Fic: Obligation (Bert/Quinn, NC-17), written with sinsense, 1/2
Title: Obligation (1/2)
Authors:
eleanor_lavish and
sinsense
Pairing: Bert/Quinn
Rating/Length: NC-17, ~11000 words
Summary: Bert wears tiny red shorts when he cleans the pool. Quinn is only human, and kind of a bitch. They are stupidly in love, if only they can get over themselves.
Disclaimer: Don't think it happened, but I've never met them, so I can't be sure.
Note:
sinsense and I wrote this as comment fic. It is indulgent, and we love it. Warnings for underage sex, rampant POV changes (marked with an *), immaturity, ridiculousness, come shots, sappiness, vulgarity, and spooning.
Bert struts around the pool in tiny red shorts, with the skimmer held loosely in one hand, and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He's tiny, skinny, shaven, and his hair is dark and floppy; he’s practically the definition of a twink, though Quinn doesn’t know that that’s the word for it. He just knows it’s hot.
Quinn brings up that their neighbor’s been complaining that Bert pisses on his azaleas, and Bert grouses, "Shithead probably jerks off into his bushes watching me. Fucking pedo.” The next time they’re out there, Bert ponces about like a porn star, rubbing his hand up and down his chest, under the waist of his shorts, making really obscene moaning noises.
"Cut it the fuck out," Quinn hisses. He's laying on his stomach on the deck, getting some sun.
Bert cackles. "What? I'm giving the people what they want!" He grabs his dick through his shorts and groans "Yeah, daddy, you know how I like it," then flicks the leaves he's just skimmed out of the pool and onto Quinn's bare back.
"Fucking... stop it!" Quinn yells, but he doesn't turn over. Turning over would be a bad idea.
Bert’s pool-cleaning shorts are a bright red, and they have white piping on the sides. Sometimes Bert actually folds down the waistband so that they'll be shorter. It's a white band at his hips, with the white piping, and the red fabric... all Quinn can do is stare at his legs. He's so short, obviously, it's not like they're super long or anything, they're just-- Quinn can't look away, that's all.
Quinn's back gets more tan than his front that summer, because he just really can't lie on his back while Bert is out by the pool. And Bert always seems to be out by the pool when Quinn is. It's like he knows what effect he's having on Quinn. But he can't possibly, because Quinn's super careful to lie on his stomach. It doesn’t make any sense, but Quinn doesn’t dare bring it up.
The whole thing starts when Quinn gets Bert to take a break to play video games. Bert leans a lot when he plays, practically tumbling into Quinn’s lap when he tries to make a sharp turn. Quinn divides most of his time between staring at Bert’s neck and trying to keep himself from getting hard, and it’s not much of a surprise when he loses.
“You suck,” Bert informs him. Quinn shoves his shoulder, but apparently that’s all the invitation Bert needs to tackle him, sending them crashing into the floor and ripping one of the controllers out of the machine. Quinn’s bigger than Bert, but Bert fights dirty; it takes all of Quinn’s attention to get Bert pinned to the floor, and by the time he actually does, he doesn’t have to concentrate to avoid getting hard. Still, though, with Bert panting and a little sweaty underneath him, Quinn is torn between scrambling up and pressing down, against Bert’s heaving chest. “What?” Bert says, and Quinn can feel his skin flush.
“Nothing,” he says. Their faces are awfully close. He can see a small red mark on the corner of Bert’s mouth, the way his eyelashes are clumped at the corner of one eye, the hairs that grow between his eyebrows. Bert considers him as his breath calms.
“What?” he says again.
“Nothing,” Quinn repeats, and kisses him.
He expects that Bert will punch him, or play it off as a joke. He doesn’t expect that Bert will press up into his mouth, will be the first to open his mouth, will know how to use his tongue so well. Quinn’s had girlfriends, of course, he knows how to make out, but he doesn’t remember any of them doing that thing with the-or the-
“Holy shit,” he says, when they break apart. Bert grins loopily and slides his newly-freed hands over Quinn’s ass, dragging him down.
It gets to be a thing. Quinn doesn’t know what to call it, but it’s definitely a thing, Bert smiling at him over dinner and then dragging him outside to do dirty horrible things by the azaleas.
---
Bert's done with the pool. Not that it's a huge fucking pool or anything, but Bert hates cleaning it, especially when he puts on his tiny shorts and goes out there and Quinn isn't there to watch; then it’s just Bert cleaning shit in tiny shorts. He's back in the kitchen now, scrubbing down the counters and lining up the sugar canisters just so (white, brown, powdered).
