STILL MOAR PORN

[apiphile]

PREV

Bert raises both eyebrows, then pulls one down with his finger so he can look quizzical properly. Quinn groans. "So," Bert says thoughtfully, "what you're saying is you don't have cystitis any more and I can punch you in the cock again?"

Pointing out that he never had it in the first place may or may not be futile. Quinn opts to fold his arms and sneer instead. "I'm saying either you suck my dick right fucking now or I find someone else who will." He glances around the room, pretending to search for someone. The sad truth is, until Dan gets his ass out of bed or Jepha resurfaces, it's just them. Driving each other crazy and talking about dick.

All he gets in return is a pout. "I have a mouth ulcer," Bert says. Which - either he's a fucking lying liar who lies, which Quinn knows he fucking is, or he wasn't rubbing salt into his gums last night and shouting I'm Gerard Way and I'm a liar and a coke whore to an increasingly disinterested Dan and Quinn. And Quinn's pretty sure he was, on account of being bored shitless by the same old same shit. Bert, meanwhile, swivels on the sofa, his cast maintaining position, and yells, "JEPHA!"

"Don't be an asshole," Quinn sighs, trying to sound reasonable, "suck my dick." He, what's the word, he totally sounds, what the fuck is it, it begins with a c, Feldy used it, what was it -

Conciliatory.

Whatever. He's making a reasonable request and Bert's a douche. That's the important part.

"How abouuuuuuuut," Bert trills, sliding back onto the sofa with a whump, his foot bouncing in the air, "how about I suck your asshole instead?"

Quinn realises he should have a snappy comeback to that, and he would, but his balls just take control of his brain sometimes and this is one of those times. He scratches the side of his face and crosses his arms again, trying to keep his features still. Bert probably just means that to be fuckheaded. Almost certainly he does. He's not going to threaten to eat Quinn's ass after he just callously refused to blow him, that would be … entirely in keeping with the inconsistent McCracken Quinn knows and, all right, yes, fuck off, loves.

There is, he also realises, a fucking enormous silence he should have been cussing Bert's mom in.

"I SAID," Bert shouts, slapping the sofa, "how about I suck your asshole instead, asshole?"

Fuck it. Might as well take the risk. Maybe Bert actually fucking means it. Quinn takes a breath and says in a smaller, more embarrassed voice than he thought he was going to, "Yesplease?"

"Oh my god," Bert says, apparently stunned, or at least using something like indoor-voice. "Oh my god." He's grinning like he just heard the best fucking joke in the history of ever and, and, and fuck him.

Quinn tries to keep his arms folded and his face pissy. Fuck Bert if he's going to take it like that.

Bert's eyes widen to cartoonish proportions as his smile turns from amused to one of those devil grins that intimidates photographers and charms the shit out of whoever it's pointed at in spite of anything else he's just done. "QUINN ALLMAN," he breathe-shouts, "you dirty fucker."

"Shut up," Quinn snaps. Oh yeah. His face is hot.

"Oooooooh," Bert continues, his grin broadening again, like someone's winching up the sides on fish hooks, "Ooooohh. Ooooh. Quinn's a dirty fucker."

He's already fucking regretting it. Quinn makes a grab for Bert's hair, giving up on the whole bullshit where he's meant to be dignified and shit, but broken foot or not Bert is a wriggly little bastard and he's too fast for Quinn.

"JEPH," Bert shouts, not taking his eyes off Quinn as he lunges out of his way, "you know Quinn's a dirty fucker?"

Somewhat to Quinn's surprise, Jepha actually materialises in the doorway. He's got a towel around his waist held in place with one hand - Jepha hips are too skinny to keep these thick bath-towels up on their own - and his hair is far beyond a mess. It looks like a hurricane went at it. His chest hair is starting to grow back in weird patches, and there are circles under his eyes; he looks hot, Quinn acknowledges in an abstracted kind of way, but then Jepha always does.

"No?" Jepha asks, stopping in his tracks. He sounds cranky, and he's wearing socks. Blue ones.

"He wants me to eat his ass," Bert says in a mock-scandalised stage-whisper, shielding his mouth from Quinn. "Dirty fucker."

"Then I think you should," Jepha says, already on his way to the bathroom, stepping around discarded Doritos bags and tangles of video game cables with deliberation. He's definitely, definitely pissy about something, all his words are clipped short and his shoulders are high. "Someone has to get off around here and it's not going to be fucking me."

"Huh," Bert says, momentarily distracted as Jepha all-but-stamps off to the bathroom, "what got up his ass?"

"Nothing," Quinn says, unable to keep the smirk off his face, "I think that's the problem." He stretches, and gets the fuck up. All the better to get away from Bert's stupid-ass chanting.

"I think you're distracting me from the important scientific discovery I just made," Bert says, his finger in his nose.

"Scientific what?"

"You're a dirtius fuckupalus," Bert points at his face. "Dirty. Fucker. Fucking dirty fucker. Fuckatron de la dirt." He's on his foot, his good foot, standing on tip-toe and balancing with his cast like a fucking tripod, getting up in Quinn's face with difficulty. "Dirty. Fuck. Dirty. Fuck. Dirtyeeeee."

It's not worth pushing him over.

It's not.

Bert kisses him, hands to hip, and Quinn lowers his head, gets his hands into the unwashed nightmare that is Bert's half-dreaded matted up hair-nest. If liking Bert's tongue in him makes him a dirty fucker, he's a dirty fucker. Bert tastes of morning after and Quinn doesn't give a fuck.

Bert mumbles something into his teeth, which is almost certainly 'dirty fucker' on the basis of previous evidence. Quinn says, "Homofag," back into Bert's tongue and knots his fingers through the lanolin-heavy mat on Bert's head.

Bert yanks his head back and gives Quinn one of those searching looks, like he's scanning his molecules for defects (or he can't see at this close range, what the fuck ever), and says, "I'm-a gonna eat-a your ass-a, dirty fuck-a," undoing a button at a time on Quinn's fly, a button to coincide with each 'a'.

"You know, Bert and dirt rhyme," Quinn points out, pulling his pants down over his hips and onto the floor, nearly cracking his chin on Bert's head. No boner tenting his shorts yet, but it'll sneak up on him like it always fucking does, sneak up on him like Bert with a bucket of, of pee. He's already starting to get warm thinking about it.

