Get Inside You, Boy
Category: The Mighty Boosh
Characters: Howard Moon, The Spirit of Jazz
Pairing: Howard Moon/The Spirit of Jazz
Genre: Angst, PWP (porn without plot)
Warning: Smut (graphic sex scenes), Unspecified Warning
Length: 1-5k words
Notes: This fic has been wanting to happen forever, ever since I saw ‘Electro,’ really, because seriously? The Spirit of Jazz is so slashy it’s ridiculous-he wants to get inside Howard like a soft kitten, wear him like a glove? By all means, good sir.
Get Inside You, Boy by Culumacilinte
Asleep in his bed, Howard Moon shifted fitfully, rolling onto his side and bunching up his pillow under his head. His lips moved imperceptibly, muttering nonsense syllables. In the cold moonlight filtering through the window, a sheen of sweat glimmered on his forehead, making damp curls stick to the skin.
A voice sifted through his dreams, interrupting a particularly pleasant image of Mrs. Gideon sorting bookmarks while Howard looked on with a fond smile.
He whimpered a little and his knees drew themselves up to his chest, his slumbering brain focussing harder on the image of Mrs. Gideon.
Wake up, boy! I’s talkin’ to you.
Mrs. Gideon looked around, the lines of a frown twisting her smooth, creamy brow. ‘Howard? Did you hear that?”
Dream-Howard shook his head nervously and adjusted his monocle. ‘That’s nothing, Mrs. Gideon; nothing to worry your head about.”
Mrs. Gideon gave him a brilliant smile, laying a hand on his arm. ‘Oh, you are so kind to me, Howard. How is your novel coming, by the way? The first draft was absolutely riveting!”
Her approval and recognition, even when it was nothing more than a dream, sent a glow to Howard’s heart and his face broadened in a dazzling grin. Both grin and glow died, however, the instant the voice spoke again.
Shut up, girlie! The voice was more insistent now, and was beginning to sound decidedly irritated. This boyo’s mine. Wake up, Howard Moon; get your fine ass outta them dreams and listen t’me!
Beneath his sheets, Howard trembled, clutching his comforter tight around him, his brow contorted in pig-headed persistence that he stay asleep. The Howard in his dream trembled too, but he had nothing to clutch to him, and so instead put a comforting hand on Mrs. Gideon’s shoulder, trying his best to look manly and confident, a proper son of Leeds. She, however, seemed not to have heard the voice at all and continued blissfully sorting her bookmarks.
“Go away!’ Howard hissed, ‘Leave me alone! I was having a good dream!”
The invisible voice chuckled cruelly. Leave you alone, boy? That ain’t never gonna happen. You’s mine, baby, and when I call, you’s gonna answer me. Y’ain’t got no choice.
Fists clenched at Howard’s sides, and he stared determinedly down at the ground. ‘I have a choice, sir! I am Howard Moon, Man of Action! They call me Monsoon Moon; I’m a maverick! You try and tell me what to do, and I’ll come at you like a skipping rope! Like a–”
But the voice cut him off.
Mmm, yeah, you’s a maverick, peachy-face; but what kinda maverick, Howard Moon? You know the answer.
Howard’s face fell; there was no denying it now, and both he and the owner of the invisible voice knew it. ‘Jazz Maverick,’ He muttered, defeated. The voice cackled exultantly.
That’s right! You’s the Jazz Maverick, Howard Moon, and when the Spirit o’ Jazz tells you to wake up, you damn well wake!
The last word was almost a shout; or as close to a shout as the raspy voice of the Spirit of Jazz ever got, and Howard shot up in his bed with a yell. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but when they did… there was nothing. Just darkness, and a square of blue rippling across the bedsheets where the moonlight came in. He sagged against the headboard and closed his eyes, exhaling a quavering sigh of relief.
“Thank god,’ he muttered into his chest.
“Who ya thanking there, boy? God? He ain’t got nothin’ t’do with it.”
Howard’s eyes snapped open. There at the foot of the bed stood the Spirit of Jazz, legs crossed and arms out in that familiar, overly-dramatic pose, white suit and top hat almost luminous in the darkness. His eyes glowed red against the cool darkness of Howard’s room. Howard was swamped with a sensation of complete and utter horror, any relief he had felt at seeing the room empty lost in an instant. A prickle of goose bumps broke out on the skin of his forearms.
“Missed me, have you boy? Been a long time since I visited you.”
Howard trembled. ‘What are you doing here?’ He asked quietly, ‘Haven’t you already troubled me enough?”
The Spirit of Jazz laughed raucously, baring disturbingly black teeth. ‘Enough, sweetness?’ He echoed, ‘I ain’t never had enough, Howard! And I been robbed o’ your fine self for so many years, after all…”
“What do you want?”
