Mighty Boosh Fic: "Boy" NC-17, Hitcher / Howard

[justwolf.livejournal.com]

Hello my beauties! Welcome to my first ever contribution to your charming community. I hope you like it!

In case you've never heard of The Mighty Boosh, well, it's a comedy series where a green man with a giant thumb pisses into another man's face with obvious glee. It's really worth checking out (and not just for that!).

Cross-posted to booshslashhaven

Title: Boy
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Hitcher / Howard
Warning: Contains watersports and golden showers. But then, so does The Boosh.
Notes: Many thanks to planetbanjo for the wonderful beta, and all her encouragement.



That was a bad time for you, wasn’t it, boy?

Howard dreamt about wet skin. He thought about the Hitcher’s slim green limbs, the size of his thumbs, his voice rasping out cruel words. Howard wished he had turned away. A man of action would not have stood there and allowed his face to be drenched in urine. He would have pushed the Hitcher aside and marched from the shop, carefully wiping the few stray drops from his cheeks. He would have seen the Hitcher as someone beneath his notice. He would not have stood there, dizzy with the sensation, and he would not dream about hot wet flesh, the salty taste on his lips, the feeling of being branded.

“You here again?”

“No, sir. Not here at all. Just seeing if you needed anything?”

“I know why you’re here,” the Hitcher replied. He stretched lazily, closing the piano. “Aren’t you getting worried? A lot of strange types around, you know. Wouldn’t look too kindly on a pervert like you.”

Howard’s mind did work strangely at night. During the day he thought about elbow patches, survival kits, and how Vince’s guileless smile wasn’t really guileless at all. He would dream about the astonishing novels and pieces of music within him, just waiting to be created and admired. But at night his great mind seemed to go off course. He would lie in bed, too full of images to sleep: the Hitcher’s slim body, hidden by clothes not quite tight enough to show off the contours and bones, his long, elegant thumbs that could close around Howard’s wrists and snap them. His bladder would always be full too, the pressure making his penis half-hard, and filling him with longing for something he did not want to name.

“I’m not a pervert. That Vince, you shouldn’t listen to him. I just wanted to see if you were settled in here, since I see that you are, I’ll be getting along.”

Then the Hitcher was in front of him, blocking the door in that alarming way of his. “You don’t want to go anywhere, do you, boy?”

“It’s not that I don’t enjoy your company –”

“That’s bollocks. You can’t play ticks on me, can you? Are you hard for me?”

The Hitcher’s lithe body was very close to Howard’s, but he did not reach to stop Howard from moving, he didn’t crush Howard’s shoulder with one thumb, as Howard knew he could.

“Woah, there. That’s getting a bit ahead of things, isn’t it? Not a conversation to be had between friends.”

“We’re not friends, are we, boy? Do you think I’d want to be friends with filth like you? I might give you what you want, though.”

Howard shifted uncomfortably. He needed to leave. He needed a piss. He needed –

“What do you want, hm?”

He’d never seen the Hitcher naked. He always remained in those trim clothes, his green cock, oddly reminiscent of his thumbs, the only intimate part that Howard ever saw. Howard longed to lick slim thighs, to suck nipples raw, to see what sort of marks his mouth could make on green flesh. The Hitcher always made Howard feel so filthy, so rank and childish, and yet he remained tidy, the white lines around his polo mint outlining Howard’s own disgust.

“I want – I don’t want anything from you; I want to leave. I want to leave now. Now.”

“No, you don’t. Don’t lie to me, boy. I understand. The Hitcher understands you.”

The rasp of his voice ran through Howard’s body, filling him with need. Then, finally, the Hitcher was giving in, his hand on Howard’s shoulder, near the throat, the large thumb bruising the soft flesh beneath the collarbone. His smell filled Howard’s nostrils: it was salty, like eels, and bitter. It was sharp as a sea breeze and just as welcome.

“Oh, yes,” he said. It wasn’t quite a moan. He told himself it was nothing like a moan. His whole body seemed to throb, his bladder swelling, pounding urgently, and his heartbeat racing right through him, from his dry mouth to his thighs.

“Oh, yes,” the Hitcher echoed, removing his hand. “What do you want?”

Howard couldn’t reply. He wanted the Hitcher to push him against a wall and hold him down with those hands. He tried never to think about it, but the thoughts gnawed him until he was consumed. At night, he just wasn’t right.

“I know what you want. You want me, don’t you? You want me to give you a good time?”

Howard coughed. “A bad time,” he choked out.

“It’s all the same with you, isn’t it?”

The Hitcher slid his hands along Howard, until they gripped his waist. He looped his thumbs around Howard’s belt loops, and pulled the waistband tight against Howard’s stomach. The pressure against his aching bladder increased until he almost swayed with need. The Hitcher pulled until Howard couldn’t stand it anymore, until he was sure he was going to let go, right now – and the belt loops gave way, the fabric ripping loudly, and the Hitcher’s hands slid around until they were on Howard’s arse.

Howard arched against him. He was taller than the Hitcher, and broader, but it never seemed like an advantage. He felt huge and ungainly in the face of the Hitchers nimbleness and strength. The Hitcher pushed him away and Howard immediately felt the loss of those hands on him. His cock twitched, with arousal and desperation. Howard wanted to touch it, to stem the flow or to provide some friction, but he did neither.

