Category: The Mighty Boosh
Genre: PWP (porn without plot)
Challenge: Challenge 07: Extended Scenes
Notes: I don’t write femslash nearly enough to be any good – but this pairing just had to be done. Completed for challenge #7 (extended/rewritten scenes) at booshslashhaven. Set just after Howard’s been taken over by the Spirit of Jazz, Neon had to knock him out and their gig was ruined. They aren’t best pleased about that.
‘That simpleton!’ Neon is fuming as Kraftwork Orange crash into the toilets, slamming the door shut with a kick and punching her hands down as she faces the mirror.
‘I feel sick. Jazz!’ Ultra presses a hand against her stomach as she remembers, the trumpet and the fans’ faces and him in that thong… ‘Disgusting.’
She’s shaking slightly; she wants to scream and release and find that bloody poof who brought him into the band in the first place-
Mouths are fused together in an instant, quietening, dominating. It’s all tongue and teeth and lips and short breaths as Neon’s hands are bruisingly tight against Ultra’s hips, holding her still with the same ferocity she uses with every movement she ever makes. One hand is up against her face, her thumb pushing hard along her cheekbone with a luminous pink smear in its wake.
Neon backs her into the cubicle, her hands already clutching viciously onto Ultra’s shoulders and her mouth, teeth bared, lips grinning, crushing against Ultra’s neck with a furious desperation as she shoves her up against the wall, no word of warning or breath of hesitation. Fingers are clawing, tugging at those damn jumpsuits, trying to pull them off without having to unstick themselves from each other. A bare shoulder appears and she’s moving her tongue along the bone, over sweat-shocked skin, tasting salt and cosmetics and fabric while Ultra’s hands are up in her hair, pulling her closer with a flash of teeth.
It is too cramped to gasp without hurting, daring to not move without compensating with a feverish kiss first, messy and rushed and wanting, needed. Nails are sharp. They scrape against her belly, angry red streaks not given a second thought as Neon’s mouth is against them, moving down and across and biting and twisting. Ultra is squirming, tensing, ripping, everything but thrashing back and screaming with pure guttural instinct.
Laboured breathing and she is seeing stars, seeing the electro smudge fading with the sweat and heat and it’s blurring, dancing with tears. The heat builds, scorching, singeing across her skin as that tongue is lower, screaming out its own rhythm with little regard for hers and she can feel her knees weakening, her hands slipping down the wall as she tries to keep herself from buckling with a heavy sigh.
Hands against her thighs and she is held, trapped. She can barely see, a million violent colours writhing as she does, yet it’s dark and too hot and everything is a little burnt around the edges. She dare not look down, can see the shock of black hair just out of reach and once again her hands are grasping at it, pulling a little too fiercely like that is all she knows how to do, just sing and play and fuck. Do what your best at and god closer fuck there yes ohgodsocloseharderbitchjustgodyes.
She knows how it goes. One dirty fumble, let out as much as they can in such a brief extended moment and then it is over, forgotten, back to the shouting and the playing and the boys. Savour it.
(Until the next time. She waits for each one patiently as before – with late nights and small looks and her own hands for company. Neon knows where to go faster than her clumsy fingers. She waits because she knows that it will be better then whatever she can do and she needs it, needs the rhythm of tongue-taste-fuck-kiss.)
She knows how to savour the moment, she’s had practise, but with her tongue doing that and her hands touching there and she can feel it all slipping away, tumbling with her as she is pushed, controlled. Her grasp tightens, a short scream from below and a snarl as the hands move and she nearly crashes to the floor.
Stop and I’ll fucking hurt you.
There are no niceties. Neither would want them. Just keep going suckclashbite and she’ll get out unharmed, marked and breathless and aching but she can deal with all that, because she knows she has the practise and the control and she knows what the waiting is like. She can remember all this before, she feels it now and it rushes together in one long technicolour blur.
The electro smudge bursts with a final twist.