working title: callum and hugh fuck on a boat [it is descriptive. or would be if they would just do it for me. *mutter*]
1500 words of sort-of sequel to this untitled story and it's been almost done since about two days after i started. i just suck at writing sex. c'mon boys. you know you want to!
2am and the only artificial light on the Northwestern is a faint glow from the instrument panels on the bridge. Outside the cloud is low and wet, blotting out any light from the sky, though the harbour lights struggle to penetrate the murk and it’s almost possible to see well enough to put one foot in front of the other.
“Jesus fuck!” A strangled curse followed the sound of scrabbling boots and a ringing thunk out of the darkness.
“Keep it down, Dillon,” Callum hissed from further along the deck, holding on to what he hoped was a solid piece of pipe. “We’re not even supposed to be here tonight. If you have to curse, try and sound like a sailor.”
Some more metallic bangs and scraping sounds followed, and then Hugh clumped carefully out of the dark towards him, cursing under his breath with every step he took on the icy deck.
“Shiver. My. Mother. Fucking. Timbers.” He grabbed the bit of rail next to Callum with one hand and Callum’s coat with the other. “That authentic enough for ya? Because I never thought I’d say this, but I am really fucking sick of seamen right now.”
It was warm and close on the bridge, a low comforting hum from the instrument panels just on the edge of hearing. Hugh was already pulling his coat off when Callum got up into his personal space and started to help him out of his sweater too.
“Hey now, frisky, what's the deal?” Hugh asked, muffled by the layer of wool as Callum pulled it over his head. He lifted a hand automatically to straighten his absent hair, running it over his scalp, and caught Callum's wrist in hid other hand just before he lost the long sleeve t-shirt too.
“We're, uh, reprogramming you. Replacing a bad association with a good one, you know? Like, if you try to stop smoking you have to get new automatic associations for all the times you’d have wanted a cigarette?”
“Well, I can see you’re the expert on that. When did you give up again?”
Callum scowled. “Shut up and cooperate. Principle’s sound.”
Hugh opened his mouth to protest, but shut it again when his brain caught up with the implications of the sweater thing. Then he opened it again. “Oh, I get it. You're reprogramming me with sex? You think a quick blowjob in the captain's chair and my tiny little lizard brain will go, 'Crustaceans? Sex! Boats? Sex!' Gotta say, I'm a little hurt that you think I'm that simple. Plus, what if I wind up with some kind of fetish?”
“You can add it to your collection,” Callum said impatiently. “Anyway,” he leaned closer and let his mouth brush Hugh's ear, “I had a bit more than a blowjob in mind.”
working title: untitled
i have these 1300 words of dubious hugh/callum genderfuck. i really WANT to finish them.
On Wednesday afternoon, Hugh woke up with a cunt. By the time he calmed down enough to call Callum's cell from the motel room phone the small mirror screwed by the four corners to the dirty cream wall was broken and the knuckles on his right hand were bloody and painful. Apparently being a girl didn’t mean he couldn’t swing a hard right.
Fucking idiot, he thought, licking his lips and wincing as he ran water into the tiny bathroom sink. He wasn't sure if he meant himself or Callum, or both of them. He swore under his breath as the water turned pale pink. "What do you mean a girl? Jesus Christ fucking crucified, Cal, you need an illustrated copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves to figure that out?"
He wasn't any kind of model. He was built like himself. He had pale, wide shoulders and paler, wider hips. He hooked one index finger into the elastic of the grey shorts and tugged it out where it made a dent in his new upholstery, let it slip back into place and trailed finger tips slowly across the warm curve of his belly and on up, until he was gazing, lips parted, at his own hand (wide palm, nice fingers) as it lifted his own breast. "Wow," he decided. "I am stacked." They hung a little lower maybe than was perfect, but – he watched his expressive new mouth twitch into a small, crooked grin – if they weren't his he'd definitely be interested. He leaned towards the mirror, twitching back momentarily as the cold edge of the sink touched his stomach, and cupped both tits in his hands, thumbs brushing over his own nipples. He shivered as they hardened. Sensitive. Jesus. This was going to be – he put his right hand behind his head, liking how his breast lifted, and pinched that nipple gently with his other hand. A little squirm and he was definitely interested, even if they were his.
working title: untitled feelth
i only really have notes and a couple of hundred words for this. kink x 2 for llassah's smut_bingo
For once in his life, Hugh doesn't have a single smart remark to make as Callum pushes him down on the bed and starts to tie his left wrist to the headboard.
working title: these kinds of things deteriorate
zombie!joe pipefitter POV fic for hard_core_hero (prompt: "Life is hard for musicians, but for drummers it's nearly impossible.") that started and then stopped after one line. really. that's what's in the word file of the draft. I HAVE IDEAS IN MY HEAD THAT WON'T COME OUT OK!