He had begun to pull himself together, Howard. At least, his voice shook less, and the look in his eyes was calmer, but inside, he was trembling like a tiny little girl from Leeds, albeit a tiny little girl with a moustache. The Spirit of Jazz sneered at him, strangely pink tongue running over those black teeth. He’d been inside Howard Moon; he knew this man, and he could practically taste his fear. He could taste it, and he found himself to be particularly partial to the flavour. He leered at Howard.
“You knows what I wants, boy! Surely y’ain’t that stupid.”
“Oh, god…’ Howard’s voice was nothing more than a whimper, several pitches higher than any grown man’s ought to be, and he shrieked and screwed his eyes tightly shut as the Spirit of Jazz swooped down upon him.
“Don’t kill me, please!’ He sobbed, ‘I’ve got so much to give! I’ve-I’ve-’ But nothing happened, and feeling a slight sense of anticlimax, he unscrewed the left eye slightly. He fairly leapt at the sight that met him, however; the Jazz Spirit was kneeling on the bed, straddling Howard’s legs laid out in front of him, arms propped up on either side of Howard’s torso, skeletal face scant inches from his. At the moment, he was looking decidedly disappointed.
“Don’t be an idiot,’ He said, voice-for once-devoid of delighted mockery. He took a moment, and then seemed to regain his steam, exhaling a harsh rasp of a laugh against Howard’s skin. ‘I wants you, boy! I wants to get inside you, wear you like a soft lady’s glove.”
That tongue flickered obscenely against his teeth, and red eyes went wide and mad.
Howard drew back-or rather, he tried to, but found that the headboard of his bed was rather in the way. He continued trying anyway. ‘If you don’t mind, sir,’ he said weakly, ‘I’d really rather prefer it if you didn’t. Um, that is, there’s a lot of things need doing at the zoo tomorrow, and I need to get my sleep…”
He trailed off weakly, and the Spirit of Jazz shook his head at him, seeming almost rueful.
“Pathetic,’ he muttered, ‘You’s a jazz boy, Howard Moon, and you’s worried about workin’ at some dumbass zoo? Y’see why I’s here? You needs remindin’ ‘bout who you is, boy.”
A panic was blossoming in Howard’s chest now, but he tried to pull himself up regardless. ‘Perhaps you could hoodwink me when I was a young man, sir, but Howard Moon is a man of action! I’ll not be taken in that easily. I-’ he stumbled somewhat, ‘I suggest you make your exit now, sir; you’ll be finding nothing you want here.”
The Spirit of Jazz chuckled again, and his grin was dark and cruel. ‘Ahh, now see-that’s your problem, boy. You thinks you’s gots a choice in the matter.’
And before Howard could react-could object or say anything-the Jazz Spirit surged forward and crushed his black lips to Howard’s in a brutal kiss.
Howard let out a muffled cry, and the Spirit of Jazz disappeared against his lips, leaving nothing more than a lingering taste of ash and the wail of trumpets in his head. Then, in the darkness, Howard’s eyes flamed red.
His whole body relaxed, suddenly warm and heavy with the feeling of good Louisiana whiskey, and a voice spoke inside his head.
There now, ain’t that better, boy? You’s mine, you’s always been mine, and you likes it.
Howard nodded dreamily as his body slid back down to lie flat, one knee bent lazily. He stared at the ceiling with crimson eyes, and one hand slipped down over the faint convexity of his belly, then up again to toy with a nipple though the fabric of his shirt. He sighed faintly, ‘Yes…’ whispering out in the heavy air, and his voice was tinged with a raspy, Cajun twang.
You wants me, doncha boy? Wants me all up in you? A chuckle, It’s your lucky day, sweet cheeks.
The smell of dead cigarettes and cheap booze consumed Howard’s mind, the scent of the dirt and grime of a hundred people’s lives, accented inexplicably with the chemical tang of lemon cleaner. He recognised that smell-the smell of The Blue Aubergine way back when, when Howard was a jazz legend in Yorkshire. He had a guitar in his hands and his fingers were flying at incredible speeds, the soulful sounds of his jazz stylings carrying to the darkest corners of the pub. The crowd was going wild, loving him, and he was their master–
Just like that, boy…
His hand gripped harder at his chest, fingers digging bruisingly hard into the scant muscle of his pectoral, and he groaned deep in his throat, his other hand tracing with maddening slowness down into his boxers. A breathless laugh, exultant and rapturous, tripped from his lips as a hand stroked down the length of his half-hard prick. Had it been Howard, he would have got things over with quickly and quietly, but this was the Spirit of Jazz, and he was a sadistic bastard. He wanted to hear Howard moan, to see him arch up against the touch of his own hand, to want until he could stand it no longer.
And so he was slow, and in Howard’s head, a wild improvised trumpet solo built to incredible heights.
That’s right! That there’s the power o’ jazz, Howard Moon. Gets inside ya, gets under your skin, makes ya tingly. Don’t nothin’ else make you feel like that, do it? I knows you, boy; you wants me. I’s jazz, and jazz is your lifeblood, ain’t it? You’s beggin’ me for it, baby.
