Looks Toxic

From the prompt ‘Requesting some violent, filthy, graphic and passionate Electro Girl femmeslash (Neon/Ultra) plz!

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Length: words

Looks Toxic by Culumacilinte


Backstage- everything smelling of cigarette smoke and sweat and sawdust, the spastic flashings of the current band’s lightshow filter through gaps above doors and cracks in the wall, and Neon has Ultra pinned up against the brickwork, one hand at her throat. She’s the smaller of the two, Neon, but she’s got cat-claws and viciously sharp teeth, and now she’s snarling her fury into club-heavy air, one leg thrust between Ultra’s thighs. She sneers.

‘Shut it, bitch.’

And then there’s the snick of a switchblade, and suddenly a knife is hovering under Ultra’s chin, tip pricking at the delicate skin of her neck. She scoffs. Neon is quick enough to wave a blade around, and sure, she never hesitates to use it, but never enough to do any real damage; not to Ultra. She can’t fool her. So she sneers right back, practically pushing herself onto the sharp knife-edge, and her lip curls when Neon moves back ever so slightly.

‘Or what?’ She asks, eyes mocking.

Neon doesn’t answer, just shoves her hard against the wall and brings her knee up between Ultra’s thighs. If she’d been a man, it would have had her doubled over with pain. Even as she is, though, it still hurts like a bitch, and a snarl rips itself from her throat as she surges away from the wall and grabs Neon by the hair, pushing her up against the brick instead. She kisses her brutally, mashing their lips together, yanking the other girl’s head back and forcing her to surrender under her touch. The plastic, rainbow-bright beads they wear clack together noisily. The kiss tastes waxy, their lipstick smearing all over the place, and it’s all tongues and teeth and the iron sharpness of blood.

Neon struggles, kissing back furiously, her nails raking over Ultra’s arms. Ultra hears something tear as sharp little hands pull hard on her shirt, and she pulls back, breathing hard. Neon’s pupils are wide and dark, and Ultra can see blue and orange stage lights reflected back at her, and behind them the figure of a man up against a wall with his head thrown back, someone on their knees before him. She grins sharp and fierce at that, and Neon gives her a disgusted look.

‘Not now.’ Says Ultra, her voice once again an unconcerned drawl, and nods towards the stage. ‘En’t got time; we’re on in ten minutes.’

The knife presses against her throat again as Neon leans forward, hisses against her mouth ‘Ten? I could have you in five.’

And Ultra knows she could, but she doesn’t care. She’d rather have her later, and it’ll be the better for it. Neon can suffer for now. She smirks a little at the thought, and flashes her teeth at Neon, who growls, but flicks the knife away anyway.

‘Later.’ She mutters, stalking towards the stage door, and it’s a definite threat.

The gig is brilliant. Ultra’s kid sister is on keyboard, and they’ve got a new frontman; he’s skinny and femme-looking, his face painted with as much makeup as the girls’, and his hair is bright, flaming red. He can’t sing all that well, really, but he can pull shapes like nothing else, and with Ultra and Neon on backing vox, no-one really notices that the lead singer’s flat through most of the songs. The best bit, though, are the looks Neon shoots Ultra all through the show; furious glares that somehow translate into God, I want to fuck you right now on this fucking stage. Ultra wouldn’t mind, honestly.

The crowd goes mental when they finish the last number; all of them hopped up on E and god knows what else, painted Day-Glo colours and jumping around, screaming for an encore. But Neon flips them the bird and she and Ultra slouch off stage. They’re electro girls, after all. They’re not into audience-pleasing.

Neon has her pressed up against the wall almost as soon as they step offstage, kissing her hot and open-mouthed- all desperation and adrenaline- and Ultra can feel the heavy weight of the knife dangling off her belt pressing against her thigh. She clutches Neon to her, hands fisted in hair ratted and stiff with hairspray, tongue frantically tasting her, sliding and curling and fighting, eyes shut under streaks of lime green. Neon’s like an animal, the way she kisses, and Ultra would swear she’s got fangs, tearing at her lips and tongue until all she can taste is lipstick and spit and sweat and blood.

‘Cunting little tease,’ Neon growls against her mouth, and Ultra lets out a triumphant little hah of breath, drawing Neon’s hips in close against her own. She’s hot for her, and Neon knows it. Still kissing fiercely, Neon reaches a hand down, dragging sharp nails up the back of Ultra’s thigh, tracking paths of wounded pink up until she reaches the swell of her arse. She slips a finger under the hem of her knickers then, tracing the cleft of her buttocks obscenely. Ultra groans quietly in the back of her throat, suddenly terribly, terribly thankful that she had chosen to wear a skirt.

