I don't even know.
I need to make sure I have lasting proof of this.
So Mark Watson, a British comedian, is doing a 24-hour long show. And they ask people who can't be there in person to perform tasks and stuff throughout the show.
During said show, which goes on all day today (Tuesday the 18th) until 8pm EST, Simon Amstell googled himself and discovered Amstell/McFly slash. Apparently they did a dramatic reading of it.
Then Mark asked people to write a slash fic involving himself and Simon. And, you know, I couldn't pass up the chance.
So here, have my very first fic ever, as commissioned by its subjects.
"
I think this fic is more crack than true slash, but w/e. RPS makes me really squeamish and guilty, and making it cracky was my only way to cope. Apologies in advance, especially to Mark's unequivocably real wife.
Ahem.
Face Time
"Do you think they'll actually show me talking this time?" Mark asked jokingly. He and Simon and Phil were winding down backstage after filming the latest episode of Never Mind the Buzzcocks. "No offense or anything, it's just, well, you know..."
"Well, they ought to. Captains, even guest captains, always get more face time than the other guests. Honestly, they don't go an episode without showing Phil's 'amused smirk' at least 6 times. Sometimes he doesn't even say anything and he still gets shown more in the final edit than our actual guests." Simon answered. Phil adjusted his glasses in a decent impression of his 'amused smirk', but sagely said nothing.
"And anyways, you were great tonight. It's hard not to be, with a guest like Lee Ryan. I'm sure they'll show plenty of you." Simon didn't know why he was so anxious to reassure Mark. He quickly shut his mouth, worried he might ramble on even more.
"Thanks," Mark said, suddenly touched by Simon's concern. "Listen, you want to go out somewhere and share a few more drinks? I could use a night out."
Simon agreed, so they said their goodbyes to Phil and moved on to a nearby bar. After a while, it became obvious that something weird was going on. The bar was filled to the brim with a huge variety of really enthusiastic women, squeeing and congregating around laptops and iPhones.
When asked what was going on, one of the girls replied, "Oh, we're in town for the Fangirls Convention '08. This is our Slash Night Out. You know, because even the worst Kirk/Spock fic is improved by liberal amounts of alcohol."
Mark and Simon both agreed, although they had no clue what any of her dialogue meant. They were obviously outnumbered here, and they didn't want to make enemies. They were getting along fine, ignoring the shrieking and increasingly drunken fangirls, when they were approached.
"Say, aren't you Simon Amstell and Mark Watson?" the fangirl asked.
They consented to their identities, expecting to be asked for autographs or pictures.
Instead she shrieked, and shouted, "YOU'RE ON A DATE TOGETHER, AREN'T YOU?"
An ominous hush fell over the whole bar, as girl after girl turned their heads, recognized the two men, and came to a similar conclusion. The whole place descended into chaos as Mark and Simon, terrified and backed into a corner, were bombarded with question after question, each one making progressively less sense, punctuated by squeals of fangirl glee.
"CAN YOU KISS EACH OTHER?"
"HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN KEEPING THIS FROM US?"
"YOU GUYS NEED A NAME, HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT WATSTELL?"
And perhaps the least sensical, "BUT WHAT ABOUT HARRY? WHAT ABOUT JUDDSTELL? *TEAR*"
Finally, with the help of the amused bartender, they managed to free themselves from the horde and escape out the back door. As they meandered down the back alley, leaning on each other for support, the alcohol and the weirdness of the night caught up with them and they were both incapacitated with a fit of giggles.
"I mean," Mark gasped, tears streaming down his face, "can you imagine? They thought we were together, like together together. God."
"Well," Simon said suddenly, regaining control of himself. "If it weren't for your wife, they might have had a fair point in there." As soon as the words came out of his mouth he regretted them, and waited in agony for Mark's response.
Mark hesitated, caught off guard, then exploded with a rush of words. "Well, you know the funny thing about wives, is... you know the part in my bit where I say there's no funny business about her? Well that's always been the biggest laugh, really, because, well, she's not really real. And, you know, I don't think you can be adulterous with an imaginary wife, I mean I'm not sure, obviously, but I'm pretty sure, and well..." Finally he ran out of words. Not knowing what to do next, he decided to seize the moment, and pressed Simon up against the alley wall as their lips met.
As they parted for breath, Mark switched into his sports commentator mode- "And it's going, going, gone! A home run, as he takes a victory lap around the bases. It's going to be a goood night."
The End
A/N: I realize that Mark probably wouldn't commentate on the very American sport of baseball, but the bases/sex metaphor was too good to pass up.
Also, a language question- Do bars exist in Britain, or are there only pubs?
"
EDIT akdjfghkadjfhgksdfjghlskfdhjglsdfjhgskjfhskjfg @watson24hour linked to my story and said it was "absolutely spectacular" akdjghakdjfhgsdjkfg I'm not sure whether to be proud or not but I am.
