Intrepid Two
carl
mimioomin
AU: Peter & Carl
Complete and utter fiction








"Okay, B then. I do believe it's time for another drink. What're you having...?"



[Intrepid Two]

“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.
“Carrll…”
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?”

“Camden...why?”

“Soo...that we can get you home.”

“Home!?” It sounded as aghast as he felt.

“You don’t want to go home?”

“Nooo…”

“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.

“Carl...y’okay?”

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.

“Say yes...please…”

“Yes please…”

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…

“Where we...?”

“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.

Oh fuck...
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.


***



Intrepid
carl
mimioomin
AU: Peter & Carl
Complete and utter fiction




A little story about a man named Carl meeting a mate in a pub for a drink.








[Intrepid]





Carl was in a fucking bad mood.
This was not exactly an uncommon occurrence, he had to admit...but today he was not only in a fucking bad mood, he was pissed off too.
Some might be inclined to argue that the two were indistinguishable. They were incorrect. Carl was something of an authority on the subject and thus, quite frankly, did not give a toss what they thought. Because they were wrong.

A bad mood was dark, dank and dreary - like February - when the world seemed to have it in for him. Pissed off - on the other hand - was a consequence of knowing that it undoubtedly did.

He knew this because he’d just been dumped. With alacrity. By the woman he'd spent three years persuading himself was the ideal choice to be the future Mrs Barât. Her justification for this abrupt decision was that Carl was a miserable fuck and she was sick to the back teeth of his glowering countenance. She did not put it quite like this but...that was the drift of her two hour diatribe.

That was a fortnight ago. It seemed that he was guilty of grieving a little too assiduously for certain people's comfort; so one of these ‘mates’ had decided that today was the day to forcibly drag him from the doldrums and thrust him into the dark heart of Soho. For a companionable drink or three in The Intrepid Fox to ‘cheer him up.’ Really. Apparently an entire two weeks (3 days, 6 hours and 39 minutes) was considered excessive and self-indulgent when mourning the loss of the love of your life.

This decree was why he now found himself trudging down Wardour Street, thumbs grimly thrust into the pockets of his jeans and huddled inside his leather, hoping that the world had not noticed he’d ventured out of his flat and was thus plotting an appropriate punishment.

Nothing had gone awry as yet, he'd not been mugged on the tube, nor endured an excruciating rendition of Blowing in the Wind. He'd not even had to purchase a ticket to travel on the aforementioned London Underground. This was as good as things generally got in Carl’s pitiful existence, so probability suggested that it could only go downhill from here. However, he seemed to have arrived in one piece (in theory) and not out of pocket, so he figured that he might as well go in. It was just a quick drink with a mate. What could go wrong?

Carl stood in the doorway looking for a pair of cheekbones so chiseled you could slice cheese on them. He couldn’t see John amidst the cluster of patrons all sporting leather jackets and lots of hair, so he slouched his way over the bar to buy a drink whilst he waited.

A tiny barmaid with a pixie cut and star-sprinkled skater skirt was serving a group of people he vaguely recognized from somewhere. London seemed surprisingly small and incestuous on occasion; he often met people he knew in the most unlikely places. He'd once happened upon a mate in a squat in Dulwich, so it did seem likely that The Fox would host a few familiar faces.

Where the fuck were the rest of the bar staff? The slackers had probably sloped off for a smoke...which sounded a bloody good idea. Carl foraged in the pocket of his leather and extracted his cigarettes, pulled one out and lit it, propping his elbow on the bar as he dragged in a comforting lungful.

“Hiya. Fuck.”

This utterance came from somewhere beneath the bar. A tufty shock of hair suddenly poked over the top; beneath which sat the widest, brownest eyes Carl had ever seen his goddamned life.

“Pardon?”

Hiya fuck? Was this a customary greeting round these parts? He usually drank in his local pub in Camden. But he'd needed a change of scene. Apparently.

“Sorry. I meant...Hello.” The barman broke out in a huge beam. It was rather like being hit by strobe lighting.

“Hi.” Carl cranked the corners of his mouth up in a polite smile.

“That’s not very convincing y’know. Does it hurt?” he asked, tilting his head to one side as if to consider him from another angle, but he still hadn’t stood up in order to serve him.

“Does what hurt?”

