fic: It Rhymes with Shmagina
Fandom: Knocked Up, Ben/Pete
Rating: R for retarded sex.
Notes: I had some serious problems with this movie. Serious! But then I came home at 1am and wrote 1200 words of this, so obviously, I got something worthwhile out of it. I'm being hyperbolic when I use the word 'worthwhile.' Also, the priest-fic is forthcoming, I swear, this doesn't count as my weekly offering.
There's five different kinds of chairs, but only one bed, and Ben passes out directly on top of it. He's holding his face in his hands and his stripey shorts are askew, showing a lot more groin fur than you'd probably think.
Pete stays curled up in the droll short chair for a long time. The mushrooms are still filtering through his system. Mostly he feels like if he moves the chair will lose its temper and drop him the 57 storeys to ground level. Like his own private death-elevator. So he sits. Thinking, gnawing the web of his hand between pointer finger and thumb until he stops crying for the third time and can't remember what the lilac tasted like. And then examines his slimy hand and wipes it on his suit - his best one, the really expensive one - and wriggles out of his tie, drops it on the floor with his socks.
He wants to go home, away from the liar chair and all its tall friends. It's exactly the same feeling as when he begged to go to rock star camp when he was fourteen and when he got there, all the other kids were either twelve or seventeen. And even though he played guitar the counsellor with the sweatband and the pig tattoo made him play the fiddle at the closing night performance and he squawked and sucked ass because obviously, he didn't play the fucking fiddle. It's exactly the same, because when his dad came up to get him after the show, he didn't say anything, and Pete suddenly didn't want to go home anymore, even after four weeks of crying into his pillow at night and wiping away tears at the cold cuts table at lunch time.
He misses Debbie and the girls, but he also knows exactly how it'll be when he gets back there, and he'd mostly rather just cut his fucking throat.
Ben stops snoring suddenly, and sits up in his socks and shorts and lounge shirt looking wild around the jowls. “You seen my books?” he asks, eyes rolling around the hotel room without seeing anything. He's somewhere between dead asleep and hallucinating.
“No, man. Your books are back home, don't worry about it.” Pete lolls his legs off the edge of the chair, tries to fix his gaze on Ben. His chin keeps dropping, and eventually he props it up with his fist.
“I need to read them, study up,” says Ben, starting to slump off the bed. His shorts ride high enough up his thigh that Pete gets an eyeful of ballsack. Pete doesn't particularly mind. He scratches his own through the pinstripe Italian wool.
“Dude, no.” None too steady himself, he launches out of the droll chair, across to the bed, and pins Ben to the duvet. “Sleep it off, man. You can read them tomorrow.”
Ben struggles against him for all of three seconds, and then goes slack, half off the bed, half on. Pete drags him back on, and they both lie there like that for a good while, maybe asleep. When Pete comes to again he starts chucking off decorative pillows and pulling back layers of sheets 'cause the air is fucking cold.
But Ben is full-out snoring, and Pete can feel himself passing out again. The most he manages is getting one arm out of his jacket, and unbuttoning his pants before rolling against Ben's back and wrapping his arm around Ben's belly.
Pete wakes up a second time with a headache and morning wood. It's 5am, and as far as his brain is concerned he's spent the last three hours going through the second-by-second motions of the chest-waxed brothers from Cirque du Soleil, holding each other up by the head with their instep, et cetera. He remembers all of it, and he's feverish with the exertion. He blinks through the yellow city lights coming in through the window - the sky's still black as sin, and the air conditioning's kicked in even harder so the sweat's drying in his hair and under his clothes, he's freezing - and sees that Ben's still comatose.
He renews his efforts, gets their asses under the sheets, wriggling his toes against Ben's hot, hairy calves. He's kicking his pants off when Ben rolls over and nuzzles a stubbled cheek onto Pete's chest, drops his hand down to cup Pete's bosom.
“Dude,” Pete says, around his hard-on, still kicking.
“I love you, man” says Ben, who makes a sloppy wet mark against Pete's bare shoulder and rubs in closer. “You're better than anyone. I wish I'd got drunk and got you pregnant.”
Staring off into the black, Pete nods and says, “I would totally marry you.”
And then, instead of passing out again like he'd kind of suspected would happen, Ben reaches down and grabs his dick and says “That's probably the gayest thing you ever said,” and jerks him off quick and steady.