"No shit," Bert digs his fingers into Quinn's ass and grins up at him, "Bert and dirt rhyme, Bert and hurt rhyme."

"Whatever, tell it to Jepha."

"You know what rhymes with Quinn?" Bert loosens his grip, but not by much.

"Win?" Quinn suggests.

"Uh-uh." Bert has his fingers under the waistband of Quinn's shorts, tickling and teasing the top of his ass, his chin on Quinn's sternum like a fucking blunt knife, and his mind apparently set on disobeying basic facts of phonics.

"Does too," Quinn points out.

"Dirty fucker rhymes with Quinn." Bert digs his chin into Quinn's chest and smirks at him, eyes half-closed, fingers on the uppermost curve of his ass.

"Your mom rhymes with Quinn," Quinn snorts, concentrating on digging Bert's chin - which also rhymes with Quinn - back out of his flesh before it leaves a fucking bruise.

"My dick rhymes with Quinn," Bert says, pressing the aforementioned article into Quinn as best he can, with that cast dragging his balance off; Quinn stands very still.

"Your mom rhymes with my dick." Quinn tries not to catch his breath as Bert yanks down his shorts and catches the elastic on his fledgling hard-on.

"What else can she do with something so small?"

"Oh, if we're talking about small dicks," Quinn snorts, grabbing at Bert's crotch, "PEANUT RAPIST."

Bert pushes his nails into Quinn's bare asscheek and makes him hiss and squirm - stupid, because if Quinn falls right now Bert's going to lose his balance too - but Quinn snarls at him anyhow. He has no fucking idea what the fuck it is Jepha even gets out of shit like this. "Cut it oooooout." He slaps at Bert's arms. "Jesus."

"Get down and bend over," Bert instructs. "Imma stick my tongue up your asshole, eat all your poop, then poop out a pizza for you."

"Best fwiend evaaar," Quinn lisps in a pretend-little-girl voice, and he hits his knees on the carpet so fast they burn, trying to go down and hold Bert up at the same time. He's still not convinced Bert's even serious, that he isn't just going to bite him in the ass, kick him in the ass, or do something else inventively horrible to his ass while he's down here and vulnerable but it's just a risk he's gonna have to take.

"Dirty fucker," Bert says in the same voice. Today, apparently, he's not fucking about.

… about this, anyhow.

His nimble little monkey hands are hot and firm on the inside of Quinn's thighs, more shoving than stroking, as Quinn kneels and Bert slithers to the floor behind him.

"I'm not a fucking, a fucking, an anteater," Bert says peevishly, and Quinn lowers his face into his own forearms, his t-shirt riding up his back, hanging loose below his nipples. He can't even remember what the fuck an anteater looks like. "You look like a, a, I don't even know," Bert snorts. He sounds pleased.

"Anthill?"

"Asshole," Bert confirms, running his hands up over Quinn's asscheeks and rubbing his thumbs just over the dip of his asscrack without actually going into it. Quinn … tingles. "A … nnn … asshole anthill." He lowers his voice and says in a conspiratorial whisper, "a really hot asshole anthill."

Bert rubs his thumbs down the crack of Quinn's ass again and Quinn's knees slip outwards over the carpet, scraping off the skin, leaving his asscheeks spread that little bit further.

One of Bert's thumbs slips down and skates briefly over Quinn's asshole, grazing the tender puckered skin, brushing through hair. Quinn bites the inside of his mouth, presses his nails into the palm of his hand, and tries really fucking hard not to shove his ass towards Bert's face impatiently. Because Bert will never shut up about it if he does.

But Bert's not talking now; Quinn half-flinches at the sudden wet warmth on his ass, Bert's giant tongue cutting a damp swathe through the hair on his butt cheeks. Fucking tease.

His knees are hurting already, rough carpet on grazed skin, and there's no disguising the fact that this position's as uncomfortable as it is humiliating - but Bert, in such a motherfuck of a hurry with everything else, is taking his sweet time with this.

"Asssssshole," Quinn hisses, not even sure himself if it's a complaint or a direction.

He's ignored; Bert pulls his asscheeks further apart with the heels of his hands and Quinn hurriedly helps him by bracing his thighs wider, his forehead already smearing sweat onto the insides of his elbows. Bert's hair tickles him and then, then, then there's hotwetyes across that nameless stretch between his ball and asshole, moving up.

Quinn doesn't quite clamp down on his tongue in time to prevent a moist noise with no bones, a sound comprised entirely of vowels, from flopping out of his mouth and onto the floor.

He can feel Bert grin against his ass. Feel him mouth 'dirty fucker' before he sets his tongue back to the base of Quinn's balls and licks slowly up over the taut-stretched skin.

That tongue smears saliva thick and slippery over the inner curves of Quinn's asscheeks, coats the approach to his asshole with a river of spit; Bert's hands cling to Quinn's hips, steadying them both, and Quinn pushes sweat out of his eyes with his forearm. Shit. Fuck. Yes.

"Shit," Quinn observes and there's an explosive giggle right by his asshole. Nothing he compares it to is going to do justice to the sensation, but fortunately Bert composes himself and starts … yes … teasing and tickling Quinn's fucking screwed-eye anus with the devil-pointed tip of his smart, smart tongue.

Maybe it's appropriate that the two lone words now circulating in Quinn's brain and occasionally smacking into each other are 'fucker' and 'dirty'.

Quinn feels his knees take a sideward scrape again - there's more of his fucking skin stuck in the carpet now - and tries to keep himself in position, largely through willpower. He's aware it's a quality he has in limited supply around sex. And Bert. And sex with Bert.

The hotwetwrong tip of Bert's tongue slips, brief as a fork of summer lightning, through the ring of muscle and beyond.

Quinn makes another one of those noises he doesn't want to own up to.

Bert's lips close against Quinn's asshole in the obscenest kiss there is and Quinn gums at his own arm. This slithery, will-ruining nirvana of mouth-on-ass might go on forever or ten seconds but he's hanging right here in the ache of his swollen fucking dick and Bert's right hand brushing on it once, twice …

"Put-your-hand-on-me-" Quinn jerks, getting his teeth out of his wrist, "- FUCKER."

Bert obliges by rubbing his hand - formed into a perfect flip of the bird - over Quinn's belly so he knows he's being flipped off.

The sound Quinn makes may even qualify as 'anguished'. "BERT YOU FUCKING ohmygod."