“That thing you’re doing with your lips.” His mouth elongated sideways, somewhere between a gurn and a grimace.

“What..?” Carl sighed, heavily. He’d been standing there for ten minutes and still didn’t have a drink. Now he was about to be served by a bloody lunatic.

“Ne’er mind, what can I get you?” Irritating barman chirped.

“Whisky. A double.”

“Straight in on the hard stuff? Bad day?” he asked, finally standing up...and up. Fuck. The top of the tiny barmaid’s head must be about level with his nipple. The area behind the bar was slightly raised, so Carl could see her buckled boots at the other end of it, but strewth...He was being served by a lighthouse with a headache inducing beam.

“Bad decade,” he grunted.

“I’m sorry…” His huge eyes instantly filled with sorrow. It was like being drowned in compassion.

Fuck, he was good. He should have been an actor, not a barman. This was a very sore point. Carl’s mood got grimmer. He now felt so low that he could probably parachute out of the belly of a snake.

He was a 25 year old failed actor. Failed guitarist. Failed would-be fiance. Drama teacher in a failing school in a fuck awful part of Kilburn. Waiting for a ‘friend’ who had, as yet, failed to turn up. Other than that, life was just splendid.

He watched the barman shove a glass beneath the optic and dispense his double whisky. He barely had to stretch, whereas the barmaid would probably have to fetch a step ladder. Perhaps she served pints and he served spirits. And ghosts of men with long dead dreams.

“Here you go,” he smiled. Carl blinked. He was developing a migraine.

He picked up the tumbler and knocked it back in one, placing the glass back down with a satisfying thunk.

“Blimey. Dumped or Destitute?”

“D’you ever shut the fuck up,” he groaned.

“Ooh, you really don’t want me to answer that,” the barman grinned, utterly unabashed.

“Why?” Carl asked, suddenly finding himself trapped in a gaze which twinkled with a thousand secrets.

“Trust me, you don’t.”

He wrinkled his nose in a fashion which would have been adorable if he’d been five years old, not about 25. Although...
Funnily enough, Carl believed him. Whilst wanting to know the answer even more. Fuck. How had life got grim enough to find himself engaging in conversation with a lunatic lighthouse in Soho?
Where the hell was John and his sparkling wit when he needed him?

“D’you want another one of those?” The barman asked, rudely interrupting Carl’s internal monologue.

“Yeah. Thanks. You worked here long?” A heroic attempt at conviviality. Bearing in mind that he was, in fact, supposed to be 'socializing'.

“A couple of months. Okay, keep your hair on, I’m coming!” he called out, grinning at a bald and bearded biker bloke currently waving a fiver at him.

“Enough o’yer lip, Doherty and get m’bloody Guinness.”

“Charmin’...but seeing as you asked so nicely…”

“Beats me why I still come here, when I have to put up with this,” he told Carl, squeezing his muscular frame into a far-too-small space beside him.

“I heard that." 'Doherty' piped up. "T’is my sparkling charm methinks. And perhaps my olfactory deficiencies.”

“I really hope you’re not referring to my armpits, I had a bath last week.”

“In diesel?” Doherty smirked.

“See? Got more lip than a suckerfish, he has. You’d be best off at the other end of the bar...you might get a drink this side of Christmas too,” he informed Carl out of the corner of his mouth.

“Here y'go. I would have had to suck it out of the tap to get it to come out any quicker.“ This as he placed a pint of Guinness and another glass of whisky on the bar before them.

“Bloody good job you didn’t, fuck knows where those lips have been.”

“Oooh, I never kiss 'n' tell,” he winked as he plucked the fiver out of the biker’s fingers.

“Only because no-one's got twenty years to spare.”

“Ah! Wounded! Cut to the quick, I am.” He tossed over his shoulder as he swished off to the till.

“Trouble, he is. I’d watch your change too, if I were you,” The biker told Carl.

“You want change as well!? Crikey...what does a man have to do for a tip 'round here?” he asked, dumping said change into his outstretched hand.

“Nothin’ you ain’t done before, I’m sure.” Bikerbloke smirked as he eyed his change suspiciously.

“Abused left, right and centre,” he sighed theatrically. “T'is a hard life.”

“Whatever turns you on, I'm sure. Kinky as fuck too. Right, I’m off to drink this with some more salubrious company.”

