OF SPURS AND SPIRALS
folder
M through R › The Mighty Boosh
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
881
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
M through R › The Mighty Boosh
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
881
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the television series that this fanfiction is written for, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
OF SPURS AND SPIRALS
TITLE/S: Of Spurs and Spirals
PAIRING/S: Vince Noir/Mystery Person
DISCLAIMER/S: I don’t own Vince, body or soul. Nor any of the other characters in this little fic. Never mind.
WARNING/S: Mild language, and hints of possibilities of some sexual situations. Between men, between boys and girls, between Vince and Bollo... Also, a small amount of admiration for Bob Fossil. Nuff said.
NOTE/S: Written for nabootheenigma’s birthday. The ‘punchline’ of this fic might only make sense to those with an adequate knowledge of Yu-gi-oh.
*
OF SPURS AND SPIRALS
*
When Vince woke up with no idea of where he was or how he got there, he was not alarmed. This was something that happened regularly to rock ponces. The drugs, the girls, the boys, the hair – it was hardly unexpected.
He was handcuffed to a cast-iron bedhead, his skin-tight lime green shirt (the one with the sharp lapel) was open to his navel, and he was pretty sure he looked damn fine, despite his hangover. All in all, things seemed pretty promising.
Whoever had restrained him, however, was not to be seen. Vince squirmed up the bed (gracefully), contorting himself (elegantly) into a semi-supine pose, and waited for his captor to come back and . . . do whatever it was they were doing. He took in the room: large bed, many pillows, heavy drapes on the walls, light coming from a so-bad-it’s-good chandelier, two glasses of wine (or something) on the sideboard. A heavy door stood ajar opposite the bed, leading out into an echoey corridor.
It took almost half a minute for Vince to get bored with waiting, and notice that he was bloody thirsty. Luckily, he had his hip flask. Unluckily, he was handcuffed to the spiral bed frame, and couldn’t reach it without contorting himself into a yoga pose Naboo had once shown him when very stoned: the arseinface with monkey-leg variation. Luckily, Vince was very flexible. Unluckily, perhaps, his silk and sequin hipsters were not designed for such extreme manoeuvres and ripped right along the arse-seam just as his fingers touched the hip flask. This was not the ideal moment to realise one badly needed to urinate, reflected Vince, as he became aware of an urgent desire to piss.
It was also not an opportune moment for one cowboy boot spur to get caught in the cast-iron spiral.
Didn’t Fossil own a bed rather like this?
If Vince’s face had been visible amongst the tangle of leg and bed and outfit, it would have suddenly turned several shades paler. The struggle to free his spur from the bed, his boot from the spur, or his foot from the boot, increased in direct proportion to the decrease of colour in his cheeks.
It was to no avail. He was well and truly stuck. And (horror of horrors) he could hear footsteps in the hall. Vince considered taking the struggle to new dimensions and removing his leg from his foot, but couldn’t quite reach his ankle with his mouth to gnaw himself free.
Step, step, went the feet in the corridor.
Vince tried one last time to separate spur from bedhead, resulting only in his other leg getting tangled with his sash. “Shit-bloody-shit,” he muttered. He at least wanted to be able to see who walked through the door. Maybe it was Howard coming to find him. That could be good.
Or not.
Or . . . no, Howard definitely didn’t have a bed like this. Vince ran through other beds he knew. The only possibility of it being someone he knew was Fossil. And, Vince thought viciously, in his current position he couldn’t even decide if that was a bad thing. Better Fossil see him in such a twist than some hot electrochick.
Step, step, step.
Did he actually think that? Had he really just thought that Bob Fossil walking in on him with his bare arse in the air above his head (Damn commando-style getting him into trouble. Every time.), feet and hands tied, was a good option?
Could be worse, he supposed. Even if . . . you know. Fossil – Bob – was a decent guy, really. And despite the terrible shirts, he wasn’t that bad looking. Yeah, a bit of a belly, but so what? Vince liked a man who liked his food. It showed a certain . . . joie de vivre. And Bob – Bobby – he knew how to enjoy things. He was a laugh, always telling jokes, playing pranks. That Bobby!
My Bobby . . .
“You’re making me sick,” he told himself.
Step, step. It was getting closer, now.
Vince gave up on the untangling business, and decided to pretend he was asleep. He had slept in stranger places than a bed before. And there was that one time with Bollo . . . Vince’s mouth turned up at the corners, and his closed eyes crinkled. Yeah, that had been weirder than this. He yawned.
Step.
Yeah, and how about when he had dared Howard to . . . and they both ended up with the . . . on the . . .
*
Vince woke up with a start, legs up around his ears, and clothes in shreds on his body. Hardly unexpected, really – after all, he was Vince Noir, Superstar of the Underground. Yeah! This was the life! Sure, he was sort of uncomfortable, but he had obviously been totally ravished, and was now tied up to the bed frame.
He had no idea where he was, or how he’d got there, but it must have been a damn good night.
Someone was sitting beside the bed, but Vince couldn’t see due to the quantity of velvet frockcoat in his face. He wondered who it was.
“Alright?” he said, though he wasn’t sure if he’d intended to put a question mark on it.
