[Boosh/Barley] Fic: One Night at the Onion (Ned/Vince)
OMG I FAIL AT PORN. Yes, it's porny, but it went and had like, plot and shit (kind of). And I'm not sure it's any good at all, so flist-only. Now public because my flist is smarter than me.
But, um, PORN MONDAY?!?! TECHNICALLY IT IS PORN. AND IT IS MONDAY.
This is the Ned/Vince thing (which is also tangentially a Ned/Rufus thing because I am broken), for which the responsible inspiring parties can either congratulate themselves or heartily facepalm. And dedicated to the_reverand for her birthday, even though it's wayyyyy less cool than a bouncy castle and may actually be Old Gregg coming out of a cake all scaly and tutu-wearing.
One Night at the Onion
"Vince Noir, right?" Ned's not actually sure. Up close he looks older, and his head being normal-sized isn't helping anything either, and it might just be that Jones bloke that came by the office to get Ashcroft's stuff.
"Yeah?" Vince only glances up for a second and then goes back to stirring the straw around in his drink.
"I saw you at that Black Tubes gig, yeah? Juarez fucking Mexico, mate. How the fuck did you do that thing with your head? Well lost."
Now Vince looks up properly. He seems to consider Ned for a moment and then smiles this smile that makes him look like he's just come up with something wicked. "Can't have everyone going round doing it, can I?"
"Right, yeah. Like copyright or something?"
"Yeah, something." Vince pours the rest of his drink down his throat and jerks his head towards the front of the club, where the DJ (in a gorilla suit, no fucking less) is coming back from his set break. "You dance?"
"Is that back in?"
Vince laughs. "What, dancing?"
"The straight-on-straight gay thing." Ned sort of hopes it is. It may be all the vodka, but Vince is really pretty when he laughs.
"Sounds like a load of bollocks to me. Anyway," he says, and stumbles off the stool to wrap an arm round Ned's waist, "I'm always in."
This is the guy who defied maths and shit last week, with a stunt not even Nathan Barley's been able to duplicate, so Ned's inclined to believe him. Also, his hair smells really good. "Yeah, you're well in," Ned says, but it's swallowed up by a pounding thrum of techno-bhangra and they're swallowed up by the dance floor.
Vince dances like he's having the best fuck of his life, pretty much. Ned would never dance like this. It doesn't look ironic, but maybe that's why it's cool. And it clearly is cool--he can see girls snapping photos on their mobiles and fanning their faces. So yeah, fuck it. He holds onto Vince's grinding hips (narrower and thinner than Rufus's, not that he ever danced with Rufus) and grinds right back and lets himself like the way Vince's fringe plasters itself to his forehead when he starts to work up a sweat (strawberries and sweets, not Lynx and the-fuckin'-shower's-fucked-again-yeah, but the rasp of cheek stubble against his neck when Vince writhes closer is the same). A man in a horrible blue safari suit comes and brings them drinks, so they don't even have to pause for trips to the bar. Ned's glasses slip down his nose, which makes Vince cackle and whisper-shout hot and damp against his ear that he looks like a drunk librarian.
"I've always wanted to do a librarian," Ned answers back just for an excuse to say something, strands of strawberry-sweat hair clinging to his lips.
"That what this is for?" Vince asks, and pushes a skinny hip very deliberately against the hard-on Ned was (maybe) hoping had gone unnoticed.
Ned swallows. "Yeah, I--"
"'Cause I think it's for me." Vince shoves a hand between them (fuck, this is going to be on two hundred girls' FriendFaces tomorrow, but that's cool, right?) and squeezes Ned's cock through his jeans (somehow he can't picture Rufus slapping him on the back when Jonatton bestows finger-applause at the morning meeting).
"Yeah, maybe," Ned says, or more sort of gasps because Vince's hand is hot and surprisingly strong and is still there rubbing away right on rhythm with the music that they're still technically dancing to even though it really feels like he's just humping Vince's hand at this point. Kissing makes sense, right? Kissing's what you do here? But when Ned tries, Vince turns his face aside and Ned gets his neck, which isn't all bad, and Vince doesn't seem to mind Ned sucking the sweat off his skin (it just tastes like sweat, and some kind of soapy flowery something that's probably whatever smells like strawberries, and his neck's smooth all the way up to the hard angle of his jaw, no whiskery spots under his chin).
