days-and watched a short play performed in elaborate period costume. Rose was astonished by how bawdy it was, the man running around with what had to be three pairs of socks and a courgette in his trousers, the woman running away from him in delighted glee, her breasts practically spilling out of her dress. The crowd laughed, cheering the pair on, until the man finally captured the quite willing woman and began to rub his pelvis against her.
Peter glanced down at her, then, his lips curved in amusement. “I’ll certainly say this doesn’t disappoint.”
“But-but…” Rose found herself speechless, trying to imagine what would happen if the same play were performed at home. She wryly considered that for the Tate Modern it would most likely count as “performance art”-but anywhere else in the city, it would be frowned upon most heartily.
“It’s a fertility festival, Rose-that means sex.”
He was unabashed, and Rose marvelled at this suddenly new side to Peter. Not that he was shy when it came to sex-certainly not. But it was odd to have him mention it so casually outside, in public.
“Well yes, but-”
“I take it this wasn’t part of the norm, either, when ye were a lass.”
She laughed ruefully. “No, not at all.”
“Have ye nae celebrated it at all, since you’ve been here?”
“Nope.” She grinned up at him, enjoying the slight buzz she was now feeling from the wine. Perhaps she shouldn’t have drunk it quite so quickly-or maybe they should have bought a bite to eat with it.
Peter tutted in mock-disapproval. “We’ll have to remedy that, surely.” The play had ended, and the crowd was slowly flowing out of the small area.
“How? It’s a fertility festival, Peter.”
He leaned towards her, with the result that her focus narrowed exclusively to the two of them. “Aye, ‘tis. But there’s more to it than just that; just as there’s more to sex than creating offspring.” He watched as she let out a soft “Oh!” at his frankness. And then, when she least expected it, he leaned in and stole a kiss.
“Well, then,” she said, slightly stunned, when he straightened. He looked entirely too pleased with himself. “So, if it’s not just about the shagging and the nakedness, then what’s it about?” She’d dropped her voice, was gazing up at him through lowered lashes as she asked the question, and was rewarded by seeing his gaze darken.
“It’s about love, Rose. About finding a mate for life, and celebrating that.”
Her heart was racing in her chest at Peter’s words, at the quiet, intense intimacy of what he was saying as he gazed steadily at her.
The moment was interrupted by the laughter of a group of women-girls, really-running in a line through the area, a line of boys laughingly chasing after them. The girls had flowers, and were throwing them as they went; the boys, in turn, were trying to scoop up as many of the blossoms as they could without losing the girls.
Rose found herself covered in flowers, felt a strange hand pluck one from her shoulder. She didn’t miss how Peter’s face darkened like a thundercloud at whomever had done it, nor how it lightened when they were once again left alone.
“What’s that about, then?” she asked softly, almost painfully aware of Peter’s proximity.
“’s part of the festival. The lads collect the flowers of the women, and present them to their sweetheart at night’s end.” He gently removed a flower from Rose’s hair, holding it out to her. “Or sooner, as the case may be.” He gave her a small grin, his dimple appearing, and she laughed.
“I thank you for it.” It was an artificial flower, beautifully made; she’d never seen them before, and wondered if it was something one could only find on this one evening of the year.
She smiled as she noticed one of the flowers dangling precariously from Peter’s left shoulder. She glanced up to his face quickly, then once more looked at the bloom as she reached for it, gently lifting it from his shirt. “Do I get t’give you one, too?”
His eyes crinkled in delight. “If you like.”
“I like.” She kissed the flower, but rather than handing it to him she reached up, gently tucking it behind his ear. “There you are.”
“I feel a bit ridiculous.”
“You look more than a bit handsome.” She paused, adding softly, “You’re the most handsome man I know,”
His eyes fluttered shut as the pads of her fingers caught the stubble of his jaw, his lips parting as he let out a soft sigh. “Thank ye.”
“You’re quite welcome.”
The players had returned to the small area and were preparing to perform once more; Rose, wanting to be away from the press of the crowd, slipped her hand into Peter’s, causing him to open his eyes, and pulled him along, joining the slow flow of people as they walked the path.
They found a small beer garden near the water, and had a light supper together watching the crowd flow by on one side and the river on the other. The entire area was lit by faerie lights, and the meal was accompanied by still more mulled wine, and by the end of it Rose couldn’t help but reach across to Peter, her fingers brushing his cheek.