‘Already wet for me?’ She murmurs, her voice taunting, but it’s not really a question at all, and not really proper derision either, but that’s how Neon and Ultra work, so it’s understood.

She’s right though; Ultra can smell the sharp, sour odour of her own arousal over the fag smoke and alcopop smell of the club, and a throbbing wetness has begun between her legs. Her whole body shudders when Neon’s clever finger smoothes itself over her arse and teases at the slick heat of her cunt. Neon looks up at Ultra through her lashes, dark eyes lit with malice, and draws her lower lip deliberately between her teeth. The effect is bizarre; her smeared lipstick glows orange in the blacklight, and her sharp little teeth are a luminescent blue. She looks toxic. Ultra cannot hold back her own words.

‘God, you’re beautiful.’

Neon slaps her hard across the face. The sting buzzes and shocks momentarily, and Ultra can feel the wet streak on her cheek from where the other girl had had her finger inside her. It does nothing to soothe the throbbing heat of her cunt. Immediately, though, her whole body shifts; her chin cocked forward, hands balled into fists at her sides. She knows how Neon likes to fight, but she’s more than equal to her.

‘Beautiful?’ Neon sneers. ‘Do I look fucking beautiful to you, Ultra? I’m not supposed to be bloody beautiful. I’m electro, yeah?’

‘Well, you’ve failed, then!’ She shoots back, ever ready, ‘Cos you’re fucking gorgeous. You’re like a painting, pretty little girl. I could do you right fucking here!’

And Neon glowers, and Ultra can feel her hand sliding down to her belt, fiddling with the knife that hangs there, clearly fighting the urge to flick it out and stab Ultra up properly, the way she’d do with anyone else. Only Neon would find it an insult, being called beautiful. Makeup all over her face, hair done up like an epileptic skunk, clothes mismatched and ripped and clashing; she tries so hard, but no matter what she does, she can’t stop herself being beautiful.

‘Come on,’ Neon mutters, and there’s a hand tight around Ultra’s thin wrist, ‘We’re going home. Don’t think I’ll not deal with you then, bitch.’

‘Fine,’ says Ultra, sulky as a child, but follows anyway, without any questions asked.

The cabbie they hail stares at them as he drives them the short way to their flat; Ultra stares back at him in the rear-view mirror and secretly delights in the unnerved looks she’s getting. Next to her, Neon runs the blade of her knife over the pad of her thumb. Over and over and over again, and Ultra knows she’s imagining holding it to her neck. A delicious thought, by all accounts.

Neon loves to be in control, always; she loves to play with her knife, draw blood, slap people around, loves to get on top and make them serve her pleasure. Ultra loves to set Neon off balance, and so the instant they stalk through the door to their flat, she grabs Neon by her artfully-ripped lapels and throws her through a door and onto the bed before she can even take off her stiletto-sharp heels. She stares up at Ultra for a moment, for once taken entirely off-guard, and Ultra takes a moment to toe off her neon pumps, savouring the sight.

It doesn’t last long, though, and Neon is up in an instant, her face twisted into a snarl. She swipes the back of a hand angrily across her mouth, and the smear of Day-Glo orange traces itself almost all the way to her ear. ‘What the fuck d’you think you’re doing?’ She shouts, and Ultra advances once again, shoves her back down on the bed and leans over her prone body so that their lips almost touch. Despite herself, Neon quivers.

‘You know what I’m doing,’ Ultra whispers, ‘and you’ll let me do it too.’

They stay like that for a moment, until Ultra takes Neon’s lower lip in her teeth and tugs ever so slightly, strangely gentle. And then the spell seems to break, and Neon surges up off the mattress, thin, strong arms clutching Ultra against her body as she kisses her feverishly. Ultra kisses back immediately, like it’s instinct, her mouth fierce and hot against Neon’s, and they roll over and over, scrabbling and growling, claw-fingers tearing at clothes and hair. Ultra’s shirt is torn irrevocably, literally ripped off her skinny body, and Neon’s tight drainpipes are tugged awkwardly over heels neither of them bothers to take off. Makeup slides and smears; an oily smudge of blue over Ultra’s nipple as Neon takes it between her teeth, hot pink fingerprints from the side of Neon’s face down her neck. Just another way of marking each other.