"This one for a stupid ballbag," says the DJ (that's well Einstein, actually talking like a gorilla), and something about sailors starts playing.
Vince stops dancing (he keeps his hand on Ned's crotch, though) and looks up. He doesn't look like he's having the time of his life anymore. "Let's get out of here, yeah?"
Ned nods and lets Vince lead him away. 'Out of here' turns out to be the alley behind the club, where Vince shoves him up against the bricks and just stares at him for a second, like the kid in that thing who's caught whatever it was he was after but doesn't know what to do with it now he's got it. It might've been in a book. "Alright?" Ned asks. It sounds a bit stupid.
Vince mutters something that might be 'fuck it' and kisses Ned, pissed-sloppy and something-to-prove rough, post-fucking-Watershed dirty kissing that makes Ned groan and grab Vince's arse. He has to bend his knees and spread his feet wider to get his groin up against Vince's (he's not a scientist or anything, but he's pretty sure wrapping his legs around Vince's waist like he wants to would make them fall over), which Vince appreciates if the way he suddenly attacks Ned's neck with his teeth is anything to go by (but not the spot behind his ear that turns his knees to jelly, which is surely just as well).
"'m I gonna fuck you?" Vince slurs against Ned's collarbone.
And fuck, fucking? Actual cock in his actual arse? Ned tenses.
The way Vince smirks up at him has no right to be that...cute. "You wanna suck me off, then? 'Cause I'm--"
"Yeah," Ned says. That, he can do. That, he knows can do the hell out of, especially once he's turned them round kneels eye to eye--well it hasn't got eyes, that'd be well wrong--with the bulge in Vince's painted-on jeans. Vince has to help him in the end to undo the belt and flies, and wriggle his hips to work the trousers far down enough for Ned to even get his hand in. It's not weird. A cock's a cock. They all work more or less the same. Still, Ned can't help noticing that Vince's cock is longer but thinner than he's what, used to? Was he used to Rufus's cock? That's thirty-seven kinds of a fucking wrong turn, and if there's a different taste to the drops of precome that hit his tongue or a different texture to the edge of Vince's foreskin, he doesn't think about it.
What he does think about is Vince grabbing rough fistfuls of his hair and moaning like some kind of porno, and Ned knows enough to know (and has drunk enough not to care) that Vince's offer didn't include a return of the favour, so he gets a hand in his own pants and doesn't, doesn't think of stupid laughs or expect to be bright-eyed smiled at and kissed like a girl at the end of this. He just listens to the porno soundtrack and concentrates on getting off and looks up at Vince with his eyes closed and his careful hair gone all wild, and yeah, it's no fucking wonder everyone was snapping photos, and he's lucky, right?
Vince doesn't warn him, just moans out, "Fuck, Howard," and comes in a hot choking spasm that Ned only manages to swallow out of reflex, and he decides he really doesn't want to go all the way home with sticky cold come-pants, so he just gets up when Vince is done. It seems to be only the wall holding Vince up, and when he opens his eyes they're unfocused and bleary and electric blue. "Sorry," Vince says with a slack smile.
"Who's Howard?"
Vince focuses, blinks. Even in the dim grungey light Ned can tell his cheeks have gone pinker. "I...thought you said your name was Howard."
"I never said, mate."
"Oh. Right." Vince's eyes close again.
"You alright to get home?" Ned should just fuck off, because fuck it and fuck all this, but there's something about Vince that makes it seem wrong to just leave him here.
"Yeah."
Vince sighs and fumbles his jeans back into a state that won't get him arrested, which was good timing because the back door bangs open to admit some sort of Middle Eastern dwarf in a turban. He glares at Ned and then says, "C'mon, Vince. Bollo's packing up."
"A'right, Naboo," Vince says (or something like it), and staggers over to the little man, who ushers him back into the club.
Ned doesn't follow, just heads out to the street. "Well no way," he mutters to himself as he walks, but at the left-or-right point where he could either queue up at the taxi rank to go home or turn a couple of corners to Rufus's place, he leaves the taxis to the screeching hen party falling out of their tops. That's definitely not a flying carpet he sees against the moon as he turns the second corner, and the moon definitely doesn't wink.
