WIP Amnesty #1
I've gotten rather sick of some of these fics I have sitting around on my drive, giving me nasty looks for being unfinished, so I'm going to post these bits and pieces I have, as they are - unfinished and/or unedited - and say to hell with them. Some of them are things I really like, or used to really like, but have gotten bogged down with, others were never really meant to be written at all, I just had a scene or a moment in my head and had to put it down in writing. They're different pairings, and from different fandoms, and by posting these things I'm not saying I will never pick them up again, but I'm giving myself permission to let them go, so I don't have the pressure of needing to finish them if I don't want to or don't have the inspiration to. I still have WIPs coming out my ears, so this may not be the only time I do this.
So here's the first piece I am liberating. I liked the idea, but I never could get the second half of it to work, so here's the first part.
Title: These Boots Are Made for Walking
Pairing: Tom Fletcher/Dougie Poynter, Harry Judd/Danny Jones
Warnings: Slash, obviously. Cross-dressing, sort of. Incomplete.
Author's Notes: 1,561 words.
These Boots Were Are for Walking
Tom’s already on stage with Harry and Danny for sound check when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He knows it’s Dougie even before he checks the screen, and he’s half-relieved, half-annoyed, because Dougie shouldn’t be texting him, he should be onstage. But if Dougie’s not onstage and texting, it means he hasn’t done something awful enough that he’s been knocked unconscious. Or arrested. Or whatever it is Dougie might do so as to incapacitate himself to the point where he cannot text Tom to let him know why he is not onstage. He flips the phone open, already composing a reprimand and bracing himself for the hand he knows he’s going to smack against his own face in exasperation.
Sri sri dont kill me im almst ther im sri, flashes up onto the screen - sent, oddly, almost ten minutes ago, it’s possible Tom needs a new phone - and Tom scowls, hand already halfway to his face.
There’s a clatter from somewhere offstage, and a moment later Dougie himself tumbles out from behind the curtains, shorts and tee-shirt decidedly rumpled - even more so than their usual baggy state can account for - his hair sticking up at odd angles. “Sorry, sorry, sorry!” he pants, waving his hands in a gesture that’s mostly placating.
“Hey, Dougs,” Danny calls from Harry’s drum riser.
Tom glances up at him as Dougie flails in their direction - Danny’s got two fingers twisted in the collar of Harry’s shirt, but other than that, they aren’t touching, though Tom half wishes they would - they’re not exactly subtle - Tom’s walked in on them twice in the last week alone - but the way they dance around each other in public like they get off on it makes Tom’s head hurt - then does a double-take, jerking back around to stare at Dougie again, annoyance vanishing in shock.
“Dougie,” Tom hopes he sounds casual, as he really thinks his brain might be dribbling out through his ears.
Dougie turns back to him, looking like he’s preparing to be lectured. Tom knows that look, he’s seen it on all of their faces, the ‘please don’t kill me, Tom, I’ll be better next time, really’ look.
But Tom can’t think of a lecture at the moment. He’s not at all sure his jaw isn’t dangling in an exceptionally unattractive manner - really not what he’s going for at this moment in time. All he can think is - “Are you wearing -” Tom searches frantically for the right word, “are you wearing - women’s - boots?”
Dougie glances down automatically, and goes bright red, but then he meets Tom’s eyes and his chin juts out just the tiniest bit. “Maybe.”
“Um.” Tom doesn’t really know what to do with that. “Why?”
Dougie’s whole face seems to twitch. “Maybe it was a dare,” he says, and his hands twist into the hem of his overlarge tee-shirt. He’s watching Tom like he’s waiting for something.
“Um.” Tom has no idea what he’s meant to do at this point. He really wishes Danny or Harry would say something, but he’s not even sure they’ve noticed yet, if they can even see from that angle or if the drum kit blocks their view. He kind of wishes he hadn’t noticed, because he’s getting decidedly uncomfortable and knows he’s sweating, but he can’t take his eyes off of Dougie’s legs. The boots are black leather, with heels he thinks could probably be used as weapons - he’s got no idea how Dougie is managing to stay upright in them, let alone how he made it onstage - and they go up high enough to vanish under the hems of Dougie’s shorts, though whether they actually reach his thighs Tom doesn’t know. He kind of wants to, though, and he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t.
