Comment Fic by Four
Title: Untitled
Pairing or Characters: Howard, Vince; Howard/Vince; Julian, Noel; Julian/Noel (respectively)
Summary: Just some comment fics written over the past few weeks in various places. Includes western!Boosh, forehead!porn, and RPF.
Word Count: Approx. 1,000 altogether
Rating: PG
Warnings: RPF (slight RPS)
Disclaimer: I don't own them.
Author’s Notes: I won't name names of the folks these were written for/because of, most of the posts were locked.
(Additionally! I'd like to take a second to pimp the booshbattle once again, where there are still responses trickling in. Prompts are here. And there's a temporary list of responses here, for your convenient clicking pleasure....)
Western Boosh
In response to a comment about cowboys.
The saloon goes quiet as the gunslinger enters, silhouetted in the doorway by the hot Arizona sun burning the town behind him. Howard leans against the bar, a midday break from selling sundries to settlers. He knows the figure, recognizes the slim but deadly stance, and so does everyone else in the room judging by the silence. He's an import, a Briton like Howard, though their occupations and reputations couldn't be more different.
After a moment the gunslinger glides into the room, bootheels taller than necessary, slung steep. The sound of them is deep and steady, cracking like gunfire, and a few people shy from door, turn their heads. Upstairs is a different picture, all the ladies have come out onto the landing to watch him cross the room. No one is not aware of his presence.
He's headed for Howard, hat pulled low on his forehead, black hair wild beneath. He stops at the bar just feet from where Howard sits, asks for a glass, tips up his hat in Howard's direction and says in a cockney snarl, "what you gawkin' at shopkeep?" But with the gunslinger's back to the rest of the bar Howard sees something no one else does as the black moustache quirks up into a smile and a glittering blue eye winks.
"Vince." Howard says, lifts his glass.
"Oy, keep it down, mate," Vince whispers, "you're s'posed to be well frightened, I got a reputation to keep you berk."
"Right. Sorry."
Forehead!Porn
In response to a gif featuring Noel's elusive forehead.
“You shouldn’t hide it is all I’m saying.”
“Why not? Foreheads ain’t cool. Fringe is cool. Foreheads are big, pale expanses, blank and boring, waitin’ to be covered with some exciting fringe. Fringe is the life of forehead’s boring party. He invited all his friends, the thumb, the forearm, the elbow, but they all said they were busy, knitting a cardigan, ‘til they heard fringe was gonna be there, and then they all showed up. ‘cept for elbow, he couldn’t make it.”
“Why not?”
“You ever try puttin’ your elbow to your forehead?”
“Right. Well. I just meant that yours is nice, that’s all.”
“I believe what you actually said is, ‘sometimes I really want to lick your forehead, Vince’, yeah?”
“That might be a misrepresentation of my words.”
“Misrepresentation in the sense that they are exactly what you said?”
“Yeah, about that. What I meant was…”
“I know what you meant, you pervy forehead licker. You want to caress my temples, kiss my hairline, tongue my temporal ridges…”
“Your…”
“That’s these bits at the edges here.”
“Right.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Well c’mon then, Freddy Forehead, get your tongue out. It ain’t gonna lick itself.”
Julian
In response to a photo of Julian on the bus, reading a book or something. Also, moustache.
He’s got a notebook in his hand but he’s just staring at it. He sets it down, picks up a pencil, makes a face, picks the notebook back up, coughs. There’s a cup of tea in front of him, cold and untouched, he taps the pencil on the table then thoughtlessly tosses the pencil into the cold tea, curses, wipes the pencil on his trouserleg. He removes the notebook from between his teeth where he’d stuck it to clean up the pencil mess, wipes a bit of saliva onto his trousers as well, taps his forehead with the pencil, makes a face when he realizes it’s still damp. He shifts in his seat, hums, twists his face. His moustache twitches. He squints, leans his head back, holds the notebook above him, away from him, as if this vantage point might change things. He exhales deeply, mumbles something unintelligible except for the last word, “turnip.”
“You writin’ a song or solvin’ the mysteries of time and space?” Noel asks.
He sits up, scribbles something with the damp pencil, moustache twitching away, finally stopping at a self-satisfied smirk. “If I get it right, both.”
Noel
In response to a photo of Noel sleeping, but mostly because it was only fair after writing Julian. These are the lies I tell myself.
People often ask him what he dreams about, wonder what mad things must scurry through such a slapdash mind without the restraint of reality and common sense. Afterall, they say, a man with such outlandish observations during his waking hours, such a child-like and whimsical imagination while conscious, surely must have even more bizarre and fantastic worlds within his dreams.
Truth is, he doesn’t. He dreams of cities, brown and drab and rainy most Sundays. He dreams of shops and people in them not finding things they like. He dreams of dry toast and empty teacups and flat, level land where nothing very interesting happens and there are no rabbit holes to fall into. He never falls at all, actually. He’s never naked in a public library. He’s never even been late for school or missed an appointment or been unable to find a toilet when he really had to go.
So when they ask he makes things up, invents creatures and scenarios and adventures and schemes and near-deaths and toilets that can’t be found because they’re on Jupiter. His fake dreams are colorful and lively and there are rabbit holes to spare, though they usually have tyrannosauruses or badgers with raincoats at the bottom.
He lies. People expect it. It’ll be alright.
But when he dreams about Julian lying beside him-holding him steady in the dark while the tour bus rumbles on, smells coffee and cigarettes and something unnamable besides in Julian’s collar, so distinct that it lingers as he wakes-when he has that dream, he doesn’t lie.
Julian only smiles at him over their breakfast, shakes his head. “What strange dreams you have,” he says.
And this one has an alternate ending. Of course.
Julian only smiles at him over their breakfast, shakes his head. “That wasn’t a dream, that was just a half hour ago,” he says.