“See ya later, Tom,” Doherty grinned, wiping the bar down with the tea towel he wore tucked into the waistband of his jeans. Which were lower than the waistband of his pants; his jeans had been getting lower by the minute, sliding down his slim hips as he stretched and slinked about behind the bar. What the fuck?

And where the hell was John? Carl was beginning to feel as if he had, in fact, entered an alternate universe when he walked through those doors.

“What year is it?” he asked the barman suddenly.

“Er….2003? Do I get a prize?”

“Oh, get yourself a drink when you bring me another of these," he sighed. "Sorry, I forgot for a moment…”

“S’only February, t'is easily done. I’ll get your drink…”

Not time-travel, then. Narnia? The Leaky Cauldron? Exactly how many glasses of whisky had he drunk?
John would turn up in a minute...and all would be well. Solid. Stoic. Reliable.
Late.

“Are you waiting for someone special?” Doherty asked when he returned with Carl’s drink.

“No...just a mate. Fuck knows where he’s got to… he’s never late.”

“Hasn’t he rung? Texted?”

“Oh...I dunno. He might’ve...hang on. “ Carl crammed his hand into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his phone. "1 message:
‘Sorry Carl. Have to cancel. Van broke down on M25’ “ he read aloud, rolling his eyes at the barman.

“Carrl...”
The way that his tongue curled around his name looked, quite frankly, filthy. Biker Tom’s character analysis was probably not far from the truth.
“Peter. Delighted to meet you.“

He smiled as he extended a huge hand across the bar, his eyes sparkling in a manner which seemed almost like a challenge. Or a dare. Nutter. However, it would've been impolite to desist, so he held out his own and found it engulfed in cool ivory. He was probably a vampire - this would explain the sudden shock of his cold skin on Carl's system - it also seemed more probable than Narnia.

“Oops, my presence is required...won’t be long.”

He turned fluidly and headed over toward a group of rock-chicks waiting to be served. Carl watched as he charmed them effortlessly, flitting about as he dispensed ice, poured wine and added a dash of blackcurrant to a glass of lager. There was something entrancing about the way he carried out the most mundane of jobs. He half expected a dozen doves to flutter free when Peter whisked his tea towel off the bar top.

Peter. It suited him... A name slightly from another time, or that of a fictional character. Actually, he didn’t seem quite of this world. Nothing about him was commonplace. Or ordinary. He probably traveled home via the Floo Network.

Carl was just lighting another cigarette when he realised that John was not, in fact, coming. So there was absolutely no reason why he should still be standing at the bar waiting for him. Or even in the pub at all, for that matter.

He had several bottles of far finer whisky at home. And a comfortable leather chair in which to watch comforting DVD’s, whilst eating comfort food and wearing far more comfortable clothes.

Standing in The Fox was not at all comfortable. On his own, as if he’d been stood up. His current company was the most discomforting Carl ever been in the presence of. Yes, he should go home.
When he’d finished his cigarette. And had a drink for the road.


"Can I have another one of these, please?" he asked an hour later, waving his empty glass from side to side. The elbow he had propped on the bar slipped slightly and he lurched forwards in a most undignified manner. Typical. He straightened up, lifting his head to regard Peter with a wise expression. He had just returned to Carl's end of the bar after charming his latest victims. Customers.

"The bar appears to be wet," he noted.

"I dunno, y'can't get the staff these days..." Peter tutted as he swiped his tea towel over the exceedingly slippery surface.

"My thoughts exactly," Carl agreed sagely, winking at him in a conspiratorial fashion.

"Carrl...how exactly d'you plan to get home tonight?"

"By tube."

"Those train-things at the bottom of very lethal escalators?" Peter asked, narrowing his eyes slightly. Which was something of an improvement. Carl was less likely to fall into them, which was an excellent thing as he appeared to be rather clumsy this evening.

"I believe that is the customary way to reach such methods of public transport," he nodded.

"Ah...well. In that case, you have 2 choices. A: Call a cab, or B: wait for me to take you home. Cos there's no way on earth you'll even make it to the tube station without being abducted, or else doing something you might live to regret tomorrow."

"That would be a matter of opinion," Carl muttered whilst trying to extract his cigarettes from his pocket. The ones which were sitting on the bar.
"Oops," he chuckled, grabbing for the packet, before it escaped.

