booshslashhaven | Fic Challenge #24: PICFIC! Furvert, Howard/Vince, R

thieving-gypsy.livejournal.com posting in

Title: Furvert
Pairing: Howard/Vince
Summary: Howard and Vince are forced to take jobs as Bluecoats at a shabby Pontin's holiday camp in Norfolk when the Nabootique burns down... but ~*~strange desires~*~ awake in Howard the first time he puts on his Captain Croc suit.
Wordcount: 1725
Rating: R
Challenge: #24, holidays.
Disclaimer: Not mine. And apologies to CDN and OTB for raping their beautiful genre. ;)
Notes: Another massively belated secret santa thingy, for

summoner_alex, who demanded FURRIES. D: So, HAPPY VD! ♥

(PS: This is an ACTUAL PLACE and I know this because I was named Holiday Princess there in the second week of July, 1992. \o/ But if you want to go there you're shit out of luck because it's closed down. I don't suppose that many people want to get fenced in with razor wire to a knockoff Butlin's in NORFOLK so they can drink overpriced Babycham while perverts in plushysuits molest their children in the ballpond.)

.

Howard knew Vince was the one who burned the shop down, because he methodically removed the entire contents of his wardrobe first.

"It weren't me!" he kept insisting. "It was... a hate crime, people hate jazz, they firebombed us and it's your fault so you have to find us somewhere to go." Bit difficult, that, trying to secure lodgings and jobs when the only item of clothing you managed to retrieve from the inferno wasn't an item at all but a towel, slightly charred around the edges, and some large safety pins with which to construct a sort of oversized nappy.

Difficult, but never impossible, not for a man with brains and talents and dedication (and a memory-block hiding his days as a male prostitute and his gay phase in Spain that mysteriously evaporated when he realised the old creeper in the job centre wanted a blowjob).

"Success!" he announced proudly one morning, returning to their box under the bridge with a new spring in his step and a new ache in his jaw. Vince stopped sticking reclaimed posters to the cardboard walls with old chewing gum and looked at him suspiciously.

"We better not be selling Batman capes in Leeds."

"Actually, that stupid mindless act of firey vandalism was the best thing you ever did."

Vince looked pleased with himself for a second, before he remembered. "I never did it!"

"This could be our big break, Vince. I've got us places as hosts and performers in a very popular club."

"Seriously? And it's not in Leeds?"

"Well... it's in Norfolk."

"NORFOLK?" Vince screeched. "No WAY! It's - but - Howard, Norfolk's where JAMES BLUNT's from!"

"I think you'll find there are many great and wonderful things about the county of Norfolk," Howard snapped.

"Like what? Roads across the border and out?"

The Norwich Aviation Museum. The beautiful Broads. Lord Nelson. Allan Smethurst.

"...The second half of its name is pronounced 'fuck'."

"Oh yeah! Hahaha!"

"I knew you'd come around."

"Yeah... speaking of, you've got jizz in your moustache."

"Shut up."

They called it a holiday camp. Clearly 'holiday' was some sort of Norfolk dialect for 'concentration'. Rows and rows of dingy little chalets like barracks, endless rolling grey East Anglian clouds above, and a perimeter fence that seemed to stretch up to infinity.

Still. Look on the bright side.

Howard filled his lungs and let the air out in a noisy, satisfied whoosh. "Smell that sea breeze!"

"What sea breeze? We're a fucking half hour walk from the sea! What kind of holiday destination is this?"

The kind for people who have no imagination or drive, who can't be arsed to figure out their own way around a place, chavvy twatty people who are just about smart enough to know they're not smart enough to be trusted out in public so every year they collect vouchers from tabloids and pay a fiver to get penned in somewhere full of tortured actors and popstars in matching blue blazers who plaster on the cheery smiles all shift and then go home to their matchbox chalets and weep bitter tears over a razorblade, trying to decide whether to plunge it into a wrist or the neck, using the blood to cross off another long, agonising day on the calendar, just waiting and waiting and waiting for the next X Factor audition...

"Just shut up, will you? It's going to be fun."

"Fun," Vince said, in a hollow voice. He was on the grubby little sofa when Howard let himself into their chalet after the shift, still wearing his Florence The Duck costume but with the head on the floor by his feet. "You said it'd be fun, Howard! You know what I've been doing all day? I've been scooping toddler poo out the ballpond with a butterfly net!"

"Oh," Howard said, weakly. He didn't trust himself to say anything else. His cock was aching hard, it had been like that for most of the day, and every time he'd found a quiet spot and tried to slip his arm out of the Captain Croc costume's arm to give himself a bit of secret relief some snotnosed little council estate brat came running over to cuddle him, and that just felt weird.

"And I hate this costume, I fucking hate it, my balls are swimming I'm sweating that hard, it's worse than the PVC jumpsuit..."