Pairing or Characters: Howard, Vince; Howard/Vince; Julian, Noel; Julian/Noel (respectively)
Summary: Just some comment fics written over the past few weeks in various places. Includes western!Boosh, forehead!porn, and RPF.
Word Count: Approx. 1,000 altogether
Rating: PG
Warnings: RPF (slight RPS)
Disclaimer: I don't own them.
Author’s Notes: I won't name names of the folks these were written for/because of, most of the posts were locked.
(Additionally! I'd like to take a second to pimp the booshbattle once again, where there are still responses trickling in. Prompts are here. And there's a temporary list of responses here, for your convenient clicking pleasure....)
Western Boosh
In response to a comment about cowboys.
The saloon goes quiet as the gunslinger enters, silhouetted in the doorway by the hot Arizona sun burning the town behind him. Howard leans against the bar, a midday break from selling sundries to settlers. He knows the figure, recognizes the slim but deadly stance, and so does everyone else in the room judging by the silence. He's an import, a Briton like Howard, though their occupations and reputations couldn't be more different.
After a moment the gunslinger glides into the room, bootheels taller than necessary, slung steep. The sound of them is deep and steady, cracking like gunfire, and a few people shy from door, turn their heads. Upstairs is a different picture, all the ladies have come out onto the landing to watch him cross the room. No one is not aware of his presence.
He's headed for Howard, hat pulled low on his forehead, black hair wild beneath. He stops at the bar just feet from where Howard sits, asks for a glass, tips up his hat in Howard's direction and says in a cockney snarl, "what you gawkin' at shopkeep?" But with the gunslinger's back to the rest of the bar Howard sees something no one else does as the black moustache quirks up into a smile and a glittering blue eye winks.
"Vince." Howard says, lifts his glass.
"Oy, keep it down, mate," Vince whispers, "you're s'posed to be well frightened, I got a reputation to keep you berk."
"Right. Sorry."
Forehead!Porn
In response to a gif featuring Noel's elusive forehead.
“You shouldn’t hide it is all I’m saying.”
“Why not? Foreheads ain’t cool. Fringe is cool. Foreheads are big, pale expanses, blank and boring, waitin’ to be covered with some exciting fringe. Fringe is the life of forehead’s boring party. He invited all his friends, the thumb, the forearm, the elbow, but they all said they were busy, knitting a cardigan, ‘til they heard fringe was gonna be there, and then they all showed up. ‘cept for elbow, he couldn’t make it.”
“Why not?”
“You ever try puttin’ your elbow to your forehead?”
“Right. Well. I just meant that yours is nice, that’s all.”
“I believe what you actually said is, ‘sometimes I really want to lick your forehead, Vince’, yeah?”
“That might be a misrepresentation of my words.”
“Misrepresentation in the sense that they are exactly what you said?”
“Yeah, about that. What I meant was…”
“I know what you meant, you pervy forehead licker. You want to caress my temples, kiss my hairline, tongue my temporal ridges…”
“Your…”
“That’s these bits at the edges here.”
“Right.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Well c’mon then, Freddy Forehead, get your tongue out. It ain’t gonna lick itself.”
Julian
In response to a photo of Julian on the bus, reading a book or something. Also, moustache.
He’s got a notebook in his hand but he’s just staring at it. He sets it down, picks up a pencil, makes a face, picks the notebook back up, coughs. There’s a cup of tea in front of him, cold and untouched, he taps the pencil on the table then thoughtlessly tosses the pencil into the cold tea, curses, wipes the pencil on his trouserleg. He removes the notebook from between his teeth where he’d stuck it to clean up the pencil mess, wipes a bit of saliva onto his trousers as well, taps his forehead with the pencil, makes a face when he realizes it’s still damp. He shifts in his seat, hums, twists his face. His moustache twitches. He squints, leans his head back, holds the notebook above him, away from him, as if this vantage point might change things. He exhales deeply, mumbles something unintelligible except for the last word, “turnip.”
“You writin’ a song or solvin’ the mysteries of time and space?” Noel asks.
He sits up, scribbles something with the damp pencil, moustache twitching away, finally stopping at a self-satisfied smirk. “If I get it right, both.”
Noel
In response to a photo of Noel sleeping, but mostly because it was only fair after writing Julian. These are the lies I tell myself.
People often ask him what he dreams about, wonder what mad things must scurry through such a slapdash mind without the restraint of reality and common sense. Afterall, they say, a man with such outlandish observations during his waking hours, such a child-like and whimsical imagination while conscious, surely must have even more bizarre and fantastic worlds within his dreams.
Truth is, he doesn’t. He dreams of cities, brown and drab and rainy most Sundays. He dreams of shops and people in them not finding things they like. He dreams of dry toast and empty teacups and flat, level land where nothing very interesting happens and there are no rabbit holes to fall into. He never falls at all, actually. He’s never naked in a public library. He’s never even been late for school or missed an appointment or been unable to find a toilet when he really had to go.
So when they ask he makes things up, invents creatures and scenarios and adventures and schemes and near-deaths and toilets that can’t be found because they’re on Jupiter. His fake dreams are colorful and lively and there are rabbit holes to spare, though they usually have tyrannosauruses or badgers with raincoats at the bottom.
He lies. People expect it. It’ll be alright.
But when he dreams about Julian lying beside him-holding him steady in the dark while the tour bus rumbles on, smells coffee and cigarettes and something unnamable besides in Julian’s collar, so distinct that it lingers as he wakes-when he has that dream, he doesn’t lie.
Julian only smiles at him over their breakfast, shakes his head. “What strange dreams you have,” he says.
And this one has an alternate ending. Of course.
Julian only smiles at him over their breakfast, shakes his head. “That wasn’t a dream, that was just a half hour ago,” he says.