Bert's palm is sweaty and perfect on the blood-flushed head of his dick, sweaty and perfect like always. Quinn's hands clutch at empty air as Bert begins to stroke, his lips painting Quinn's asshole saliva-coloured.

His legs are the first part of him to start getting weak, his legs and his spine, a tremor in them expanding out in a cloud of heat that leaves him unable to remember where any of his body is. Except his knees (hurt), his face (hot), his dick (holy fuck), and his damp, damp asshole (holy fucking fuck).

"Fffffuuuuuu … BERT," he grunts as Bert gets his wrist at the wrong angle and nearly punches him in the fucking balls, how he even manages Quinn's not even sure, "look - uhhh --- what you're --- oh god - fucking asshole-"

Bert mutters something against his ass, his lips move, his tongue moves, and his hand picks up a quicker tempo.

Quinn sinks his teeth into his own wrist, clawing back on some pretty fucked-up fucking words. He's not going to fucking say shit like that, Jepha-standard shit, words that aren't really his, aren't really him. He inhales hard and harsh through his nose, makes a gross gurgling, snorting noise; he's not saying any fucking thing. All that 'I'll do anything you want' shit, all that 'yours' shit … why bother saying it when Bert clearly already fucking knows?

Coming is a fucking cliff and Quinn goes - comes - tumbling over it. He can just about feel Bert's hand get wetter and wetter and his dick starts to hurt, and hurt with the touch of skin even in all that wetness but Bert isn't stopping; Bert's mouth sides off his ass and the first thing Quinn hears from him as his head spins and his breaths go right on getting all fucked up, the first thing he hears is, "Dirty fucker."

Through a mouthful of saliva and his own arm Quinn groans, "Whatever, you just ate my ass."

It's not especially clear. Anyone not Bert probably would understand a word of it.

Bert wipes a thick handful of Quinn's come over his own thighs. "Dirty fucking fucker. You got babyjuice on my fingers."

"Your fault," Quinn sighs, and Bert lurches, then starts doing something annoying and tickly to his ass. Quinn rolls his face along his arm and tries to luxuriate in the motherfucking afterglow.

"Quinn," Bert says in a disgusted voice, still stroking or tickling or whatever the fuck he's doing to the top of Quinn's ass, "your asshole tastes of poop."

"No shit," Quinn mutters, and starts laughing.

"No, shit," Bert says, taking his hand away from Quinn's ass. Something's cold on there. Whatever, Quinn doesn't care. His knees hurt, but he doesn’t care. Quinn doesn't fucking care about anything. "Seriously, I need to wash my mouth out."

"Fine." Quinn cannot even be bothered to take his face off the floor.

"With your beer," Bert continues, struggling to his feet. There are a lot of crashes and bangs, but eventually Bert's voice is a little higher up, and there's the clump stamp clump stamp of retreating cripple.

"Fine," Quinn tells the floor, unsure if he's ever going to move again. Fuck. He tries to roll over, but his muscles are busy liquefying, and his brain is still made up largely of pretty sparkly lights. Bastard fucking stupid ass-orgasm. Leaving him sprawled out on the floor with his ass out and only the vaguest sense that he should give a fucking fuck about that.

Someone else walks past him. Someone wearing blue socks and dripping water.

Jepha starts to laugh.

"Fuck off," Quinn mumbles into his arm. "It isn't funny. Also, ha ha fucking ha, at least I get to come."

Jepha's still laughing, and a drip of body-temperature water falls onto Quinn's thigh. "You know Bert wrote on you?"

"Whatever," Quinn still doesn't fucking care. He yawns into his arms. "Pull my pants up fooooor meeeee."

"Yeah, get fucked," Jepha says, still snickering.

"I just did," Quinn explains.

Jepha stops laughing. "Don't you want to know what it says?"

Quinn's knees are starting to sting. It's possible the post-rimming flop is wearing off, and no matter how hard he tries to hang onto it, he's going to have to get up and do something about his pants. And possibly stop Bert getting ass-flavour lips all over all his beer. "No. Pull my paaaaants up I can't move my aaaaarms."

"No," Jepha says, and another drop of water falls on his legs. "I guess you're going to have to stay there with your ass out forever."

"Nooooo," Quinn groans. "Dan's going to park a bike in my butt."

"I don't think Dan's going to want a bike rack with 'Poop lives here' written on it," Jepha says, and starts laughing again.

"Uh?" Quinn tries to twist around and look at his own ass. It's about as much of a success as it always is, with the added impediment of him still being half made of rubbery nothingness. "What? What the fuck?"

Jepha toes him in the leg. "You have Poop lives here written on your ass, Quinn," he snickers, and with that, he's gone.

"You smell of breakfast."

Jepha raises an eyebrow but no one is watching. He's still pretty sure that whatever else Quinn smells of, it's not breakfast. Unless "stale beer and dried sweat" now counts as breakfast to Bert now. He wouldn't put it past him.

"You smell of socks."

That much is at least true. They're pretty old socks, too.

"You smell of your mom."

Jepha hides the Wiimote down the back of the sofa and sits on his hands. This has the potential to turn into a throwing-things fight and they only just replaced the last one Bert broke.

"Your mom, actually."

"Whatever, you smell of … fuck you."

Jepha is not wondering what fuck you smells like because he's pretty sure it's that fucking enormous turd they had to break up with a knife before it would flush. No one is owning up to it but everyone is also pretty sure it was Bert.

"You smell of suck my dick."

"You smell of Dan's pee."

His hand stops in mid-grope, and Jepha stops trying to arrange the Wiimote into a position where it's easy for him to find but impossible for anyone else. He's not sure he wants to know how either of them came to smell of Dan's pee, but at the same time he really fucking does.

"How do you even know it's Dan's?"

"I have a special gland. You smell of poop."

Jepha rolls his eyes and turns back to the bouncing "game paused" logo on-screen.

"You smell of shut your mouth."

"Bert, you just … fucking smell."

"I have a nose, fuck you."

This is indisputably true. Jepha doesn't even need to look to check. Bert very definitely has a nose. He also usually has a finger in it, and from the sounds of things that's - Jepha twists - oh yes, that's the case now. He's expecting Bert to, maybe, wipe snot on Quinn's face and inform him that he now smells of boogers, but as always nothing is predictable; a new player enters the fray. Jepha pulls the Wiimote out of the cushions and points it at Dan's face, pretending to control him.

"You know what this smells of?"

