Title: Writer's Block
Pairing: *laughs* Drew/Guy One/Guy Two ~_^
Summary: Written for gnarwhal for the Secret Santa Challenge! She wanted Drew or Greg with some sort of sex thrown in. Thus I offer a thorough AU crack-fic in which Drew is a writer suffering from a horrendous case of writer's block!
“It's gone,” Drew muttered, holding his head in his hands, a hand planted firmly against each cheek, his voice uncannily quiet and calm, gleefully dancing along the edges of some darker, more painful emotion. “Well, fuck,” he chuckled mirthlessly, bringing his hands around to scrub his face and massage the center of his forehead. “What the fuck am I supposed to do, then?” Drew closed his eyes and started to lightly pull at the corners of them, his thin lips quickly giving way to an awkward, self deprecating smirk, hinting at a deeper ache bubbling away directly below Drew's surface.
The computer's cursor continued to blink.
Drew stopped manipulating his face and opened one eye, glaring at it as it continued its spiteful dance.
“I hate you,” he spat, opening his other eye and glaring with both, “I hate you a lot. What the Hell else am I supposed to do?” Drew blinked then, sighing with sudden realization. He shook his head and leaned his forehead against the glass of the monitor, studying the worn, fake wood of the computer desk below. “I'm not good at anything else.” Heaving another sigh, a gesture that, to Drew, felt as if it had sprang forth from somewhere at the very bottom of his dusty soul, Drew shook his head in obvious defeat to an opponent who wasn't even a real being and wedged the soft pad of his thumb against the circular, gray power button on the monitor. Following a soft click that Drew, in minor amusement, liked to think of as a yawn, the screen faded to black, taking the diabolical, dancing cursor—and the blank Microsoft Word document—with it.
Drew studied the blackened screen a while before sinking deeper into his computer chair, leaning back and resting his head against the old, stained fabric. He thread his fingers together and nestled his hands against his stomach, the near-perfect example of a body lying in wait, however awkwardly, inside of a casket, ready to hitch a ride with six feet of dirt and crash into a new home, complete with a fresh start and just a tad of a completely different, completely unfurnished life thrown in.
Maybe in that life, he would actually be good at his calling.
Lightning engulfed the apartment. Drew jumped a little and then chuckled, the sound low and sad with a hollowed out foundation.
He was writer who couldn't write. Drew felt this the equivalent of a thunderstorm that didn't know how to storm.
And who, in their right mind, would find comfort, inspiration or absolute fear in a few spits of rain, one or three dark clouds and a couple of growls of ominous thunder? Perhaps a child somewhere. But that would be about all.
Drew sighed and continued to watch the rain pour from the sky.
He was a thunderstorm that didn't know how to storm.
Drew felt like a cloud across the sun.
Drew hated Hungry-Man frozen dinners. The corn always resembled bits of rubber, the cheese was always runny and watery and the meat—if it was really meat at all, Drew considered with a grimace—never actually tasted as meat should taste. It was always off in some manner... and unpleasantly chewy. Nonetheless, Drew always had at least three on hand, ready at a moment's notice to be heated up and then consumed, effectively, over time, packing on the pounds at 820 calories a pop and keeping Drew's body alive and breathing for another day of writer's block.
As the microwave beeped and Drew popped open the door, freeing smells that could only be described as an unwashed construction worker, the insane idea that the conniving, cackling, dancing cursor and the Hungry-Man frozen dinners could be teamed up crossed Drew's mind. He wasn't crazy—he felt it plausible.
Perhaps there was some weird, illegal substance in the almost translucent mashed potatoes that had succeeded in wiping out Drew's gift with words. And afterward, after flushing them out of his system in perhaps the form of urine, microscopic aliens had taken up residence in what used to be his Muse's living chambers, effectively kicking the pesky ailment to the curb. Now every time Drew even considered sitting down and conjuring up a load of bullshit, every single one of the microscopic aliens kicked into gear, causing Drew to believe that everything he ever wrote was either crap or would turn out to be, in the long run, crap. That Drew couldn't write and had never been able to write. That maybe, just maybe, Drew had held, at some point in his life, the barely honorable talent of taking plain, ordinary words and being able to slap them all down on paper in some pretty, almost poetic way... but that he had never, in all his years of writing, been able to keep a plot, keep any characterizations or a driving force concealed beneath the pretty words, something exciting but sad, something worthy, something that would live on after the Hungry-Man frozen dinners caused his heart to break and he died, old, naked and alone, in his bed one night.
Drew glared at the tomato sauce that could have, rather easily, passed as dyed water. No. Such a talent, such a gift and a purpose and a sense of self, had never been Drew's.
