This is a print version of story A Little Dream of Mine by ChubbyPrincess from

A Little Dream of Mine

*sigh* If you like hardcore et cetera - don't read, okay?

They'd been sat in the pub for hours past closing time now, but the owner didn't seem to mind. Drew didn't know how they'd ended up there. A taxi ride from the LMHR afterparty, arguments over directions via mobile and three wrong turns brought them to this out-of-the way place where they'd talked and laughed and drank, Drew having done more than his fair share of the last. It was Carl's fault. "Just one more," Carl had said, four drinks, three dodgy accents and the first of many hands on Drew's knee ago. Drew watched him down the last of his pint, his eyes fixed on Carl's mouth, on those impossibly full lips, glistening with drops of beer, his tongue flicking out to lick them away. Drew had the dim awareness that his mouth had fallen open and his tongue was hanging out, like a cartoon dog when an attractive poodle walked by. Carl caught him watching and winked theatrically. Drew gulped.

"I, ah, need a slash," Drew said, scrambling up from the table and nearly knocking his chair over in the process. He heard Carl's laughter behind him before he sequestered himself, gratefully, behind the door to the men's room. He sagged against the wall for a moment. This was wrong, he told himself. He couldn't - didn't, wasn't, shouldn't - be having these thoughts. Fuck's sake, Annalisa was sitting just outside, giggling with her friends. And Peter...

What would Peter think, if he knew? How betrayed he would feel. Drew couldn't do that to him. No matter if Carl had tied a fucking cherry stem into knots with his tongue and dropped it in Drew's drink, along with an engraved invitation to "fuck me now," he couldn't do that to Peter. A piss, he decided, walking over to the first urinal, and then he'd go home, fall asl**p in his bed and wake up vowing never to drink again, or at least until tomorrow.

Drew's fingers fumbled over themselves as he unzipped.

"Fuck," he cursed under his breath, his grip slipping. He tried again - the zipper stuck. A last hard tug, and then it was done. Drew sighed with relief, trying to empty his mind, trying not to think about -

"Carl!" he exclaimed, nearly jumping and soaking the floor as the door opened. Not, he considered, eyeing the floor, that it would have mattered. Carl entered with a wink, fag dangling rakishly off his lips, dark hair straggling wavily over one twinkling blue eye, pinstripe suit now well-rumpled. Anyone else would have looked louche, but Carl...


"Fancy seeing you here," Carl remarked drolly, striding up to the urinal beside Drew and deftly unzipping.

Five fucking free toilets, and he picks that one. Fuck.

Drew heard the splash against the porcelain. He tried to keep his eyes fixed straight ahead, tried not to -


Carl smirked as he caught Drew's wandering gaze. Drew snapped his attention back to the wall. Count the tiles, he told himself. He glanced up. One, two, three...

"Trying to see if Peter exaggerated?" Carl asked.

"What?" Drew still wouldn't look at Carl. He was finished. Drew zipped up hurriedly and went to wash.

"Don't play coy," Carl said. "Or is that what he likes about you?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Drew said, turning on the tap as far as it would go. He needed the sound of the water to drown out the thumping in his chest, so loud Carl could surely hear it.

"Oh," Carl said, coming up behind him, "I'm sure you do."

Drew froze as he felt hands around his waist. His head snapped up to the mirror. Carl's eyes met his, peering out from behind his shoulder. Drew gulped.

"You should turn the water off," Carl told him.

"What? Oh, right." The tap squeaked. Now there was only the pounding drumbeat of his bl**d. Carl bent his head down, nose grazing along Drew's neck. Drew watched him in the mirror, watched his eyes close as he breathed Drew in.

"You're d***k," Drew said, not really knowing why. It was a feeble protest, and they both knew it. Carl's grip on his waist tightened. He jerked Drew backwards, so Drew could feel Carl's hardness against him. Drew gulped again.

"You've always been curious, haven't you?" Carl murmured, his lips teasing along Drew's skin, his hands finding paths underneath Drew's shirt, wandering over his sides and stomach. "Wondered what it was like, if he was different with me," he said. He nipped at Drew's throat, Drew feeling the points of his teeth dimpling his flesh, Carl's blue eyes meeting Drew's brown ones in the mirror. "Haven't you?"

Drew sucked in a breath. It was no good to protest now, feeble or not. He was completely under Carl's spell, and Carl fucking knew it.

"Yes," he answered, as much a surrender as a reply. Carl grinned.