It takes half a minute for Pete to realize what's happening, and another half a minute for him to realize he's about to come all over himself, which is when he stops Ben and says, “Don'tcha wanna do it doggie-style?” and flips over, wriggling his ass up to grind against that damn hairy groin.
“Dude, yes!” Ben is pulling and spitting on himself, kicking off his shorts, and Pete knows he brought condoms (in case of hookers) but not lube, and doesn't particularly want to think about what they're doing, much less go prepare for it, so he doesn't say anything, just kinda tries to relax his ass muscles and imagine himself as a vagina.
A tiny, assy vagina, because they're both still retarded, obviously. Ben tries a slick, experimental finger, mutters something about pink eye, heaves a sigh, and then goes ahead and rams his dick on in. Pete takes maybe half an inch of it before he pulls away, squawking at the burn and feeling like he shit himself. “What the fuck, what the fuck! Come on, man!” He turns an accusatory glare at Ben, who looks mostly sorry. Mostly.
“I thought you were ready,”
“Did I say I was ready? Jesus!”
“Well, I thought you were. You want me to go get a condom?”
That thought pretty much ended it. Pete turned away and started fishing for his underwear.
“Aw, c'mon. Don't be like that.”
“I'm not. This was a bad idea, alright?” Now, suddenly, the thought of Debbie's bony little bits and starts and stops and demands for dirty talk (but don't say pussy, I hate that word, alright, Pete? I hate it) seem normal, if not quite desirable.
Pete can feel Ben tugging on his shorts, too. For a few minutes, the room swims and they lie in silence, with just the sound of air conditioner switching gears.
“Can we cuddle, at least?” asks Ben, finally.
“Yes,” says Pete. And he opens his arm for Ben to come and snuggle into.
In the morning, Pete takes a shower and when he gets out finds Ben sitting with a pair of coffees and some muffins in the red-and-gold-shiny-thread chair.
“Thanks,” says Pete.
“No prob,” Ben says around his chocolate-zucchini muffin. And then: “So I guess you're sticking to fantasy baseball.”
Pete squints, runs his hand through wet hair. “I think so, yeah.”
“That's cool,” says Ben, and reachs over to give him a big manly smack on the ass. “As long as someone appreciates your vagina.”
Rating: R for retarded sex.
Notes: I had some serious problems with this movie. Serious! But then I came home at 1am and wrote 1200 words of this, so obviously, I got something worthwhile out of it. I'm being hyperbolic when I use the word 'worthwhile.' Also, the priest-fic is forthcoming, I swear, this doesn't count as my weekly offering.
There's five different kinds of chairs, but only one bed, and Ben passes out directly on top of it. He's holding his face in his hands and his stripey shorts are askew, showing a lot more groin fur than you'd probably think.
Pete stays curled up in the droll short chair for a long time. The mushrooms are still filtering through his system. Mostly he feels like if he moves the chair will lose its temper and drop him the 57 storeys to ground level. Like his own private death-elevator. So he sits. Thinking, gnawing the web of his hand between pointer finger and thumb until he stops crying for the third time and can't remember what the lilac tasted like. And then examines his slimy hand and wipes it on his suit - his best one, the really expensive one - and wriggles out of his tie, drops it on the floor with his socks.
He wants to go home, away from the liar chair and all its tall friends. It's exactly the same feeling as when he begged to go to rock star camp when he was fourteen and when he got there, all the other kids were either twelve or seventeen. And even though he played guitar the counsellor with the sweatband and the pig tattoo made him play the fiddle at the closing night performance and he squawked and sucked ass because obviously, he didn't play the fucking fiddle. It's exactly the same, because when his dad came up to get him after the show, he didn't say anything, and Pete suddenly didn't want to go home anymore, even after four weeks of crying into his pillow at night and wiping away tears at the cold cuts table at lunch time.
He misses Debbie and the girls, but he also knows exactly how it'll be when he gets back there, and he'd mostly rather just cut his fucking throat.
Ben stops snoring suddenly, and sits up in his socks and shorts and lounge shirt looking wild around the jowls. “You seen my books?” he asks, eyes rolling around the hotel room without seeing anything. He's somewhere between dead asleep and hallucinating.
“No, man. Your books are back home, don't worry about it.” Pete lolls his legs off the edge of the chair, tries to fix his gaze on Ben. His chin keeps dropping, and eventually he props it up with his fist.