She watched as his eyes drifted shut, his lips parting as she ghosted her fingers across his jaw. He opened his eyes once she began to trace a line down his neck, and she could see his chest rising and falling more quickly by the time she’d trailed down the small bit of chest exposed by his unbuttoned shirt. Her hand dropped, and she slowly relaxed back into her seat.
“If I didn’t know better, Rose, I’d think I was being seduced,” Peter said with a lazy grin.
“Here, in public?”
“Here, in public.”
She smiled slowly. “Maybe. But I think it might be far more fun to seduce you back home.”
He leaned forward, his eyes bright. “Or perhaps it’d be more fun to do it down here, to draw out the tension for hours upon hours.”
He’d surprised her yet again, and she found herself speechless. He settled back, his smile now self-satisfied. Coupled with his tousled hair, and the flower which rested above his ear, he had a louche air about him, and Rose felt a flash of immediate want for the man in front of her.
“See something you like, Miss Tyler?”
“Oh yes.” Seeing the triumph in his eyes, she forced herself to focus. “But I’m not sure it’s for sale.”
That confused Peter, and she couldn’t help but laugh as he finally turned around. Behind him was a tent selling fertility figures, replicas of gods found in Pompeii during the excavation which had led to the adoption of Lupercalia in Great Britain in the first place. By way of advertising its wares, the stall had a two-meter tall version of Priapus standing guard by the entrance.
Peter glanced back to her, his eyes wide. “You can’t be serious.”
“Are you doubting my sincerity?” She stumbled a bit on the word, frowning slightly. She was a touch more drunk than she’d thought. She’d have to walk some of it off before she and Peter returned upstairs for the evening-and the sooner they started walking, the sooner they could go home.
“Not at all.”
“Good.” The bill had been settled, and she stood, extending her hand to Peter. He glanced up at her, confused. “Thought we’d keep walking. And maybe inquire after the price of Priapus there.” She laughed as he joined her, and led the way out of the beer garden and past the statue.
~ - ~
Part III
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
Quos amor verus tenuit, tenebit. ~ Seneca
Those whom true love has held, it will go on holding.
And so it was that Peter and Rose found themselves entering the pulsing crowd lining the south bank of the River Thames. Rose had listened to the revellers for years now, the festival-well, part of it-occurring practically below her flat. The year before, she’d finally worked up the courage to watch from her small balcony, living vicariously through the happy crowd below, many of them with lovers, others alone but looking for someone with whom they could partner.
And now she was part of the crowd, her hand held tightly by Peter as he took the lead, snaking them along paths only he could see, navigating them through the first wave of people to a place where the crowd thinned slightly and they could once again walk side-by-side. Peter’s eyes were scanning the crowds-a policeman through-and-through-and she squeezed his hand. He glanced over to her, his expression immediately relaxing, and she smiled happily back at him.
“You doing alright?” She had to lean into him to be heard over the cheerful noise of the crowd.
“Aye.” His smile reached his eyes as he answered her, and she couldn’t resist rocking up and brushing a hasty kiss across his cheek.
He looked surprised, but pleased, at the display of affection, and she couldn’t resist doing it again before laughingly leading him still further into the crowd.
There were stalls set up all along the riverside walk-some sold trinkets for purchase, others sold drinks and food. Interspersed within the merchants, however, were smaller booths, set up for the express purpose of honouring the festival itself. Single men and women would drop their names into the strategically located jars; blue jars for men looking for a male partner, red for women hoping to find women. Women on the lookout for a male partner would drop their names into the beige jars, while those men hoping for a woman would use black. Come midnight, the jars would be collected, a single name drawn from a black jar-and thus would begin the cycle of drawing names to determine who would be one’s “sweetheart” for the following year. It was at that point, as the new couples met, that the party would really get rowdy; the papers invariably had pictures from the events that unfolded as hormones and alcohol took over, giving the festival its slightly debauched reputation.
Rose knew of more than a few couples who’d met through the system, although she still found it a bit odd; she wondered what Peter thought of it.
“You ever do that, as a child?” She tilted her head towards one of the jars as they passed.
“Put my name in as a woman seeking another woman? I might have had the usual heterosexual male fantasy relating to lesbianism, but I can’t say I ever took it that far.”
Rose blinked, taken aback by Peter’s casual and humorous frankness. He winked at her, then added, “They used to do it, in the schools. You had to treat your ‘sweetheart’ nicely all year, which was a challenge when your sweetheart kicked you in the shins. But it stopped by the time we reached puberty. Probably for the best, really-schools didn’t want the reputation for teaching things other than reading, ‘riting, and ‘rithmetic.”