“On you knees, boy,” the Hitcher said, and Howard wished that that sentence didn’t make him – Him, Howard Moon! – quiver with longing.

The Hitcher grabbed Howard’s hair, pushed his head back, so all he could see was the Hitcher’s dark neck disappearing into his collar. He never seemed to sweat; his breath never became ragged. Howard’s own skin was slimy with sweat, and his muscles were clenched around his bladder, even his breath uncomfortable.

“Keep still,” the Hitcher said. His hand was cool on Howard’s cheek, and it sent tremors through him.

The Hitcher undid his fly with obvious relish.

“Well, boy,” he said. “Since you enjoy it so much.”

It was not the heat the Howard noticed first this time, but the smell. Like the Hitcher, it smelt like the sea, like the strange creatures that unfurl beneath the endless depths, like the green seaweed that rises with the tide, like eels, subtle and pungent. He tilted his chin up, and as the thick, warm jet hit his temples, he felt the urine slide down his cheeks, down his neck, drips staining his shirt and sliding along his chest. His breath was harsh in his throat, and his own bladder throbbed all the more urgently, yet his cock was hard and he was only aware of the sensation of piss on his skin, in his nostrils. The Hitcher’s face was full of obvious delight: he laughed, tongue darting out between yellowed teeth. And Howard was marked; branded as the Hitcher’s own, scorched by this liquid heat.

The Hitcher flicked his cock up so the last drops hit Howard’s forehead and stung his eyes.

“Oh, fuck,” Howard whimpered, although he knew men such as him neither allowed themselves to swear nor whimper. He was dizzy with arousal and need.

The noise of the zipper being jerked up was unbearably loud, and Howard moaned pleadingly, tasting urine on his lips. The Hitcher turned away, making Howard think he was to be left like this, wet and desperate. Then the Hitcher’s hands were on his waist again, undoing the button on his jeans, and jerking them down without unzipping them, so the cloth dug into his flesh, causing Howard to bark with discomfort. His cock jerked painfully and he squirmed.

“Need a piss, do you?” the Hitcher said. “How long’s it been? I went a hundred years, once.”

“I need – ” Howard began.

“You don’t need anything,” the Hitcher said, and slid his enlarged thumb along the cleft of Howard’s arse. It had been slicked with piss, Howard realised, and felt himself arching against it. The Hitcher slid it across Howard’s bum and then back to the hole, gently teasing the entrance. He pushed Howard forward, until his elbows met the hard floor. Howard’s body trembled. It was sending him too many signals.

“More,” he gasped. So shameless. “How could you?” a part of his mind exclaimed.

The Hitcher laughed again, sounding a little like a happy child and a little like a maniac, and slid his enormous thumb further into Howard

“Is that what you want?” He slid it down hard, up to the knuckle, and Howard almost drew away at the shock of the sensation. It sent another tremor through his body. His cock quivered, so hard despite everything, his body throbbing. The Hitcher began to pull his large digit out, and then slammed it in again, filling him.

“Fuck,” Howard said. “Fuck. God.” He was pleading, but he wasn’t sure for what. He was wet and hot with the Hitcher’s piss, and he crouched on hard floor with his arse in the air, being fucked by a thumb. Even a man of action would be lost by these sensations.

The Hitcher’s rhythm was uneven; Howard could not prepare himself for each thrust, but was surprised each time, his body surging forward out of his control. His breath was ragged and painful and his heartbeat raced. His hands were slippery and his nose was full of the sent of piss and salt and sweat. His eyes were wet and his lips were dry, licked clean of urine. His cock rubbed against his slick thighs with every thrust.

“Fuck. Hitcher. Yes. More. God. Fuck,” Howard cried.

“Oh, you like this,” the Hitcher replied gleefully, sounding perfectly in control.

The Hitcher’s body pressed closer to Howard as he slid one cool hand under him to pump his cock, once, twice, and Howard was coming, his body spasming and twitching and entirely beyond his control. His yelled wordlessly, shivering with the sensations, and when the Hitcher drew his thumb out and stepped away, the edges of Howard’s body felt undefined without those cool hands on him. Suddenly he was pissing, too, uncontrollably, onto his thighs and the trousers bunched around his knees, pissing onto the Hitcher’s cold wooden floor, pissing and steaming and twitching and moaning.

The Hitcher’s hand was on his face for a moment, still cool: his fingers delicately rubbing the contours of Howard’s skin. Howard leaned into the touch. The edges of things felt so unclear. All he could feel was his own quivering body, his own wet and filthy skin, and the Hitcher’s hands comforted him.

“Up you get, boy,” the Hitcher said.

Howard stood on shaky limbs, the wet trousers still tangled around his knees. The Hitcher was somehow on the other side of the room from him, leaning against a wall.

“This will be a bad time for you, won’t it? You’re going to have to leave now, and walk home, in those wet clothes, smelling like Cockney filth.”

“I can’t – I can’t go out like this; no sir,” Howard said, his mouth so dry he didn’t know how it formed words.

“Do I look like a reasonable man?” said the Hitcher. “Or like someone who’ll poke your eyes out if you don’t leave when I tell you to?”

Howard left; too exhausted to argue. His shoes squelched, and he was sticky and salty. He imagined swimming through cool, deep seawater, through endless depths that contained him and defined him like green hands. In the daylight, he told himself that none of this had happened. He told himself that he would not dream of it. Most of all, he told himself that it had been a bad time.