Fly free, little snippets of crap - bother me no longer
Random bits and pieces of things from my McFly junk pile. I have way too much stuff in there to even figure out if any of it deserves a second glance, so I'm trying to clear it up a bit.
Sort of semi-fake Pudd
It’s nothing, really. Dougie’s just curious. They’ve been joking about it almost since they became a band, but they’ve never actually -
So he figures he’ll try it, just to see what all the fuss is about. And he’s never really been one to think things through, so as soon as the idea to just go for it occurs to him, he pads out of the kitchen and up the stairs, leaving his half-eaten bowl of cereal on the table.
Harry makes some kind of unintelligible noise when Dougie knocks on his door, which means he’s awake, but not really functioning yet. Which is probably for the best, Dougie thinks as he pushes the door open, not that he would have changed his mind otherwise.
“Doug?” Harry grunts, squinting up at him from under a mess of ridiculous bedhead. He’s still mostly buried under his duvet, head and one arm sticking out awkwardly.
“Just wanted to see something,” Dougie says, crosses the room, and plops down on the edge of the bed.
“What?”
“Sit up,” Dougie tugs Harry’s visible arm.
Harry grumbles, but gives in, bunches the blankets up around his chest with a muttered, “‘S fucking cold, Doug, what the hell?”
“Hold still,” Dougie says, ignores Harry’s frown, leans forward, and mashes their mouths together.
Harry jerks backwards, flailing a little as he gets tangled, and slams into his headboard. “What the fuck, Dougie?”
Dougie purses his lips. “That was disappointing,” he says.
“Disappointing?” Harry echoes, voice disbelieving. “You just kissed me!”
“I wanted to know what all the fuss was about,” Dougie explains. “You know, how everyone jokes we’re in love, or something.” He huffs. “I still don’t get it.”
Maddy wrote a Tom/Dougie+Harry fic, which grew out of a conversation about my inability to make Dougie go down on Harry. She suggested Harry watch, which prompted me to begin just such a fic. However, as she wrote one herself, and she is a far better writer than I am, I gave up on mine, preferring to enjoy hers.
“You don’t have to skulk on the other side of walls and doors,” Dougie says out of nowhere, halfway through dinner, and Harry glances at Tom quickly before looking at Dougie.
“I - me?”
Dougie rolls his eyes. “Yes, you.”
Harry blinks. “But I. I’m not?” he’s not entirely sure what Dougie’s referring to. It’s kind of hard to skulk behind anything when you’re sitting at a table in the middle of a room. He glances at Tom again, but Tom’s looking at Dougie like he’s trying to burn a hole through his skull. Dougie’s ignoring him.
“I don’t mean right now,” Dougie huffs. “I meant -”
“Dougie.” Tom seems to have given up trying to communicate directly with Dougie’s brain. “This is not the time.”
Dougie shifts and frowns at Tom. “Why not? Danny’s not here, and you said -”
“We’re eating dinner. And you shouldn’t just spring it on him -”
“Would someone like to tell me what’s going on?” Harry cuts in.
“Dougie -” Tom’s tone is a clear warning, but Dougie talks over him.
“We decided you should watch.”
“Watch? Watch wha -” he breaks off.
There’s a thump under the table and Dougie jerks in his seat, leans forward to grab his leg, turns to glare at Tom. “What’re you kicking me for? You’re the one who brought it up!”
I've been writing random bits of a fic in which Dougie has always been a girl. The entire thing has its own folder in my junk pile, because I refuse to put it anywhere else while I have so many other things I am working on. However, at some point, my brain came up with the idea of boy!Dougie waking up as girl!Dougie. Which confuses sexswap and genderswap in all new ways. I have no idea where I thought I was going with this.
It’s not the whole waking-up-a-girl thing that really freaks him out - though, yes, it’s possible he may have screamed (read: shrieked - he can really hit those high notes now, apparently) and given himself bruises trying to pinch himself awake. No, what really freaks Dougie out is that no one seems to notice.
He stumbles upstairs into the studio, still a little shell-shocked, and Danny looks up, grins, says, “Morning, Dougie, nice of you to join us.”
