(no subject)
Remember when I wrote I Spy? yamma23 told me I should write fics for all Pulp songs. So, I'm going to do a series on every song from Different Class, in the order of my fancy. I will probably be persuaded to write This Is Hardcore, too, okay? Good, thanks.
Disclaimer: Some of this happened, some did not.
Pairing: Peter/Carl
Rating: 13 - barely!legal!
I present to you 1100+ words of
The lyrics are here
Peter Doherty has always been a misshape. He’s never quite fitted in - the product of being an army kid and spending his childhood being moved from pillar to post, never having time to settle and never being able to make friends. Peter learned early that he was better off in his own company, better off filling his head with poetry and quotes and obscure band trivia. People tended to let him down - even members of his own family although he doesn’t often admit that - and anyway, Pete likes being alone.
For a long time after the final move to London Pete didn’t even try to fit in. He didn’t even look like the other kids at school and took a lot of grief for wearing knackered old leather jackets and ripped jeans. He was a few years out - while everyone was listening to grunge he was stuck in the 80s with the Smiths.
Pete knows it won’t be like this forever. He knows he’ll find his niche, find a place where he feels comfortable, a place where like minds and hearts and melodies can grow old together, a place which will eventually feel like home. He knows the future will be his.
*****
Pete doesn’t think he’s intelligent, although his exam results tell a different story. He sometimes in his darker moments thinks that although he’s clever, he’s not very wise. He doesn’t have a lot of common sense, doesn’t often involve himself in the practicalities of modern life, much to the dismay of his mother, who wonders about her only son, as she tidies up around him. He’s sitting with his knees hunched to his chest, a small book balanced on his knee, a pencil making notes in the margin. It’s one of his endless books of poetry, books he’ll quote whole passages verbatim from.
Peter’s mum wants him to focus on 6th form, focus on A levels, try to decide which universities he wants to apply to. She gets sad when she thinks of another child flying the nest - Amy is already having a wild time in London and soon there’ll only be her and Peter senior left.
“Peter, why don’t you go outside and get some fresh air,” she says, exasperated at his pale skin and thin frame hunched in the bedroom.
“Don’t wanna go by myself, do I?” Peter mumbles.
“Why not?”
“I could end up with a smack in the mouth just for standing out,” he says.
“Don’t be ridiculous, who’s going to hit you?”
Peter shrugs. “Anyone who feels like having a go.”
She sighs, and notices the pile of prospectuses sitting on the floor at the end of Peter’s bed. “Why don’t you have a look through them and decide where you’re going to apply to?”
Peter shrugs again and looks to return to his book. His mother snaps.
“Peter, I’m serious. This is important. Look, why don’t you go and visit Amy, it’ll give you a taste of university life….” She sits down on the end of the bed
Peter pulls a face. “Yeah, and meet some lunatics like her? Some dreadful actor types obsessed with air kissing all the time?”
She couldn’t help but laugh at Peter’s description of her eldest daughter. “Why don’t you go for a couple of days, have a couple of days off school and see what you think of the university?”
Peter eyes her suspiciously. “You’re telling me to bunk off school?”
“To visit a university, yes.”
“Okay,” Pete says slowly.
*****
Peter hates travelling from his home in suburban London into the city proper. His town is full of young boys in tracksuits, boys who eye him warily and look as if they’d like to beat him up but don’t quite dare. Pete thinks this is because of his height, and has never been so grateful for it. He sits glum on the bus, headphones on, ignoring the glances. He feels he is better than them - he has his mind and his intelligence and his music, and he tries to hug that comforting thought to himself. There is a pretty girl sat opposite him, and he smiles at her, hoping she isn’t like all the rest, but she just looked confused and turned away.
Peter likes the anonymity of central London. Here, he isn’t a misshape. There’s people around who look far more bizarre than him. He’s travelling light, only a small rucksack and his school bag for company. He’s not entirely sure of the way to Amy’s, but it can’t be that hard. The tube, a bus, it doesn’t matter. She’ll be there when he gets there.
