[fic]
Title: Not What You Were After
Fandom: The Used, (Thursdayverse)
Prompt: H/C Bingo: fuck or die
Word Count: 1,223
Rating: R?
Pairing: Bert/Jepha
Warnings/Content advisory: POV character is fucking crazy, BDSM.
Disclaimer: It's an AU. They're actually musicians. Not criminals! Mostly.
Million dollar mansion, day six; they have consumed the contents of a wine cellar that Bert assures him must have taken a lifetime to lay down. There are bottles of gloopy dark red shit that smell almost like vinegar, and with these glass blood-bags they baptise Jepha over the claw-footed bathtub (Bert has filled the Jacuzzi with piss and whipped cream), wriggling and beaming as if he's been given all he could ever hope for. Bert calls him an assfuck and a butt-sniffer and Jepha agrees and shouts "bipedal" at the ceiling, at the fly-strips hanging fat and overloaded from the ceiling.
They are running low on food, now. The house's original owners are assholes of some wealthy stripe, not survivalist keepers of tinned food in case of apocalypse or communism outbreak; Quinn knows they remain on his account, on account of his needing to be - contained. Kept away from the world in case he breaks it so badly that he goes straight back to jail. He needs time to refuel and realign himself with his bros; to get stoned. To not be alone and to be alone. To start a fire in the basement, trash the laundry room, smash some windows.
To stop being a prisoner.
It's in him like a sickness. A cancer in his skull that wakes him at the approximate time of wake-up. That staggers his steps when he's still walking after lights-out. His stomach is gnawing with rats and his blood feels cold, like he hasn't seen the sun in months and months. Like he's a motherfucking lizard. Quinn drinks hot water straight from the tap and slashes the canvas on a painting recognises from a print. It hung somewhere. Some office. One of the liars and whores and motherfuckers behind a desk who directed his steps and shoved him into one cage or another.
It is the sixth day in the house Bert stole for him, and the house is quiet. No one is sobbing just in earshot. No trolleys are rattling. No bars are being struck with cups. No deals are being struck; because Quinn is not in prison. Instead the light comes in through the windows like it can just enter as it pleases, and the frosted glass on the bathroom panes paints watery patterns in a long rectangle on the bare wooden floorboards. Finally there's sound; Bert running a finger down the keyboard of the little off-white upright in one of the upstairs rooms, striking up the intro to something light and classical.
Quinn strains his stomach muscles and tears his ass trying to shit out the brick two years of prison and six days of fine living have put in his colon. Jepha watches placidly from his perch on the bidet, crouched with his sneakered feet resting where some rich cunt's cunt should get rinsed. Quinn reaches down behind the toilet bowl and picks up the first object his hands touch, hurls it at Jepha to miss. It crashes down beside Jepha and Jepha doesn't flinch. "Stop watching me shit."
He's not expecting Jepha to get up and go away.
It's easy for anyone to see when Quinn's about to pass into the red-and-black realms of unstoppable wrath; he gives all the signs of a volcano about to erupt. Jepha is harder to read. He is, to anyone's mind, pretty fucking weird to begin with. Sometimes it's hard to see which outbursts of word salad or protracted silences are Jepha-being-a-freak and which are the first gusts of wind before a storm; Bert's got the kind of all-seeing eyes that spot the signs but Quinn is just not that fucking sensitive.
The fairytale palace has been theirs for a week. Quinn eats beets from a jar 'til his piss turns pink. He eats raspberry jam. He vomits red and sugary into the charred remains of the basement.
Bert is drawing sad kittens on the kitchen floor with weedkiller powder and a funnel when Jepha shambles in from the garden with rose petals in his hair and a blank look on his stupid pretty face; Quinn wipes the re-heaved jam and strings of drool onto the back of his hand. That's an omen. Even Quinn's rage-clouded bloodshot eyes can see that.
Bert kicks Jepha's feet out from under him and as tattooed-and-tacky goes down like a felled fucking tree Quinn can see him mouthing what counts as "thank you" for someone as distant from words as he is; today it makes the shape of the word rosebud but you don't have to be Bert's level of genius to know that what Jepha means is save me.
