undercover-undiscovered-underutilised-underwear (_unhurt_) wrote,

fic: favourite things

dear mrs_laugh_track, this is all your fault. you will know why! [eta: important missing information i missed. in fact belmanoir is at least 50% to blame for this concept. see here for an explanation!]

title: favourite things
words: 2000
other stuff: hugh/callum R-ish rps.

warm woollen mittens tokanzenhanzai and zabira for beta and encouragement. thanks guys <3

Callum shoved the door open and yelled again.

"Hugh? HUGH? Where the fuck are you?"

He let the door slam behind him, annoyed. Hugh was supposed to be here. It was freezing outside and ten minutes of banging on the door and calling Hugh's cell then Hugh's house phone – which he could hear ringing through the door - had put him in a foul mood. Finding the spare key frozen to the ground under its corner of broken paving slab hadn’t helped. As he prised it up with numb fingers he called Hugh several things that would probably just make him grin when he repeated them to him later. Plus, okay, he was a little worried. Nowadays Hugh was pretty reliable. Often late, yeah, but he'd have called...

Finally inside, Callum dumped his bag and went looking for clues, pulling off his coat and scarf and mittens as he went and dumping them haphazardly onto furniture as he passed.

He checked the bedroom first. Empty, bed unmade, laundry of uncertain age in a heap by the door. Guest room. Empty, actually pretty neat except for the sad remains of what was once a weight set, a guitar with three strings and a pile of romance novels on the table by the bed which he knew Hugh had left there to annoy him. Not everyone wants to read true crime and Chuck Palahniuk all the time, Callum had pointed out. And Margaret Atwood is not fucking chick-lit, you asshole. Of course, later Hugh had stolen the book and loved it. That just made it even more annoying.

He was about to check the bathroom when something moved in his peripheral vision. He turned and looked down at – a kitten?

"Meow!" said the kitten.

Callum blinked. It was a small, stubby-legged black kitten with fur that grew in a variety of directions, many of them up. Piercing blue kitten eyes gazed up at him from a fierce little face and a weird sensation began to creep up his spine.


He turned slowly to his left. Another kitten – the identical twin of the first - stared boldly at him from the back of the couch.

Callum took a deep breath and stepped forward.

"Good kitty kitty. Here puss puss puss." He reached out carefully, not wanting to scare it. The kitten sniffed at his hand and submitted to a brief skritching behind the ears. Then it gleefully latched onto his hand with two paws full of tiny needle-sharp claws.

"Ow ow ow, fuck, ow," Callum chanted quietly as he tried to pull the kitten off without hurting it. He had almost managed it when he felt the other one winding round his ankles. Only, when he looked down there were two. Surprised, he dropped the kitten chewing on his hand and it landed in a protesting heap of fur and indignity.

Three. There were three identical – "mrow?" - four identical blue eyed kittens with punk rock fur. And no Hugh. But there was something very familiar about the kittens. One of them started to headbutt his ankle.

"Shit," said Callum to the world at large and the kittens in particular.


By the end of the day Callum was exhausted. There were thirteen identikit kittens loose in Hugh's apartment. They were demanding, playful, charming, infuriating, noisy, regularly hungry, and liked to push Callum around in the clear knowledge that he would put up a brief show of resistance and then comply. So. Very much like the usual resident. Who was – he was – Callum wasn't going to articulate what he thought might be going on because he was not at this point in his life crazy. He thought. Instead he concentrated on petting kitten #11 who had claimed the prime spot on Callum's chest as he lay on the couch. The entirety of the small compact body vibrated with purrs as Callum stroked it. This was not something Callum usually did with Hugh. Though from time to time he'd thought that maybe – well. Okay, that wasn't ever a productive line of thought.

Callum dislodged kitten #4 so he could move his left arm and snagged the phone. The Thai place was on speed dial.


The next morning, after he had fed the mewing horde tuna from a tin and dealt with some of the things that made kittens less cute in a house with no litter tray, Callum managed to escape into the bathroom long enough to wash and dress and come up with a plan of action.

Part one was to go out for kitten supplies. Especially kitty litter. That was the easy part.

He wasn't very confident about part two, but he couldn't exactly call anyone and explain his suspicions. Even Bruce wouldn't buy this one. So. He pulled out Hugh's laptop. (The password was still "motherfelcher".) He would ask the internet.

It took all day. It would have been easier but it turned out that the kittens really liked the internet. As soon as one had been removed from the keyboard another would take its place, and Callum spent more time retyping search strings ruined by kittens galloping across the keys than he did accidentally clicking on disturbing links. But, finally, he had one possible solution. If by "possible" you meant "really stupid and unlikely to work".


He copied the text onto a sheet of paper – Hugh's crappy printer was out of toner yet again – and spent twenty five minutes rounding up all thirteen kittens. It seemed important they were all in the same place. Then he pulled the sheet out of his pocket, unfolded it, and read:

Cio che fu non e piu.
Cio che fu fatto, disfa.
Passato e il pericolo,
Finita e la prova.
Metti le cosa a posto!

Nothing happened. The kittens looked at him in bemusement. Callum swore. He knew that site was suspect. Like any TV show would really have had a genuine transmogrification spell in it. He made a ball of the paper and chucked it into an ashtray then retired to the couch with the leftovers from last night's takeout and the remote control. The kittens soon joined him, and after watching a couple of hours of some weirdly fascinating show about crab fishing he dozed off under a blanket of sleepy kittens and one third of the ratty afghan Hugh insisted on keeping thrown over the back of the couch.