So Mark Watson, a British comedian, is doing a 24-hour long show. And they ask people who can't be there in person to perform tasks and stuff throughout the show.
During said show, which goes on all day today (Tuesday the 18th) until 8pm EST, Simon Amstell googled himself and discovered Amstell/McFly slash. Apparently they did a dramatic reading of it.
Then Mark asked people to write a slash fic involving himself and Simon. And, you know, I couldn't pass up the chance.
So here, have my very first fic ever, as commissioned by its subjects.
"
I think this fic is more crack than true slash, but w/e. RPS makes me really squeamish and guilty, and making it cracky was my only way to cope. Apologies in advance, especially to Mark's unequivocably real wife.
Ahem.
Face Time
"Do you think they'll actually show me talking this time?" Mark asked jokingly. He and Simon and Phil were winding down backstage after filming the latest episode of Never Mind the Buzzcocks. "No offense or anything, it's just, well, you know..."
"Well, they ought to. Captains, even guest captains, always get more face time than the other guests. Honestly, they don't go an episode without showing Phil's 'amused smirk' at least 6 times. Sometimes he doesn't even say anything and he still gets shown more in the final edit than our actual guests." Simon answered. Phil adjusted his glasses in a decent impression of his 'amused smirk', but sagely said nothing.
"And anyways, you were great tonight. It's hard not to be, with a guest like Lee Ryan. I'm sure they'll show plenty of you." Simon didn't know why he was so anxious to reassure Mark. He quickly shut his mouth, worried he might ramble on even more.
"Thanks," Mark said, suddenly touched by Simon's concern. "Listen, you want to go out somewhere and share a few more drinks? I could use a night out."
Simon agreed, so they said their goodbyes to Phil and moved on to a nearby bar. After a while, it became obvious that something weird was going on. The bar was filled to the brim with a huge variety of really enthusiastic women, squeeing and congregating around laptops and iPhones.
When asked what was going on, one of the girls replied, "Oh, we're in town for the Fangirls Convention '08. This is our Slash Night Out. You know, because even the worst Kirk/Spock fic is improved by liberal amounts of alcohol."
Mark and Simon both agreed, although they had no clue what any of her dialogue meant. They were obviously outnumbered here, and they didn't want to make enemies. They were getting along fine, ignoring the shrieking and increasingly drunken fangirls, when they were approached.
"Say, aren't you Simon Amstell and Mark Watson?" the fangirl asked.
They consented to their identities, expecting to be asked for autographs or pictures.
Instead she shrieked, and shouted, "YOU'RE ON A DATE TOGETHER, AREN'T YOU?"
An ominous hush fell over the whole bar, as girl after girl turned their heads, recognized the two men, and came to a similar conclusion. The whole place descended into chaos as Mark and Simon, terrified and backed into a corner, were bombarded with question after question, each one making progressively less sense, punctuated by squeals of fangirl glee.
"CAN YOU KISS EACH OTHER?"
"HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN KEEPING THIS FROM US?"
"YOU GUYS NEED A NAME, HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT WATSTELL?"
And perhaps the least sensical, "BUT WHAT ABOUT HARRY? WHAT ABOUT JUDDSTELL? *TEAR*"
Finally, with the help of the amused bartender, they managed to free themselves from the horde and escape out the back door. As they meandered down the back alley, leaning on each other for support, the alcohol and the weirdness of the night caught up with them and they were both incapacitated with a fit of giggles.
"I mean," Mark gasped, tears streaming down his face, "can you imagine? They thought we were together, like together together. God."
"Well," Simon said suddenly, regaining control of himself. "If it weren't for your wife, they might have had a fair point in there." As soon as the words came out of his mouth he regretted them, and waited in agony for Mark's response.
Mark hesitated, caught off guard, then exploded with a rush of words. "Well, you know the funny thing about wives, is... you know the part in my bit where I say there's no funny business about her? Well that's always been the biggest laugh, really, because, well, she's not really real. And, you know, I don't think you can be adulterous with an imaginary wife, I mean I'm not sure, obviously, but I'm pretty sure, and well..." Finally he ran out of words. Not knowing what to do next, he decided to seize the moment, and pressed Simon up against the alley wall as their lips met.
As they parted for breath, Mark switched into his sports commentator mode- "And it's going, going, gone! A home run, as he takes a victory lap around the bases. It's going to be a goood night."
The End
A/N: I realize that Mark probably wouldn't commentate on the very American sport of baseball, but the bases/sex metaphor was too good to pass up.
Also, a language question- Do bars exist in Britain, or are there only pubs?
"
EDIT akdjfghkadjfhgksdfjghlskfdhjglsdfjhgskjfhskjfg @watson24hour linked to my story and said it was "absolutely spectacular" akdjghakdjfhgsdjkfg I'm not sure whether to be proud or not but I am.