The only thing he felt now was how hot and heavy his plate of so-called food was.
“My God,” he muttered, awkwardly balancing the plate as he opened the fridge in search of a beer, “I'm like a microwave that doesn't quite get the whole heating element bit.” Drew closed the door and, sighing, shifting around his food and the drink until he felt them secure and ready for the decent into the living room, he shook his head a little, muttering, “Thank you, tiny aliens,” under his breath.
The shower stubbornly came to life with a pop and a hiss. Water started collecting around the drain before overflowing and cascading downward, effectively shaking the old pipes from their fitful slumber. Drew watched, blinking a little, before sighing and reaching out an experimental hand to check the water's temperature. Warm—but not too warm, however, and just what Drew felt the hypothetical doctor ordered. He pulled his shirt off, followed by his pants, and settled the garments down on the floor beside him before stepping inside. Drew closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, relishing in the warmth of the water against his flesh. The shower curtain closed obediently, its rings overhead jangling for only a split second. Drew took a step forward and allowed the water to wash over his face, his eyes squeezed shut to avoid the painful stings of the chlorine.
As a writer, Drew wished he knew how to write. He wished that he could figure out when and where and why the microscopic aliens had come along and taken his identity away.
“Damn it,” he muttered, scrubbing his face with his hands once more. The water continued to poke and prod and Drew tried his best to immerse himself in such familiar, comforting sensations. Perhaps if he could just stop thinking... stop thinking and just start doing...
He could do it. Drew could make an extravagant comeback.
“Maybe if I start slow,” he said, “maybe if I try something new. Something that I've never written before.” Drew paused then, frowning though he still hadn't opened his eyes. What hadn't he written before? Drew liked to think that he was a well-rounded author—had stuck his metaphorical pen in several different kinds of metaphorical ink and then had scrawled the result across the metaphorical wall, waiting in anticipation to see what would be born. “I could write a ghost story! But... no. No ghosts.” He sighed, rubbing lightly over his heart, a nervous gesture he had acquired years and years past. “I could—God, fuck. I don't know.”
Lightning engulfed the bathroom. Drew started and gasped a little, snapping his head in the direction of the window. His hand was flat against his chest and directly below Drew could feel his heart beating faster, the result of having been indecently startled by a storm that seemed to be taking pleasure at showing just how God damn fantastic it was at fulfilling its calling. Its purpose.
If it were possible, Drew would smack the storm across the face.
He sighed and replaced his face beneath the steady flow of water.
“Okay, back to what I was saying—Concentrate, Carey, what haven't you written before?” Inside of himself, Drew started combing through past ideas as though they were ancient artifacts, carefully picking up and inspecting each and every one, trying to come up with a way to rework this or dust off that for something bigger, better and a lot newer. He began badgering his brain for more ideas, more fantastic, fresh ideas, but the microscopic aliens had full control and, as angry and powerless as it made Drew feel, the only thing happening in his head was the usual list of reasons why he couldn't write, why he could never write...
“Wait. Porn. I could write porn.” He laughed a little manically, relieving his head from the constant stream of water and flattening his hair back. “Porn doesn't—When is porn ever written well? I can start there... something small, something that completely doesn't matter... and then I can move on to my book. I haven't touched the thing in six fucking months!” Drew rubbed his hands together in childish excitement. “Hallelujah! Porn! That's the ticket. All right. Plot. Uh...” he paused, peering around the shower. The water was still warm against his body and had effectively fogged up the glass on the half of the window that Drew hadn't opened. Wind, rain and the night continued to dance in from outside, enveloping Drew and resurrecting his dying Muse.
He smiled a little.
“All right. Two guys. Two guys and a shower. Best fucking plot ever. Okay...” He paused and closed his eyes, breathing in deeply and then letting it all back out slowly. As best as he could manage, Drew blocked out everything that wasn't the warm water from the shower head—the phone was ringing in the background; more than likely debt collectors from Capital One—and the sweet-smelling, intoxicating air chiming in from the opened window above him. His surroundings gradually transformed from his bathroom to the setting; slowly, a couple of characterizations poked their heads up and blinked curiously and Drew grabbed them up, awaiting a motivation and a why and the inevitable beginning. “All right. Two guys... two guys...”
Drew's smile widened. Just like lightning, he had it. The plot. Or the beginnings of, rather.
One is tall, the other is sort of short. They're lovers—Scratch that. They used to be lovers. So we've got that longing there now. Excellent. Anyway, he's in the shower, Guy One, and he's washing himself—And he has a nice body. It's obvious he takes care of himself. Nice stomach. Definition. He's soapy and maybe sort of sad...