*****
At Amy’s is a boy, the same age as Amy. He’s dark haired and olive skinned. He smokes a cigarette out of the side of his mouth and has a battered guitar. Pete is wary of him to start off with, assuming this boy will be another one to ridicule him with his romantic ideas and his scribbled words.
This is different. Amy is a good student and over the next few days attends all her lectures, leaving Peter to talk to the boy. At first it’s awkward between them, but soon, too soon, they’re sharing likes and loves and hates and experiences, they’re matching Peter’s words to Carl’s melodies, and they’re slowly but surely, almost imperceptibly, falling in love.
They sit cross legged on Carl’s bed, only a single one, facing each other. Between them is the guitar, with only 5 strings, a packet of cigarettes, which Peter is only just getting used to, one of his notebooks, and a pen. Carl’s scrawling down some chords along the top of Pete’s words, so he doesn’t forget them, because they sound good. Peter’s delighted - finally someone cares enough about his words to put music to them.
He’s aware of blue eyes staring at him through black hair. He’s aware Carl’s lips have moved, said something.
“Huh?” he says.
“Does that sound okay?” Carl repeats.
Peter nods. He trusts his words with this boy, this strange, mumbling creature whose laugh lights up the room. He leans forward gingerly, his mind screaming furiously at him that no! This isn’t right! This boy doesn’t want to kiss him! Peter ignores it, please say he hasn’t misread the signals, this is right, it is. He’s making a move, he’s making it now.
Warm lips upon warm lips, and there’s no shriek of disgust or hands pushing him away. There’s reciprocation instead, lips moving apart and before long there’s a flicker of tongue. The guitar is moved away, everything else matterless, hands caressing instead. Tongues desperate, breathing hitched.
It feels right, it feels good. Peter likes this, this isn’t scary. He’s guessing that Carl doesn’t mind it much either, from the way he’s moaning slightly.
Pete Doherty is no longer a misshape. He’s got a place, and it’s right here.
Disclaimer: Some of this happened, some did not.
Pairing: Peter/Carl
Rating: 13 - barely!legal!
I present to you 1100+ words of
The lyrics are here
Peter Doherty has always been a misshape. He’s never quite fitted in - the product of being an army kid and spending his childhood being moved from pillar to post, never having time to settle and never being able to make friends. Peter learned early that he was better off in his own company, better off filling his head with poetry and quotes and obscure band trivia. People tended to let him down - even members of his own family although he doesn’t often admit that - and anyway, Pete likes being alone.
For a long time after the final move to London Pete didn’t even try to fit in. He didn’t even look like the other kids at school and took a lot of grief for wearing knackered old leather jackets and ripped jeans. He was a few years out - while everyone was listening to grunge he was stuck in the 80s with the Smiths.
Pete knows it won’t be like this forever. He knows he’ll find his niche, find a place where he feels comfortable, a place where like minds and hearts and melodies can grow old together, a place which will eventually feel like home. He knows the future will be his.
*****
Pete doesn’t think he’s intelligent, although his exam results tell a different story. He sometimes in his darker moments thinks that although he’s clever, he’s not very wise. He doesn’t have a lot of common sense, doesn’t often involve himself in the practicalities of modern life, much to the dismay of his mother, who wonders about her only son, as she tidies up around him. He’s sitting with his knees hunched to his chest, a small book balanced on his knee, a pencil making notes in the margin. It’s one of his endless books of poetry, books he’ll quote whole passages verbatim from.
Peter’s mum wants him to focus on 6th form, focus on A levels, try to decide which universities he wants to apply to. She gets sad when she thinks of another child flying the nest - Amy is already having a wild time in London and soon there’ll only be her and Peter senior left.
“Peter, why don’t you go outside and get some fresh air,” she says, exasperated at his pale skin and thin frame hunched in the bedroom.