Peter seemed happy as he thought back to those days, and Rose felt a wave of joy at finding something which he could look back upon without grief or regret.
“We used to exchange little cards-valentines. Well, up until we were ‘bout eight; they stopped, after that, too many boys using them as weapons against girls, and vice-versa.” She remembered well the terror of going to school on Valentine’s Day, worrying that she’d not get even a single card, carefully carrying the pile of valentines she and her mum had made over the week leading up to the day.
“You could get more than one card?”
“Oh, yeah-used to keep score of who got most in the room.”
“But…how did you know who was your sweetheart for the year?” Peter looked genuinely confused.
“We didn’t do that-it was just the day, and that was it. I used to have a few cards, from back then-they were in my room, tucked away…” She trailed off, wondering what had become of the small bits of folded paper. One of them had been a picture of a favourite cartoon character from her childhood, the inside containing a shakily drawn heart and the name ‘Shireen’.
She’d slowed as she thought, was only dimly aware of a tear slipping down her cheek. Peter had stopped them, turning her towards him, and he gently wiped the tear away with his thumb. “’m sorry, Rose,” he whispered, leaning down to brush his lips across the still-damp trail the tear had left.
She came back to the present, to the crowd now eddying around them, to the palpable joy in the air and the concerned pair of brown eyes gazing steadily at her.
“’s okay.” She gave him a tremulous smile, turning as she slipped her arm through his. “Just…haven’t really thought about it for a while, y’know?”
“Yeah,” he replied softly, his hand reaching over to cover hers where it rested in the crook of his arm.
They walked quietly for a while longer, both of them pensive and reserved in amongst the milling, cheerful crowd. Peter finally pulled her to a stop at one of the stands, quietly ordering them both a glass of mulled wine upon reaching the front of the queue. The man handing over their glasses recognized her, his eyes briefly widening before hastily darting away; she patiently waited for the man to sneak a second peek-they always did-before smiling graciously at him and raising her glass in toast.
If she was going to be at the biggest festival of the year-next to Twelfth Night-she may as well enjoy it, she decided.
The wine was lovely, and she savoured her glass as she and Peter continued to stroll through the festival, the remainder of her melancholy slowly melting away. They paused in front of the Tate Modern-the Tate Modern even in this world, which amused Rose to no end on most days-and watched a short play performed in elaborate period costume. Rose was astonished by how bawdy it was, the man running around with what had to be three pairs of socks and a courgette in his trousers, the woman running away from him in delighted glee, her breasts practically spilling out of her dress. The crowd laughed, cheering the pair on, until the man finally captured the quite willing woman and began to rub his pelvis against her.
Peter glanced down at her, then, his lips curved in amusement. “I’ll certainly say this doesn’t disappoint.”
“But-but…” Rose found herself speechless, trying to imagine what would happen if the same play were performed at home. She wryly considered that for the Tate Modern it would most likely count as “performance art”-but anywhere else in the city, it would be frowned upon most heartily.
“It’s a fertility festival, Rose-that means sex.”
He was unabashed, and Rose marvelled at this suddenly new side to Peter. Not that he was shy when it came to sex-certainly not. But it was odd to have him mention it so casually outside, in public.
“Well yes, but-”
“I take it this wasn’t part of the norm, either, when ye were a lass.”
She laughed ruefully. “No, not at all.”
“Have ye nae celebrated it at all, since you’ve been here?”
“Nope.” She grinned up at him, enjoying the slight buzz she was now feeling from the wine. Perhaps she shouldn’t have drunk it quite so quickly-or maybe they should have bought a bite to eat with it.
Peter tutted in mock-disapproval. “We’ll have to remedy that, surely.” The play had ended, and the crowd was slowly flowing out of the small area.
“How? It’s a fertility festival, Peter.”
He leaned towards her, with the result that her focus narrowed exclusively to the two of them. “Aye, ‘tis. But there’s more to it than just that; just as there’s more to sex than creating offspring.” He watched as she let out a soft “Oh!” at his frankness. And then, when she least expected it, he leaned in and stole a kiss.
“Well, then,” she said, slightly stunned, when he straightened. He looked entirely too pleased with himself. “So, if it’s not just about the shagging and the nakedness, then what’s it about?” She’d dropped her voice, was gazing up at him through lowered lashes as she asked the question, and was rewarded by seeing his gaze darken.
