Not Fox Bumming

Because Howard Moon needs a thorough bumming like Vince Noir needs an unlimited Top Shop voucher. Silly, filthy porn with way too much banter.


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Length: words

Notes: I realised as I was writing this that I apparently have some unrealised annoyance with the fic convention that assumes anyone having anal sex with a partner for the first time is necessarily a virgin to having things up their arse. And why go that route when it’s so much more amusing to imagine that a teenage Howard Moon had to buy himself a second hairbrush because he ruined the first one slathering the handle with hand lotion and sticking it up his arse?

Which is to say, I have a massive boner for bottom!Howard AND I WILL NEVER SHUT UP ABOUT IT.

Not Fox Bumming by Culumacilinte

‘I knew them rumours about you and Jack Cooper weren’t true; he’d’ve been the one doin’ the bumming, if anything.’

‘Hey now, Howard Moon is more than capable of delivering a thunderous bumming, sir! A tsunami of bumming! An earthquake, I’ll come atcha like a–’

Vince gives him a judicious twat on the hip to shut him up. ‘Calm down there, Thor. This ain’t about provin’ your manliness, yeah? It’s just what feels good.’ As if to punctuate that statement, he ducks down to press his mouth to the crease of Howard’s arse and thigh, giving it a leisurely, sucking kiss until Howard gives up holding his breath and lets it out in a kind of strangled groan.

‘Anyway,’ Vince adds on a smirk, ‘you’re the one who’s been havin’ dreams about me bummin’ you into next week.’

Howard immediately blushes, a blotchy affair that spills from his temples all the way down to his chest like redcurrent jam. As if hearing Vince say that is somehow more embarrassing than being on all fours with his bare arse waving about in the air. As if he hadn’t been the one to confess as much in the first place, albeit couched in slightly more delicate terms. Vince grins. ‘Y’need to relax; you’re like a clockwork moustache; nothin’ under your freckly pelt but gears and cogs all wound up, hhhh!’

He pushes himself forward, draping his body over Howard’s back until his lips tickle against the fine wispy hairs at the back of his neck, even more like brown smoke than the rest of Howard’s hair. Vince’s knees tuck up cosy against the back of his thighs like tetris blocks, soft hot dick and bollocks squishing comfortably against his arse, and Howard shakes with a convulsive little wriggle, hips down and bum lifting. Vince grins again; Howard is well wired for this.

‘Come to that,’ he muses, ‘a thorough bumming’ll probably do you no end of good. It’s dead nice, Howard; you go all melty afterward, like chewing gum in the sun. I reckon that’d unwind even some of your cogs.’

Thank you, Vince,’ Howard grits out. ‘Perhaps you could get ‘round to it instead of just sitting back there and criticising?’

‘I’m not criticising!’


‘Tell you what,’ Vince undrapes himself from Howard’s back, bouncing over on the mattress to kneel next to him and giving his bum a friendly little slap. It jiggles. ‘Why don’t you lay down, yeah? It ain’t helping with the tension, this hands and knees business, I can tell.’

Howard twists to frown at him in faint confusion. ‘What, like–?’

‘Yeah, just down on your front like that.’

With an encouraging hand on Howard’s flank, Vince eases him down until he’s spread over the bed, belly flat and legs falling into slightly duck-footed relaxation. He doesn’t seem to quite know what to do with his hands, and they flop at his sides for an awkward moment, fingers twitching. Vince grabs one and gives it a little shake.


‘Yeah, um, just let me–’ Howard colours further, the blush seeping up the back of his neck as he shifts, sliding his free hand between his hip and the mattress to adjust himself, tucking his cock down to lie neutrally between his thighs.

‘Good call,’ Vince nods sagely. ‘Don’t want your bits gettin’ squished once they start gettin’ ideas.’

Howard extracts his hand, and says nothing one way or the other about bits. Vince feels the impulse to poke further– he always does; Howard practically invites it– but he does actually want to get around to the sex, and he knows if he mocks Howard too thoroughly, he’ll swan off somewhere to go sulk and listen to Charlie Parker or Jacques Cousteau and probably have a weird jazzy wank, and that would just be a waste.

