Fic: Words Are Overrated
I got a dreamwidth account! she_burns!
Why?...well...um...it certainly wasn't just so I could enter Porn Battle VIII...that would be crazy.
But, well, see, the thing is - I did. Enter it, I mean. And, naturally, me being me - I went with the FOTC prompt - so, um, yes - mindless smut ahoy!
Title: Words Are Overrated
Author: she_burns1
Pairing: Bret/Jemaine
Rating: R/NC17
Disclaimer: I do not own the ‘Flight of the Conchords’ or anything connected with them
Notes: Written for Porn Battle VIII, prompt word: marathon.
It started because of ‘The Dog Show’.
They had gotten a bit backlogged on tapes and it was Tuesday and Tuesday was boring because band practice just wasn’t happening, so they gave up, giving themselves over to the lethargic embrace of the couch.
Bret made some lame joke about how they were potatoes and they needed to wrap themselves tin foil wraps instead of blankets and Jemaine just shrugged it off, because, again, lame joke.
So they both sat there on the couch, watching one ‘Dog Show’ after another and Jemaine wishes something, anything, would happen but when he gets his wish it isn’t quite what he wants.
A cute little Yorkie pup injures his or her paw and whimpers and while, in the next five minutes, it is revealed that he or she is totally fine the damage has all ready been done because now Bret is sniffling.
Bret sniffles and sniffles, then a sucking sob, then another sniffle and Jemaine is at the end of his short rope very quickly.
“Bret.”
Sniffle.
“Bret.”
More sniffling.
“Bret, why’re you crying?”
Sniffle. Sniffle. Sniffle.
A sigh, but this from Jemaine, who rolls his eyes very pointedly and is about to say Bret’s name again when Bret finally speaks, voice sort of quivering, “Poor puppy.”
“Bret, the dog is fine - look, ‘s chasing a ball now, right as rain.”
“But…that whimper…it’ll live on in my ears forever, man.”
“Think of something else.”
“Can’t. Just keep hearing it. Over and over. In my mind.”
“Well then, hear something else.”
Bret blinks, eyes watery, nostrils twitching as he sniffles again, “What?”
Jemaine shrugs as an answer, not sure how to elaborate on how to hear something else but then, an idea comes and he finds himself going with it in an unexpected show of uncharacteristic spontaneity, “Here, how ‘bout this.”
Jemaine starts running his fingers up and down Bret’s bare arms (like they’re dancing) and Bret just stares at him, even more lost. Frowning, eyes narrowing in concentration, Jemaine’s fingers go higher, playing along the collar of Bret’s shirt and then up to his jaw, sort of poking in a jittery way and Bret smacks his hand away, annoyed, “Jemaine…what’re you doing?”
“Tickling you.”
“M’not ticklish,” Bret mutters, “And even if I was, you’re not tickling me as much as just poking me.”
“Aw! I am not!”
“You are. You’re a terrible tickler.”
“No!”
“Yes, if that’s the way you tickle, then you are. A right terrible tickler.”
“Oh, yeah, ‘cause you’re so much better,” Jemaine sneers, smarting from Bret’s comments and Bret suddenly gets a crafty look on his face.
Jemaine has seen this look before and it always signals trouble but now, now, alarm bells are ringing loudly in his ears because the look is directed at him and before he can do a thing more, it’s too late, because Bret pounces, his long, wiry fingers going out and tickling unmercifully.
And instantly Jemaine is breathless because the moment Bret’s clever digits make contact he suddenly remembers how awfully ticklish he is and laughter is bubbling out of him, uncontrollable and overwhelming and he can’t think, can’t talk, can’t process, can’t do anything other than turn into a trembling lump of brainless muscles and winded giggles.
And Bret is laughing too, but more from seeing Jemaine squirm and struggle than anything else, and there is a kind of accomplishment in having his older, bigger band mate a completely hapless wreck beneath him as Jemaine tries to escape only to end up in this weird curled up position on the couch, his body beneath Bret’s body and Bret is somehow sitting astride him now, straddling him, legs on either side of him, as his fingers tickle his neck and his shoulders and run along his scalp and jostle his glasses and Jemaine just laughs and laughs and laughs and Bret laughs right along with him.