Dan waves his t-shirt past Quinn's nose like a flag and Jepha can't help but smirk at the expression on his face because for once the I am your lord and master and you will clearly do whatever I say and not just punch me in the neck grin is being aimed at someone Dan isn't tormenting with some stupid fucking sex bet. Hah. Ha.

"Weed?"

"Correctilicious, you win a prize."

And that thing that Dan does, where he taps the end of his nose like it's a buzzer, that's still irritatingly adorable and makes his heart flutter. Which makes a nice change from his balls aching, but doesn't actually alleviate the ache any. Jepha wonders if smacking himself in the crotch with the Wiimote counts as getting himself off, cheating by putting himself out of commission, or just annoying Quinn by wrecking the Wiimote.

"Is the prize your mom?"

"No, it's-"

"Then I don't want it."

"It's a ride on the Dan pony!"

Bert's shriek is not as deafening as usual but it is the high-pitched glee of a Bert who has just said something he finds extremely funny.

"Do I get a say---" Dan begins.

"NO!"

"The Dan pony is tired, Bert."

Jepha rolls his eyes at Dan. What. How can Dan possibly be tired when he isn't doing anything except move furniture and drum and completely fail to let Jepha get off; that can hardly be exhausting. Fucking. Fuck. It must be the most relaxing activity in the world, stopping Jepha from getting off. It's not like he has to ninja-sneak around preventing him from stealthily --- Jepha looks down at his crotch, and his hand.

Apparently someone needs to stop him from rubbing shit against his crotch when he's not paying attention.

"The Dan pony complains too much. TO THE GLUE FACTORY."

"Hey," Jepha protests weakly, as Dan leans back on his heels, drops into a crouch, and smacks him hard on the back of the wrist.

"Stop defiling the Wii."

The smoke in the room is so thick it's like looking at a bombsite through stained glass. It's like they're swimming in layers of air; Jepha pretends to dog-paddle for a minute and Bert folds up like a book, gasping into his knees as he sits kindergarten-style on the bed-and by bed, Quinn means mattress, mattress that still smells vaguely and deeply unfortunately of banana. Quinn reaches out with his toes pointed to try and jab Bert in the back, but he’s too far away and Quinn’s too comfortable propped up against the wall, to slither down further so he can reach him. Also, the bong is here. On the bedside table. And by bedside table, Quinn means the stack of books on the floor next to the banana-mattress.

Dan plucks one of Jepha's hands out of the air like he's hunting insects and, using it as a pivot, twists Jepha's whole body round until he's sprawled on the floor instead.

Quinn looks up from the bong - it's awful, a red-tinted glass thing with a hand-painted yin yang on it, so awful that it's either something Bert bought while high or something a fan gave them - and says, "Was that judo?"

"Is there helium?" Dan counters, plopping down with a thump next to Jepha's head and stroking his own scalp approvingly. His hat is somewhere underneath his thighs; Jepha tugs on it to absolutely no avail.

"You squashed your hat."

"No." Quinn takes a hit and holds it until it starts trickling out of his nose.

"You squashed your fucking hat," Jepha repeats.

"Why not?" Dan demands in slow-motion mockery of anger, "When-a I want-a helium-ay there should-a be-a heel-ee-um, have you people no respect?" He bats Jepha's hands away from his hat and twists his fingers through Jepha's ink. "You dissin' me with yo' helium … hold-out … ing … boom tsh tsh tsh…" His beatboxing is not exactly pro standard.

"HEEEEEEEELEEEEEEEUUUUUUUMMMMM," Bert sings, kicking something off his bunk. "It's deaaaaalin', doooone …"

"WRONG."

Bert throws a very flat and damp pillow at Quinn.

"I WAS FINISHING THE LINE, FUCKHOLE, IT RHYMES," Quinn shouts in a hurt voice that is spoilt by both the croak of smoke and the giggles in it. He throws a book of matches at Bert's head. Fucker better recognise his art.

Meanwhile, Jepha's looped his forefingers through Dan's beltloops and is giving them concerted tugs in a vaguely downward direction; Dan is at first too busy walking his fingers through his own unwashed, slightly-too-long hair to notice.

"Oh my god there's a floorshow," Quinn observes, taking another hit. He attempts to sounds disinterested, which clashes a little with the way his free hand has crept up to presses lightly against his crotch, more playing with his nuts than making a move to jerk off. "Will you just look at thaaaaat, Mabel."

"I, um, like, can't, cuz I have, like, Botox in my eye," Bert says in his best valley girl, serious as the grave, hugging the one remaining pillow to his face for dear life. "My eyeeeeeee. If I blink I will, like, totally go blind." He makes a short, sharp raptor noise.

"Rape," Dan says flatly. "Rape, rape. Also, undo the fucking zipper, you idiot." Jepha looks up at Dan, pleading though his eyelashes.

“Just saying rape doesn’t actually make it rape,” Jepha mumbles into Dan’s thigh, still looking up at Dan, his cheek rubbing against his jeans in a steady rhythm Quinn knows feels good, because he’s slowly rubbing his palms against his own thighs and the rough weave of the denim feels amaaaazing.

“You forget how zippers work or something?” Bert says, paying vague attention but mostly wrapped up in inspecting a lock of his own hair, half twirled around his finger like a preteen girl on the phone.

Jepha says nothing. Quinn’s pretty sure this means yes, he’s totally forgotten. It’s the dignified silence of someone just stoned enough to know they’ll sound totally stoned if they try and talk right now.

Dan takes pity on them all and demonstrates how zippers work, slow and steady.

Jepha’s eyes are flickering between Dan’s long fingers and his face, where dark dirty hair is striping his cheek.

The look Jepha’s giving Dan feels almost as solid as a hand on his dick, Quinn thinks, though that could be because his hand is on his own dick again. A gentle, pot smoke-cushioned plume of arousal curls through him as Jepha tugs at Dan’s jeans again, and Dan oofs and wiggles so they slide down over his ass.

Bert snickers. “Raaaaaape,” he says, at the same time attempting to do a headstand Quinn knows he’s capable of sober, and ending up rolling over and off the edge of the mattress, sprawling on the floor on his back, sprawled in an arms-out Jesus-pose. Dan kicks his jeans off the end of his leg and thump onto the ground next to Bert’s head, disturbing his hair with a little puff of air. “I can smell your crotch, Dan,” Bert says to the ceiling, quite happily.