The thing about Howard is that secretly, under the shifty shrew eyes and the bad hair, he’s actually incredibly handsome. The problem is that he tries too hard. His smiles, the real ones when he’s not thinking about how they look and turning them into grimaces, are all tooth-baring and eye crinkling– and Vince can’t normally stand crow’s feet (he’d had a bad experience as a child), but Howard’s just make him want to trace them all out with his fingertips. He’s got a well nice body as well, if only he knew how to dress it, all broad ribcage and those Northern pins he’s so fond of bragging about.

Looking at Howard with all his scruff, you might think that he’d be a big old bear under his clothes, but he’s actually surprisingly hairless. Vince has more body hair than Howard, coarse and dark on his arms and his legs all the way up his thighs, and then in a crunchy little trail to his belly button. Even his arse is a little fuzzy. Howard’s is smooth and pale as one of them old Greeks he’s always banging on about.

And here he is all laid out in front of Vince, his thighs, the little curves of the small of his back, the swell of his hips all soft and pale as a ripe cheese; strong arms and shoulders and (adorably, though Vince would never say so out loud) the upper slope of his bum all splattered with freckles, like an irresponsible painter had been let loose on him in the shower. It gives Vince a little shiver, the possessive novelty of the fact that he gets to see Howard like this.

Howard being Howard, he had insisted on washing beforehand. There had been some wincingly awkward attempts at asking Vince whether he thought a douche was necessary, and once Vince had actually got his head ‘round what Howard was asking, he’d burst out laughing. Eventually, after he’d got his giggles under control, he’d told him to just stick a couple of fingers up there in the shower and give ‘em a bit of a wiggle, that oughtta do the job. Howard had gone delicately pink at the suggestion, and Vince had subsequently had to spend the day trying to distract his brain away from images of Howard muffling moans into a washcloth, all broad wet shoulders and forehead braced against the tiles as he fucked himself on his own fingers. It had been a job and a half, but it had livened up the dung-shovelling and hedgehog-styling no end.

The upshot of it now, though, is that Howard’s bum is as squeaky clean as a bum ever can be, and Vince dives in with enthusiasm. A buttock in each hand, he flicks the tip of his tongue over Howard’s arsehole. Howard squeaks, and immediately clenches up like a nervy clam.


Vince lifts his head. ‘Relax, y’big pudding; you got all scrubbed up nice for me; I’m gonna give you a bit of a treat.’

He intentionally drops his voice into a dirty murmur on the last words, letting a bit of the Cockney ragamuffin out, and he can hear Howard swallow hard. ‘All right,’ he agrees shakily.

Vince bites his tongue in a smile, for a moment wellingly, stupidly fond of Howard. And then, in a moment of rare perspicacity, he decides not to just get stuck in. Howard needs coaxing, that much has been plain since they started fooling around, even when it’s something he definitely knows he wants. Hell, even when it’s something he’d asked for; Vince had been impressed, and surprised, that he’d just come out with the bumming thing himself. But there’s a trick to getting him so worked up that he forgets about all that, and that is Vince’s favourite.

So he stays where he is, hands splayed over Howard’s arse, and just squeezes, like he’s taking it out for a test run before he decides whether he wants to buy it. It’s quite a nice arse, really. Not too muscled, maybe a bit small for a man of his general bulk, but plump and round, with a few dimples for character, and it gives satisfyingly under Vince’s fingers as he kneads.

It’s just like giving a back massage, really; pressing his thumbs into the muscle, dragging his palms down over the cheeks, brushing tickly little touches of fingertips along the crease where arse meets thigh. And slowly, the skin under his fingers warms, flushing with blood, and he can feel Howard relaxing too, forgetting his nerves in the pleasure of the touch. When Vince draws both his thumbs down from the dimpled small of his back to his coccyx, Howard makes a small, soft noise, like he’d tried to sigh but it had got caught in his throat halfway through.