“Tom, are you drooling?” Harry asks at the same moment as Danny says, “Whoa, Dougs, check you out!” And Tom welcomes the distraction - though, really, when he wished for them to say something he was kind of hoping for something a little more diplomatic - but swivels around to glare at Harry, anyway. Harry’s not supposed to talk about Tom’s - thing - for Dougie, he fucking promised he wouldn’t, and he sounds like he’s getting awfully close to mentioning it. Almost immediately, though, Tom turns his glare on Danny, whose eyes are glued to Dougie like he’s never seen him before.
“It’s rude to stare, Daniel,” Tom snaps, ignoring the voice in his head that comments ‘Pot, meet Kettle’ in a tone dripping with sarcasm.
Danny tears his eyes away from Dougie to look at Tom. “Daniel?” his eyebrows twitch.
“Tom, it’s -” Dougie starts, but when they all turn to him, his flush deepens and he ducks his head, fiddling with his bass strap.
“Shall we just get on with it, then?” Harry asks, voice too innocent, and waves at a couple of the techs offstage. Tom turns to glare at Harry again, just in case. Harry’s been making a lot of pointed remarks lately, especially when Dougie’s being crazy and running around without clothes - as he’s been doing a lot recently, Tom can’t help but notice - or when he’s quiet and just curled up against Tom’s side, half asleep on Tom’s shoulder. Tom had made Harry swear he wouldn’t tell ages ago, when Harry had first confronted Tom about his stupid, hopeless, inappropriate infatuation. But if Harry doesn’t watch his fucking mouth, Tom’s afraid Dougie’s going to figure it out anyway, and Tom’s not sure he could handle it if Dougie knew and hated him for it, or, worse, pitied him.
Danny leans down and whispers something in Harry’s ear, his eyes back on Dougie. Tom kind of hates him.
Harry laughs that stupid laugh of his and shoots Dougie a look as well. Tom kind of hates him, too.
“Sound check?” he says loudly and pointedly in their direction, tries to instill a warning to Harry in his continued glare.
They look at him, then at each other, and this time they both laugh. Tom promptly decides that, no, he is not too old to put as-yet-undetermined-but-very-unpleasant things in their beds. Very, very unpleasant things, he thinks as Danny finally leaves the drum riser, still chuckling. And he will plant video cameras so he will never forget the looks on their faces or the sounds of their screams - and neither will they.
“Let’s do this,” Dougie says, bubbly energy now clear in his voice, though his eyes remain fixed on his own fingers.
“Let’s do this,” Tom echoes.
And they do.
Tom doesn’t remember a thing. He knows he doesn’t fuck up, because he’d never hear the end of it if he did, and no one says a thing about his playing or singing. He’s insanely grateful no one says anything about the fact that he’s barely been able to take his eyes off Dougie, either. He knows he’s pretty blatantly staring, he does - even though he would deny it if any of the others called him on it, because the last thing the band needs is more complications - but he can’t help it. It’s not his fault Dougie looks fucking amazing in hooker boots. But he is not drooling, whatever Harry might think. He does have some control. Hopefully.
It’s not until Danny is forcibly prying his guitar out of his hands to pass over to one of the techs that Tom even realizes sound check has ended. Danny’s teeth are bared in that stupid ‘you’ll never know what I know’ grin, and Tom kind of wants to hit him. He won’t. But he really kind of wants to.
“A little on the slow side, Fletcher?” Harry asks as he slings one arm around Danny’s shoulders and the other around Tom’s. His grin matches Danny’s. It’s kind of eerie. Tom really, really hates them both.
“Get fucked, Judd,” Tom tells him, shrugging off his arm - then winces at the look Harry and Danny share. “Not where I can hear or walk in on you this time, please.” He ducks under the hand Harry aims at his head, flips him off automatically, and heads for their dressing room, hoping that if they’re planning on necking for an indeterminate period of time that they find somewhere else to do it. He keeps feeling like he’s in some teenaged afternoon soap - trying to edge around a snogging couple just to get to his locker. It’s not a pleasant feeling.
Dougie’s already in the dressing room, wedged into a chair, legs dangling over one arm, stiletto heels glinting dangerously in the florescent lights. Tom wonders if Dougie is trying to kill him on purpose, or if it’s just an extra perk.