Tom glances up when Danny speaks, echoes, “Morning, Dougie,” and goes back to tuning his guitar.
Harry just gives Dougie an annoyed look and says, “Why are you always the last one, when you actually live here?”
Dougie stares at all of them, because, well, he’s wearing a baggy tee-shirt he doesn’t even remember putting on over his boxers the night before, but it doesn’t actually hide anything, just drapes, and he’s got fucking tits. He opens his mouth to tell them off, because they can’t all be so sleep-deprived that they have failed to notice that he is no longer male, but all that comes out is a squeaky-sounding, “What the hell?”
Harry rolls his eyes, huffs. “You could have at least put on some real clothing if you were already late,” he says, sliding a glance that looks oddly pointed in Tom’s direction, and walks over to his kit, sits down, and starts tapping out a beat Dougie doesn’t recognize.
“I’m having a crisis,” Dougie tells him, “and all you have to say is that I could have put on real clothing?”
“I thought your crisis didn’t start until next week,” Danny says, and chuckles when Harry snorts.
Dougie blinks, because, what?
“Are those my boxers?” Danny asks half a second later and, really, what?
“They’re mine,” Dougie says, and why has no one said anything? “Why would I wear your boxers?”
“Who knows, Dougie,” Harry cuts in. “But you should really stop, it’s annoying.” He turns to Danny. “Remember when she stole Tom’s last tour, though? And you hid the rest? That was funny.”
“It was not,” Tom’s protest is only half there, focus still on his guitar, and Dougie’s just sort of gaping because he could swear Harry just said.
“She?” Dougie echoes.
“That would be you,” Harry tells him. “Do you not remember that? Tom started throwing things? Gave Danny a black eye with the television remote?”
Dougie just gapes at him, because, seriously, what the hell?
This technically belongs to my Nightmare Arc, but it didn't actually go where I wanted it to, so it ended up in the junk pile.
Tom’s room is almost completely dark when he opens his eyes, and at first he’s not sure what woke him, doesn’t think he’d been dreaming, and all he hears is silence. Then there’s a light knock on the door, and Tom thinks, Oh. Right.
“Whazzit?” he asks in the direction of the door, isn’t even entirely sure he manages that much too clearly.
“Tom?” it’s soft, barely audible.
“Dougie?” Tom forces himself to sit up, scrubs a hand over his face to try to wake up a little more. “Are you okay?”
The door creaks open and Dougie slips inside, a dark shadow against the light from the hall. “I can’t,” he starts, stops, keeps a hand on the door. “Can I sleep here?”
Tom blinks in the semi-darkness, wonders in quick succession how long Dougie’s been up, how bad the nightmare had gotten before he’d jerked out of it, if he’d screamed and Tom hadn’t heard it. “Yeah, of course, come get in,” he says, shifts over on the bed and holds the covers.
The room seems even darker once the door closes, the sound of Dougie’s bare feet padding across the floor louder than it should be, and then he’s sliding in next to Tom, curling up like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible.
“Hey, hey,” Tom says, touches Dougie’s arm lightly and pulls back when Dougie flinches away. “Sorry,” he says, and, “Do you want to talk?”
“No,” Dougie’s voice is a little muffled, and Tom can hear the rustle of cotton as he shakes his head against the pillow. “I just. Couldn’t sleep.” There’s more rustling and Tom feels Dougie turn. “I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” Tom says, and he means it.
Dougie’s hand brushes Tom’s chest - makes Tom shiver a little - then finds his arm, fingers curling just above the elbow. “Thank you,” he whispers.
“Of course, of course,” Tom scoots a little closer, tugs Dougie against him, isn’t really sure why he does it, but Dougie relaxes, curls into him, and Tom knows it was the right thing to do. “Think you can sleep, now?” he asks.
Dougie nods, hair tickling across Tom’s throat, jaw. “Think so,” he says, and his voice is already fading, Tom feels him yawn, head tucked against Tom’s shoulder.
Tom feels his mouth twitch in a bit of a smile, rests his cheek against Dougie’s hair, murmurs, “Good, ‘m glad. Night, Dougs,” and lets himself sink into the sheets, Dougie’s steady breathing lulling him back to sleep.