Vince’s cock, which had been gradually filling with interest, is suddenly definitely into proceedings. He curls his toes hard into the balls of his feet until he can feel them go white, and shifts down to lick over a cluster of freckles that leads from the small of Howard’s back to his bum, like a dirty roadmap.

‘There we go,’ he murmurs. ‘More into it now, aren’t you?’

He can feel a tiny movement through the mattress which he thinks is probably Howard nodding, and he laughs, and slides further down. This time, now that Howard’s ready, the swipe of Vince’s tongue over his arsehole just makes him let out a shaky breath.

‘Feels weird,’ he mutters, but it doesn’t sound like a complaint.

Flat licks soon give way to a slow, insistent drag of his tongue as Vince gets into things, kissing Howard’s entrance the same as he’d do his mouth, pressing with his lips and nuzzling in so Howard can feel the faint, stubbly scrape of his chin against his perineum. And this, this is the thing, because as nervous as Howard had been before, now he’s all open and yielding, muscles quivering and giving way under Vince’s tongue, and Vince feels a little dizzy with how obviously Howard wants this. He closes his eyes and twists his tongue into a hard little point, drawing ever-narrowing corkscrew circles around the ring of muscle until he’s burrowing in and Howard is moaning helplessly, broken, whimpery little noises that he tries to stifle with his face shoved into the pillow.

Howard’s hot inside, all smooth muscle, tasting dark and musky and a little, still, of soap. That makes Vince want to laugh, because he’d told Howard that he didn’t need soap really, but of course he had anyway, and once the desire occurs to him he can’t hold it back, and a moment later he’s shaking with giggles, his tongue still halfway up Howard’s arse, quickly losing its muscle tension.

Howard chokes on a confused noise, bucking up into the vibration of his laughter. ‘What? Vince–?’ There’s a note of paranoia to his voice, like he thinks Vince is laughing at him, like he’s going to put up signs all over the zoo saying HOWARD MOON LIKES HAVING HIS ARSE LICKED.

‘Mm, nothin’,’ Vince mumbles as clearly as he can (which isn’t very), giving Howard’s buttocks a soothing little squeeze. ‘Y’brillian’, g’on.’

The laughter swallows itself back down, and Vince sets back to, tongue squirming inside to find just the right motion to make Howard writhe, his hips grinding down against the mattress.

It doesn’t take long until Howard’s back on his hands and knees, a gradual continuation of motion just from him pressing back into Vince’s mouth, arse lifting in mute appeal for more. His breathing is hectic, long toes curling into the sheets and thighs spread wide, hips rocking slowly in time with the dirty, wet slide of Vince’s tongue, a smooth, shallow thrust that teases at more. Vince’s chin is smeared with his own saliva, and his jaw is beginning to ache a little, but he honestly doesn’t mind. All his focus has been narrowed down into all the tiny little muscles in his tongue, the smell and the taste and the feel of Howard; it’s a bit like what he imagines Howard’s jazz trances must feel like, losing time in focus and sensation.

Oh,’ Howard breathes raggedly, ‘yeah, fuck, that’s–’ And then bleary wonderment gives way to a slightly baffled pause. ‘Vince–’ Howard’s voice cracks, and he tries again. ‘Vince, are you… humming into my arse?’

Vince, who had indeed been humming, ceases. ‘Mm?’ He can feel the way Howard’s muscles twitch at the vibrations of the querysome grunt, and grins, dragging his voice all the way down its register and trying another hum.


Vince chuckles a little as he surfaces. ‘Mighta been,’ he admits. ‘Zeppelin,’ he offers as explanation. ‘Always gets me in the mood.’

‘I’m not sure that’s flattering,’ Howard mumbles into the pillow. ‘That you have to think about Robert Plant when you’re tonsils-deep in my bum.’

‘Aw, go on,’ Vince croons. ‘It’s dead sexy, Zeppelin!’ He hitches himself up to lean over Howard again, arms braced over his shoulders and hips snug against his arse, erection slip-sliding over the skin to settle temptingly against the crack.