Howard moaned, biting down hard on his lip as the hand snuck lower, cupping hotly at his bollocks, heavy in his hand, and further still to stroke over the tight ring of muscle there. A shudder traversed its way up his spine, and the voice of the Spirit of Jazz cooed in his ear.
Oh-ho! Y’likes that… So you’s that kinda man, hmm, Howard Moon? Y’likes bein’ told what t’do, do ya?
In some far corner of his mind, Howard Moon tried desperately to reassert himself, pulling with all the strength in his Yorkshire bones. He was a man of action, he told himself squarely. A man of means and influence, the kind of man others looked up to; not someone who enjoyed taking orders from anyone, much less a Cajun freak in blackface!
That finger was still there though, rubbing back and forth in the crease of his arse, and when it pushed itself in, just past that first barrier, all his resistance crumbled. He whimpered, straining against the feeling of his own finger inside himself, cool and strange and not nearly there enough.
Y’want me to fuck you, peachy face? That what you want?
“G-god, yes! Please, yes…”
The Spirit of Jazz said nothing more, just laughed cruelly inside Howard’s head, on and on, ringing in the jazz club as the double bass thrummed in the background and the saxophone soared bluesily above the crowd.
The hand scrabbled on the bedside table for where Howard knew the lotion was, and then one finger, two, three were inside him, and Howard’s mouth went wide and slack, his eyes glazed with pleasure. The angle was awkward, but Howard’s breath stuttered in his chest nonetheless when the Spirit of Jazz curled his fingers tight inside Howard, stretching places deep inside him. When the other hand left off toying with his scant chest hair and slid down to slick itself over his cock, he fairly moaned, his hips bowing off the mattress into the touch of that hand-his, and yet somehow not at all.
The hand pumped, and the fingers inside him fucked Howard mercilessly, curling and stretching, his whole body pretzellling to try and get them deeper, harder. But it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t good enough, and the Spirit of Jazz growled through Howard’s throat, working him faster.
Oh, yeah… the voice purred against Howard’s ear, That’s what you likes, ain’t it? Ya likes to be fucked hard, Howard Moon, like a little bitch.
Howard groaned desperately. ‘I-no, I–”
Say that so’s I can hear it, bitch!
“Please!’ He choked out, arching frantically against the Jazz Spirit’s touch. He couldn’t bring himself to say anymore, but the Spirit of Jazz felt it in his body, saw it in his mind, and he ran an invisible tongue across invisible teeth, leering invisibly at Howard.
Whatever you says.
The hand worked him harder, the other twisting inside him, and Howard’s vision fuzzed out for a moment from the sheer pleasure of it, his back arching. He was so close, almost there, almost… there–
The trumpet solo rang out over the crowd, spiralling madly upward, twisting and turning in midair before finally, insanely, hitting a triple high C. There was a hush, and the throng stared; for several slow-motion moments, the note hovered still, high and pure and utterly uncorrupted.
And then Howard collapsed onto his back, mouth wide open and gasping for breath, two lines of white painted across his stomach. The Spirit of Jazz materialised beside the bed, leering down at him, his suit utterly pristine, hat still firmly in place. Exhausted, Howard shook his head, looking away, trying to ignore the presence beside him, but the Jazz Spirit cackled into the night air and settled himself on the edge of the bed, almost daintily.
“You liked that, boy?”
Howard didn’t answer, and instead pulled the blanket over himself, suddenly extremely conscious of his own nakedness. It was cold in his room, colder than he could ever remember it being.
The Spirit of Jazz crowed with delighted laughter. ‘Oh-ho! And now’s the time for the psychological torment, hey? Oh, baby, you’s a good time, Howard Moon.”
“Go away,’ Howard muttered into his blankets. It was too late for him to recover any measure of dignity, but he would not further prolong his torment. He would not play along with whatever sick game the Spirit was playing. That laugh scraped over his skin, though, a harsh rasp in the darkness, and Howard could feel the unnatural burn of his eyes.
“I’s always here, boy! I’ll go away, sure thing-I gots other things t’do-but I’s inside your head, Howard Moon. Every time you listen to one o’ them old jazz LPs you loves so much, every time you falls asleep… I’m a-gonna be there, just waitin’ for you.”
“Please leave; I can’t deal with this right now. I have… things to think about.”
The Spirit of Jazz let out a bark of laughter. ‘Ha! Sure that’s what you gots t’do. I’ll leave, sugar, but you ain’t seen the last o’ me; you sure’s hell ain’t.”
There was a sound like the last, futile flicker of a dying candle, and when Howard turned over in his bed, the Spirit of Jazz was gone. He couldn’t sleep though, not even now, in the warm, comforting emptiness of his room. Howard knew it was true, what he’d said, and inside his head, the Spirit of Jazz laughed and laughed and laughed.