Sort of semi-fake Pudd
It’s nothing, really. Dougie’s just curious. They’ve been joking about it almost since they became a band, but they’ve never actually -
So he figures he’ll try it, just to see what all the fuss is about. And he’s never really been one to think things through, so as soon as the idea to just go for it occurs to him, he pads out of the kitchen and up the stairs, leaving his half-eaten bowl of cereal on the table.
Harry makes some kind of unintelligible noise when Dougie knocks on his door, which means he’s awake, but not really functioning yet. Which is probably for the best, Dougie thinks as he pushes the door open, not that he would have changed his mind otherwise.
“Doug?” Harry grunts, squinting up at him from under a mess of ridiculous bedhead. He’s still mostly buried under his duvet, head and one arm sticking out awkwardly.
“Just wanted to see something,” Dougie says, crosses the room, and plops down on the edge of the bed.
“What?”
“Sit up,” Dougie tugs Harry’s visible arm.
Harry grumbles, but gives in, bunches the blankets up around his chest with a muttered, “‘S fucking cold, Doug, what the hell?”
“Hold still,” Dougie says, ignores Harry’s frown, leans forward, and mashes their mouths together.
Harry jerks backwards, flailing a little as he gets tangled, and slams into his headboard. “What the fuck, Dougie?”
Dougie purses his lips. “That was disappointing,” he says.
“Disappointing?” Harry echoes, voice disbelieving. “You just kissed me!”
“I wanted to know what all the fuss was about,” Dougie explains. “You know, how everyone jokes we’re in love, or something.” He huffs. “I still don’t get it.”
Maddy wrote a Tom/Dougie+Harry fic, which grew out of a conversation about my inability to make Dougie go down on Harry. She suggested Harry watch, which prompted me to begin just such a fic. However, as she wrote one herself, and she is a far better writer than I am, I gave up on mine, preferring to enjoy hers.
“You don’t have to skulk on the other side of walls and doors,” Dougie says out of nowhere, halfway through dinner, and Harry glances at Tom quickly before looking at Dougie.
“I - me?”
Dougie rolls his eyes. “Yes, you.”
Harry blinks. “But I. I’m not?” he’s not entirely sure what Dougie’s referring to. It’s kind of hard to skulk behind anything when you’re sitting at a table in the middle of a room. He glances at Tom again, but Tom’s looking at Dougie like he’s trying to burn a hole through his skull. Dougie’s ignoring him.
“I don’t mean right now,” Dougie huffs. “I meant -”
“Dougie.” Tom seems to have given up trying to communicate directly with Dougie’s brain. “This is not the time.”
Dougie shifts and frowns at Tom. “Why not? Danny’s not here, and you said -”
“We’re eating dinner. And you shouldn’t just spring it on him -”
“Would someone like to tell me what’s going on?” Harry cuts in.
“Dougie -” Tom’s tone is a clear warning, but Dougie talks over him.
“We decided you should watch.”
“Watch? Watch wha -” he breaks off.
There’s a thump under the table and Dougie jerks in his seat, leans forward to grab his leg, turns to glare at Tom. “What’re you kicking me for? You’re the one who brought it up!”
I've been writing random bits of a fic in which Dougie has always been a girl. The entire thing has its own folder in my junk pile, because I refuse to put it anywhere else while I have so many other things I am working on. However, at some point, my brain came up with the idea of boy!Dougie waking up as girl!Dougie. Which confuses sexswap and genderswap in all new ways. I have no idea where I thought I was going with this.
It’s not the whole waking-up-a-girl thing that really freaks him out - though, yes, it’s possible he may have screamed (read: shrieked - he can really hit those high notes now, apparently) and given himself bruises trying to pinch himself awake. No, what really freaks Dougie out is that no one seems to notice.
He stumbles upstairs into the studio, still a little shell-shocked, and Danny looks up, grins, says, “Morning, Dougie, nice of you to join us.”
Tom glances up when Danny speaks, echoes, “Morning, Dougie,” and goes back to tuning his guitar.