‘All them growly guitars? That looong,’ he grinds his cock up against Howard in illustration, ‘slow groove? Makes me wanna–’

Christ, Vince!’ Howard protests, his voice breaking a little. ‘You want me to embarrass myself every time anyone puts on Ramble On in future?’

Vince imagines Howard awkwardly fumbling to conceal ill-timed erections, possibly taking his frustrations out on Vince for being the cause of that particular problem. The thought gives him a clenching shiver of arousal and he smirks around an open mouth, tonguing his incisor and pressing against Howard a little more firmly. ‘Wouldn’t mind. Thought you didn’t like Zeppelin, anyway. They’re way too cool for you, surely.’

Howard draws a steadying breath. ‘I’ll have you know that Led Zeppelin drew heavily from the blues. Oh yes; twelve-bar, country blues; under all that psychedelic nonsense lies deep roots–‘

‘Yeah, can we get back to the sex?’

Howard flaps a hand back haphazardly to deliver a whack which manages to hit Vince in the arm. ‘Tart.’

‘You ready for more?’


Howard’s aiming for polite-and-possibly-put-upon, Vince can tell, but the strain in his voice lands him squarely on distractingly aroused instead. Vince’s hips buck a little, dick giving a hopeful sort of hop at the sound of it, but he gives it a firm glance– not yet, boyo— and slides down until he’s kneeling between Howard’s spread thighs again. Grabbing the tube of lube (banana flavoured, because the only thing better than regular sex is sex that tastes like sweets), he squeezes out a neat line onto his index finger like they do in toothpaste adverts, and smears it over Howard’s hole, giving a cheeky little tap to see it clench.

‘Reckon you could take two right off?’ Howard makes a vaguely affirmative noise, plainly embarrassed by the solo experience this implies. Vince bites down around a laugh, because it’s funny, because it’s Howard, but it’s also totally hot.


He gives two fingers a twisting little slick with the lube and then slides them right in, and it’s like he’s tripped a wire. Howard’s whole body sort of sighs, his spine giving a happy little twist and his head drooping on his neck. Vince licks his lips.

‘Aw, yeah, just like that. Lemme know what you like, yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ Howard breathes, but his nod doesn’t look like he’s agreeing with Vince’s words, more like he’s pre-empting the rhythm of getting thoroughly buggered, anticipating the way his body would shake with Vince fucking him hard from behind, and that is so ludicrously hot that Vince has to close his eyes for a second.

‘Yeah,’ he echoes, just meaningless sounds to fill space because his mouth has gone entirely dry, and twists his fingers further in to find Howard’s prostate.

He knows when he does, because Howard seizes up like someone’s run an electrical current through him. ‘Ohgod,’ he gasps, hips bucking to shove himself back onto Vince’s fingers. ‘Do that again.’

Vince does. He curls his fingertips once, twice, a third time to press down against the spongy little lump of a sweet spot until Howard is a trembling, cursing wreck, and there’s a wet patch of dribbled precome on the sheets that definitely wasn’t there before.

Vince,’ Howard whines, a shaky, pathetic mewl, when Vince draws his fingers back a little. ‘Don’t you dare stop now, you little– hnn–’ It’s a plea trying desperately to be a command. His hips jerk back weakly in a thoughtless, stubborn attempt to get them back deeper again, and Vince makes a noise that would be a laugh if he had the breath for it.

He curls over Howard to bump a clumsy kiss against his spine. ‘S all right,’ he breathes, ‘I ain’t stopping. ‘M gonna make you feel so good, Howard, gonna blow your jazzy little mind.’

Howard laughs, or groans, and his forehead knocks into his own knuckles.

Vince shallowly fucks him on two fingers for a while, and then ducks down to lick around his entrance, down his perineum to his bollocks. It’s an awkward angle for his neck, but he manages a quick, sucking kiss to Howard’s balls before he retreats back up. The motion isn’t fucking now, just stretching, twisting and stroking, adding a third finger when it seems like he can and feeling the give and clutch around it. And it’s nice; Howard is burning up inside, muscles clenching and fluttering against every movement Vince make. Every breath he takes is a shaky, ragged thing, like it’s too humid inside his lungs for him to do more than pant.