Joe had been dead for nearly two months now and Pipefitter was starting to worry. He was pretty sure he should have gone runny by now.
working title: untitled
another unfinished hard_core_hero thing, for the prompt "A band is the dysfunctional family you choose."
What Billy knows about Joe:
#1 Joe loves him.
#2 Joe is a romantic.
Joe would rather make music for beer commercials than admit #2. but Billy knows it's true because Joe thinks love makes it all okay – the shitty gigs, being flat broke and out of fuel in Saskabackwardston because Joe spent their t-shirt money on coke, a split lip and a black eye from some redneck asshole who came down the alley for a piss when the town was supposed to be in bed like the backwoods losers they were. Billy knows different. Billy's stepdad was real romantic, brought his mom flowers almost every week, took her for a drive on Sunday afternoons in the summer, made her happy, so happy, happier than Billy could ever remember her being. She told all her friends how he took a proper interest in Billy, not like a lot of stepfathers you hear about, no sir.
The first time Joe tried to touch his cock Billy was 17 and had a lock on the inside of his bedroom door. The punch almost broke Joe's nose, but after that Billy hit and hit and hit in such a blind furious frenzy that mostly he only hurt his own knuckles until he wore himself out against Joe's infuriating solidity and then he was just sprawled there over him, panting for breath with sweat in his eyes and Joe's hand on the back of his neck, half threat half comfort. Joe never asked. Billy never told.
working title: aren't doing it
more unfinished HCL-period hugh/callum. got kind of sappy, not sure where it wants to go.
Tuesday, Hugh threw a mug of coffee at the wall and punched the door so hard a panel splintered as he slammed out of the rehearsal. Callum followed him three blocks till he caught up and smoked silently with him under the awning of a drugstore as Hugh pretended not to look across the street at the bar.
Before they went back Callum gestured at Hugh to stay put, went inside and bought a packet of band-aids and some antiseptic wipes. He stuck them in Hugh's coat pocket as they walked. Hugh started to say something but stopped when Callum shook his head.
Back at the studio Hugh spent twenty minutes in the office with Bruce. Then he brought Callum a coffee. There were crooked band-aids on his knuckles. Callum relaxed and cuffed him lightly on the back of the head, Hugh gave him the finger, and Bruce ambled over to talk about scheduling.
working title: migration
i don't even know what this is, except that it needs totally rewritten. it was pretending to be rpf (paul/martha!) and crack but now i don't know what it wants to be. hrm. (kanz has seen this before.)
She hammers upwards through the blue, through the streaming damp tendrils of cloud, up, up, until her chest is exploding and she's gasping for breath, but she keeps going, keeps up (though she doesn’t know with what), revelling in the sound of every downstroke – flying is loud, and she thinks of still fall nights with the geese veeing over the house and how you can hear the zzzzhu zzzzhu of their wings as they pass overhead, hidden somewhere in the lignite bowl of the sky, running from the winter and the north and the longest night.
She doesn't know what she's running from – she just feels the euphoria, the ecstasy of this wild race to her limits, the air thinning and the wind icy and the earth a vague irrelevance somewhere lost beneath. She's dizzy, her short hair plastered to her head with sweat and cloud-vapour. Water droplets are starting to freeze on her skin.
(Birds don’t sweat.)
The cold is intense, but she pushes on, angling towards the sun. Her shadow skims across the clouds, racing her, sometimes gaining, sometimes falling back. The light is blinding.
Then the clouds break and she glances down and for a moment her wing beats falter, and she almost stalls. Green and brown. Rumpled, a little faded. But familiar. And somewhere in it, she knows but can't see, he's standing, staring up, looking for her.
maybe i should make a poll and then FORCE myself to finish whatever gets most votes? (or maybe i should make a poll to determine if i should make a poll?)