But, um, PORN MONDAY?!?! TECHNICALLY IT IS PORN. AND IT IS MONDAY.
This is the Ned/Vince thing (which is also tangentially a Ned/Rufus thing because I am broken), for which the responsible inspiring parties can either congratulate themselves or heartily facepalm. And dedicated to the_reverand for her birthday, even though it's wayyyyy less cool than a bouncy castle and may actually be Old Gregg coming out of a cake all scaly and tutu-wearing.
One Night at the Onion
"Vince Noir, right?" Ned's not actually sure. Up close he looks older, and his head being normal-sized isn't helping anything either, and it might just be that Jones bloke that came by the office to get Ashcroft's stuff.
"Yeah?" Vince only glances up for a second and then goes back to stirring the straw around in his drink.
"I saw you at that Black Tubes gig, yeah? Juarez fucking Mexico, mate. How the fuck did you do that thing with your head? Well lost."
Now Vince looks up properly. He seems to consider Ned for a moment and then smiles this smile that makes him look like he's just come up with something wicked. "Can't have everyone going round doing it, can I?"
"Right, yeah. Like copyright or something?"
"Yeah, something." Vince pours the rest of his drink down his throat and jerks his head towards the front of the club, where the DJ (in a gorilla suit, no fucking less) is coming back from his set break. "You dance?"
"Is that back in?"
Vince laughs. "What, dancing?"
"The straight-on-straight gay thing." Ned sort of hopes it is. It may be all the vodka, but Vince is really pretty when he laughs.
"Sounds like a load of bollocks to me. Anyway," he says, and stumbles off the stool to wrap an arm round Ned's waist, "I'm always in."
This is the guy who defied maths and shit last week, with a stunt not even Nathan Barley's been able to duplicate, so Ned's inclined to believe him. Also, his hair smells really good. "Yeah, you're well in," Ned says, but it's swallowed up by a pounding thrum of techno-bhangra and they're swallowed up by the dance floor.
Vince dances like he's having the best fuck of his life, pretty much. Ned would never dance like this. It doesn't look ironic, but maybe that's why it's cool. And it clearly is cool--he can see girls snapping photos on their mobiles and fanning their faces. So yeah, fuck it. He holds onto Vince's grinding hips (narrower and thinner than Rufus's, not that he ever danced with Rufus) and grinds right back and lets himself like the way Vince's fringe plasters itself to his forehead when he starts to work up a sweat (strawberries and sweets, not Lynx and the-fuckin'-shower's-fucked-again-yeah, but the rasp of cheek stubble against his neck when Vince writhes closer is the same). A man in a horrible blue safari suit comes and brings them drinks, so they don't even have to pause for trips to the bar. Ned's glasses slip down his nose, which makes Vince cackle and whisper-shout hot and damp against his ear that he looks like a drunk librarian.
"I've always wanted to do a librarian," Ned answers back just for an excuse to say something, strands of strawberry-sweat hair clinging to his lips.
"That what this is for?" Vince asks, and pushes a skinny hip very deliberately against the hard-on Ned was (maybe) hoping had gone unnoticed.
Ned swallows. "Yeah, I--"
"'Cause I think it's for me." Vince shoves a hand between them (fuck, this is going to be on two hundred girls' FriendFaces tomorrow, but that's cool, right?) and squeezes Ned's cock through his jeans (somehow he can't picture Rufus slapping him on the back when Jonatton bestows finger-applause at the morning meeting).
"Yeah, maybe," Ned says, or more sort of gasps because Vince's hand is hot and surprisingly strong and is still there rubbing away right on rhythm with the music that they're still technically dancing to even though it really feels like he's just humping Vince's hand at this point. Kissing makes sense, right? Kissing's what you do here? But when Ned tries, Vince turns his face aside and Ned gets his neck, which isn't all bad, and Vince doesn't seem to mind Ned sucking the sweat off his skin (it just tastes like sweat, and some kind of soapy flowery something that's probably whatever smells like strawberries, and his neck's smooth all the way up to the hard angle of his jaw, no whiskery spots under his chin).