“It’s about love, Rose. About finding a mate for life, and celebrating that.”
Her heart was racing in her chest at Peter’s words, at the quiet, intense intimacy of what he was saying as he gazed steadily at her.
The moment was interrupted by the laughter of a group of women-girls, really-running in a line through the area, a line of boys laughingly chasing after them. The girls had flowers, and were throwing them as they went; the boys, in turn, were trying to scoop up as many of the blossoms as they could without losing the girls.
Rose found herself covered in flowers, felt a strange hand pluck one from her shoulder. She didn’t miss how Peter’s face darkened like a thundercloud at whomever had done it, nor how it lightened when they were once again left alone.
“What’s that about, then?” she asked softly, almost painfully aware of Peter’s proximity.
“’s part of the festival. The lads collect the flowers of the women, and present them to their sweetheart at night’s end.” He gently removed a flower from Rose’s hair, holding it out to her. “Or sooner, as the case may be.” He gave her a small grin, his dimple appearing, and she laughed.
“I thank you for it.” It was an artificial flower, beautifully made; she’d never seen them before, and wondered if it was something one could only find on this one evening of the year.
She smiled as she noticed one of the flowers dangling precariously from Peter’s left shoulder. She glanced up to his face quickly, then once more looked at the bloom as she reached for it, gently lifting it from his shirt. “Do I get t’give you one, too?”
His eyes crinkled in delight. “If you like.”
“I like.” She kissed the flower, but rather than handing it to him she reached up, gently tucking it behind his ear. “There you are.”
“I feel a bit ridiculous.”
“You look more than a bit handsome.” She paused, adding softly, “You’re the most handsome man I know,”
His eyes fluttered shut as the pads of her fingers caught the stubble of his jaw, his lips parting as he let out a soft sigh. “Thank ye.”
“You’re quite welcome.”
The players had returned to the small area and were preparing to perform once more; Rose, wanting to be away from the press of the crowd, slipped her hand into Peter’s, causing him to open his eyes, and pulled him along, joining the slow flow of people as they walked the path.
They found a small beer garden near the water, and had a light supper together watching the crowd flow by on one side and the river on the other. The entire area was lit by faerie lights, and the meal was accompanied by still more mulled wine, and by the end of it Rose couldn’t help but reach across to Peter, her fingers brushing his cheek.
She watched as his eyes drifted shut, his lips parting as she ghosted her fingers across his jaw. He opened his eyes once she began to trace a line down his neck, and she could see his chest rising and falling more quickly by the time she’d trailed down the small bit of chest exposed by his unbuttoned shirt. Her hand dropped, and she slowly relaxed back into her seat.
“If I didn’t know better, Rose, I’d think I was being seduced,” Peter said with a lazy grin.
“Here, in public?”
“Here, in public.”
She smiled slowly. “Maybe. But I think it might be far more fun to seduce you back home.”
He leaned forward, his eyes bright. “Or perhaps it’d be more fun to do it down here, to draw out the tension for hours upon hours.”
He’d surprised her yet again, and she found herself speechless. He settled back, his smile now self-satisfied. Coupled with his tousled hair, and the flower which rested above his ear, he had a louche air about him, and Rose felt a flash of immediate want for the man in front of her.
“See something you like, Miss Tyler?”
“Oh yes.” Seeing the triumph in his eyes, she forced herself to focus. “But I’m not sure it’s for sale.”
That confused Peter, and she couldn’t help but laugh as he finally turned around. Behind him was a tent selling fertility figures, replicas of gods found in Pompeii during the excavation which had led to the adoption of Lupercalia in Great Britain in the first place. By way of advertising its wares, the stall had a two-meter tall version of Priapus standing guard by the entrance.
Peter glanced back to her, his eyes wide. “You can’t be serious.”
“Are you doubting my sincerity?” She stumbled a bit on the word, frowning slightly. She was a touch more drunk than she’d thought. She’d have to walk some of it off before she and Peter returned upstairs for the evening-and the sooner they started walking, the sooner they could go home.
“Not at all.”
“Good.” The bill had been settled, and she stood, extending her hand to Peter. He glanced up at her, confused. “Thought we’d keep walking. And maybe inquire after the price of Priapus there.” She laughed as he joined her, and led the way out of the beer garden and past the statue.
~ - ~
Part III