A strange, horrible feeling began to creep through Howard's body, starting between his legs and spreading outwards until every last inch of him was alive and tingling. He imagined unzipping Vince's fluffy duck suit down the middle, like the jumpsuit, opening a huge v in the back of it and baring his glistening, salty skin, maybe pressing his face against the fur to breathe in how well it held scents, maybe slipping a hand inside and- whoops.

"Oh dear," he murmured. He wondered if the suits were dry-clean only.

The grim grey summer dragged on. Naboo and Bollo sent weekly postcards from Magaluf, where they were blowing the shop insurance money on cheap drinks and cheaper women, and Vince muttered dark little curses about people who don't know how to share and cut the cards up into tiny tiny squares with his nail scissors as if the number of pieces he could get from them was indicative of the number of ways he hated his ex-friends.

Howard's problem worsened. If you could call it that. He wondered if pleasure was ever a problem, really? Surely in a place as miserable as this you should get your kicks wherever you could... right? Possibly. Maybe not. He kept his guilty secret like a precious little pet, curled up and hidden.

Vince customised his blue coat like he'd customised his zoo jacket all those years ago, and soon he was the star entertainer in the staff cabaret shows every evening. He led karaoke bouts and judged the Gorgeous Granny contest and taught scores of children all the words and corresponding dance moves to Wig Wam Bam, and finally, FINALLY, he started smiling again, like the old Vince, like real Vince before he was spoiled by Camden wankers.

"I love it here, Howard," he said one night, when they were back in the chalet after the show. Howard couldn't see his face, because he still had his crocodile head on, but he could hear the giddy happy smile in his voice, and feel Vince lean against him and link their arms. "It's brilliant. It's nearly as good as the zoo. It's better cos I'm a popstar now."

"You're not, though, really, are you? You're a Pontin's Bluecoat."

"Get your clumsy tramply feet off my dreams! It's close enough. Like... big fish in a small pond, yeah? That's alright."

Howard didn't say anything. He didn't want Vince to be a fish. Fish weren't furry.

"Howard? You're happy too, right?"

Still nothing. He wondered how to define 'happy'. He had a raging erection, if that counted.

"Howard? Hoooward. Howard? Howard! Howaaaard?"

"Please don't start that again."

"Talk to me, then. And take your head off." He didn't move so Vince did it for him, lifting off the heavy crocodle head and heaving it across the room. The air felt cool on Howard's burning face, but then Vince reached up to sort out the bits of sweat-damp hair stuck in a tangle to his forehead and Howard started to get very anxious about spontaneous human combustion.

"Don't touch me."

"I'm helping."

"You're really, really not."

"Tell me why you're sad."

"You never wear your fluffy duck costume any more!" Howard burst out, and then there was silence and stillness and he wondered whether he could commit suicide by holding his breath.

Then Vince started touching his hair again, curling a sweaty little strand around his finger. "I got promoted, didn't I?

"I know."

"But... I've still got it in my wardrobe."

"Now do you wanna tell me what this is all about?" Vince said, squeezing his fat furry duck bum out through the bedroom door. Howard curled his hands into fists inside his suit and whimpered.

"It's... I like feeling warm everywhere. I like the way the fur smells. I like the way it tickles. I like how it sticks on your skin when you sweat a bit, when you drag the fur over your skin and you can feel it clinging... oh." He stopped talking when Vince sat on him, precariously because the bulk of their two suits got in the way, and he put his arms around Vince's waist so he didn't go toppling off onto the floor, then just waited and watched to see what would happen next.

Vince removed his Florence The Duck head, and, very slowly, biting his lower lip like he was unsure, he dragged his paw very gently down Howard's cheek. Howard's first thought involved ducks having paws and how he was going to have to bring the matter up in the next staff meeting because, really, there was no excuse for making such a basic anatomical mistake - but that was soon replaced by the juddery tingles again, feeling the soft fur catch on his sweaty stubble, feeling his face flame again, and feeling the throbbing ache in his cock where it was pressed against Vince's furry padded bum.

"And," he went on, hesitant and embarrassed and stumbling over his words, "my, my, my fursona, you could call it, he has power and respect, because not only is he a crocodile, he's a Captain. It's not just how it feels, it's-"

He broke off and whimpered again when Vince started stroking his other cheek, cupping his face in both big paws and looking at him earnestly like he didn't think Howard was being a giant creepy pervert. Furvert.

"Being important," he finished, in a squeaky silly little voice as if it hadn't finished breaking yet.

"You are important, you old ballbag," Vince the half-a-duck murmured, and kissed the half-a crocodile passionately on the mouth.

Soon, the little nail scissors were put to better use cutting strategic holes in the suits and Vince was getting enthusiastically buggered over the kitchen table.

"Usually I get bruises on my hipbones when I get bent over furniture but the suit's protecting me! This is genius, Howard!"

"Ah-ah, what do you call me?"

"Sorry, Captain."