His eyes show too much white and his eyelids are stuck; his tattooed fingers with their dumb cheap trashy rings on them (and the costly ones he's acquired from the house) curl into rows of quivering Cs. Quinn's hands make knobbled fists and Bert collapses on top of Jepha as if his own legs have been swept away too. "Scream, little mountain goat," Bert says. His voice is soft, but the ringing slap he brings to Jepha's face is hard enough that the kitchen vibrates with it.
Of course Jepha doesn't scream. Quinn's blunt-bitten nails dig deep into the rough pads of his palms. He could swing his foot from here and catch Jepha in the leg, and it would be received with gratitude, as the kindness it is; but it's kindness, and he can't. Bert hits Jepha again, tears at his open shirt, claws at his nipples, applies tiny sharp teeth to the colours of his skin until they're all underpainted in red crescents; Jepha's lungs sing out in rasps, and between Bert's thigh-backs Quinn can see a blue-clad Jepha crotch signalling a reply. Message fucking received.
The message in fucking begins. And he would rather look at the ceiling, he would rather look back at the hated basement door or the shitty lawns that look like they ought to have fucking peacocks or golfers wandering across them, but Quinn's eyes are compasses and Bert is always North. His sharp teeth and his thudding fists and his echoing slaps; the sound of balls on ass and the way Jepha writhes back to life, arching beneath Bert's touch. It's all punching holes in Quinn's ballsack.
He should stoop to hit, he should dig his fingers into the soft Crayola-vomit of tattoos that make up Jepha's straining neck. He should seize Jepha's wrists and slam them into the floor so he's trapped there. But that's kindness and that's something that makes his dick hard - like it isn't hard already, and he can't and he won't. Quinn hits the top of the table with the bottom of his fist and his stomach tries to devour itself. Fuck his fucking hard dick and fuck fucking.
His teeth hurt. His jaw and hand hurt; Bert pinches both Jepha's nipples at once and sings out, "Your mother is a fucker, a motherfucker," to a half-recognisible tune.
Quinn doesn't notice Jepha come over the sound of smashing glass; the jam jar splinters against the kitchen wall and leaves a glittering purple-red stain on the paint, studding the floor with fragments. His contribution to the cacophany, his only fucking kindness. His dick aches. Quinn punches himself in the pube-line, and quits the kitchen.
Fandom: The Used, (Thursdayverse)
Prompt: H/C Bingo: fuck or die
Word Count: 1,223
Rating: R?
Pairing: Bert/Jepha
Warnings/Content advisory: POV character is fucking crazy, BDSM.
Disclaimer: It's an AU. They're actually musicians. Not criminals! Mostly.
Million dollar mansion, day six; they have consumed the contents of a wine cellar that Bert assures him must have taken a lifetime to lay down. There are bottles of gloopy dark red shit that smell almost like vinegar, and with these glass blood-bags they baptise Jepha over the claw-footed bathtub (Bert has filled the Jacuzzi with piss and whipped cream), wriggling and beaming as if he's been given all he could ever hope for. Bert calls him an assfuck and a butt-sniffer and Jepha agrees and shouts "bipedal" at the ceiling, at the fly-strips hanging fat and overloaded from the ceiling.
They are running low on food, now. The house's original owners are assholes of some wealthy stripe, not survivalist keepers of tinned food in case of apocalypse or communism outbreak; Quinn knows they remain on his account, on account of his needing to be - contained. Kept away from the world in case he breaks it so badly that he goes straight back to jail. He needs time to refuel and realign himself with his bros; to get stoned. To not be alone and to be alone. To start a fire in the basement, trash the laundry room, smash some windows.
To stop being a prisoner.
It's in him like a sickness. A cancer in his skull that wakes him at the approximate time of wake-up. That staggers his steps when he's still walking after lights-out. His stomach is gnawing with rats and his blood feels cold, like he hasn't seen the sun in months and months. Like he's a motherfucking lizard. Quinn drinks hot water straight from the tap and slashes the canvas on a painting recognises from a print. It hung somewhere. Some office. One of the liars and whores and motherfuckers behind a desk who directed his steps and shoved him into one cage or another.
It is the sixth day in the house Bert stole for him, and the house is quiet. No one is sobbing just in earshot. No trolleys are rattling. No bars are being struck with cups. No deals are being struck; because Quinn is not in prison. Instead the light comes in through the windows like it can just enter as it pleases, and the frosted glass on the bathroom panes paints watery patterns in a long rectangle on the bare wooden floorboards. Finally there's sound; Bert running a finger down the keyboard of the little off-white upright in one of the upstairs rooms, striking up the intro to something light and classical.