And Jemaine, he tries to find something, some sort of purchase, some sort of lifeline because he feels half out of his mind now at the intensity of this tickling onslaught and he pushes at Bret, trying to get him up and off and away but not even wanting that really because he hasn’t had this good a time in ages and…
Wow.
Really.
He can’t remember the last time he had this much fun or laughed this hard and Bret is still on top of him, hands wickedly quick and feisty on his skin, finding all the bare patches and just teasing mercilessness and then somehow Jemaine’s hands end up on Bret’s hips, on either side, big palms just sort of curving around the bony waist, spanning it and Bret’s fingers don’t just slow they stop.
They stop.
Neither of them move.
They freeze, they’re frozen, they’re….they are interlocked.
And suddenly it is all bright and clear and horrible, horrible awareness and…
Bret is straddling Jemaine.
He is on top of Jemaine.
Their hips are crushed together, their groins connected and Bret’s cheeks flood red as a-cold-stone-forming-in-his-stomach realization settles in.
This is…
They are…
Jemaine’s hands are on his hips.
Gripping.
Tightening.
Jemaine swallows. His breath is still gone. His throat is thick and he closes his eyes because, god, at some point, he got hard and he doesn’t remember that. He just is. He’s just so, so hard - achingly so. And Bret is on top of him.
Bret feels it. The hardness just beneath him and he feels an answering throb in his own cock and oh shit, oh shit, oh no, no, no…
Bret lets out a breath that shakes the very foundations of the earth. Or so he thinks.
The sound of that breath breaks sound barriers and he just looks down at Jemaine, eyes wide and confused and scared and dark, so, so, so dark. Dark as space and just as endless and no stars and Jemaine thinks he should speak, he should say something, he should stop this. He should kindly extract himself from Bret and brush it off and they just forget about it forever and ever.
But he doesn’t.
And Bret - Bret doesn’t do anything either.
Bret just looks at him and he moves, just slightly, and they rub together and then Jemaine lets out his own earth-shattering sound - a hearty groan of arousal - because Jesus-fucking-Christ Bret rubbed right there so good, so perfect, so more, more, need more…
Jemaine’s fingers, his hands, sort of spasm on Bret’s hips, grip tightening, encouraging, and Bret closes those eyes and just - he just - he moves again. They both make sounds this time - moans intermingling - and it feels so, so good, like a relief. Like aloe on a sunburn. Like food when you’re hungry. Like sleep when you’re tired.
And then they, both of them, there are no words. There’s just feeling. Just knowing. Just…
They work together. They know. They both know. They just start moving, hips rocking together, friction building, growing, hotter and faster and quicker and harder and the sounds they’re making are growing in tandem to the situation.
Bret knows he’s close and he’s still wearing his clothes but, god, this hot hardness under him is the center of his life right now and he needs it, bucks against it, and it’s been so long, too, too long.
And for Jemaine, Christ, Jemaine is always so lonely and no one, no one, ever wants to do this with him and now someone is and he feels choked and his eyes are tearing up and he wants it, wants it, wants it so bad he’s mindless with it.
And then they’re both there, on the edge of that cliff, that precipice before the fall, just the hanging edge of the rollercoaster and then and then and then…
The plunge down, the release, is cataclysmic, a tumbling freefall, and Bret cries out Jemaine’s name as he comes and comes and he feels like he’ll never stop and he’s wrapped up in a wall of white and falling stars and sounds, so, so, so many sounds and none of them sound like a dog whimpering.
And when consciousness returns Bret has collapsed on top of Jemaine, a sweaty, trembling mess and Jemaine is no better and Bret licks his lips because, of course now, words have to return and he finds himself speaking very tentatively because he doesn’t want to freak his best friend out, but…
“Jemaine.”
“Bret.”
“Jemaine…do you…do you think…we could-” how do words work? How do you string them together? Especially when you have something so important to ask? Bret fumbles but still manages, “Could we…maybe…do this again? But, um, without clothes.”
And Jemaine lies beneath him. Silent for a terrible amount of time and Bret can feel his friend’s heartbeat beneath him now, jump, jiving, and wailing as he says thickly, “Dunno…isn’t that a bit gay?”
And Bret gives him a look.
Jemaine feels instantly sheepish and looks away, embarrassed, “Oh. Yeah. Um. Right.”
And the silence settles back in again, thick and uncomfortable, until Jemaine breaks it, voice quiet and hopeful as he says, “Yeah. Okay. Your bed or mine?”
