Hello slash-loving peep show/mitchell and webb folks.
This is literally my first attempt at any slashfiction in any fandom so it's not brilliant but let's see how it goes :) This might be a trilogy if people are interested.
Title: I'm His One.
Notes: Sorry for the shortness of the porn bit. It was just going that way.
Disclaimer: Sadly, I have nothing to do with Peep Show other than that I'm a massive fan of it.
Oh don’t be such a fucking coward.
Really, what’s the worst thing that could happen?
Well…she could come out and kick my balls in and hit me on the head with a frying pan and then tie me up and cut my dick off as a punishment for me fucking up her relationship with Gail. That would be quite a bad thing.
No answer. Maybe she’s out. She’d better be out. Oh my god she’s out! She’s out, baby, she’s out! No, wait, I want her to be in. No chance of a fuck if she’s out. Very little chance of a fuck if she’s…oh my god, she’s in! She’s coming to the door, she’s….SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT!!!!
“Elena!” Less of the squeaky helium voice might be a good thing. Think sexy. I’m sexy. I’m a big sexy man. Exactly the kind of man that supermodel-standard Russian beauties like Elena lust after and dream about.
Okay. Not so much lustful and dreamy as confused and blinking, but my dick and balls are still intact so that’s definitely a good sign. I might even get a suck-job.
“Elena! How’ve you been? How did it work out? How did everything…who’s that?”
Shit. Can hear a man, definitely a…no. Old man. Probably her dad.'
"Yeah, I'll be through in a minute!"
Definitely her dad.
“Oh. Is this a bad time?”
“Well, not really but that depends on what you’ve come for.”
“Well…no. I mean, if you’ve got company I can come over later.” Drop my voice to a sexy whisper, go up to her ear, that's sexy. She’s wincing though, not so good—“I guess there’s some conversations we can’t have if your parents are here.”
“Jeremy. My parents are in Russia”
Gritted teeth. For a reason, Elena. Don’t suppose you’d notice with your sexy little innocent eyes that can't see anyone's feelings.
“Gav. I met him in the pub. Isn't he a dilf? He’s fifty next year; can fuck like a testosterone-crazed, experienced teenager. Can fuck like Russell Brand.”
She hasn’t fucked Russell Brand. She’s messing with me. Definitely. Definitely.
God, I want to kill Russell Brand.
“So, you’re definitely sure there's still no chance that the baby’s yours then?”
Hmm. A note of sympathy; very uncharacteristic. Maybe he's maturing. Shame his sense of reasoning hasn’t matured.
“Well, I’m not black, Jez, so I doubt it.”
“Oh. You’re sure you’re not even the tiniest bit black?”
“No. Of course not. Sure.”
“Are you alright, Jez?”
“Shouldn’t I be?”
“You’re behaving…very subdued and very unlike a man who just got as much as you say you did this afternoon.”
“Okay, well, maybe I lied, just slightly, about how much I got this afternoon.”
"Jez, what have you done wrong?”
“Okay. It’s just that the last time you were this…not humble, exactly, but marginally less arrogant than usual, it was because you’d slept with my wife.”
“Oh, you. You just bear grudges forever don’t you? Never mind all these years of helping out with the housework and looking after you when you’re ill and buying you things; no, no, no, on my deathbed, it is going to be Here Lies Jeremy Usborne, he slept with my wife once out of the dozens of times that he could have but didn’t.”
“Jeremy, you never help with the housework!”
“Oh fuck off. I help all the time. I did the washing just the other day.”
Sigh. “Jez, those clothes were already clean. And you put them in without any powder. Essentially, you took a pile of clean, dry clothes and made them wet.”
Scowling like a toddler. As usual.
“It’s the thought that counts, Mark. Didn’t your parents ever tell you, it’s the thought that counts? What kind of upbringing did you have?”
Ugh. Can’t sleep. What is it that’s bothering me? Is it that the woman I willingly married was simultaneously sleeping with me, my best friend, a man that I hate, and a man that I used to have a crush on?
Where did that come from? The ‘used to have a crush on’ bit? I’m sure I haven’t thought about that in years.
What was all that about? I mean, come to think about it I’m sure it’s *not* all that normal for a straight man to develop a gay crush in his late twenties. Not half as normal as I tried to convince myself. Well, who cares anyway.
Jez is up. Unless we’re being burgled and the burglars thought they’d stop and…drink? Is he drinking alone? Oh Christ. You know, as much as you try not to think of it in this way, Jez is sort of beyond tragic. And there’s something different up with him today. I mean, until I started on about him sleeping with my wife—that was sort of unfair actually, I mean, we were hardly in wedded bliss. Or indeed in any kind of relationship at all. Or indeed capable of viewing each other with any emotion other than mutual disdain—he was being peculiarly nice. The last time I saw him behave that way—
You know, I said it was after sleeping with Sophie but it wasn’t actually then at all, was it? It was when he fell in love with Elena. Yeah, right, fell in love. I don’t even think there’s such a thing any more. If there was I think it might have happened before now. But Jez is both a romantic and a moron, so there you go. Maybe he’s found a new person to be ‘in love’ with. He does tend to, right after the last one fucks off.