“I need to read them, study up,” says Ben, starting to slump off the bed. His shorts ride high enough up his thigh that Pete gets an eyeful of ballsack. Pete doesn't particularly mind. He scratches his own through the pinstripe Italian wool.
“Dude, no.” None too steady himself, he launches out of the droll chair, across to the bed, and pins Ben to the duvet. “Sleep it off, man. You can read them tomorrow.”
Ben struggles against him for all of three seconds, and then goes slack, half off the bed, half on. Pete drags him back on, and they both lie there like that for a good while, maybe asleep. When Pete comes to again he starts chucking off decorative pillows and pulling back layers of sheets 'cause the air is fucking cold.
But Ben is full-out snoring, and Pete can feel himself passing out again. The most he manages is getting one arm out of his jacket, and unbuttoning his pants before rolling against Ben's back and wrapping his arm around Ben's belly.
Pete wakes up a second time with a headache and morning wood. It's 5am, and as far as his brain is concerned he's spent the last three hours going through the second-by-second motions of the chest-waxed brothers from Cirque du Soleil, holding each other up by the head with their instep, et cetera. He remembers all of it, and he's feverish with the exertion. He blinks through the yellow city lights coming in through the window - the sky's still black as sin, and the air conditioning's kicked in even harder so the sweat's drying in his hair and under his clothes, he's freezing - and sees that Ben's still comatose.
He renews his efforts, gets their asses under the sheets, wriggling his toes against Ben's hot, hairy calves. He's kicking his pants off when Ben rolls over and nuzzles a stubbled cheek onto Pete's chest, drops his hand down to cup Pete's bosom.
“Dude,” Pete says, around his hard-on, still kicking.
“I love you, man” says Ben, who makes a sloppy wet mark against Pete's bare shoulder and rubs in closer. “You're better than anyone. I wish I'd got drunk and got you pregnant.”
Staring off into the black, Pete nods and says, “I would totally marry you.”
And then, instead of passing out again like he'd kind of suspected would happen, Ben reaches down and grabs his dick and says “That's probably the gayest thing you ever said,” and jerks him off quick and steady.
It takes half a minute for Pete to realize what's happening, and another half a minute for him to realize he's about to come all over himself, which is when he stops Ben and says, “Don'tcha wanna do it doggie-style?” and flips over, wriggling his ass up to grind against that damn hairy groin.
“Dude, yes!” Ben is pulling and spitting on himself, kicking off his shorts, and Pete knows he brought condoms (in case of hookers) but not lube, and doesn't particularly want to think about what they're doing, much less go prepare for it, so he doesn't say anything, just kinda tries to relax his ass muscles and imagine himself as a vagina.
A tiny, assy vagina, because they're both still retarded, obviously. Ben tries a slick, experimental finger, mutters something about pink eye, heaves a sigh, and then goes ahead and rams his dick on in. Pete takes maybe half an inch of it before he pulls away, squawking at the burn and feeling like he shit himself. “What the fuck, what the fuck! Come on, man!” He turns an accusatory glare at Ben, who looks mostly sorry. Mostly.
“I thought you were ready,”
“Did I say I was ready? Jesus!”
“Well, I thought you were. You want me to go get a condom?”
That thought pretty much ended it. Pete turned away and started fishing for his underwear.
“Aw, c'mon. Don't be like that.”
“I'm not. This was a bad idea, alright?” Now, suddenly, the thought of Debbie's bony little bits and starts and stops and demands for dirty talk (but don't say pussy, I hate that word, alright, Pete? I hate it) seem normal, if not quite desirable.
Pete can feel Ben tugging on his shorts, too. For a few minutes, the room swims and they lie in silence, with just the sound of air conditioner switching gears.
“Can we cuddle, at least?” asks Ben, finally.
“Yes,” says Pete. And he opens his arm for Ben to come and snuggle into.
In the morning, Pete takes a shower and when he gets out finds Ben sitting with a pair of coffees and some muffins in the red-and-gold-shiny-thread chair.
“Thanks,” says Pete.
“No prob,” Ben says around his chocolate-zucchini muffin. And then: “So I guess you're sticking to fantasy baseball.”
Pete squints, runs his hand through wet hair. “I think so, yeah.”
“That's cool,” says Ben, and reachs over to give him a big manly smack on the ass. “As long as someone appreciates your vagina.”