As Drew continued to write inside of his mind, he leaned back against the shower wall, eyes still firmly closed and his mind, while present, not really present at all. He braced one hand against the blue tiles and the other against his stomach, lightly caressing the wet skin with his thumb, mumbling to himself as every being of the story continued to introduce themselves to his Muse.
Let's get to the good stuff. Guy One's in the shower, Guy Two shows up and maybe watches outside the shower curtain a while. They used to be together—it's plausible if he misses him. Anyway, Guy Two steps inside and hugs Guy One from behind. Guy One's reluctant at first—maybe this still hurts him—but then he remembers that he's in love with Guy Two—I should name these guys, but fuck that—and leans back against him. And then Guy Two starts to feel up his soapy stomach...
The tip of Drew's tongue darted out, parting his lips and then wetting them. He shifted a little and moved his hand a bit lower, continuing to caress his warm skin. “Why're you doing this?” Drew whispered, allowing Guy One to momentarily borrow his vocal cords to voice his emotions and mindset. Drew cleared his throat, awaiting Guy Two's response, clearly seeing the man as he sighed and nipped at Guy One's neck. “Because I want you,” Drew replied to himself, his breath hitching slightly. He dropped his hand further down, his fingertips immersed in his soft, damp pubic hair. He could feel his dick lengthening and hardening and wet his lips once more in anticipation of Guy One and Guy Two's upcoming actions.
Guy One would turn around and just sort of look at him. Yeah, that look. A powerful look—he wants him too, God he does, but he's mad that he does. And then they kiss each other passionately, groping each other fervently with the water beating down on them and the rain, outside, still, telling their story as it continues to fall as well—And then, after a while of feeling each other, Guy Two would pin Guy One back against the wall—Guy One's back to Guy Two's front—and he'd reach around them and massage his dick roughly. The whole time Guy One would be whimpering and pleading and Guy Two—maybe he's the asshole in the relationship—would be smirking and saying things like
“Beg me, fucker.”
to him. And eventually Guy Two gives in, Guy Two lines himself up and then plunges inside of Guy One. Guy One whimpers and and scrapes at the tiles on the wall...
Drew's breath hitched once more as he finally gave in to Guy One and Guy Two and wrapped his hand around his dick, moaning slightly under his breath. He was hard. Rock hard. He couldn't remember the last time he had gotten laid and was suddenly jealous of the guy being fucked in the shower inside of his head.
Nonetheless, Drew started to work his hand up and down his length, his breathing growing heavier.
Guy Two's fucking him for everything the little bitch is worth. And they're both moaning and groaning and thrusting to meet one another, always thrusting in fear of missing the other's hips. And then Guy Two reaches around them again and grabs up Guy One's dick and starts to stroke him hard and fast... in time with his thrusts...
“Oh, God,” Drew murmured under his breath, moving his hand a little bit faster. He started to rock his hips against his hand, blindly clutching at the tile with his free hand. “Yeah. That's it. Fuck me harder.”
Guy Two starts to fuck Guy One harder upon request. Even though they're in the shower and wet already, they're both sweating now and breathing faster...
“That's it, that's it!” Drew moaned. He shifted his position once more and started to pump himself as quickly as his arm would allow. He was close. Guy One and Guy Two were close as well. He could feel all three releases nearing, but they were still all too far away for comfort. “Fuck me harder... God—Don't stop!”
Guy Two continues to pound into Guy One and, all too soon, it's all over and Guy Two empties himself deep in Guy One as Guy One comes all over the bathroom tiles...
Drew moaned loudly as he felt himself following Guy One and Guy Two's lead. With a few more quick, tight strokes he came all over his hand, curling his body in on itself and shuddering as he heard himself whimpering and felt his hips jerking forward. Gradually he loosened his grip on his dick before finally dropping it completely and leaning heavily against the wall, panting and smiling and wiping at his brow.
Guy One and Guy Two were gone now. Buried somewhere inside of him with other characters and plots and ideas. But Drew was all right with that.
They had served their purpose.
“God,” Drew finally breathed after a minute or two. He opened his eyes and trailed his fingertips through his drenched hair, chuckling quietly to himself. “I have got to get writer's block more often...”
Seven and a half hours later, after pulling a near all-nighter working on his book, Drew finally turned the monitor and the computer off. He interlocked his fingers and rested his hands behind his neck, smiling at the blackened screen, blatantly pleased with the progress that had been made. Chapter twelve was started, the hero had just learned the truth about his wife and soon enough, the battle would start...
Drew's smiled widened, if possible.
It felt good to be a thunderstorm again.