Nah, can’t be. He’d have come in and told me about her straight away, wouldn’t he?
Drink drink drink drink drink drink drink drink drink. Lovely lovely drink. Drink doesn’t sleep with a man who fucks like Russell Brand. Drink doeshn’…does..doezn…
“Jez, don’t you think you should stop drinking and come to bed now?”
Why he being so gentle like a…like I dunno. Like a gentle person. Never known anyone else who…
Just puts up with all the stupid shit I do.
An’ looks at me like that.
I hate how that’s making me feel.
Well, if I don’t like it I’m fighting against it.
“Fuck off and ztop…looking at me like tat…you stupid twat”
“Come on, Jez."
Trying to lift me up, he just falls back down.
Dunno why I’m laughing, is just funny. Funny Mark, being funny. And drink.
“Mark. Drink with me.”
“Come on Mark. You wanna. You wanna step out of your boring personal-ty an’ jus’…drink it all away.”
“Alcohol is not the solution to all of life’s problem’s, Jeremy.”
“Oh, what is the solution then, eh? Mark, Mark, Mark, clever Mark, Mark knows everything, do you? Mark knows all shit about politics and history and stuff just cause he did swotty subjex at university, yeah?”
“I did business studies, Jez.”
“Oh, yeah, and that gave you the solution to all live’s problems? Stuck in your shitty job you were, for years, meeting Sophie and Johnson and them people that juzt, fucked you over, oh yeah, you’re so much further on in your life than me, Mark!”
Oh shit. An' now he looks upset. Maybe because I fuck up everything.
“Drink. I’m orderin’ you. To drink.”
An’ he drinks. Victory.
Laughing. Mark's got a fuckin' thing on his head. An' he's dancing. He never dances.
I said we should play the melon game and he said how about a driffrent game. And…then he took his pants off.
I can’t believe this is happening. More or less the first time in my life I’m having a sexual experience that I am not the slightest bit nervous about. Booze helps, I guess. And, worst comes to the worst he’ll make fun of me for the rest of forever, and that doesn’t even matter because it’s only Jez and he probably won’t want to remember it.
Started off with the kissing. Just rushing at each other in a collision of tongues, desperate and forceful and passionate, his hands under my shirt, running all over my body, cold and hot, goosebumps as his fingers explore my body, shivers as he undoes my shirt, his tongue caressing mine all the time, asking without words: do we both want this?
One hand on my chest as he removes my shirt, stroking it; his tongue goes from mouth to chest, to torso, licking it, loving it, sending tickles and giggles and gasps; I’m hardening in anticipation, my body screaming out for him.
This is literally the best sex ever and it hasn’t even started properly.
I think his tongue’s going further south, but then he just kisses me again, tenderly with tongues, a strong, masculine arm holding me and a gentle hand upon my chest.
“You fucking tease,”—a pained, hoarse giggle—“Just suck me off, would you?”
He strokes my body with a giggle, kisses me again to torture me, feeling my goosepimpled skin against his, licking again, kissing, sucking, and finally—
Finally, going where I want him to, doing exactly the right thing, setting off gasps with every skilful movement of the tongue, our bodies hot and blissed out against one another, bringing me over the edge completely.
Oh my god. Oh FUCK.
A man, an actual man, with a hot, masculine chest, and stubble on his face, just gave me an orgasm.
Why did it never occur to me before that this was a brilliant idea?
I hope we do it again. I don’t think Jez remembers last night very well. If at all. Maybe when he remembers he’ll be interested but probably not.
This morning he woke up and said, “Mark.”
“I’m sorry about...everything.”
I was tempted to say, “No, I am,” but that would be a lie.
Then I made him some black coffee and brought him some paracetamol.
Thing is that looking back it was probably pretty evident that I was a bit bisexual but Jez is just a guy who’ll fuck anything when he’s pissed. He’s a male slut but of course I love him. As a friend.
And actually, I basically took advantage of him because I was nowhere near half as pissed as he was. So I took advantage of someone I love. I’m a bastard. But actually I think that’s been thoroughly established.
The bastard and the slut. What a wonderfully fitting couple. And actually, that was basically me and Sophie, wasn’t it? And him and Elena, except she was both a bastard and a slut.
So, it seems the bastard-slut cycle can only be broken by Dobby.
Jez is sleeping now. I can’t stop thinking about what we did last night and the fact that he’ll depend upon me forever and the fact that if we can do what we did last night again, every night, that it will be more than worth it.
But if Dobby has to be a wholesome second-best, that’s okay too.