Why?...well...um...it certainly wasn't just so I could enter Porn Battle VIII...that would be crazy.
But, well, see, the thing is - I did. Enter it, I mean. And, naturally, me being me - I went with the FOTC prompt - so, um, yes - mindless smut ahoy!
Title: Words Are Overrated
Author: she_burns1
Pairing: Bret/Jemaine
Rating: R/NC17
Disclaimer: I do not own the ‘Flight of the Conchords’ or anything connected with them
Notes: Written for Porn Battle VIII, prompt word: marathon.
It started because of ‘The Dog Show’.
They had gotten a bit backlogged on tapes and it was Tuesday and Tuesday was boring because band practice just wasn’t happening, so they gave up, giving themselves over to the lethargic embrace of the couch.
Bret made some lame joke about how they were potatoes and they needed to wrap themselves tin foil wraps instead of blankets and Jemaine just shrugged it off, because, again, lame joke.
So they both sat there on the couch, watching one ‘Dog Show’ after another and Jemaine wishes something, anything, would happen but when he gets his wish it isn’t quite what he wants.
A cute little Yorkie pup injures his or her paw and whimpers and while, in the next five minutes, it is revealed that he or she is totally fine the damage has all ready been done because now Bret is sniffling.
Bret sniffles and sniffles, then a sucking sob, then another sniffle and Jemaine is at the end of his short rope very quickly.
“Bret.”
Sniffle.
“Bret.”
More sniffling.
“Bret, why’re you crying?”
Sniffle. Sniffle. Sniffle.
A sigh, but this from Jemaine, who rolls his eyes very pointedly and is about to say Bret’s name again when Bret finally speaks, voice sort of quivering, “Poor puppy.”
“Bret, the dog is fine - look, ‘s chasing a ball now, right as rain.”
“But…that whimper…it’ll live on in my ears forever, man.”
“Think of something else.”
“Can’t. Just keep hearing it. Over and over. In my mind.”
“Well then, hear something else.”
Bret blinks, eyes watery, nostrils twitching as he sniffles again, “What?”
Jemaine shrugs as an answer, not sure how to elaborate on how to hear something else but then, an idea comes and he finds himself going with it in an unexpected show of uncharacteristic spontaneity, “Here, how ‘bout this.”
Jemaine starts running his fingers up and down Bret’s bare arms (like they’re dancing) and Bret just stares at him, even more lost. Frowning, eyes narrowing in concentration, Jemaine’s fingers go higher, playing along the collar of Bret’s shirt and then up to his jaw, sort of poking in a jittery way and Bret smacks his hand away, annoyed, “Jemaine…what’re you doing?”
“Tickling you.”
“M’not ticklish,” Bret mutters, “And even if I was, you’re not tickling me as much as just poking me.”
“Aw! I am not!”
“You are. You’re a terrible tickler.”
“No!”
“Yes, if that’s the way you tickle, then you are. A right terrible tickler.”
“Oh, yeah, ‘cause you’re so much better,” Jemaine sneers, smarting from Bret’s comments and Bret suddenly gets a crafty look on his face.
Jemaine has seen this look before and it always signals trouble but now, now, alarm bells are ringing loudly in his ears because the look is directed at him and before he can do a thing more, it’s too late, because Bret pounces, his long, wiry fingers going out and tickling unmercifully.
And instantly Jemaine is breathless because the moment Bret’s clever digits make contact he suddenly remembers how awfully ticklish he is and laughter is bubbling out of him, uncontrollable and overwhelming and he can’t think, can’t talk, can’t process, can’t do anything other than turn into a trembling lump of brainless muscles and winded giggles.
And Bret is laughing too, but more from seeing Jemaine squirm and struggle than anything else, and there is a kind of accomplishment in having his older, bigger band mate a completely hapless wreck beneath him as Jemaine tries to escape only to end up in this weird curled up position on the couch, his body beneath Bret’s body and Bret is somehow sitting astride him now, straddling him, legs on either side of him, as his fingers tickle his neck and his shoulders and run along his scalp and jostle his glasses and Jemaine just laughs and laughs and laughs and Bret laughs right along with him.
And Jemaine, he tries to find something, some sort of purchase, some sort of lifeline because he feels half out of his mind now at the intensity of this tickling onslaught and he pushes at Bret, trying to get him up and off and away but not even wanting that really because he hasn’t had this good a time in ages and…
Wow.