Quinn strains his stomach muscles and tears his ass trying to shit out the brick two years of prison and six days of fine living have put in his colon. Jepha watches placidly from his perch on the bidet, crouched with his sneakered feet resting where some rich cunt's cunt should get rinsed. Quinn reaches down behind the toilet bowl and picks up the first object his hands touch, hurls it at Jepha to miss. It crashes down beside Jepha and Jepha doesn't flinch. "Stop watching me shit."
He's not expecting Jepha to get up and go away.
It's easy for anyone to see when Quinn's about to pass into the red-and-black realms of unstoppable wrath; he gives all the signs of a volcano about to erupt. Jepha is harder to read. He is, to anyone's mind, pretty fucking weird to begin with. Sometimes it's hard to see which outbursts of word salad or protracted silences are Jepha-being-a-freak and which are the first gusts of wind before a storm; Bert's got the kind of all-seeing eyes that spot the signs but Quinn is just not that fucking sensitive.
The fairytale palace has been theirs for a week. Quinn eats beets from a jar 'til his piss turns pink. He eats raspberry jam. He vomits red and sugary into the charred remains of the basement.
Bert is drawing sad kittens on the kitchen floor with weedkiller powder and a funnel when Jepha shambles in from the garden with rose petals in his hair and a blank look on his stupid pretty face; Quinn wipes the re-heaved jam and strings of drool onto the back of his hand. That's an omen. Even Quinn's rage-clouded bloodshot eyes can see that.
Bert kicks Jepha's feet out from under him and as tattooed-and-tacky goes down like a felled fucking tree Quinn can see him mouthing what counts as "thank you" for someone as distant from words as he is; today it makes the shape of the word rosebud but you don't have to be Bert's level of genius to know that what Jepha means is save me.
His eyes show too much white and his eyelids are stuck; his tattooed fingers with their dumb cheap trashy rings on them (and the costly ones he's acquired from the house) curl into rows of quivering Cs. Quinn's hands make knobbled fists and Bert collapses on top of Jepha as if his own legs have been swept away too. "Scream, little mountain goat," Bert says. His voice is soft, but the ringing slap he brings to Jepha's face is hard enough that the kitchen vibrates with it.
Of course Jepha doesn't scream. Quinn's blunt-bitten nails dig deep into the rough pads of his palms. He could swing his foot from here and catch Jepha in the leg, and it would be received with gratitude, as the kindness it is; but it's kindness, and he can't. Bert hits Jepha again, tears at his open shirt, claws at his nipples, applies tiny sharp teeth to the colours of his skin until they're all underpainted in red crescents; Jepha's lungs sing out in rasps, and between Bert's thigh-backs Quinn can see a blue-clad Jepha crotch signalling a reply. Message fucking received.
The message in fucking begins. And he would rather look at the ceiling, he would rather look back at the hated basement door or the shitty lawns that look like they ought to have fucking peacocks or golfers wandering across them, but Quinn's eyes are compasses and Bert is always North. His sharp teeth and his thudding fists and his echoing slaps; the sound of balls on ass and the way Jepha writhes back to life, arching beneath Bert's touch. It's all punching holes in Quinn's ballsack.
He should stoop to hit, he should dig his fingers into the soft Crayola-vomit of tattoos that make up Jepha's straining neck. He should seize Jepha's wrists and slam them into the floor so he's trapped there. But that's kindness and that's something that makes his dick hard - like it isn't hard already, and he can't and he won't. Quinn hits the top of the table with the bottom of his fist and his stomach tries to devour itself. Fuck his fucking hard dick and fuck fucking.
His teeth hurt. His jaw and hand hurt; Bert pinches both Jepha's nipples at once and sings out, "Your mother is a fucker, a motherfucker," to a half-recognisible tune.
Quinn doesn't notice Jepha come over the sound of smashing glass; the jam jar splinters against the kitchen wall and leaves a glittering purple-red stain on the paint, studding the floor with fragments. His contribution to the cacophany, his only fucking kindness. His dick aches. Quinn punches himself in the pube-line, and quits the kitchen.