He hovers in the doorway, having a furious internal debate over whether or not he should wait for Harry and Danny to catch up before going in. Considering it’s entirely likely that they’ll be a while, he tells himself to stop being such a schoolgirl. He’s managed to act like the semi-normal human being he is around Dougie for the past few months - despite wanting to jump him most of the time - he can certainly handle a short while alone with him now, Boots or no.
Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves - he’s really got to get a grip on this infatuation before it causes serious problems - he steps into the room.
So here's the first piece I am liberating. I liked the idea, but I never could get the second half of it to work, so here's the first part.
Title: These Boots Are Made for Walking
Pairing: Tom Fletcher/Dougie Poynter, Harry Judd/Danny Jones
Warnings: Slash, obviously. Cross-dressing, sort of. Incomplete.
Author's Notes: 1,561 words.
These Boots Were Are for Walking
Tom’s already on stage with Harry and Danny for sound check when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He knows it’s Dougie even before he checks the screen, and he’s half-relieved, half-annoyed, because Dougie shouldn’t be texting him, he should be onstage. But if Dougie’s not onstage and texting, it means he hasn’t done something awful enough that he’s been knocked unconscious. Or arrested. Or whatever it is Dougie might do so as to incapacitate himself to the point where he cannot text Tom to let him know why he is not onstage. He flips the phone open, already composing a reprimand and bracing himself for the hand he knows he’s going to smack against his own face in exasperation.
Sri sri dont kill me im almst ther im sri, flashes up onto the screen - sent, oddly, almost ten minutes ago, it’s possible Tom needs a new phone - and Tom scowls, hand already halfway to his face.
There’s a clatter from somewhere offstage, and a moment later Dougie himself tumbles out from behind the curtains, shorts and tee-shirt decidedly rumpled - even more so than their usual baggy state can account for - his hair sticking up at odd angles. “Sorry, sorry, sorry!” he pants, waving his hands in a gesture that’s mostly placating.
“Hey, Dougs,” Danny calls from Harry’s drum riser.
Tom glances up at him as Dougie flails in their direction - Danny’s got two fingers twisted in the collar of Harry’s shirt, but other than that, they aren’t touching, though Tom half wishes they would - they’re not exactly subtle - Tom’s walked in on them twice in the last week alone - but the way they dance around each other in public like they get off on it makes Tom’s head hurt - then does a double-take, jerking back around to stare at Dougie again, annoyance vanishing in shock.
“Dougie,” Tom hopes he sounds casual, as he really thinks his brain might be dribbling out through his ears.
Dougie turns back to him, looking like he’s preparing to be lectured. Tom knows that look, he’s seen it on all of their faces, the ‘please don’t kill me, Tom, I’ll be better next time, really’ look.
But Tom can’t think of a lecture at the moment. He’s not at all sure his jaw isn’t dangling in an exceptionally unattractive manner - really not what he’s going for at this moment in time. All he can think is - “Are you wearing -” Tom searches frantically for the right word, “are you wearing - women’s - boots?”
Dougie glances down automatically, and goes bright red, but then he meets Tom’s eyes and his chin juts out just the tiniest bit. “Maybe.”
“Um.” Tom doesn’t really know what to do with that. “Why?”
Dougie’s whole face seems to twitch. “Maybe it was a dare,” he says, and his hands twist into the hem of his overlarge tee-shirt. He’s watching Tom like he’s waiting for something.
“Um.” Tom has no idea what he’s meant to do at this point. He really wishes Danny or Harry would say something, but he’s not even sure they’ve noticed yet, if they can even see from that angle or if the drum kit blocks their view. He kind of wishes he hadn’t noticed, because he’s getting decidedly uncomfortable and knows he’s sweating, but he can’t take his eyes off of Dougie’s legs. The boots are black leather, with heels he thinks could probably be used as weapons - he’s got no idea how Dougie is managing to stay upright in them, let alone how he made it onstage - and they go up high enough to vanish under the hems of Dougie’s shorts, though whether they actually reach his thighs Tom doesn’t know. He kind of wants to, though, and he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t.
“Tom, are you drooling?” Harry asks at the same moment as Danny says, “Whoa, Dougs, check you out!” And Tom welcomes the distraction - though, really, when he wished for them to say something he was kind of hoping for something a little more diplomatic - but swivels around to glare at Harry, anyway. Harry’s not supposed to talk about Tom’s - thing - for Dougie, he fucking promised he wouldn’t, and he sounds like he’s getting awfully close to mentioning it. Almost immediately, though, Tom turns his glare on Danny, whose eyes are glued to Dougie like he’s never seen him before.