“My crotch can smell you,” Dan replies.

Quinn snicker-coughs into his hand. His palm smells like weed and balls. “You mum smells like my crotch,” he chokes out. Dan and Jepha are silent, but Bert’s shrieky giggles spur Quinn’s own coughing laughter on.

When Quinn can open his damp eyes a little, his ribs aching from laughing too long at-at whatever he was laughing at, he realises the reasons both Jepha and Dan are so quiet: Jepha’s mouth is full, his hand and lips on Dan’s dick, and Dan’s head is tilted back loosely on his neck, his mouth open and a low, pleased groan spilling out into the air, thicker and more intoxicating than smoke.

Jepha’s other hand is pawing gently and aimlessly at Dan’s naked hip, the side closest to Quinn, running his thumb over Dan’s hipbone like he’s testing the edge of a knife. The hypnotising repetition of the movement is almost enough to distract Quinn from the point where Dan’s dick disappears into Jepha’s mouth, not deep, but Jepha goes down slow and bobs back up steady, less like a tease than like he’s just taking his time, moving at the pace of pot, unhurried, unworried.

Dan’s fingers wind in Jepha’s hair, a half-petting, half-haltering grip, a guide and praise. Quinn thinks, pet, and snickers to himself again, but stifles it against his curled hand. He probably couldn’t interrupt them if he tried, tackled Bert from where he’s perched, head cocked and watching the floor show, and had a screaming wrestling match right there.

Quinn gropes blindly for the ugly red bong he’s becoming fond of-almost solely because it’s one of the few glass ones that’s survived longer than a few weeks-and manages to pick it up without dropping it onto the floor on the other side of the mattress. He feels like he’s in slow motion as he gropes around his thighs for the matches and then remembers he’s thrown them at Bert. Has to look away from where Jepha’s licking up Dan’s cock like it’s delicious frozen fucking snack food, and Dan’s hands tighten in Jepha’s hair. Quinn can see the flash of metal as Jepha’s tongue darts out. Has to look away for. For goddamn. Matches. Right.

“Bert,” he tries, and holds his steady fingered but swaying arm out towards Bert, who is similarly entranced by what’s happening on the floor, and Quinn says again, “Bert. Bert. Fuckass. Asshole. Bert!”

Before Bert finally turns, slow as a kiddie’s carousel… but a better fucking ride than any impaled plastic unicorn, Quinn thinks, and loses his train of thought to laughter again.

“What? What?” Bert asks, impatient but still slow-speaking. Quinn wonders if the world’s slowed down, if he’s slowed down, if they’re all in synch at this glacial pace in this hot fucking room, or if Quinn just doesn’t really need to smoke more.

Bert throws the matches at his head and they hit him in the temple then tumble between his spread legs. Oh, matches.

He packs a bowl with the last little bit of pot that’s hiding, feeling kind of pleased with himself everyone has apparently forgotten there was anything left (to be fair, if Jepha was sucking his dick right now, he’d be distracted too). He lights up, sucking a thick cloud of smoke down easy as water; he’s too stoned now to pay any mind to the tickle in his throat, the burn in his lungs as he holds it, holds it, blows a thick stream of smoke out towards Jepha and Dan.

It dissipates before it reaches them, leaving visible eddies in the air, like silt disturbed at the bottom of a clear pond. Quinn puts the bong down on the edge of the bed and shifts, sliding lower down, but not so low he can’t see as Jepha kisses the underside of Dan’s dick, aimless and sloppy, and bumps his snakebites against the head when he’s made his spit-shiny way to the tip.

The bong rolls off the mattress with a damp thud and Quinn could care less if it’s finally broken. He rubs his stomach and dips his fingers under his waistband to scritch against his pubes, a slow, pre-jerk off movement he’s been doing since he was old enough to realise you don’t always have to bang one out in three minutes with the bathroom door locked against familial intruders.

“Stick a finger up his ass,” Bert commentates. Demands, actually, Quinn thinks.

“Interactive porn,” he says out loud, mushy-mouthed and breathing heavier than he’d thought, like there’s a brick on his chest, pushing down on his smoke-soaked lungs.

“Yeah,” Bert says, half a reply to him, half encouragement as Dan’s fingers tighten in Jepha’s hair again and his thighs tense as his hips push up, an uncontrollable twitch like he wants to fuck Jepha’s mouth, but slowly. Slowly. Jepha dodges out of the way and licks again at the head of Dan’s dick. Dan hisses.

“Stick a finger up his ass, Dan,” Bert repeats.

Dan holds up his middle finger in Bert’s vague direction.

“I said up his ass, DAN,” Bert crawls off the edge of the mattress, hands and knees thumping onto the ground from the half-foot drop like lead weights. “Find, I’ll do it myself, you lazy motherfucker.” He gains his knees unsteadily, and shuffles over until he’s nearly pressed up against Jepha’s bent back.

Jepha smiles with his mouth full of dick when Bert puts a hand on his ankle, not actually doing anything, just holding and kneeling behind him. Assessing. Jepha’s smile gets wider and the corner of his mouth twitches, trying to contain himself, and Quinn watches Dan’s hand shift through his hair like a slow lumbering plough through a field of wheat and settle on the back of Jepha’s neck, only to push inexorably down as his hips push up and Jepha’s eyes flutter closed as he takes Dan in-concentration, until his nose is nearly flush with Dan’s pubes.

Dan makes a noise that sounds like the beginnings of a oh fuck, but isn’t quite words, and rolls his hips, pushing in-in without letting Jepha go like maybe he would if he were getting close, but slower, deliberately slow, maybe. So Jepha can’t breathe. So the flush on his cheeks gets deeper and his hand gropes at his dick.

Because Jepha is nothing if not a kinky motherfucker and Quinn is appreciative of the choked-off groans he makes as he pushes forward into Dan’s crotch, drooling around his dick and staying where he’s put. Quinn squeezes his dick though his jeans and groans a little, exhaling though his nose. Dan’s hand is still, still on the back of Jepha’s neck, still holding him there and Jepha’s eyes are open now and he’s looking up-he chokes a little as Dan finally pulls back, his chest heaving.

Jepha’s hand is still in his own crotch now and his other hand goes lightly to his own throat, a gentle stroking collar of fingers.

“Hey,” Dan says. Jepha’s eyes seem to snap to his face, the first quick thing Quinn’s seen since he started smoking today.