There was a snoffy laugh, and a voice, like disgusting treacle and smugly swallowed smiles. “Hm-hm-hmmm,” it chuckled. “I’ve been watching you, Vincey-boy.”
*
PAIRING/S: Vince Noir/Mystery Person
DISCLAIMER/S: I don’t own Vince, body or soul. Nor any of the other characters in this little fic. Never mind.
WARNING/S: Mild language, and hints of possibilities of some sexual situations. Between men, between boys and girls, between Vince and Bollo... Also, a small amount of admiration for Bob Fossil. Nuff said.
NOTE/S: Written for nabootheenigma’s birthday. The ‘punchline’ of this fic might only make sense to those with an adequate knowledge of Yu-gi-oh.
*
OF SPURS AND SPIRALS
*
When Vince woke up with no idea of where he was or how he got there, he was not alarmed. This was something that happened regularly to rock ponces. The drugs, the girls, the boys, the hair – it was hardly unexpected.
He was handcuffed to a cast-iron bedhead, his skin-tight lime green shirt (the one with the sharp lapel) was open to his navel, and he was pretty sure he looked damn fine, despite his hangover. All in all, things seemed pretty promising.
Whoever had restrained him, however, was not to be seen. Vince squirmed up the bed (gracefully), contorting himself (elegantly) into a semi-supine pose, and waited for his captor to come back and . . . do whatever it was they were doing. He took in the room: large bed, many pillows, heavy drapes on the walls, light coming from a so-bad-it’s-good chandelier, two glasses of wine (or something) on the sideboard. A heavy door stood ajar opposite the bed, leading out into an echoey corridor.
It took almost half a minute for Vince to get bored with waiting, and notice that he was bloody thirsty. Luckily, he had his hip flask. Unluckily, he was handcuffed to the spiral bed frame, and couldn’t reach it without contorting himself into a yoga pose Naboo had once shown him when very stoned: the arseinface with monkey-leg variation. Luckily, Vince was very flexible. Unluckily, perhaps, his silk and sequin hipsters were not designed for such extreme manoeuvres and ripped right along the arse-seam just as his fingers touched the hip flask. This was not the ideal moment to realise one badly needed to urinate, reflected Vince, as he became aware of an urgent desire to piss.
It was also not an opportune moment for one cowboy boot spur to get caught in the cast-iron spiral.
Didn’t Fossil own a bed rather like this?
If Vince’s face had been visible amongst the tangle of leg and bed and outfit, it would have suddenly turned several shades paler. The struggle to free his spur from the bed, his boot from the spur, or his foot from the boot, increased in direct proportion to the decrease of colour in his cheeks.
It was to no avail. He was well and truly stuck. And (horror of horrors) he could hear footsteps in the hall. Vince considered taking the struggle to new dimensions and removing his leg from his foot, but couldn’t quite reach his ankle with his mouth to gnaw himself free.
Step, step, went the feet in the corridor.
Vince tried one last time to separate spur from bedhead, resulting only in his other leg getting tangled with his sash. “Shit-bloody-shit,” he muttered. He at least wanted to be able to see who walked through the door. Maybe it was Howard coming to find him. That could be good.
Or not.
Or . . . no, Howard definitely didn’t have a bed like this. Vince ran through other beds he knew. The only possibility of it being someone he knew was Fossil. And, Vince thought viciously, in his current position he couldn’t even decide if that was a bad thing. Better Fossil see him in such a twist than some hot electrochick.
Step, step, step.
Did he actually think that? Had he really just thought that Bob Fossil walking in on him with his bare arse in the air above his head (Damn commando-style getting him into trouble. Every time.), feet and hands tied, was a good option?
Could be worse, he supposed. Even if . . . you know. Fossil – Bob – was a decent guy, really. And despite the terrible shirts, he wasn’t that bad looking. Yeah, a bit of a belly, but so what? Vince liked a man who liked his food. It showed a certain . . . joie de vivre. And Bob – Bobby – he knew how to enjoy things. He was a laugh, always telling jokes, playing pranks. That Bobby!
My Bobby . . .
“You’re making me sick,” he told himself.
Step, step. It was getting closer, now.
Vince gave up on the untangling business, and decided to pretend he was asleep. He had slept in stranger places than a bed before. And there was that one time with Bollo . . . Vince’s mouth turned up at the corners, and his closed eyes crinkled. Yeah, that had been weirder than this. He yawned.
Step.
Yeah, and how about when he had dared Howard to . . . and they both ended up with the . . . on the . . .
*
Vince woke up with a start, legs up around his ears, and clothes in shreds on his body. Hardly unexpected, really – after all, he was Vince Noir, Superstar of the Underground. Yeah! This was the life! Sure, he was sort of uncomfortable, but he had obviously been totally ravished, and was now tied up to the bed frame.
He had no idea where he was, or how he’d got there, but it must have been a damn good night.
Someone was sitting beside the bed, but Vince couldn’t see due to the quantity of velvet frockcoat in his face. He wondered who it was.
“Alright?” he said, though he wasn’t sure if he’d intended to put a question mark on it.
There was a snoffy laugh, and a voice, like disgusting treacle and smugly swallowed smiles. “Hm-hm-hmmm,” it chuckled. “I’ve been watching you, Vincey-boy.”
*