They’ve walked further than he realized, all the way to the deep shadows beneath the highway overpass. He hadn’t intended to go this far, but isn’t that always the way when it comes to Joe? Leads him straight to the dark, dangerous places, and it’d almost be poetic, if it didn’t smell like old garbage and diesel fumes.

If you look at this one sideways, it's Joe, probably coked out of his mind, probably mumbling to himself, because he could never be this fucking honest otherwise. But it's a gorgeous homage to how damn fucking beautiful Billy is, and wholly worth it for that.

I miss the way he'd tuck a cigarette tight into the crook between his fingers and forget about it until he felt the heat against that sensitive web of skin when it'd burnt almost entirely down to the filter. I miss the way his fingers looked on the neck of his guitar, the way they moved and stretched on the strings like they had been made to do just that. I miss the way those hands felt against my skin, calluses rough when they trailed over my chest, palm stupidly soft when pressed against my cock, knuckles sharp and hard when they bruised themselves against my cheekbone.

Okay, Alex writes Joe and Billy with the perfect, perfect balance of rough-edged tenderness and tough-guy fierceness. I love this one, so much, for how she writes them (the shared cigarette is so damn intimate) and for the music this one invokes (if you're going to read it, you'll want to download the song: Cigarette by the Smithereens). This is one beautiful story.

God, I love this story. It's pure Joe and Billy. Short and sweet and no, not romance, not by far, but as close as you're gonna get with these two very rough boys.

She works with frames, so you have to navigate to these particular stories, but that's okay, it'll give you a chance to look at the rest of her HCL stuff as well. These are stories of the early-days, and she writes Joe just as mean as can be, and Billy young but not sweet, and my, the result is just sort of blindingly hot. Intriguing as hell, this early look at the guys.

This is Kat. This is fucking gorgeous. This is Kat inside Joe's head, and she gets him better than anyone I've ever seen. He's not all mean, and he's not all tough, but he's not kind or nice or someone to be trusted, either. This is a story that drags you in and you're there, the road winding away beneath you, caught up in Joe's head and thoughts. It's fucking fantastic.

Read her motivation and tell me you don't want to read her stuff:

"...but it's about punk rock!" I protested helplessly. "And drugs and alcohol, and... and spitting! I don't even like punk!"

And Joe smirked, and put his feet up on the coffee table, and said something unsympathetic and unprintable.

And Billy shrugged in a vaguely apologetic manner, pulled himself up to sit on the countertop, and started talking.

And I started to write. Because I really didn't have any choice in the matter, now did I?

I like how she gets into Joe's head. I like how she writes Billy, always fronting. I love this:

"Just play the fucking guitar, William." My hand's reaching for the steno pad without me even wanting it to. Scribble the chords, listen to his almost-whisper, scribble his words, mine too. "Bridge is awkward, try it this way, D minor here, then . . . " My fingers move next to his on the frets, we never did use two guitars for this part of it, always seemed to be a loop, his fingers, my head, my head, his fingers, and it's back there now, he feels it, hears it, plays it, just like it's in my head, in his head. "What's with all the minors, Billy?" He shrugs. Patented, that shrug, I swear to God. Eloquent.

And this:

I push now, shove him over, move on top of him and he spreads his legs for me, always did, always will, fucking cunt. And I'm right there between them, always have been, always will be, fucking slut, no better. Only excuse is the classic guy one: it feels so fucking good, mind fucks and ass fucks and no one does it better than Joe Dick and Mr. Billy Tallent, thanks for coming out tonight.

Go. Read. You won't be sorry. But you know what?

I think I like the sequel (or, more accurately, prequel) even more:

Sequel to "Last Point of Entry" and they are both fucking gorgeous fics, but this one is the one that slays me. Can't quite explain why. I think I like the history here, a whole lot. Go. Read.

An hour, maybe three later everyone is gone. Pipe is off taking care of John, and if that isn't familiar nothing is. Joe has "meds" scrawled inside his elbow, courtesy of the man beside him. Billy, upright and terrifyingly lucid. Livid face save for the hectic splashes of flush, perfect on his cheeks, and the single drop of blood trembling just on the edge of his upper lip.

Damn, is Te good.

His voice fades off and I have to stop myself from asking him what kind of fag lullaby is that? But I don't want to, I don't want to break the silence right now, because it feels different, important, charged with something. I wait for what feels like a long time, and finally, he says something. "That's Jimi Hendrix, like you give a shit. Now go to fuckin' sleep." But he doesn't move away and he doesn't stop stroking my arm with his fingertips, up and down, the rough callouses giving me oosebumps.