Heart on a Sleeve (Prompt 10, Hugh/Callum)
Heart on a Sleeve
Hugh/Callum, R, 574 words
Callum was like no one Hugh had ever met in his life. From that first moment - that first time that Hugh read for the part in Bruce's kitchen and Callum was there - Hugh was fucking hooked, like some kind of brand-new drug that had a better fucking high than anything else. And the thing was, it wasn't that he'd never fucked around with a guy before, because any guy who toured and partied as hard as Hugh did was a lying fucking cunt if they said that it mattered whether or not the groupies had a dick. It didn't, and if the groupie was blowing him, he couldn't fucking care less.
He knew that Callum was hot. Everyone in goddamn Canada knew that. He saw Callum's blue-gray eyes and his long legs that looked like sin in a pair of jeans and the way he smiled. He'd be a brain-dead fucking idiot not to want to fuck Callum when it was being offered.
That first time, though - after a week on the road with the band, finally sleeping in a hotel instead of the back of the bus because Hugh needed to be still for a night - they climbed into one of the hotel double beds and Hugh decided that they'd been building up to it long enough already, there was no point in pretending anymore that they didn't both want it. They stripped down to bare skin, quietly, and Hugh thought about crying whem Callum's wet, hot mouth closed around his dick, because it felt so damn good, and nothing was gonna be the same after that.
The sex was good. Christ, the sex was fucking fantastic. Hugh felt fine and every time Callum smiled at him from the crowd during a show, he wanted to jump off the stage and fuck him right there, in front of everyone.
It wasn't until after Callum took off, to go back to his "real" life, that Hugh realized how far in he was.
Because Hugh had never really thought of himself as a man's man. He wore too much makeup and fucked too many guys for that, but the way Callum was getting to him was making him feel like some fag. Like some silly little girl with a crush, because every time his phone rang and he heard Callum's smoke-rough voice on the other end, his heart pounded. He wanted to send Callum flowers, candy, little love notes.
When they were in the same city, they'd get a few hours, maybe one night, if they were fucking lucky, and Hugh would drown himself in the stale cigarette and warm skin smell of Callum, stay up long after Callum had drifted off to watch him sleep. Hugh knew he was in a fuckload of trouble with this - this thing, whatever the fuck it was, but he never said no, not once. He went wherever Callum asked him to, and every time he buried his dick in Callum's sweet ass, Callum's head bowed down to the bed, panting hard, he bit his tongue to keep from saying all of the things that were right on edge of his lips. I love you and you're amazing and don't go. All the things that didn't fucking matter, not one bit, because this was hotel rooms and alleys and tour buses. This was saying everything and saying fucking nothing at all.
My prompt table
Hugh/Callum, R, 574 words
Callum was like no one Hugh had ever met in his life. From that first moment - that first time that Hugh read for the part in Bruce's kitchen and Callum was there - Hugh was fucking hooked, like some kind of brand-new drug that had a better fucking high than anything else. And the thing was, it wasn't that he'd never fucked around with a guy before, because any guy who toured and partied as hard as Hugh did was a lying fucking cunt if they said that it mattered whether or not the groupies had a dick. It didn't, and if the groupie was blowing him, he couldn't fucking care less.
He knew that Callum was hot. Everyone in goddamn Canada knew that. He saw Callum's blue-gray eyes and his long legs that looked like sin in a pair of jeans and the way he smiled. He'd be a brain-dead fucking idiot not to want to fuck Callum when it was being offered.
That first time, though - after a week on the road with the band, finally sleeping in a hotel instead of the back of the bus because Hugh needed to be still for a night - they climbed into one of the hotel double beds and Hugh decided that they'd been building up to it long enough already, there was no point in pretending anymore that they didn't both want it. They stripped down to bare skin, quietly, and Hugh thought about crying whem Callum's wet, hot mouth closed around his dick, because it felt so damn good, and nothing was gonna be the same after that.
The sex was good. Christ, the sex was fucking fantastic. Hugh felt fine and every time Callum smiled at him from the crowd during a show, he wanted to jump off the stage and fuck him right there, in front of everyone.
It wasn't until after Callum took off, to go back to his "real" life, that Hugh realized how far in he was.
Because Hugh had never really thought of himself as a man's man. He wore too much makeup and fucked too many guys for that, but the way Callum was getting to him was making him feel like some fag. Like some silly little girl with a crush, because every time his phone rang and he heard Callum's smoke-rough voice on the other end, his heart pounded. He wanted to send Callum flowers, candy, little love notes.
When they were in the same city, they'd get a few hours, maybe one night, if they were fucking lucky, and Hugh would drown himself in the stale cigarette and warm skin smell of Callum, stay up long after Callum had drifted off to watch him sleep. Hugh knew he was in a fuckload of trouble with this - this thing, whatever the fuck it was, but he never said no, not once. He went wherever Callum asked him to, and every time he buried his dick in Callum's sweet ass, Callum's head bowed down to the bed, panting hard, he bit his tongue to keep from saying all of the things that were right on edge of his lips. I love you and you're amazing and don't go. All the things that didn't fucking matter, not one bit, because this was hotel rooms and alleys and tour buses. This was saying everything and saying fucking nothing at all.
My prompt table