Dan’s hand’s still on the back of Jepha’s neck and he pulls him closer again, an unsubtle hint, unfinished business.

“Hey,” Bert says, like an echo of Dan, but his voice isn’t so low. “I can’t get my fingers up your ass if you’re wearing jeans, Jepharee.”

Jepha collapses like a rag doll, rolls sideways and kicks his jeans off, wiggles out of his underwear and rolls onto his front, ass in the air in a way that’s so obvious, more obvious than the way his dick curves hard against his belly-more obvious than Quinn’s hard on. He pops the top button on his jeans and watches the slow motion ballet through the haze: Dan shifts and winces, gets to his knees, pants around his legs still, and Jepha’s spit wet on his dick.

Bert giggles and spits on his fingers, and without a question and without any messing around, works a finger up Jepha’s ass, and Quinn can hear that Jepha’s sucking Dan’s dick again, messy and wet and obscene, but his eyes are on Bert’s fingers, disappearing past the curve of Jepha’s spread ass cheek, pushing inside him. Quinn can’t look away.

He sweeps his shirt up so it sticks around his armpits and opens his jeans.

“You’d better be getting that out, bitch,” Bert says, shoving another finger into Jepha.

Quinn takes a second to get who he’s talking to, but when he glances up, Bert’s bright, bright bird-egg blue eyes are on him, a gotcha smile like a red devil on his lips.

“Only if it’s going in your mouth, bitch,” Quinn replies and shoves his hand down his pants further, a pretend-protective gesture that really just lets him get a better angle on himself while making a show of not giving in to Bert.

As if he won’t soon, when he glances between Bert’s eyes and Bert’s hand and realises he fucking means it about Bert’s mouth. That mouth, as he watches, quirks up at the edges, and Quinn throws him half a stupid-ass fucking heart hand, his hand moving slow through the air and with his eyes half-shut it almost has a hazy comet trail after it. Could just be his eyes watering from the smoke, still, rubbed red raw and probably he looks like he hasn’t slept for a week, because when he’s stoned he looks stoned.

Bert smirks like he can read Quinn’s thoughts (maybe, fucking probably), and does something to Jepha’s ass that makes Jepha let out a groan and a choked off grunt and Dan jerks forward further into Jepha’s mouth and Quinn squeezes himself and groans “fuuuuuck,” low and hoarse, a chain reaction, a series of slow motion explosions one after another after another.

Like that, Quinn’s coming, barely enough time for him to choke out a jumbled curse and undo his fly and he’s jerking himself through it until his stomach is spattered with white. He lets his head smack back to the pillow, a soft thump, letting his tense stomach muscles relax him from the bow he’s been pulled into, his shoulders hitting the mattress. He closes his eyes, just for a second, breathes deep- and falls asleep.

Quinn comes with a quiet whumph of air from his lungs and falls asleep faster than anyone should, an orgasm and a head full of green (all the green, actually, because Quinn is a seasoned bogarter of all things smokeable).

Jepha notes his transition from occasional soft giggles, to heavy breathing, to the semi-regular snoring of sleep with only the vaguest interest. He's distracted by the horribly torn feeling of his own orgasm coming on while his balls say YES his brain says NO. Bert's fingers in his ass and Dan's dick in his mouth and his own hands wandering to his dick, twisting the ring at the head and then jerking himself off harder than anyone ever does without him asking.

He not supposed to-- but fuck he wants to-- he squeezes his eyes shut and concentrates on Dan's dick in his mouth, sucking hard, and Dan's thighs are doing that jerky thing they do when he's close, and he's fucking into Jepha's mouth and Jepha concentrates for that moment on swallowing, swallowing, not choking-- the taste, the fact his lungs are burning -- keeping himself here, with Dan's hand on the back of his neck, while Dan comes and comes.

When he's done Jepha pulls back and collapses with a shaky breath like he's the one that's just come, living vicariously since he's not a-fucking-lowed.

Bert's fingers are still in his ass though, and when Jepha opens his mouth to say, no, sorry, Bert will have to stop, Bert crooks his fingers and licks Jepha's spine, the slick patch of his lower back where his shirt's ridden up, Bert's tongue barely warm on his hot skin, and what comes out of Jepha's mouth is a short, breathy uuuhhh.

"Hey, Jepha," Dan says, somewhere out of Jepha's line of sight.

Jepha's face planted on the floor with Bert's fingers in his ass and his own hand on his dick still, trying, trying not to move. He can't answer Dan right now, doesn't want to in case, because Dan's going to make him stop.

"Hey," Dan says again. He's closer now, tugging on Jepha's hair gently, twisting until Jepha turns over like a curled up rubber band righting itself. Bert's fingers stay in his ass, twisting, and Bert ends up between his legs, Dan's knees behind his head. Dan's hand is on his dick, sure and just as hard as Jepha likes without needing to be told, so unexpected Jepha nearly comes right there, even though Bert's fingers aren't pressing on his prostate anymore.

Jepha's so close, so close, Dan’s hard, knowing hand on him. He tries to choke out something, maybe warn Dan-- when Dan leans sideways and picks up something out of his line of sight; the next thing he experiences is not the mind-breakingly intense orgasm of five days' worth of not coming but a half-pint of very cold, slightly grotty water over his head.

"AUGH," Jepha jerks away from him like a dog from a bee. He's dripping wet and cold and this is not, not, under any circumstances, at all, ever, sexy. Compared to his sex-flushed skin, the water feels like someone's been melting icebergs in it. "I hate you. I hate you. I fucking haaaaaate you."

"But you don't want to lose your beeeeeat," Dan sing-songs, putting the glass out of Jepha's flail radius and giving him the You Can't Punch Me, You're Too Sub grin (which Jepha has proven wrong on at least two occasions, even if it didn't actually have any effect).

"Yes I do," Jepha says miserably, looking at the rapidly diminishing remains of a burning boner with the same sense of despair as a kid at an eight-day party balloon.

"Don't," Dan says, kissing him on the mouth. For a minute Jepha just opens his lips and lets Dan's clever fucking tongue ride over his, pushing his mouth against Dan's jaw and half-suffocating himself, his hands already clamped to Dan's cheeks; then he remembers he currently fucking hates Dan and everything he stands for, especially the bit where he stands for not letting Jepha get off, but it still takes a minute to stop kissing him.