‘Vince, Vince, I want– you can–’ Howard’s all incoherent begging by now, forehead shoved into the bed, all red and sweaty, hips rolling up into Vince’s fingers. More, Vince is pretty sure is the word Howard can’t bring himself to say.

He had, when he’d first laid Howard out on the bed and promised him a bumming, intended to do so. Cock in arse, repeat as necessary, etc. Jagger knows he wants to. But somehow, now, with Howard arse in the air and elbows digging into the mattress and not a second thought about pleading, that doesn’t seem quite enough.

It is an impressive feat of multitasking, he thinks, that he’s able to keep up the motion of his fingers while he fumbles open the discarded tube with the other hand, drizzling what is probably far too much banana-flavoured lube over his hand and fingers and the stretched rim of Howard’s entrance. But then, you can never really have too much lube, can you?

‘One more, Howard,’ he says hoarsely. ‘Yeah? Just… oh, yeah, right… in, right like that. Wow.’

He’s vaguely aware that it’s somehow absurd to be four fingers deep in Howard’s arse before he’s ever properly fucked him, but he can’t bring himself to care. Howard’s come out all blotchy and flushed all over, and he’s trembling, but he’s just taking it so beautifully; his arsehole stretched around Vince’s knuckles is all shiny with lube, dripping down his balls and his cock, which looks about ready to burst. It’s swinging back and forth with every little movement of Howard’s, jumping up occasionally to bump against his belly when Vince does something particularly nice, and– fuck– it’s dripping. All angry and red, it’d look almost silly if it didn’t make Vince’s mouth water.

Pressing his fingers in further to rub up against Howard’s prostate again (Howard hiccoughs around a strangled whine), Vince shuffles himself up the bed to press himself against Howard. His intention stutters a little when the movement brings his stiffy up against Howard’s hip, all warm and a little tacky with perspiration, and he groans, grinds up against Howard just a few times, because it can’t hurt, right?

Howard groans, all basso and down in his chest, and Vince can feel it all the way down to his cock. ‘Christy,’ he hisses, and then, swallowing, trying to get his breathing under control, ‘Touch yourself?’ It comes out ragged and a little wobbly, but Howard does, reaching for his cock, and all it takes is a touch before he’s making a funny, high-pitched sobbing sound, his hips snapping up.

He clenches so hard around Vince’s fingers when he comes that for a dizzy instant, Vince is half afraid he’s broken one of them, and wouldn’t that be a hell of an A & E trip. But the pain doesn’t last, and then it’s just waves of muscles fluttering and Howard making breathy, distressed noises as Vince twists his fingers, pressing with his knuckles and wringing him through it.

A few moments later, Howard blinks muzzily as he twists taffyish limbs around to see Vince, kneeling above him on the bed and desperately jerking himself off. ‘Don’t you want to–?’ he gestures vaguely at his arse.

Vince shakes his head wildly, hair in his eyes and exhaling a snagging little huff of breath somewhere between a laugh and a moan. ‘Nah. I mean, no, no, I totally do, fuck I do, but I’d not last; ‘m too– nnh!’

He’d held himself back for Howard’s sake; been patient even though he’s terrible at patience, because Howard is so worth it (those noises he’d made are all going straight into Vince’s wank bank, for a start), but his patience has gone all to splinters and now he just wants to come.

‘Oh,’ says Howard, looking like he’s forgotten his lines. ‘Can I, er, help–?’

‘Just, fuck, Howard,’ Vince whines, pitching forward a little so Howard has to steady him with a hand on his hip. ‘You got no idea, that was the hottest fucking thing. Next time,’ he’s babbling, no filter at all when most of his brain’s in his dick, ‘next time, when I fuck you properly, wanna see if I can make you come so hard you black out? Reckon I could?’