When he woke up a few hours later it was a little hard to breathe. Callum surfaced from some odd but enjoyable dreams about red-headed witches and found that the reason for this was that he was underneath about 170 pounds of sleeping Hugh.

170 pounds of sleeping, faintly snoring, naked, Hugh.

Oh, Callum thought. I guess it worked after all.

He was so surprised it took him a few minutes to realise three more things: that Hugh felt really good, that he was as hard as Callum was, and that he was waking up.

"Uh. Hi," Callum managed.

"Hi yourself," said Hugh, pushing his fingers through his hair so it stood to attention and grinning down at Callum. "Thanks for the tuna. We appreciated it. I mean, I appreciated it."

Callum swallowed and tried to formulate ten different questions at once. He shifted a little and then stopped as that brought him into contact with Hugh in ways that made speech even more difficult. Hugh made a noise that might have been a rumble but sounded a lot like a purr. He shifted deliberately against Callum and curled a hot hand around his bicep.

"So, okay, here's the deal," he said, low and teasing. "Do you want to have a long, awkward conversation about how weird all of this is, or do you want to do some more of that thing where you touch me and I make appreciative animalistic noises? Only, you know. This time I could reciprocate and stuff."


It soon became clear that Hugh wasn't kidding about the animalistic noises or the reciprocation. He was vocal and enthusiastic and well-prepared, leaving Callum half undressed on the couch to fetch a bottle of lube, demanding to know what felt good, better, best, fingering Callum's ass and jerking him off, then sprawling on his back and providing a running commentary of sweet obscenities and detailed encouragement while Callum gave him a long, sloppy blowjob.

Afterwards, they made out sleepily and Hugh nuzzled Callum's hand and kissed the scratches apologetically. Callum sighed against his cheek and then tried to suppress a yawn.

"I wear you out?" Hugh chuckled.

"I was already worn out. If you turn into kittens again, can you at least be litter trained?" Callum let his eyes close and rested his head on Hugh's shoulder.

"I'll see what I can do," Hugh offered, pulling the afghan over them and settling down against Callum's side. Then he twitched and pulled a face. And squirmed. And started to scratch.

"'S there a problem?" Callum asked without opening his eyes.

"Uh. Maybe?" Hugh admitted. "I'm really freaking itchy here. Have you been rubbing yourself with poison ivy or something?"

Callum cracked one eye open and peered at Hugh, who sat back and started scratching unhappily at his chest. Then both Callum's eyes flew open and he sat up quickly.

"Oh. Oh. I know. Shit. Stay there." He patted Hugh gingerly on the shoulder as he scrambled off the couch and loped quickly into the kitchen.

Hugh scratched harder and tried to identify what Callum was doing in there. Digging about in a bag, it sounded like. He was about to investigate when Callum came back, something small in his hand. Hugh took a moment to appreciate the view: Callum was unselfconsciously naked, standing there in Hugh's living room with a small frown lining his forehead. It was a pretty fucking nice view. Then the itching got his attention again and he went back to scratching the side of his head.

Callum opened the tiny bottle and batted Hugh's hands away from his head.

"Lean forward," he said, gesturing.

Hugh complied without thinking about it. Something cold dripped on the nape of his neck.

"Hey!" He reached up to rub at it but Callum caught his hand and put the bottle into it instead. Hugh gave him a look.

"What the hell?" he asked a, little distracted as Callum climbed back onto the couch and took a moment or two to arrange his long, lean, warm self against Hugh.

"Read the bottle, genius," suggested Callum with a smirk, folding his arms behind his head. "I think you're suffering from a, you know, a side effect kind of thing. That should help."

Hugh looked at the bottle. Then he looked at Callum.

"You dosed me with fucking Frontline you fucker?"

"You wanted to keep the fleas?"

"I - no – but - jeez, Callum. I'd like to keep a little dignity here is all."

"Yesterday three of you were licking your own balls while I tried to eat my noodles. I think we're already waaay past the dignity place."

Hugh looked down at himself thoughtfully. "Man," he decided. "I think I miss being kittens already."

Callum shook his head sadly. "You haven't even tried, Dillon. Disappointing."

"Cal, if I could lick my own balls, I- I-"

"You what?" Callum

"Well, for one thing I would have found out if I could by now. I was an adventurous teenager, ya know. And for another-"


Hugh used his best crooked grin, hot and charming, and twisted forwards to plant a hand on either side of Callum's shoulders. He leant down.

"Since it turns out you kind of like doing that stuff for me, my flexibility problems are solved. Remind me to write you a thank you note."

"Saying what exactly? I don’t think there's a widely accepted etiquette for this occasion."

Hugh mimed picking up a pen and writing.

"Dear Callum,
Thanks for sucking my dick and stuff.
Love and hugs,
P.S. You pussy."

Callum snorted and shook his head. "Miaow," he added.

Hugh frowned. "Hey, what?"

Callum beamed. "I think maybe all the pussy jokes are going to be on you for a while."


1 The spell is from Buffy episode 109, Smashed. Willow used it to de-rat Amy.

Tags: fic, hd/ckr, rps
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