ficrepost: "Duh" Nicky/Michelle
Title: "Duh"
Fandom: Buffyverse RPF
Pairing: Nicholas Brendon/Michelle Trachtenberg
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Dirtybadwrong.
Disclaimer: Completely untrue made up lies.
Notes: Written in prettylightsfic 2008 for biggrstaffbunch, who requested this pairing and "baddirtywrong post-rehab/divorce empathy for Nicky." Originally posted here.
Summary: In difficult times, some friends are more obliging than others.
Wordcount: 1376
Duh
"Ohmygod, seriously, Nicky, call me anytime. Anytime. I mean it." Among the "Good for you"s and half-masked "It's about time"s, only Michelle's voicemail suggested that she was going to be an active part of his recovery. And Tressa, of course. Tressa would be anxiously waiting by the phone, wanting to hear how it went, crossing her toes and hoping that the Nicky who emerged from rehab would be the guy she married, only sober. Sober. Sober and boring, sober and jaded, sober and better. Not the sick man he'd become, not the scared and happy boy he'd been, lucking his way into stardom and success and posterboydom. Kid Makes Big. Tressa isn't waiting for him; she's waiting for some lost ideal, so when Nicky, clean-headed and clear-eyed for the first time in years, finds himself set free, he doesn't call his wife. He doesn't call any of the costars who made him famous. He's not in the mood for borrowed light, Sarah or Aly's precious, oh-little-brother-let-me-help-you routine.
Instead, he calls Michelle from an airplane. "Kiddo, I'm on my way."
"Nicky!" Her squeal is genuine. "Why're you coming here is everything okay? I've been so worried about you."
"Everything's great," he says. "Seriously great. I'm just not ready to go home yet. You know. A success."
"I get it exactly," says Michelle. "We'll meet you at the airport."
"We?"
"Me and the boyfriend," she says. "We, ummm, I know it's dumb and all, but I forgot his name? I mean, we're pretty new and I'm pretty drun -- can I say that?"
"Is it true?"
She giggles awkwardly. "Umm, pretty true yeah."
"It's cool," he says. "I'm not bugged. I've been sober, what, a full week? I'm not gonna relapse."
"Anyhow, I'll drink lots of coffee and be totally fine to hear all about it when you get here. Good flying!"
"Thanks. Good caffeinating."
"Absolutely. Love you!"
She's gone before he can say love you too. Thanks, kiddo. Which is just as well, really. He doesn't think Michelle wants to hear the trembling in his voice, his relief at having a place to go where Tressa isn't. When the plane takes off, he feels, more than he did when he entered the treatment center, that he's leaving one world behind and entering one that's terrifyingly unexplored.
++
"Michelle? Michelle, call me -- something -- just call me, okay?"
Michelle shakes her phone like more words will come out of it, like Nicky is actually this tiny little person trapped inside the cell and she can rescue him. And she's dialing. Up, up, away.
"What's up?"
"We're... we're breaking up."
"You're breaking up with me?" says Michelle. "And things were going so well!" Because she can't -- because he can't mean --
"Tressa left me."
"Cos of the relapse," she says, trying to be calm. "Right?"
"She didn't -- she didn't say. She didn't say anything, actually, she just -- she's gone."
"She left? Tressa?"
"Yeah."
"Well, you have to get over here right away."
"You're thousands of miles a --"
"You have to come now, Nicky, I can't comfort you from here, can I? Just get on a plane and I'll see you soon and stay sober. One day at a time and --"
"Don't sloganize at me, Michelle." He's harsh and bitter, and she's a little starstruck girl again. Okay.
"Fine, whatever, get yourself fucking drunk and ruin your sobriety I don't care. Just be here, okay?"
"Okay." All the bitterness is gone, and as if he were never angry, Nicky says, "You're good people, Michelle."
She laughs. "Sure. You too, Nick. Be a good boy for me."
She's flipping the phone closed when he says, a whine in his voice, "Michelle, there's not -- there's not a boyfriend this ye -- this month? Is there?"
"Course not," she assures him, and she can make it true in about half an hour. And then they'll be them again, and he can pick her up and spin her in a circle and play with her hair and she can steal his sunglasses and tease him, "I'll be eighteen soooo soon, Nicky. Are we counting the hours?"
And he'd open a can of beer and say, "Counting the seconds," and by the time he'd had three beers he'd mean it, and Michelle could sit on his lap and learn lines or watch James and Sarah rehearse and he'd smell her hair and pat her thighs and she'd squirm inside and now they'll be them again. Just the two of them, in her one-room apartment, empty of alcohol, empty of boyfriends, full of lease-violating incense and empty pizza boxes.
"I feel like a kid again," Nicky says when they're safely inside.
"Duh, Nicky, I'm in my twenties."
"Early twenties. And you're living like I was when I was a starving artist."
"If you get maudlin you're gonna want a drink."
"I'm an alcoholic, Michelle. I pretty much always want a drink."
"Okay, but like -- we should do something distracting."
"We should fuck."