“Don’t wanna go by myself, do I?” Peter mumbles.
“Why not?”
“I could end up with a smack in the mouth just for standing out,” he says.
“Don’t be ridiculous, who’s going to hit you?”
Peter shrugs. “Anyone who feels like having a go.”
She sighs, and notices the pile of prospectuses sitting on the floor at the end of Peter’s bed. “Why don’t you have a look through them and decide where you’re going to apply to?”
Peter shrugs again and looks to return to his book. His mother snaps.
“Peter, I’m serious. This is important. Look, why don’t you go and visit Amy, it’ll give you a taste of university life….” She sits down on the end of the bed
Peter pulls a face. “Yeah, and meet some lunatics like her? Some dreadful actor types obsessed with air kissing all the time?”
She couldn’t help but laugh at Peter’s description of her eldest daughter. “Why don’t you go for a couple of days, have a couple of days off school and see what you think of the university?”
Peter eyes her suspiciously. “You’re telling me to bunk off school?”
“To visit a university, yes.”
“Okay,” Pete says slowly.
*****
Peter hates travelling from his home in suburban London into the city proper. His town is full of young boys in tracksuits, boys who eye him warily and look as if they’d like to beat him up but don’t quite dare. Pete thinks this is because of his height, and has never been so grateful for it. He sits glum on the bus, headphones on, ignoring the glances. He feels he is better than them - he has his mind and his intelligence and his music, and he tries to hug that comforting thought to himself. There is a pretty girl sat opposite him, and he smiles at her, hoping she isn’t like all the rest, but she just looked confused and turned away.
Peter likes the anonymity of central London. Here, he isn’t a misshape. There’s people around who look far more bizarre than him. He’s travelling light, only a small rucksack and his school bag for company. He’s not entirely sure of the way to Amy’s, but it can’t be that hard. The tube, a bus, it doesn’t matter. She’ll be there when he gets there.
*****
At Amy’s is a boy, the same age as Amy. He’s dark haired and olive skinned. He smokes a cigarette out of the side of his mouth and has a battered guitar. Pete is wary of him to start off with, assuming this boy will be another one to ridicule him with his romantic ideas and his scribbled words.
This is different. Amy is a good student and over the next few days attends all her lectures, leaving Peter to talk to the boy. At first it’s awkward between them, but soon, too soon, they’re sharing likes and loves and hates and experiences, they’re matching Peter’s words to Carl’s melodies, and they’re slowly but surely, almost imperceptibly, falling in love.
They sit cross legged on Carl’s bed, only a single one, facing each other. Between them is the guitar, with only 5 strings, a packet of cigarettes, which Peter is only just getting used to, one of his notebooks, and a pen. Carl’s scrawling down some chords along the top of Pete’s words, so he doesn’t forget them, because they sound good. Peter’s delighted - finally someone cares enough about his words to put music to them.
He’s aware of blue eyes staring at him through black hair. He’s aware Carl’s lips have moved, said something.
“Huh?” he says.
“Does that sound okay?” Carl repeats.
Peter nods. He trusts his words with this boy, this strange, mumbling creature whose laugh lights up the room. He leans forward gingerly, his mind screaming furiously at him that no! This isn’t right! This boy doesn’t want to kiss him! Peter ignores it, please say he hasn’t misread the signals, this is right, it is. He’s making a move, he’s making it now.
Warm lips upon warm lips, and there’s no shriek of disgust or hands pushing him away. There’s reciprocation instead, lips moving apart and before long there’s a flicker of tongue. The guitar is moved away, everything else matterless, hands caressing instead. Tongues desperate, breathing hitched.
It feels right, it feels good. Peter likes this, this isn’t scary. He’s guessing that Carl doesn’t mind it much either, from the way he’s moaning slightly.
Pete Doherty is no longer a misshape. He’s got a place, and it’s right here.