"Fucking cunt ass bitch ass cunt," Jepha complains, rubbing cold water off his face with his hand.

"I love you too," Dan snickers, pulling up his pants.

Quinn snorts something that sounds like “get out of my fucking socks, Bert,” and he’s awake again.

“What’d I miss?” He mumbles, more awake but still sounding slow and stoned.

“Dan being a cunt,” Jepha says.

“Dan’s cunt,” Bert says, and laughs into Quinn’s arm, where he’s curled up next to him on the bed.

“Why the fuck are you wet?” Quinn asks. Still stoned, half-awake and with his hair sticking up in every direction, the look of confusion that goes with the question would be enough to make Jepha laugh, if he wasn’t, actually, feeling more like killing someone.

“Fuck you,” Jepha says, and spits what tastes like bong-water on the floor.

Dan's watching him over the table and everything else in the room is obliterated in a wave of don'tfuckingcare because by now even being looked at like that makes his dick twitch hopefully. Jepha mouths please and mimes prayer, his hands flashing the message in ink, pleaseplease, please sir can I come like some kind of fucked up Oliver Twist. Dan just shakes his head pleasantly, points the neck of his beer in a silent toast, and smiles at a waitress.

Jepha's going to fucking kill him. This is what rage feels like. Not being allowed to come for six days is what rage feels like.

Dan licks his lower lip and the waitress looks startled. Jepha realises that for the last minute and a half, he's been unconsciously grinding his crotch against the bar. Like a freak. Like a monkey in a zoo. Six fucking days. He tears the label off his beer and thinks assholeassholeasshole so loudly he thinks Dan must be able to HEAR him.

"... You drinking?" the bar man gives him this slightly freaked out look and Jepha hauls himself back together as best he can.

"San Miguel..." Jepha says, hoping he heard the question right. And that his hips are still. And that Dan's going to drag him into the toilet and fuck him against the mirror so he can see Dan's face as he comes and then fucking let me come you asshole.

Dan puts a hand on the small of his back and slides it down over his ass. Holds it there. Jepha twitches. Cock and hands and spine. "I fucking hate you," he says, but he can't actually bring himself to move away from Dan's hand

The bottle arrives in front of him with a lime wedged into the neck like Dan's dick into his ass -- Jepha ducks his head while he's fiddling in his wallet for a bill. Oh right. The entire world is full of fucking - someone just opened a bottle and the beer foams out of the top like a -- shit. Twenties?

"Nah," Dan says in his ear, so easily dismissive Jepha wants to bite his face off and fucking, fucking, fumble his wallet enough he drops it

"Change." The bar man's already gone. The tip jar is right there. The door to the bathrooms is right there. Dan's hand is right there. Jepha's dick is RIGHT THERE and oh yeah, they're in public and it's four in the afternoon.

He kind of wants to punch him. Not least because it'll involve getting punched back. Whyyyyyyy did I agree to this?

Dan smirks beside his face and mutters, "You. Look hilarious."

Oh that's right.

He agreed because doing what Dan tells him to makes him hot.

Stupid.

Stupid stupid stupid hot.

Dan's hand is on his skin. Like a promise. Jepha really fucking wishes he'd at least asked when this ... this ... FUCKING TORTURE was going to be over but nooooo. His dick jumped to attention and he just followed along. Dan's fingers are below the lie of Jepha's waistband and the barman gives him a very weird look. That muah noise was apparently not as internal as he thought. Fuck.

"You know you're an asshole?" Jepha says out of the side of his mouth.

"I know you have an asshole," Dan retorts, tugging on the back of his jeans so hard that the front digs into his belly. And the fucked-up state of Jepha's libido right now is that even the sudden pressure on his gut makes him think sexsexsex.

Though that might just be the proximity of Dan, so close that Jepha can smell him, feel the heat of his skin.

"I thought you'd forgotten," Jepha says, so sour he surprises himself.

"I know there's a bathroom," Dan adds, and Jepha doesn't need to turn around to know that Dan's making that face.

He could just stay here and lean on the bar and drink his beer and - and he can't try to distract himself with video games any more. Every time he plays Katamari Damacy now he gets this almost incurable urge to jerk off and it's all Dan's fault. So he could just stay here and lean on the bar and drink his beer and think about, about, about nothing, or he could just give in and …

Jepha discovers that his feet are already walking him to the bathroom. Traitors.

The bar bathroom is kind of new and chrome-y and a lot cleaner than Jepha's strictly used to; it smells of air freshener rather than stale piss and there are none of those suspicious puddles of possibly water standing on every flat surface like in so many bathrooms. Someone has left an empty beer bottle with a lime wedged in its throat by one of the hand driers, though. It's still in the real world, he's not imagining it in some sex-deprived delirium, and Jepha's briefly struck by the thought that the beer bottle is choking.

He's also struck by Dan's hand on his ass, and skips forward on impact, nearly losing his balance. More beer in his blood than he first thought, maybe, and his cheeks are already warm - both sets, ahahah - with the glow of attention. This is what desperation feels like. Fucking hell. He's never going to complain about needing to pee again, not when an aching bladder has fucking nothing on his balls right now.

Jepha latches onto Dan's mouth like a leech to a leg, doesn't even give him a chance to set his beer down or push them into the pretend privacy of a cubicle. Just slams his lips up against Dan's and his hips to hips and grabs Dan's wrist to pull his hand to Jepha's throat or his dick or - it's not even a gay bar and shiny bathroom or not there's maybe this little hint that if anyone catches them like this there's going to be a motherfucking fight.

All that does is make Jepha's heart beat faster.

Dan shakes his arm free of Jepha's grip and locks it around his waist instead, pulling them together and sending warm shocks through his body. Jepha opens his mouth further just as Dan pulls back and finds himself gaping into thin air, unexpected beery drool hanging off his chin.

"What do we say?" Dan says, half-hissing the 'S' between his teeth, half-lisping it, ssssssthay.

"Asshole," Jepha suggests, pushing his hips into Dan's, grinding into him the way he'd been trying not to grind into the bar ten minutes ago. He is fucking hard already, his scalp and skin prickling with frustrated electricity, his breath shallow, short, and just short of panting. "Dan."

"Magic word?" Dan prompts, pushing back apparently on autopilot. "God," he adds, just under his breath.

"Please," Jepha scowls.

"Properlyeeee."