"What was it like," Carl asked, "the first time?" His fingers had found the waistband of Drew's jeans. Drew watched his own cheeks hollow in the mirror, his mouth pucker in an O of pleasure.

"It was at his flat," he answered finally, struggling to remember anything, to think of anything beyond the delicious heat of Carl's touch on his skin, Carl's teeth nibbling on his ear, Carl's cock pressing into his backside. "We were writing some songs," he said. "S'posed to, anyway. Mostly just ended up getting fucked on pills." The night came back to him as if he was seeing it through water. There was Pat, passed out on the floor. Gemma had excused herself early, giving a look from Drew to Peter and back again. At the time, Drew hadn't thought anything of it. But then Peter had laughed just a bit too loudly at something Drew said, his eyes had stayed on Drew's just a fraction too long, and Drew understood.

"Did he kiss you first?" Carl asked, but Drew could hardly hear him. He was underwater now, watching Peter swim toward him, feeling the nervousness and anticipation as Peter's eyes closed and their lips met.

"Yes," Drew breathed. He felt like he was drowning. His chest was full. He couldn't breathe. He came up for air, gasping. Carl had him pressed right up against the edge of the sink now, constricting his body. He'd have bruises in the morning.

"What was it like?"

Drew's cock strained against the fabric of his jeans, aching to escape the double constraint of his clothing and the bowl of the sink while Carl's fingers teased just above it. If Carl didn't let him turn around soon he'd go mental.

"Hungry," Drew answered. "Desperate. Like he wanted to lose himself." He could still taste that kiss on his tongue, feel the pressure of Peter's lips against his, feel Peter's long fingers gripped around the back of his neck, pulling Drew into him, making Drew breathless and dizzy with the intensity and urgency of his kiss. "Forget," he added softly.

"And whose name," Carl asked, pushing, though Drew didn't know why, because from the look in Carl's eyes and the way he asked it he already knew the answer to the question, "did he cry out when he came?"

"Yours," Drew whispered.

"Eh?" Carl pretended not to hear. Drew felt momentarily like shaking Carl off, telling him to go fuck himself, take his little power trip and use it on Didz or Anthony or someone, it didn't fucking matter who, just someone who hadn't had to live every day with the ghost of Carl fucking Barât standing just behind Peter's shoulder, reminding Drew that Carl was first, last, and always in Peter's heart and head, that even when Peter's body was wrapped so tightly around his that his bones ached from the pressure, Carl was still between them. He'd wanted so much to hate Carl, wanted to spit in his face and bash his head in for breaking his friend's heart. Not just his heart, his fucking soul.

But Drew couldn't do that, could he? Couldn't hate Carl for fucking off and leaving others to pick up the pieces. Because Carl was so witty and charming and - fuck it - beautiful, that you not only understood why Peter still loved him, but wondered how he could ever bear to love anyone else. And, secretly or not, you fancied finding out what it would be like to be loved by Carl, too.

The bastard.

"Fuck you, Carl," Drew said. "You heard me."

Carl laughed.

"Whose name," Carl asked, taking his hands out of Drew's jeans and spinning Drew around to face him, "will you cry out when you come?"

"I could ask the same of you," Drew retorted. Carl's response was to pull Drew's face down to his, his mouth eagerly seeking Drew's. Drew tasted whiskey on his tongue, felt those full lips pressed against his, kissing him hard and sloppily.

Drew moved his hands over Carl's back, tugging him in toward's Drew's body. He heard the squeak of shoes on the floor, felt Carl nearly slip on the tiles, but he had a hold of Drew too tightly, and Drew him. Drew felt Carl up and down, slid his hands down to Carl's arse. He'd heard and read many paeans to Carl's bum, but now, gripping the tight, taut curve of it, he considered that they were all wildly insufficient. He held Carl's cheeks firmly, pushing Carl's pelvis onto him, Carl's erection pressing against the front of his trousers and Drew's jeans. Drew took in a breath as he felt Carl begin to rub against him, felt the friction against his own cock. He found Carl's lips again, sucked and bit them. Carl hissed, and Drew tasted bl**d. Carl didn't pull away, though. He returned Drew's kiss with equal intensity, and Drew knew then that the tables had turned, that Carl was now under his spell. He wondered if it had been this way with Peter, the back-and-forth, topsy-turvy nature of their relationship translating to sex. Peter had never talked about it, but there were clues, weren't there, in the way he was with Drew, the way v******e excited him as much as tenderness, bl**d and spit as much as kisses and cuddles, the way he could be so rough and yet so gentle at the same time.