"Why? You're surely not trying to suggest that you're sober?"

"Nope. I'm bladdered. Good 'n' proper," he grinned.

"Okay, so which don't you trust; me or taxi drivers?"

"Nope."

Peter leaned forwards, supporting his chin on his elbow (which did not slip, the bar obviously only had it in for Carl), and ensnared him with two black holes masquerading as eyes.

"Okaaaaay...So, why would it be a matter of opinion?"

"I think you underestimate me, Mr Doherty," he informed him. Very seriously. "I am quite capable of comporting myself home."

"You will be eaten alive."

"Hmm... Which option was that?" Carl asked, perking up significantly.

The brown flared wider; it was in grave danger of swallowing him whole at this point, so he was prepared to take his chances out in the big, bad world.

"B. If I take you home..." Peter breathed, his voice as soft as a feather stroked across skin.

"Okay, B then. I do believe it's time for another drink. What're you having...?"


***

Rocky Horrorshow
katie_delaney
(I'm so so very very sorry for the title...just couldn't quite resist)
Peter/Carl
AU fic - Carl's a dancer and Peter's a finacy buisness buisness person
NC17
Sex, swearing, fishnets, corsets and a bit of bloody nose.
This was meant to be just a silly PWP but seemed to take a little wander on the way there.
(I know I have a million unfinished things, I am sorry, I just seem to love getting inspirations for new things!)
Beta: mimioomin

You"d better wise up...Collapse )

french cat blues
actualbowie
Title: french cat blues
Pairing: pete/carl
Genre: AU, comedy, fluff
Rating: general
Notes: this is mostly about cats. longer than my usual fics at least!
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Summer in The Trenches
scarlet_cerise
Pairing: Peter/Carl
Genre: Inspired by the 'Glory Days' video, by Carl Barat & The Jackals of course
Beta: none
Rating: Suggestions of the sex and violence, war
Notes: Peter's POV
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I don't own them.

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just you, your heart and your bruised pride
actualbowie
Title: just you, your heart and your bruised pride
Pairing: hints of p/c
Genre: angst maybe
Rating: general
Notes: very short, inspired by my unfortunate love for dirty pretty things and carl being sad. set during the dpt tour in the usa
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nightclub!fic
poutonlips
Nightclub fic
Pairing: pete/carl
Genre: pre-fame with an extra dose of “no homo” Carl embarrassing himself.
Rating: teen I guess? Swearing & some sexual situations but not full on sex.
Beta: None, sorry.. Don't even know how to find one tbh
Words: ~3.400
Notes: okay guys so this is pretty silly & i'm not sure if I like it but I decided to just post this anyways to get some criticism and all since this is my first fic ever. Please comment if you read, I'd love any kind of feedback!! Even if you think this is terrible lmao
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Doomed Youth
scarlet_cerise
Pairing: Peter/Carl
Genre: Thailand inspired, based on the bonus video
Beta: none
Rating: Nothing too serious, suggestions of the sex and drugs, swearing
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I don't own them.


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In Love With A Feeling - Bonus Xmas Special
cuffs
niqistar
Pairing: Peter/Carl
Genre: AU, Fluff
Beta: mimioomin
Rating: Tame
Notes: This is a Xmas Special *hides/burns/eats all calendars* for the Babyshambles Groupie AU "In Love With A Feeling"
(the brilliant brainchild of
actualbowie/ http://actualcarlbarat.tumblr.com/
- where Groupie Carl lives on in his own disastrous way :))
Summary: Carl is a perpetually angsty (late) teen, and the world's biggest Shambles superfan-turned-accidental-groupie.  His life is a series of petty and terrible embarassments.  Peter is a newbie indie-rockstar, who reads poetry to pigeons and sees romance is crisp packets.  They meet at a gig and fluffy relationshippy adventures follow.


Carl, Actually...Collapse )

Identities
bilo4biggles
Title: Identities
Pairing: Pete/Carl
Genre: funny oneshot, set in the good old days
Beta: nobody, I was too impatient for that
Rating: E, funny fluff
Teaser: “I’m a libertine, Carl”, he said delighted and a bit proud. “I’m a libertine.” And with that he sprinted down the road.

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