Title: Baby Doll
Fandom: The Libertines
Characters: Carl Barât, Peter Doherty
Rating: Mature
Length: 1000
Notes: The collaboration song referred to is real ('Tinkertoy'), but the fic is a stand alone within an AU series. Someone said they'd pay good money to hear Peter and Carl record the song together, and I'm not even vaguely sorry for where that sent me.
Content notes: None



"You owe me an apology."

The words stop Peter dead in his tracks, bring the lyrics he's constructing in his head to an abrupt halt. What has he done now? Honestly it could be a dozen things. Fuck, and it had been such a good day up till now.

Carl's in bed, leaning back against the headboard, his t-shirt stained and as rumpled as the quilt that's bunched up over his legs. His hair's a mess, and he's not looking at Peter.

"I'm... sorry?" That's usually the best way to start, while he works out how much trouble he's in this time.

Carl shifts a little, and Peter can see a flush high up on his cheeks. Anger? Or something else?

He takes a step and puts one knee tentatively on the bed, trying to get a better look at Carl's face. "I don't know what I've done, but you know I--" He stops when he sees the phone on the bed, sees the track that's been paused.

"I didn't know that was out!" He makes a grab for the phone, but Carl's too quick for him.

"This," Carl says, brandishing the phone at him, "is filthy."

There's nothing really dirty lyric-wise about the little collaboration he did with a local singer, but Peter knows what he means all the same. What did he hear someone call it? Bedroom music. Another explanation for that pink in Carl's cheeks is starting to come to mind.

"Been enjoying it have you, love?" He feels safe enough to move a little closer, but--

"Don't you 'love' me." Carl makes a grab for Peter's arm, and before he knows it he's sprawled awkwardly across the bed, Carl's face right up against his. "Not when you're calling some girl... names like that."

"You know you're the only girl for me," Peter tries, but Carl's not playing. "Okay, I didn't write that bit! She wrote it, I just sang the line."

"To her," Carl says, and fuck, Peter doesn't know where the hell this is going, or whether Carl is really mad. "Thinking about her."

"I only ever think about you," Peter says without a second's pause, because it's true.

"So say it."

Peter opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Is he serious? He has a million nicknames and pet names for Carl, they both do for each other, but something like that-- Carl would smack him painfully on the ear if he tried.

Wouldn't he?

Carl's starting to turn away, and he's going to mumble something and never bring it up again, probably, but Peter doesn't want that. Doesn't want him to be disappointed if--

"Hey."

He catches Carl's chin and brings their faces back together. They're close enough that he knows Carl can feel Peter's breath when he murmurs it soft and low.

"Baby doll."

It's been over twenty years since they first slept together, and it may have been on and off over the years, but he'd have sworn up and down he knew everything about this man. None of that has made him remotely prepared him for the reaction to those two words.

Peter's flat on his back before he knows what's hit him, Carl straddling him, his hair falling down over Peter's face.

Peter realises the t-shirt was the only thing Carl had been wearing, and dares to slide his hands appreciatively over the thighs pinning him in place.

"Say it again," Carl breathes out, and in the dim light his eyes are black, his face even more flushed, if that was possible. He's biting his lip, waiting, and Peter can feel a tremble in his arms.

"Baby doll," he whispers, tempting Carl closer, against his lips. "My beautiful baby doll."

Carl's hands get him unfastened and his trousers pushed down, the wriggling even more fun when it's just bare skin against skin. Not that he hadn't been hard already, because firstly it's Carl, and secondly it hasn't been like this in years.

It's a shock when Carl lifts up and positions Peter against his hole--

"Again."

--but it only takes a second to realise Carl is already slick and wet, he was-- jesus, he was waiting for him, or fucking himself, and Peter doesn't know which and doesn't care because Carl so rarely wants this and now he's desperate for it, shaking all over now, the tremor running right through him and into Peter, and he won't make him wait any more.

"Baby doll," he says, putting all the love and tenderness he feels into it, all the years of wanting more than he was allowed, all the time he waited. It's all been worth the bad times they've been through. Every day they have together is one he's grateful for, and he thinks Carl is too.

Carl groans as he sinks down, and Peter can't think about that any more. It's glorious, the way Carl takes him in, all the way, as if he did this every day of the week. His body arches when he's all the way down, but Peter knows better than to distract him yet. He watches him stretch, feels him wriggle and jesus that's-- he doesn't know how he's going to hold out--

– he's not, not for long. Carl knows it too, just brushes his hair back from his sweaty forehead and locks eyes with him before grabbing Peter's outstretched hands and getting ready to fuck himself on Peter's more than willing cock.

Carl will ride him hard until he gets what he needs, whether Peter comes in two minutes or twenty. He'll leave him a wrung out but happy mess, murmur sweet everythings in his ear, kiss him soft and wet until they fall asleep, and in the morning he'll probably roll over and say, "Call me that again and you'll die," and Peter will marvel once more at the way his beloved's mind works.

He wouldn't have it any other way.