"This one for a stupid ballbag," says the DJ (that's well Einstein, actually talking like a gorilla), and something about sailors starts playing.
Vince stops dancing (he keeps his hand on Ned's crotch, though) and looks up. He doesn't look like he's having the time of his life anymore. "Let's get out of here, yeah?"
Ned nods and lets Vince lead him away. 'Out of here' turns out to be the alley behind the club, where Vince shoves him up against the bricks and just stares at him for a second, like the kid in that thing who's caught whatever it was he was after but doesn't know what to do with it now he's got it. It might've been in a book. "Alright?" Ned asks. It sounds a bit stupid.
Vince mutters something that might be 'fuck it' and kisses Ned, pissed-sloppy and something-to-prove rough, post-fucking-Watershed dirty kissing that makes Ned groan and grab Vince's arse. He has to bend his knees and spread his feet wider to get his groin up against Vince's (he's not a scientist or anything, but he's pretty sure wrapping his legs around Vince's waist like he wants to would make them fall over), which Vince appreciates if the way he suddenly attacks Ned's neck with his teeth is anything to go by (but not the spot behind his ear that turns his knees to jelly, which is surely just as well).
"'m I gonna fuck you?" Vince slurs against Ned's collarbone.
And fuck, fucking? Actual cock in his actual arse? Ned tenses.
The way Vince smirks up at him has no right to be that...cute. "You wanna suck me off, then? 'Cause I'm--"
"Yeah," Ned says. That, he can do. That, he knows can do the hell out of, especially once he's turned them round kneels eye to eye--well it hasn't got eyes, that'd be well wrong--with the bulge in Vince's painted-on jeans. Vince has to help him in the end to undo the belt and flies, and wriggle his hips to work the trousers far down enough for Ned to even get his hand in. It's not weird. A cock's a cock. They all work more or less the same. Still, Ned can't help noticing that Vince's cock is longer but thinner than he's what, used to? Was he used to Rufus's cock? That's thirty-seven kinds of a fucking wrong turn, and if there's a different taste to the drops of precome that hit his tongue or a different texture to the edge of Vince's foreskin, he doesn't think about it.
What he does think about is Vince grabbing rough fistfuls of his hair and moaning like some kind of porno, and Ned knows enough to know (and has drunk enough not to care) that Vince's offer didn't include a return of the favour, so he gets a hand in his own pants and doesn't, doesn't think of stupid laughs or expect to be bright-eyed smiled at and kissed like a girl at the end of this. He just listens to the porno soundtrack and concentrates on getting off and looks up at Vince with his eyes closed and his careful hair gone all wild, and yeah, it's no fucking wonder everyone was snapping photos, and he's lucky, right?
Vince doesn't warn him, just moans out, "Fuck, Howard," and comes in a hot choking spasm that Ned only manages to swallow out of reflex, and he decides he really doesn't want to go all the way home with sticky cold come-pants, so he just gets up when Vince is done. It seems to be only the wall holding Vince up, and when he opens his eyes they're unfocused and bleary and electric blue. "Sorry," Vince says with a slack smile.
"Who's Howard?"
Vince focuses, blinks. Even in the dim grungey light Ned can tell his cheeks have gone pinker. "I...thought you said your name was Howard."
"I never said, mate."
"Oh. Right." Vince's eyes close again.
"You alright to get home?" Ned should just fuck off, because fuck it and fuck all this, but there's something about Vince that makes it seem wrong to just leave him here.
"Yeah."
Vince sighs and fumbles his jeans back into a state that won't get him arrested, which was good timing because the back door bangs open to admit some sort of Middle Eastern dwarf in a turban. He glares at Ned and then says, "C'mon, Vince. Bollo's packing up."
"A'right, Naboo," Vince says (or something like it), and staggers over to the little man, who ushers him back into the club.
Ned doesn't follow, just heads out to the street. "Well no way," he mutters to himself as he walks, but at the left-or-right point where he could either queue up at the taxi rank to go home or turn a couple of corners to Rufus's place, he leaves the taxis to the screeching hen party falling out of their tops. That's definitely not a flying carpet he sees against the moon as he turns the second corner, and the moon definitely doesn't wink.