Ultra’s hand snatches at the bedding as sharp teeth scrape over the curve of her breast, and she grins manically when her fingers close around the handle of Neon’s precious flick knife. She tangles her legs with the other girl’s, growling as she flips herself on top of her. Shirt and skin part effortlessly under the blade as she draws it over Neon’s collarbone, and just for a moment, she falls still, her mouth open in a silent gasp as shockingly crimson blood wells up in a thin line along white skin, bleeding out through the fabric of her shirt. Ultra leans down and sucks hard at the wound, lapping up the iron-tasting blood with vampiric delight, and Neon lets out a delicious, breathy moan. The sound goes straight to the throbbing heat between Ultra’s thighs, and they both stare in breathless arousal at the trickle of blood as it seeps down the incline of Neon’s collarbone, a dark rivulet slicing the paleness of her throat in two.

But that only lasts a moment, for soon enough the knife is knocked from her grasp, and Neon’s writhing up against her, struggling with vicious delight.

As they fight, Neon slides a clever hand down between their bodies and insinuates a finger under Ultra’s knickers, already damp from desire. She scoffs into the kiss, and Ultra can’t help the shudder that runs out through all her limbs as one clever finger slips between her folds, pressing hard at her clit.

All Neon needs is that one shudder.

In an instant, Ultra is on her back, and suddenly Neon is on top of her, knees on either side of her face, and Ultra is overwhelmed by the scent of sex, the feel of the other girl’s soft, wet cunt against her lips, the tickle of wiry black hair against her nose. Neon grinds against her mouth, merciless, and Ultra has to lick, to suck and lap and swallow if she doesn’t want to choke. Above her, Neon’s shuddering and swearing, and Ultra’s nails dig into her thighs, clutching hard at her arse to steady her against her lips.

‘Fuck,’ she’s hissing, over and over again, ‘Fuck, fuck- yes! Just like fucking that, bitch; go on, yeah-’

Ultra’s lips close over her clit, sucking hard, and the point of her tongue pushes up into her, relishing the heat of her arousal, the sharp taste of her, and Neon is so, so close. She convulses desperately, pushing down hard against Ultra’s mouth, grinding back and forth until she comes hard, crying out, the muscles of her inner walls clenching and spasming wildly. Ultra doesn’t stop, though, gives her no time to recover; she licks at her clit faster and faster, and the sensation of her tongue hot and wet is almost too much. Neon would be shuddering against the mattress if those hands hadn’t been there, keeping her in place. Her second orgasm rips through her with so much force that her vision fuzzes out for a moment. Her whole body pushes itself into Ultra’s mouth, and she trembles as sharp hands release their hold on her thighs and she slumps to the mattress beside Ultra.

‘Fuck,’ she breathes, her voice shaking, blinking the dizziness away from her brain.

Ultra, though, is still afire with arousal, and she prods Neon in the shoulder, her hips rocking a little towards the other girl. ‘Neon,’ she whines, ‘Come on- please!’

‘Little slut.’ Neon mutters, smirking a little. There’s no real heat behind it, though, and she rolls over to kiss Ultra hard, tasting booze and her own come, and finger-fucks her into shuddering, ecstatic silence.

They lie like that for a long while, streaked with blood and sweat and cosmetics. Somehow, Neon’s arm curls itself up around Ultra’s face, her fingers toying lazily with strands of crimped, blonde hair, and her head finds a position tucked against Ultra’s breasts, just under her chin, and Ultra breathes in the smell of hairspray with a little wrinkle of her nose. She doesn’t say anything of it, though, for she loves these little moments too much, when Neon goes kittenish and soft. She looks down at her with a little grin.


Neon cranes her neck up and places a grinning bite on the very tip of Ultra’s chin. ‘Passable.’ She says.

Ultra raises an eyebrow down at her, though possibly the angle might make impossible for the other girl even to see. ‘Passable?’ She echoes, feigning offense. ‘You little bitch, you’ll take that back!’

And with that, she rolls herself on top of Neon once again, sending the other girl’s head thudding against the mattress, and begins tickling her mercilessly. Neon shrieks with helpless laughter, flailing and bucking under Ultra’s hands. It’s a moment before she can collect herself to retaliate, grabbing at unrestrained breasts and poking at the sensitive ladder of Ultra’s ribs. Ultra laughs too, gasping with mirth, and the two of them roll straight off the bed, where they land with a graceless thud amidst discarded clothes and a few empty cans of diet coke.

They lie there for nigh on the rest of the night, talking in soft voices, and Ultra tries to rub all of Neon’s makeup off using only her hand. It doesn’t really work, but neither of them can bring themselves to care.

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