Jepha gets on his knees so fast he can hear the bruises forming. It's a little damp down here but nowhere near as bad as the last bathroom floor he knelt on; he clasps his hands around each other, holds them up begging-style with his tats showing: PLEASE, PLEASE. "Please, Dan."

Dan pats him on the head and smirks a slightly wobbly, breathy smirk. It's the most condescending gesture ever, and it should not tug on his boner like that; this is what easy really is. Jepha bites his lip and holds Dan's gaze, his hands up in prayer still. This is 'easy', getting hyper-horny because someone patted his fucking head, touched his fucking ear … while he's kneeling on the floor, okay. Kneeling may be a factor.

Dan's voice isn't all that steady. "I think you should be naa-aked."

There's probably a reason why he shouldn't but right now Jepha can't think of it; he has his t-shirt off and into Dan's hands so fast he gets a friction burn on his back, and gets his pants down around his thighs before Dan grabs him by the face, the chin, tips his head back and half-squats to kiss him. Jepha stops fucking around with his pants and gropes the back of Dan's neck, his mouth open wide and his skin prickly-hot with need, want, prickly-hot with put your hands on me.

His dick's nestled between his belly and his thighs, the curve of his body rubbing the head of it against his bellybutton almost. Every move he makes, every tiny shift of his weight, drives him that little bit crazier with it.

Dan pulls back again and Jepha could just about fucking murder him for it, but Dan's face is flushed and his lips are wet and his hand is hot on the stretch of Jepha's throat, stroking, stroking; Jepha could forgive him anything right now. Almost anything. "Ffffuck," Dan mutters, his fingers sliding clumsily down to Jepha's collarbones, his free hand battling with his belt. "Ask me, I'll say yes."

Jepha seizes the opportunity and Dan's gaze again and waves his tattoo past Dan's eyes. "Please."

Dan pushes his forehead to Jepha's. "Please what?"

Jepha bites back a frustrated growl and puts his fingertips to Dan's lips; the wet of saliva on his fingers gets into his balls in a jolt of want. "Please. Let me fucking come."

"In my hand," Dan murmurs, his voice sticky and sweaty and close to Jepha's face, his aforementioned palm flat on Jepha's belly just above his fucking, fucking dick.

"Yes. Please." Right now he couldn't care less if Dan wants him to come up his own fucking nose as long as he actually finally fucking gets to come.

"And you lick it off after," Dan mutters in a very breathy whisper, taking a second to spit on his palm. Jepha tries very hard to sit still on his own legs and not arch impatiently towards Dan's wet fingers.

"NNrrggggh. Yes. Please. Dan." Each word is forced out between gritted teeth, on the billionth beat of a racing heart.

"In the bar," Dan says in his ear, his face sweaty and hot on Jepha's cheek, his hand mind-destroyingly tight and right around Jepha's dick, damp with spit and sweat, rough as pumice and hotter than a volcano. "Where people can see you." He's barely making sense now, Jepha's blood racing in his ears as Dan's hand moves slowly and emphatically up and down, his fingers flexing in a wave that washes sane thought from Jepha's head. "Sssssuck it off."

Jepha's hands scrabble for Dan's zipper but he jerks his hips to the side and gives Jepha a brief kiss that half-steals the air from Jepha's lungs, his fingers still moving. "I'll … do-anything-you-want-" Jepha pants, in vague control over his mouth but not his mind, "just-please-"

The door creaks but nothing follows the sound; Dan rubs his face against Jepha's like a cat saying hello and his fingers flex up and down, up and down, spirals of light in Jepha's brain, blood in his dick, all his skin on fire and connected in a web of nerves that's almost beginning to take in the air around his body too. "I'm going to fuck your brains out," Dan whispers indistinctly, his lips on Jepha's ear, "I am going to fuck your fucking ass off.

"Yes-"

"I mean it." Dan's mouth touches his ear again and Jepha can't hold down an answering moan; their sweat-soaked hair entangled like tree branches, like kelp. "I'm gonna make you come so fucking hard you end up inside out, oh my goddddd…"

"Nnnhghhggg. Please, Dan, I -"

The bathroom door bangs violently on its hinges and a blast of cold, air-conditioned air hits him in the chest as Dan leaps away from him. It takes Jepha a second to focus on who is yelling but the yelling itself is pretty much immediately very clear. It's like a punch in the balls.

"GET. OUT," The bar manager shouts, shaking with rage, "OUT. I don't care who the fuck you think you are, this is a decent bar and I -"

Jepha tries to scramble to his feet and pull his pants up at the same time. It's not a vastly successful venture and his dick hurts and horniness and guilt and irritation mingle into a giant and ordinarily uncharacteristic FUCK YOU he's having difficulty keeping unsaid.

Dan dumps his shirt on him. "You couldn't have waited one more minute?" he complains as Jepha's shirt slides onto the floor.

But the bar manager is a man of one idea and he's sticking to it. "GET. THE FUCK. OUT. Or I call the fucking cops -"

"Jesus," Jepha sighs as the bar manager contrives to herd them out without actually touching them at all. His jeans still aren't done up and he holds them closed with one hand - the denim chafes his persistent boner in all the wrong places and it hurts, the good hurt and the bad hurt all at once - his shirt lies abandoned on the bathroom floor.

Since this is a 'decent' bar: no shoes, no shirt, no service - people are staring at them.

Some people are laughing.

Specifically the two very familiar people in the corner booth are wetting themselves with hysterics, one collapsed over the table and the other giggling like such a lunatic that people are staring at him too.

"OUT," the bar manager repeats, pointing at the door.

"My shirt -" Jepha protests, working on his button fly.

"OUT."

"Those guys in the corner are paying our tab," Dan says crossly.

"OUT."

"I'm going to kill them," Jepha says with a horrible calmness as realisation settles over him like a boner-killing cloud of Not Fucking Fair. Dan nudges him in the small of the back as they step into the cloying heat of late afternoon.

"Find an alleyway first."

Jepha's still so pissed at losing his shirt that he nearly fails to follow this. "What - oh. Yes." Dan tickles the back of his neck and Jepha's dick gives a hopeful jump as his knees almost flee the scene. "Yeah," Jepha agrees, a smile stealing over his face, "they can wait."

THE END

If you have enjoyed this fic and would like more The Used gang sex fic, please try Number One On My List Of Things To Do by swear_jar. If you are in search of crackier pastures, please consider Hapalochlaena lunulata cecum howardii by apiphile.