Michelle looks at him wide-eyed, then laughs. Her hair all swings forward and she leans into him for a French kiss, quick and sloppy.
"...Okay?" Nicky asks, bewildered. "It's okay?"
"Um, yeah, it's okay. It's a damned good idea and we should get started right now before we start thinking it's a bad idea."
"Because it is a bad idea."
"You suggested it!"
"Yeah, because I'm lonely and tired."
"Which are really great reasons to fuck. I'm a fabulous fuck, Nicholas Brendon."
"I bet you are."
"I like to start with cunnilingus."
++
Nicky's basically wanted to fuck Michelle since he met her, and he couldn't even bring himself to watch Eurotrip because of the unfortunate raging guilt that pumped into his raging erection and made him long to get raging drunk when he thought about naked Michelle tits. Because he doesn't want to fuck Michelle, costar and friend and innocent look-up-to-him person to whom he's supposed to be a role model -- he wants this person who wears heavy eye makeup and wicked skirts and fluffs her hair at him and is this fucking wet dream of attractiveness.
And now suddenly they're all in one place, and the girl who invited him over anytime, really, whenever you need for as long as you want, is stripping off her jeans and has two fingers spreading her shaved pussy lips and is inviting, demanding him to start licking. So he does. And she tastes fucking good and she squirms and wriggles so his whole face smells like her, the rich, dense scent of Michelle and deep groans coming from her throat and her legs wrapped around him and maybe he could just spend the rest of his life here, licking at Michelle's cunt and getting drunk on her arousal, because he's got a hard-on and he's ready for anything she's ready for.
"You like fucking me," Michelle says in a rough whisper. "And you're really fucking good at it. C'mon Nicky, find my clit now, okay?"
He finds her clit, like he's got a choice, finds the way to touch it with his tongue that makes Michelle convulse and then does it again, and again, and again, until she stops trembling and he can feel the thud of her orgasm against his tongue and her moans become a solid whine.
"Mmm," she says when she's recovered somewhat. "That was excellent, Nicky. Okay, next up's spanking if you're game."
"Um," says Nicky. "Spanking who?"
Michelle rolls her eyes. Duh.
"Um, okay," he says. "You know you're pretty bossy?"
"Yeah, but just wait till you get my blowjob," she says, winking, "and tomorrow night you'll fucking beg me to boss you around."
And the thing is, he believes her.
He gets himself into spankable position on her futon and, ass up, says, "Hey, Michelle?"
"Chickening out?"
"No way. Just -- saying thanks. You're a million bucks, you know that?"
"Duh."
Fandom: Buffyverse RPF
Pairing: Nicholas Brendon/Michelle Trachtenberg
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Dirtybadwrong.
Disclaimer: Completely untrue made up lies.
Notes: Written in prettylightsfic 2008 for biggrstaffbunch, who requested this pairing and "baddirtywrong post-rehab/divorce empathy for Nicky." Originally posted here.
Summary: In difficult times, some friends are more obliging than others.
Wordcount: 1376
Duh
"Ohmygod, seriously, Nicky, call me anytime. Anytime. I mean it." Among the "Good for you"s and half-masked "It's about time"s, only Michelle's voicemail suggested that she was going to be an active part of his recovery. And Tressa, of course. Tressa would be anxiously waiting by the phone, wanting to hear how it went, crossing her toes and hoping that the Nicky who emerged from rehab would be the guy she married, only sober. Sober. Sober and boring, sober and jaded, sober and better. Not the sick man he'd become, not the scared and happy boy he'd been, lucking his way into stardom and success and posterboydom. Kid Makes Big. Tressa isn't waiting for him; she's waiting for some lost ideal, so when Nicky, clean-headed and clear-eyed for the first time in years, finds himself set free, he doesn't call his wife. He doesn't call any of the costars who made him famous. He's not in the mood for borrowed light, Sarah or Aly's precious, oh-little-brother-let-me-help-you routine.
Instead, he calls Michelle from an airplane. "Kiddo, I'm on my way."
"Nicky!" Her squeal is genuine. "Why're you coming here is everything okay? I've been so worried about you."
"Everything's great," he says. "Seriously great. I'm just not ready to go home yet. You know. A success."
"I get it exactly," says Michelle. "We'll meet you at the airport."
"We?"
"Me and the boyfriend," she says. "We, ummm, I know it's dumb and all, but I forgot his name? I mean, we're pretty new and I'm pretty drun -- can I say that?"
"Is it true?"
She giggles awkwardly. "Umm, pretty true yeah."
"It's cool," he says. "I'm not bugged. I've been sober, what, a full week? I'm not gonna relapse."
"Anyhow, I'll drink lots of coffee and be totally fine to hear all about it when you get here. Good flying!"
"Thanks. Good caffeinating."
"Absolutely. Love you!"
She's gone before he can say love you too. Thanks, kiddo. Which is just as well, really. He doesn't think Michelle wants to hear the trembling in his voice, his relief at having a place to go where Tressa isn't. When the plane takes off, he feels, more than he did when he entered the treatment center, that he's leaving one world behind and entering one that's terrifyingly unexplored.