He wants a hit so bad he can taste it, remembers how this used to be fun when he was high, this methodical cleaning like a salve to his jittery soul, but he just grits his teeth and tries to get the grape jam out of the grout. He's earning his fucking keep here. All he has to think about is the two weeks he spent in the shelter in town-- all hellfire and brimstone Brothers and shitty food and dudes who steal your stuff when you're in the shower-- and he knows he won't make it if he fucks this up, if he has to go back. He scrubs harder and blinks away the hotness behind his eyes.
"Hey, Bert," he hears Quinn's voice from the doorway, looks up to see Quinn just watching with a bemused grin on his face. Bert flips him off without thinking and then blanches a little, but Quinn just laughs. "I think you missed a spot," Quinn says, sidling up behind him close enough that Bert can feel how hot he is, smelling like sweat and lemonade from a quick basketball game at the park.
"What?" Bert says stupidly, and Quinn laughs again, leaning in close, so his chest is pressed against the length of Bert's back.
"Right there," Quinn says right in his ear, pointing to a spot on the counter, and then nipping lightly at Bert's earlobe. Bert shivers and Quinn's hands land on hips, tug until he turns around.
"Or maybe you could clean me up a little first," he grins, and points to a spot on his neck where a drop of sweat is still meandering down slowly. Bert closes his eyes and leans in to lick a hot line from Quinn's collar to his ear, almost missing the way Quinn's breath shakes a little on his exhale.
It’s just a thing, really. Bert loves that he lives here, loves that Quinn’s part of the deal. Quinn doesn’t seem to get horny as often as Bert does, but he’s not going to complain.
---
Things come to a head because Bert's been a little sick. He couldn't really sleep all night, and he had to make sure the lawn was raked (because Mr. Allman said something about how it was a mess at dinner the night before, and Bert kind of takes those random off-hand comments as, like, instruction).
He's really just tired. After he’s done raking, he goes to the guest room and curls up, a little feverish and just miserable. When Quinn sees him, he just wants to snuggle him a little. A tiny, miserable Bert is awful. Quinn climbs into the bed, and spoons up behind Bert, kissing his shoulder.
Bert goes still for a second, then takes a deep breath. “Yeah, okay,” he says quietly, and "just give me a second.” Quinn is confused until Bert turns around and slips his hand in the waist of Quinn's pants and starts to tug them off. (Bert's not going to waste time with making out here-- he's just going to get Quinn off and then try to sleep. If asked, of course he would say he wants it-- it's Quinn's dick in his mouth-- but today, he's just. Tired.)
Quinn wasn't looking for a blowjob, and Bert won't look at him. He tries to make his brain catch up, but it doesn’t make sense. "Hey," he says. He tugs at Bert's shoulder, tries to kiss him. "Hey, Bert, look at me, hey."
"What, fuck?" Bert snaps, and his eyes are sort of angry, his shoulders a little hunched. He doesn't want to talk, he just wants to sleep. "Sorry, sorry," he mumbles, cause now Quinn's gonna be pissed.
Quinn gets it, right then, what Bert's been doing. He moves away so fast that he literally falls on his ass on the floor. All those times he and Bert made out in the den, or in his car, Bert always the first to sink to his knees and pull Quinn's jeans to his ankles-- Quinn just thought he was enthusiastic. Now he has no idea if Bert wanted to do any of it. If there were times Bert was ever really into it at all.
"I--" Quinn starts, but he has no idea what he's going to say. Like, hey, sorry I forced you to suck my dick out of gratitude? Or maybe I thought you were into it, like some kind of creepy date rapist in a Lifetime movie? He scrambles to his feet and stumbles back a few steps, picking at the hem of his shirt and turning bright red. "I'm gonna go get you some water, okay?" He leaves before Bert can say anything.
It's just. Quinn feels so stupid. Of course someone as awesome as Bert wouldn't be interested in him for real. He's not even that good at blowjobs yet. Quinn thinks about the first time he tried, how patient Bert was, then bites at his lip and blinks really fast, clearing his throat.
He fills a glass with water in the kitchen, then goes to dig in the freezer for ice cubes. While he's there, he figures he'll add a popsicle, the grape kind that Bert likes. And then, because he's giving him a popsicle, he decides to make him toast, too. Toast is good for sick people, right? He stares at the bread while it heats, trying to ignore the way his stomach is rolling over.