Harry just gives Dougie an annoyed look and says, “Why are you always the last one, when you actually live here?”
Dougie stares at all of them, because, well, he’s wearing a baggy tee-shirt he doesn’t even remember putting on over his boxers the night before, but it doesn’t actually hide anything, just drapes, and he’s got fucking tits. He opens his mouth to tell them off, because they can’t all be so sleep-deprived that they have failed to notice that he is no longer male, but all that comes out is a squeaky-sounding, “What the hell?”
Harry rolls his eyes, huffs. “You could have at least put on some real clothing if you were already late,” he says, sliding a glance that looks oddly pointed in Tom’s direction, and walks over to his kit, sits down, and starts tapping out a beat Dougie doesn’t recognize.
“I’m having a crisis,” Dougie tells him, “and all you have to say is that I could have put on real clothing?”
“I thought your crisis didn’t start until next week,” Danny says, and chuckles when Harry snorts.
Dougie blinks, because, what?
“Are those my boxers?” Danny asks half a second later and, really, what?
“They’re mine,” Dougie says, and why has no one said anything? “Why would I wear your boxers?”
“Who knows, Dougie,” Harry cuts in. “But you should really stop, it’s annoying.” He turns to Danny. “Remember when she stole Tom’s last tour, though? And you hid the rest? That was funny.”
“It was not,” Tom’s protest is only half there, focus still on his guitar, and Dougie’s just sort of gaping because he could swear Harry just said.
“She?” Dougie echoes.
“That would be you,” Harry tells him. “Do you not remember that? Tom started throwing things? Gave Danny a black eye with the television remote?”
Dougie just gapes at him, because, seriously, what the hell?
This technically belongs to my Nightmare Arc, but it didn't actually go where I wanted it to, so it ended up in the junk pile.
Tom’s room is almost completely dark when he opens his eyes, and at first he’s not sure what woke him, doesn’t think he’d been dreaming, and all he hears is silence. Then there’s a light knock on the door, and Tom thinks, Oh. Right.
“Whazzit?” he asks in the direction of the door, isn’t even entirely sure he manages that much too clearly.
“Tom?” it’s soft, barely audible.
“Dougie?” Tom forces himself to sit up, scrubs a hand over his face to try to wake up a little more. “Are you okay?”
The door creaks open and Dougie slips inside, a dark shadow against the light from the hall. “I can’t,” he starts, stops, keeps a hand on the door. “Can I sleep here?”
Tom blinks in the semi-darkness, wonders in quick succession how long Dougie’s been up, how bad the nightmare had gotten before he’d jerked out of it, if he’d screamed and Tom hadn’t heard it. “Yeah, of course, come get in,” he says, shifts over on the bed and holds the covers.
The room seems even darker once the door closes, the sound of Dougie’s bare feet padding across the floor louder than it should be, and then he’s sliding in next to Tom, curling up like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible.
“Hey, hey,” Tom says, touches Dougie’s arm lightly and pulls back when Dougie flinches away. “Sorry,” he says, and, “Do you want to talk?”
“No,” Dougie’s voice is a little muffled, and Tom can hear the rustle of cotton as he shakes his head against the pillow. “I just. Couldn’t sleep.” There’s more rustling and Tom feels Dougie turn. “I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” Tom says, and he means it.
Dougie’s hand brushes Tom’s chest - makes Tom shiver a little - then finds his arm, fingers curling just above the elbow. “Thank you,” he whispers.
“Of course, of course,” Tom scoots a little closer, tugs Dougie against him, isn’t really sure why he does it, but Dougie relaxes, curls into him, and Tom knows it was the right thing to do. “Think you can sleep, now?” he asks.
Dougie nods, hair tickling across Tom’s throat, jaw. “Think so,” he says, and his voice is already fading, Tom feels him yawn, head tucked against Tom’s shoulder.
Tom feels his mouth twitch in a bit of a smile, rests his cheek against Dougie’s hair, murmurs, “Good, ‘m glad. Night, Dougs,” and lets himself sink into the sheets, Dougie’s steady breathing lulling him back to sleep.