Devilish
Category: Real Person Fic
Characters: Noel Fielding, Russell Brand
Pairing: Noel Fielding/Russell Brand
Rating: PG-13
Status: Complete
Length: <1k words
Notes: Messrs. Brand and Fielding belong to themselves and no-one else (with the exception of Noel, who belongs to Julian, but then that’s another matter entirely). Suffice to say I myself have never so much as met them, and am making no money by this little endeavour; it is solely for my own perverse pleasure.
Devilish by Culumacilinte
‘Noel Fielding, you are a terrible, iniquitous man; you know that? Luring me away from the straight and narrow an’ that.’
‘Bollocks. Narrow, possibly, but I’ll not be blamed for your strange bouts of homosexuality.’
‘You’re like Beelzebub.’
‘Like who?’
‘Beelzebub. ‘Tis one of the names for the Most Evil One, me dear fellow.’
‘Who, the Devil?’
‘What?’
‘The Devil is your ‘dear fellow’? Can’t say I’m surprised as such, but chumming around with the Prince of Darkness, really Russell…’
‘Do try not to be a prat, Noel. You, me dear fellow, are like the Devil.’
‘Oh. I’m not, either!’
‘You are! Or Mephistopheles; tempting me-poor waif what I am, me with me helpless flesh into bed with promises of… things.’
‘Things?’
‘Aye. Things to which I cannot even give a name, so sinful they are.’
‘Like what, an orgasm?’
‘That, me dear Noel, is but the surface. You may have delivered a mind-blowing orgasm, and I cannot deny me appreciation of that, but beneath that seemingly innocent occurrence lies all sorts of evil. You’ve opened up the floodgates, you have.’
‘Floodgates? That what that was, then?’
‘Oh, Noel! Noel, Noel, Noelnoelnoel… I am ashamed for you; that joke were far too easy.’
‘Yeah, but it had to be made, dinnit?’
‘Oh, I hardly thinks so. I reckon it was perfectly content floating about as an unspoken subtext before you so crudely brought it to the surface.’
‘Mmm. Whatever. I’ll make bad jokes if I fancy; ‘s not like I’ve got an audience to worry about.’
‘And what am I, then?’
‘You’re a Russell, y’daft twat. There’s a significant difference, you know; they’re entirely different species, audiences and Russells. Like… you’re a tiny wood vole and they’re a magnificent stripey badger.’
‘Tiny? I hardly think–’
‘And anyway, if I had an audience, I couldn’t do this.’
‘What-oh. Mmm, yeah. Fair-fair point, that.’
‘…’
‘Jaesus, Noel! How are you-god, yeah that’s good-I mean-Oh, wow.’
‘What’s this? Have I finally reduced the great Russell Brand to complete incoherence, or do my ears deceive me?’
‘Get back down there and continue, you Cockney tart, or I shall cut off all your hair and leave you looking like a little cancer patient.’
‘That’s well bad taste, Russell.’
‘Mmm, perhaps. But I en’t-oh! Fuck, fucking fuck…’
‘I reckon I quite like you like this; might have to put you in this position a bit more often.’
‘No complaints from me! Now, will you shut up and keep going before I run completely mad?’
‘Russell Brand, mad? I can hardly imagine.’
‘Nonce.’
‘Mmph!’
‘Much better.’