Carl's eyes opened, looking up into Drew's, as if he was searching for something, seeing Drew but not. Drew wondered what memories were going through his head as he watched Drew's brown eyes. Was that it, that with his eyes and dark hair Carl could pretend he was Peter, could imagine being with him again? And was that why Drew was doing this, to possess something Peter had once had? Each of them groping for that presence that always somehow escaped their grasp. For Peter.

Then again, Drew thought, as Carl's hips ground down on him, did the reason really fucking matter?

"Fuuuck," Drew vocalized, his eyes rolling up in his head while Carl's pelvis rubbed over his cock. He wanted more contact, so much more, but Carl was already ahead of him there, fingers wriggling between their bodies to loosen his jeans. Drew kissed Carl again while Carl shoved his trousers and pants down, freeing his now very hard cock, Carl's hand gripping and pumping him. Drew pulled out of the kiss. He felt like he was gasping for air, felt dizzy with the pleasure and the pressure, but he needed more. He put a hand on Carl's shoulder, pushing him down, pushing those lips he'd stared at so shamelessly, now red and swollen from kissing, down towards the task they'd seemingly been put on this earth to perform.

Drew grunted as Carl took him into his mouth. Dimly, he heard Carl's trousers unzip, Carl working on himself as he worked on Drew. Drew's pleasure was tempered with the sinking feeling that nothing he had done for Peter had ever measured up to this. If there were a league table for cocksucking, Carl would surely be at the top.

Drew moaned, Carl sucking on him, his tongue playing along the vein on the underside of Drew's cock, following a path up to and flicking over the head with each bobbing, up-and-down motion. Drew's head was spinning, his arse clenching and muscles squirming with pleasure. He looked down at Carl's dark head, watching it move over him, trying to remember this moment, to make a film in his mind he could replay in the dark lonely nights when Peter had fucked off with someone else and he was between lovers and too tired and lazy to find a partner other than his own hand. Carl's hair glinted under the florescent light of the toilet, light illuminating the soft waves - too pretty, really, for this place. Drew reached out to touch it, to feel that beauty, ended up grabbing and yanking it in time with the throbs of pleasure that radiated from the tip of his cock through his stomach and up his spine, every bit of him in time with Carl, the movement of Carl's mouth, the strokes of Carl's hand upon his own cock. Drew was the watch, and Carl was turning his gears precisely, a master craftsman. Tick, tock, tick, to-

"Ohhhh, fuck." Drew felt his balls tighten as Carl licked around him. He wasn't going to last much longer. Around his cock, he felt the vibrations as Carl's own ministrations made him moan softly. Drew didn't want it quite like this, though, didn't want Carl to come so far away from him. If they were coming together he wanted it face-to-face, so they could look into each other's eyes and really see who they were fucking. No hiding. No pretense.

He pulled Carl's head back. Carl looked up at him - no confusion, though. He understood. Carl stood up, his body pressed close to Drew's, his mouth hot and wet and swollen. Drew kissed him, tasting himself on Carl's lips. He reached down between them, finding both their cocks with his hand. His fingers weren't quite as long as Peter's, but they would do. He kissed Carl deeply as he stroked them together, pumping up and down, feeling Carl's hardness against his, Drew's other hand rubbing over Carl's back, so deceptively slight but muscled, down to the dimples of his arse, Carl throwing his head back now, eyes rolling up, eyelids fluttering, Drew feeling it himself, feeling the tightening from his arse up between his legs to his cock, orgasm about to explode through him, and before he sought Carl's mouth again and for the last time, his mouth moved in a cry, echoing Carl's, the name both of them knew they would scream as they came, now and forever...


"Peter Doherty!" The door clanged. Peter scrambled to a sitting position on the hard prison bed, shoving his cock quickly back in his trousers. The window on the door slid open, a pair of green eyes in a puffy face blinking back at him. "You all right in there?"

"Yeah, yeah," Peter replied. The eyes flicked downwards. Peter realized too late his fly was undone. The eyes smirked. The window slid shut. Peter flopped back on his bed, one arm over his head, sighing. He could see the headlines now. "Potty Pete in Prison Wank Shame." Not that it mattered. He was beyond that now, beyond caring about the tabs or anything other than the walls of this cell and what he was going to do once he got out of there.

Starting with giving that pair a good talking-to.

Drew and Biggles should know they weren't allowed to play together - at least not until he could join in. Naughty boys. They wanted discipline. He might just have to spank them....

Peter smiled, reaching back down his trousers, and closed his eyes. After all, he had a lot of time on his hands.

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