AU: Peter & Carl
Complete and utter fiction
"Okay, B then. I do believe it's time for another drink. What're you having...?"
“Christmas come early, methinks.” Peter's soft voice was barely audible above the buzz of chatter at the bar, but this did seem to be what he said.
Quite what Christmas and February had in common would require more brain cells than Carl could currently lay claim to, so he decided it would be best to desist from further comment and lift his glass to his lips. A manoeuvre he'd managed with some aplomb thus far, so a fortuitous outcome seemed assured.
Peter glanced up at the clock on the wall before suddenly breaking out into a (blinding) grin. He grabbed the brass bell gleaming resplendently behind the bar, then proceeded to wave it around his head with such enthusiasm that Carl longed for a pith helmet. It would’ve looked splendid with the Raybans he wished he'd worn.
“C’mon you scoundrels, drinkie up time… ” he hollered. “Some of us have pressies to unwrap.”
“Aww, is it your birthday Pete?” piped up one of the rock-chicks. An extremely bounteous young miss whose elbows appeared to have been welded to the bar all evening.
“Nope, t’is next month,” he chuckled, midnight eyes twinkling with devilry as he whisked her empty glass away.
Carl was willing to bet she wished that he'd whisk away significantly more than that. He decided it would be wise to head to the Gents rather than endure the imminent flurry of departing punters and the ear-splitting clatter of empties being slung into the large blue bottle bin. Then nearly got lost trying to find his way up the narrow staircase to the loo...so it was perhaps fortunate he wouldn’t have to negotiate any escalators alone.
John would be most impressed that he had not only managed to be convivial for a whole evening, he was now heading off on an impromptu adventure. The details of which Carl couldn’t quite recall, but it mattered not. If Biker Tom was to be believed, his new friend was rather partial to the pursuit of pleasure, so a bloody good time seemed certain to ensue. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had one of those either. That being said, he couldn’t quite recall how to do his flies up. It had just taken him ten minutes to cram his cock back into his pants. It was obviously feeling more than a mite frisky, which wasn’t at all surprising ...it had been as bored as fuck for far longer than Carl cared to recall.
After a bitter, but thankfully, unbloody battle he headed back downstairs to a pub now empty of patrons. The barmaid finished loading the dishwasher whilst Peter flitted around the pub, upending stools and plonking them on top of the tables.
Carl found himself envying the easy familiarity of their little routine as they prepared to leave the bar. It felt warm, companionable, comfortable. A far cry from his own desultory gathering of textbooks and teenage debris before trudging his weary way home.
“Bye Carl,” she called, after grabbing her jacket off the bar.
“G’night.” He watched Peter press a kiss to the top of her hair before pushing the door open to let her out - she didn’t even duck - just walked beneath his outstretched arm and waved to them both as she fluttered off into the night.
“There you go...all done n dusted.” Peter announced as he pulled the door shut and slid the bolts top and bottom. There were now about 4 inches of scarlet pants visible when he straightened up; he gave the waistband of his jeans a quick tug, hitching them into place and then headed back behind the bar.
The pub was suddenly cast into dusky darkness, illuminated only by the light filtering in from the street outside. Carl was still attempting to slide the pointy part of the zip into its slot in order to fasten his jacket when Peter’s dark silhouette loomed over him.
“Oh sod it…”
“D’you need a hand?” he murmured, gazing down at his fumbling fingers.
“S’alright, it doesn’t matter, I-” Carl’s sentence cut off abruptly when Peter sank swiftly to his knees.
Fuck. His cock suddenly sprang to attention; obviously deciding that its adventures had begun a lot sooner than anticipated. Cool fingers closed over his own to take the zip from his unresisting fingertips. His whole body had gone strangely limp (except for one) and he felt oddly light-headed and a little bit dizzy.
Peter's fingers brushed across the bloody great bulge in Carl's jeans as he slotted the zip into place. He felt his face flame scarlet; he'd never been so grateful for semi-darkness, or his own fringe, in his goddamned life. He should perhaps have eaten to soak up the whisky before venturing out...he couldn't even seem to focus on the lurid letters emblazoned above the shop across the street.
“There you go.” Peter gave the zip a swift tug and it slid to the centre of Carl’s chest with a raspy sigh as he sprang to his feet.
He was standing far too close. Far too close for...um, usuallness. Which was perhaps for the best because his knees might give out any moment.
“Hmm?” His voice didn't seem to be faring any better.
Christ...how much had he drunk? Every inch of his body had taken leave of its senses - or gone into hyperdrive - he felt like a five year old who'd drunk far too much fizzy pop.
“Where d’you live?”
“Soo...that we can get you home.”
“Home!?” It sounded as aghast as he felt.
“You don’t want to go home?”
“What do you want?”
“Sex,” he groaned. He seemed to be strangely incapable of mumbling more than one word at a time.
“Fuck...” He felt the word whisper across his lips like a summer breeze. Warm, delicious. Carl lifted his face toward it, his lids as heavy as the tight knot of need in his guts.
Gentle hands cupped his jaw. His heart was hammering so loudly he couldn’t even hear himself think, let alone the sounds from the street. He could only feel; feel the heat rioting through his body and the clawing want boiling his blood.
The featherlight brush of lips over his own felt akin to being hit by forked lightning. Carl groaned as a bolt of lust scythed through his body. His hands shot up to tangle into soft hair and smash the lips down onto his own. His mouth plundered, hot, hungry for more as arms wrapped around him, tugging him in tight.