“It’s rude to stare, Daniel,” Tom snaps, ignoring the voice in his head that comments ‘Pot, meet Kettle’ in a tone dripping with sarcasm.
Danny tears his eyes away from Dougie to look at Tom. “Daniel?” his eyebrows twitch.
“Tom, it’s -” Dougie starts, but when they all turn to him, his flush deepens and he ducks his head, fiddling with his bass strap.
“Shall we just get on with it, then?” Harry asks, voice too innocent, and waves at a couple of the techs offstage. Tom turns to glare at Harry again, just in case. Harry’s been making a lot of pointed remarks lately, especially when Dougie’s being crazy and running around without clothes - as he’s been doing a lot recently, Tom can’t help but notice - or when he’s quiet and just curled up against Tom’s side, half asleep on Tom’s shoulder. Tom had made Harry swear he wouldn’t tell ages ago, when Harry had first confronted Tom about his stupid, hopeless, inappropriate infatuation. But if Harry doesn’t watch his fucking mouth, Tom’s afraid Dougie’s going to figure it out anyway, and Tom’s not sure he could handle it if Dougie knew and hated him for it, or, worse, pitied him.
Danny leans down and whispers something in Harry’s ear, his eyes back on Dougie. Tom kind of hates him.
Harry laughs that stupid laugh of his and shoots Dougie a look as well. Tom kind of hates him, too.
“Sound check?” he says loudly and pointedly in their direction, tries to instill a warning to Harry in his continued glare.
They look at him, then at each other, and this time they both laugh. Tom promptly decides that, no, he is not too old to put as-yet-undetermined-but-very-unpleasant things in their beds. Very, very unpleasant things, he thinks as Danny finally leaves the drum riser, still chuckling. And he will plant video cameras so he will never forget the looks on their faces or the sounds of their screams - and neither will they.
“Let’s do this,” Dougie says, bubbly energy now clear in his voice, though his eyes remain fixed on his own fingers.
“Let’s do this,” Tom echoes.
And they do.
Tom doesn’t remember a thing. He knows he doesn’t fuck up, because he’d never hear the end of it if he did, and no one says a thing about his playing or singing. He’s insanely grateful no one says anything about the fact that he’s barely been able to take his eyes off Dougie, either. He knows he’s pretty blatantly staring, he does - even though he would deny it if any of the others called him on it, because the last thing the band needs is more complications - but he can’t help it. It’s not his fault Dougie looks fucking amazing in hooker boots. But he is not drooling, whatever Harry might think. He does have some control. Hopefully.
It’s not until Danny is forcibly prying his guitar out of his hands to pass over to one of the techs that Tom even realizes sound check has ended. Danny’s teeth are bared in that stupid ‘you’ll never know what I know’ grin, and Tom kind of wants to hit him. He won’t. But he really kind of wants to.
“A little on the slow side, Fletcher?” Harry asks as he slings one arm around Danny’s shoulders and the other around Tom’s. His grin matches Danny’s. It’s kind of eerie. Tom really, really hates them both.
“Get fucked, Judd,” Tom tells him, shrugging off his arm - then winces at the look Harry and Danny share. “Not where I can hear or walk in on you this time, please.” He ducks under the hand Harry aims at his head, flips him off automatically, and heads for their dressing room, hoping that if they’re planning on necking for an indeterminate period of time that they find somewhere else to do it. He keeps feeling like he’s in some teenaged afternoon soap - trying to edge around a snogging couple just to get to his locker. It’s not a pleasant feeling.
Dougie’s already in the dressing room, wedged into a chair, legs dangling over one arm, stiletto heels glinting dangerously in the florescent lights. Tom wonders if Dougie is trying to kill him on purpose, or if it’s just an extra perk.
He hovers in the doorway, having a furious internal debate over whether or not he should wait for Harry and Danny to catch up before going in. Considering it’s entirely likely that they’ll be a while, he tells himself to stop being such a schoolgirl. He’s managed to act like the semi-normal human being he is around Dougie for the past few months - despite wanting to jump him most of the time - he can certainly handle a short while alone with him now, Boots or no.
Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves - he’s really got to get a grip on this infatuation before it causes serious problems - he steps into the room.