Really.
He can’t remember the last time he had this much fun or laughed this hard and Bret is still on top of him, hands wickedly quick and feisty on his skin, finding all the bare patches and just teasing mercilessness and then somehow Jemaine’s hands end up on Bret’s hips, on either side, big palms just sort of curving around the bony waist, spanning it and Bret’s fingers don’t just slow they stop.
They stop.
Neither of them move.
They freeze, they’re frozen, they’re….they are interlocked.
And suddenly it is all bright and clear and horrible, horrible awareness and…
Bret is straddling Jemaine.
He is on top of Jemaine.
Their hips are crushed together, their groins connected and Bret’s cheeks flood red as a-cold-stone-forming-in-his-stomach realization settles in.
This is…
They are…
Jemaine’s hands are on his hips.
Gripping.
Tightening.
Jemaine swallows. His breath is still gone. His throat is thick and he closes his eyes because, god, at some point, he got hard and he doesn’t remember that. He just is. He’s just so, so hard - achingly so. And Bret is on top of him.
Bret feels it. The hardness just beneath him and he feels an answering throb in his own cock and oh shit, oh shit, oh no, no, no…
Bret lets out a breath that shakes the very foundations of the earth. Or so he thinks.
The sound of that breath breaks sound barriers and he just looks down at Jemaine, eyes wide and confused and scared and dark, so, so, so dark. Dark as space and just as endless and no stars and Jemaine thinks he should speak, he should say something, he should stop this. He should kindly extract himself from Bret and brush it off and they just forget about it forever and ever.
But he doesn’t.
And Bret - Bret doesn’t do anything either.
Bret just looks at him and he moves, just slightly, and they rub together and then Jemaine lets out his own earth-shattering sound - a hearty groan of arousal - because Jesus-fucking-Christ Bret rubbed right there so good, so perfect, so more, more, need more…
Jemaine’s fingers, his hands, sort of spasm on Bret’s hips, grip tightening, encouraging, and Bret closes those eyes and just - he just - he moves again. They both make sounds this time - moans intermingling - and it feels so, so good, like a relief. Like aloe on a sunburn. Like food when you’re hungry. Like sleep when you’re tired.
And then they, both of them, there are no words. There’s just feeling. Just knowing. Just…
They work together. They know. They both know. They just start moving, hips rocking together, friction building, growing, hotter and faster and quicker and harder and the sounds they’re making are growing in tandem to the situation.
Bret knows he’s close and he’s still wearing his clothes but, god, this hot hardness under him is the center of his life right now and he needs it, bucks against it, and it’s been so long, too, too long.
And for Jemaine, Christ, Jemaine is always so lonely and no one, no one, ever wants to do this with him and now someone is and he feels choked and his eyes are tearing up and he wants it, wants it, wants it so bad he’s mindless with it.
And then they’re both there, on the edge of that cliff, that precipice before the fall, just the hanging edge of the rollercoaster and then and then and then…
The plunge down, the release, is cataclysmic, a tumbling freefall, and Bret cries out Jemaine’s name as he comes and comes and he feels like he’ll never stop and he’s wrapped up in a wall of white and falling stars and sounds, so, so, so many sounds and none of them sound like a dog whimpering.
And when consciousness returns Bret has collapsed on top of Jemaine, a sweaty, trembling mess and Jemaine is no better and Bret licks his lips because, of course now, words have to return and he finds himself speaking very tentatively because he doesn’t want to freak his best friend out, but…
“Jemaine.”
“Bret.”
“Jemaine…do you…do you think…we could-” how do words work? How do you string them together? Especially when you have something so important to ask? Bret fumbles but still manages, “Could we…maybe…do this again? But, um, without clothes.”
And Jemaine lies beneath him. Silent for a terrible amount of time and Bret can feel his friend’s heartbeat beneath him now, jump, jiving, and wailing as he says thickly, “Dunno…isn’t that a bit gay?”
And Bret gives him a look.
Jemaine feels instantly sheepish and looks away, embarrassed, “Oh. Yeah. Um. Right.”
And the silence settles back in again, thick and uncomfortable, until Jemaine breaks it, voice quiet and hopeful as he says, “Yeah. Okay. Your bed or mine?”