Still afloat in the treacly pleasure of his orgasm, Howard’s brain seems to have missed the memo that it’s supposed to remind him to be self-conscious about these sorts of suggestions from Vince. Ordinarily he’d blush and mutter and hedge his way around it, or else blusteringly protest that Howard Moon was a man of action, and men of action did not black out on account of a mere orgasm.

Now, he just swallows, and nods, and breathes, and then, sounding lost and a little surprised, and best of all, like he fucking wants to find out, like he wants to make charts and compare between orgasms and try and beat his best, says: ‘Yeah.’

Vince’s orgasm punches through his gut like a hook, wrenching itself out of him like every cell in his body shouting yes! all at once. He feels paralysed with it for the space of a few thunderous heartbeats, and then after his muscles figure out how to move again, it’s just a wash of heat going all the way through him, glowing all the way down to his toes.

Fuck,’ Vince breathes, and flops over next to Howard, breathing hard and staring up at the ceiling. The world’s spinning like the best stage of giddy drunkenness, and next to him, Howard looks like he’s achieved some kind of great, philosophical revelation, little cockerel eyes gone wide and glittery.

They both recover in companionable silence for a while, and Vince lets himself drift as his heartbeat settles down. ‘All right?’ he says eventually, twisting to grin up at Howard. If he sounds a little smug, he feels more than justified.

Howard huffs a laugh through his moustache. ‘That’s one word for it. Mind,’ he adds after a pause, ‘I did ask you to actually, you know, bum me.’

‘Sorry, are you complaining?’

‘No, no,’ Howard says loftily (if a little hastily; Vince probably looks about ready to put a move of his own on him). ‘Just pointing that out. For future reference.’

‘S’pose I did get a bit distracted,’ Vince admits after a moment, a little bashful. ‘Still! I weren’t to know you were gonna react like that, were I?’

‘Like what?’

‘Go on, Howard; you were moanin’ away like you were getting paid for it. Thought about just goin’ the whole hog and sticking me fist up there, but I figured that might be a bit much for a first go.’ Howard’s eyes go wide with alarm at the notion, but his spent cock gives a half-hearted twitch of interest against Vince’s thigh. Vince all but shouts with glee.

‘Howard, you dirty freak!’

Howard’s face contorts torturedly between offence and embarrassment and weird pleasure and he awkwardly jerks his chin up. The gesture doesn’t work nearly as well lying down as it would standing. ‘Freak, am I?’

‘Yeah, you’re a right filthy old bitch.’


Well filthy.’ Vince is grinning so hard it hurts.

‘All right, sir, I’ll show you filthy.’ Howard’s sporting a wolfish grin that bares his canines and makes his eyes twinkle like the torches of marauding barbarian hordes, and Vince shrieks with laughter when Howard rolls him over and tries to pin him. Vince squirms and twists, managing to pretzel himself around enough to manoeuvre one leg up crossways between them, jammed against Howard’s stomach to try and push him away.

‘That’s right!’ Howard’s saying, all rough and breathless and red-cheeked, ‘Check out my moves!’ and Vince growls with pleasure as he manages to wrench one arm out of Howard’s grip.

The problem, of course, with impromptu bed-wrestling is that beds have edges, and moments later it’s Howard who’s shrieking as he topples off the mattress, hitting his arse squarely on a sort of modern art sculpture that Vince had been in the middle of painting. It’s made primarily of wood, and, like the bed, also has a lot of edges.

‘Ow! Motherfuck!’

Vince peers down at him, fingers hooked over the mattress like a kid over the neighbour’s fence. Howard’s sprawled out in a big naked gangling pile with his bum in the air, an angry red mark already blooming on one cheek. His thighs are still shiny with lube and Vince’s spooge. Vince bites the corner of his lip, sucking on his teeth in a sympathetic wince.

‘Ooh, that’s gonna bruise tomorrow,’ he comments helpfully.

From the floor, Howard flips him the bird.

Vince can’t spell irony, but he still laughs himself to choking when that’s the reason Howard can’t sit down at work the next day.

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