++
"Michelle? Michelle, call me -- something -- just call me, okay?"
Michelle shakes her phone like more words will come out of it, like Nicky is actually this tiny little person trapped inside the cell and she can rescue him. And she's dialing. Up, up, away.
"What's up?"
"We're... we're breaking up."
"You're breaking up with me?" says Michelle. "And things were going so well!" Because she can't -- because he can't mean --
"Tressa left me."
"Cos of the relapse," she says, trying to be calm. "Right?"
"She didn't -- she didn't say. She didn't say anything, actually, she just -- she's gone."
"She left? Tressa?"
"Yeah."
"Well, you have to get over here right away."
"You're thousands of miles a --"
"You have to come now, Nicky, I can't comfort you from here, can I? Just get on a plane and I'll see you soon and stay sober. One day at a time and --"
"Don't sloganize at me, Michelle." He's harsh and bitter, and she's a little starstruck girl again. Okay.
"Fine, whatever, get yourself fucking drunk and ruin your sobriety I don't care. Just be here, okay?"
"Okay." All the bitterness is gone, and as if he were never angry, Nicky says, "You're good people, Michelle."
She laughs. "Sure. You too, Nick. Be a good boy for me."
She's flipping the phone closed when he says, a whine in his voice, "Michelle, there's not -- there's not a boyfriend this ye -- this month? Is there?"
"Course not," she assures him, and she can make it true in about half an hour. And then they'll be them again, and he can pick her up and spin her in a circle and play with her hair and she can steal his sunglasses and tease him, "I'll be eighteen soooo soon, Nicky. Are we counting the hours?"
And he'd open a can of beer and say, "Counting the seconds," and by the time he'd had three beers he'd mean it, and Michelle could sit on his lap and learn lines or watch James and Sarah rehearse and he'd smell her hair and pat her thighs and she'd squirm inside and now they'll be them again. Just the two of them, in her one-room apartment, empty of alcohol, empty of boyfriends, full of lease-violating incense and empty pizza boxes.
"I feel like a kid again," Nicky says when they're safely inside.
"Duh, Nicky, I'm in my twenties."
"Early twenties. And you're living like I was when I was a starving artist."
"If you get maudlin you're gonna want a drink."
"I'm an alcoholic, Michelle. I pretty much always want a drink."
"Okay, but like -- we should do something distracting."
"We should fuck."
Michelle looks at him wide-eyed, then laughs. Her hair all swings forward and she leans into him for a French kiss, quick and sloppy.
"...Okay?" Nicky asks, bewildered. "It's okay?"
"Um, yeah, it's okay. It's a damned good idea and we should get started right now before we start thinking it's a bad idea."
"Because it is a bad idea."
"You suggested it!"
"Yeah, because I'm lonely and tired."
"Which are really great reasons to fuck. I'm a fabulous fuck, Nicholas Brendon."
"I bet you are."
"I like to start with cunnilingus."
++
Nicky's basically wanted to fuck Michelle since he met her, and he couldn't even bring himself to watch Eurotrip because of the unfortunate raging guilt that pumped into his raging erection and made him long to get raging drunk when he thought about naked Michelle tits. Because he doesn't want to fuck Michelle, costar and friend and innocent look-up-to-him person to whom he's supposed to be a role model -- he wants this person who wears heavy eye makeup and wicked skirts and fluffs her hair at him and is this fucking wet dream of attractiveness.
And now suddenly they're all in one place, and the girl who invited him over anytime, really, whenever you need for as long as you want, is stripping off her jeans and has two fingers spreading her shaved pussy lips and is inviting, demanding him to start licking. So he does. And she tastes fucking good and she squirms and wriggles so his whole face smells like her, the rich, dense scent of Michelle and deep groans coming from her throat and her legs wrapped around him and maybe he could just spend the rest of his life here, licking at Michelle's cunt and getting drunk on her arousal, because he's got a hard-on and he's ready for anything she's ready for.
"You like fucking me," Michelle says in a rough whisper. "And you're really fucking good at it. C'mon Nicky, find my clit now, okay?"
He finds her clit, like he's got a choice, finds the way to touch it with his tongue that makes Michelle convulse and then does it again, and again, and again, until she stops trembling and he can feel the thud of her orgasm against his tongue and her moans become a solid whine.
"Mmm," she says when she's recovered somewhat. "That was excellent, Nicky. Okay, next up's spanking if you're game."
"Um," says Nicky. "Spanking who?"
Michelle rolls her eyes. Duh.
"Um, okay," he says. "You know you're pretty bossy?"
"Yeah, but just wait till you get my blowjob," she says, winking, "and tomorrow night you'll fucking beg me to boss you around."
And the thing is, he believes her.
He gets himself into spankable position on her futon and, ass up, says, "Hey, Michelle?"
"Chickening out?"
"No way. Just -- saying thanks. You're a million bucks, you know that?"
"Duh."