Fuck, how long had it been since he’d been kissed this way? Months...years... It felt like a lifetime ago. Kissing just for the unadulterated joy of it - as if his very next breath depended upon it - glorying in the frantic clash of tongue, teeth, lips... the desperate yearning to taste, touch, take...
He wanted more. Much more.
A hand slid down to splay across his arse, pressing their bodies closer still. Carl’s eyes suddenly snapped open. Shit.
Peter. Something had gone horribly awry. Of course he was with Peter, he knew this ...didn’t he...although….this seemed somehow strangely disconnected from...the rest. Lips hovered at his ear, his breath hot, heavy. Delicious. There was a rigid cock clamped to his body. His own was practically drilling a hole through his jeans to get at it.
Somewhere amidst the Scotch mist swirling in his brain, a sharp glint of awareness gleamed like a blade. Then lips ghosted down his neck and fastened on the pulse pounding there and his hand clutched at hair, arching toward it as a shaft of lust shot straight to his groin.
Fuck. He wanted this. Wanted him. Him. Did that matter? He was sure it should...but Carl couldn’t for the life of him think why. Except that it did. Probably. He should...his hips yearned towards the ones welded to his body and the mouth sucked harder. Hard. Hard heat everywhere. Mesmerizing. It felt incredible That was all that mattered, surely..? Here...now.
For once in his goddamned life he wanted to just be. Just feel. Not think. Was that so wrong? It felt right...very right.
“I want to taste you…” Peter murmured at his ear. His hand slid between their bodies to cup his aching crotch, as if to clarify what his words could only mean.
“Fuck...” Carl gasped, his head snapping back as he gulped at air.
Carl heard a throaty chuckle a heartbeat before cold air clutched at his chest. His wrist was clamped in a firm grip as something slammed into his stomach and he suddenly shot up in the world, which promptly turned upside down.
“Wha…?” he yelped, hoping to god the whisky didn’t make a reappearance.
“Quicker 'n' easier than negotiating the stairs.. Strewth, if I’d had an inkling what the view would be like, you’d have spent the whole evening up there."
The thought of Peter swishing around the bar whilst sporting Carl on his shoulder was - strangely enough - all too easy to picture and he found himself spluttering helplessly as they clattered up the narrow staircase. Then a second one…
“I’ve been living here for the last few weeks,” Peter answered, despite the fact that he seemed to have forgotten to ask the rest of his question.
“Very handy t’is too,” he noted as he strolled along the landing. For all the world as if he was not carrying a sack of Carl over his shoulder.
They took a sharp left and he found himself deposited on terra firma. Actually no, he'd felt more secure a couple of seconds ago...he seemed to be swaying a bit. Or had been carried onto deck of a boat. At Hogwarts.
“There...all safe n sound…” a husky voice purred in his ear.
There seemed to be something strangely incongruous about this comment, but Carl could not for the life of him think what it might be. He appeared to be losing his clothes too. His jacket had gone...and his Converse. He still had socks. And a hard on. He might perhaps have had one of those for a large portion of the evening though... He really should get out more.
Carl was musing on this when he suddenly found himself engulfed in a lot of arms; just in time too, because his knees nearly gave way when lips melded to his in a searing kiss.
This kiss felt different. Deeper, more demanding, insistent. He gave himself up to it - even as he took - his tongue darting into the mouth devouring his own. The button give way on his jeans and heard the swiiip of the zip; his cock would have sighed in relief if it could, freed from the purgatory of his pants. Pants?
Then his legs went. Whisked from beneath him as he found himself scooped up and carried to what was most certainly a bed. Hmmm...better. He was luxuriating in his new horizontal state when he felt his jeans being swept away...whoosh, like the tide. Cool cotton caressed his skin...and lips...lips ghosting along his legs...up...up...in a silken trail of tongue...
"Hmmm..." His head pressed heavily into the pillow as his hips yearned upwards. Fuck...don't stop please please don't stop...echoing around his head.
"Nooo...I neverr stop..."
He was just trying to work out if that was outside, or inside, his head when a tongue swept lavishly along the length of his cock.
"Fuuuuck!" His hips jolted off the bed as the filthiest chuckle he'd ever heard wafted across his skin.
Then his brain melted. Or blew up. Carl wasn't sure - cared less - when his cock was suddenly engulfed in searing heat.
"Gnnnnrrrrr!" Lips clamped around his hilt and began to drag slowly back. Fuck...he screwed his eyes up tight, desperately fighting the blistering need clawing at his guts. He would die if he came now. He wanted it to last forever...to drown in the moist heat of that mouth...and the tongue flickering over his flesh. His hips strained towards it as his hands snatched at the covers, snarling it in his fists as the mouth swept over him, taking him in deep, deeper still, until he hit the back of his throat and a godawful growl ripped from his lips.
"Peterrr!" Carl shrieked as he flung himself into the flames licking along his veins. The world shattered behind his eyelids; white heat and scarlet bleeding through black as his hips spasmed and he came, shuddering, in a rush of blistering bliss.
"Hmmm..." This vibrated around his cock as Peter pulled his mouth back slowly, lapping him clean with lazy sweeps of that tongue.
Carl's eyes fluttered open as the bed dipped beneath him, and he turned his head toward the long body stretching out beside his own.
"You are...incredible..." he murmured at his lips.
Carl blinked, trying to make sense of this. Him? He hadn't done a thing... except lie there and be devoured by the most monstrous, magical, mouth that had ever... (quite possibly) breathed air.
“Bloody good job you didn’t, fuck knows where those lips have been.”
As Biker Tom's words whispered through his hazy head, Carl could only thank fuck, that tonight, at least, he did.