Quinn even puts the toast and the popsicle on a plate, to make it classier. He balances it on one hand and grabs the water with the other. Bert's sitting up when he comes into the guest room, but Quinn doesn't look at him when he puts the food down.
"What the fuck?" Bert asks, and Quinn's about to actually throw up when he says, "Since when are you my nanny?"
"Fuck off," Quinn says, "You're sick."
"Sure," Bert says, looking at the toast like it's going to leap off the plate and attack him. Quinn kind of wants to die.
Instead he backs out of the room, shoves his hands in his pockets, and says, "I'll see you later, okay? I. I'm gonna clean my room."
"I can do that." Bert picks up the popsicle, looks up at him.
"I know," Quinn says miserably, turns tail and flees.
---
The popsicle really does help Bert cool down a little. He takes a nibble of the toast when he's done, brushing crumbs from the sheets to the floor as he chews. He'd probably worry about this a lot more if he could actually think through the fog in his brain. He falls asleep with the toast still on his pillow.
"Hey," he hears, and Quinn is standing over him with another glass of water. His hand is cool on Bert's forehead. "Here," he says, and hands over two small white pills with the glass.
"What are we rolling on today?" Bert croaks out with a grin, but Quinn doesn't roll his eyes, just looks at the floor. The smile slips off Bert's face.
"It's Tylenol. You have a fever." Quinn brushes the back of his hand over Bert's cheek again, and Bert leans into the cool touch. Bert swallows the pills and Quinn steps back, collecting the toast and the plate. "You need anything else?" he asks and Bert can't really keep his eyes open, but he shakes his head before he passes out.
When he comes to, he feels better-- clammy and kind of gross, but better-- and there's a fresh glass of water on the nightstand. He drinks it all. He pulls off his sweat-soaked t-shirt, and then pads into the den. Quinn is folded into a corner of the sofa. He's not watching the TV because its on Judge Judy. Quinn fucking hates Judge Judy. "Hey," Bert says. He sits on the sofa next to Quinn and leans in to kiss Quinn's cheek fast. Quinn looks at him like he's been stung. "Thanks, man."
"You don't have to--" he starts, and Bert notices his cheeks flush pink before he looks away. Quinn clears his throat and looks at his shoes. "You look better," he says quietly. Bert had been feeling better until a few seconds ago, but now Quinn is just being fucking weird again.
"Why are you being so weird?" Bert pokes Quinn in the side and leans on him harder. Usually he can get Quinn to push back until it's a game, a mini-wrestling match on the sofa, with Bert showing off at the end by doing a handstand on the back. This time, though, Quinn just gets up and moves to the recliner across the room, picking up the remote and turning up the volume without a word.
Bert's stomach twists in that way it always does when he knows he's in serious shit. He's not quite sure what he did to piss Quinn off, but he thinks maybe he can fix it. After all, there’s one thing guaran-fucking-teed to make Quinn happy.
Quinn doesn't look at Bert until he's dropping to his knees in front of the chair. "Now that I'm not in any danger of puking on you or anything, I think I can totally make up for yesterday," Bert says with a grin, and slides his hands up Quinn's thighs. He stops short when Quinn tenses under his palms. Not the good tense, either; it's like he's thinking about trying to climb over the back of the chair to get away. "Okay, what's wrong with you?" Bert asks, genuinely curious by now. "I'm not going to get you sick, Christ."
"Just--" Quinn is bright red, and when Bert looks at him he looks away, towards the TV. His jaw is set. "Don't."
Bert's still got his hands sitting on Quinn's thighs, and he rubs them back and forth, soothing. "What'd I do?"
"Nothing, okay? Just. don't."
"You liked it enough on Tuesday," Bert says, and Quinn looks like he's going to cry. It's fucking weird. Bert uses his hand on Quinn's knees to push himself up to a crouch; he's going to get up and straddle Quinn on the recliner, force him to talk or kiss, but Quinn uses the chance to get up.
"Maybe I just want you to leave me alone," he says, color high on his cheeks.
"What?"
"Maybe I'm sick of not having any time to myself," Quinn says, and Bert remembers to close his mouth, to swallow past the dryness in his throat. He looks down at the carpet and swipes at his hair when it threatens to swing into his face.
"Okay," he says, "fuck you, then." Quinn snorts. Bert hears him stomp off to his room.
"You spent $72 getting your hair done?" Judge Judy yelps. "Well, you wasted your money!" Bert leans over, grabs the remote, and cuts her off before she can get anything else out.
The house is eerily silent, and then Quinn's bedroom door bangs closed and there's the muted sound of music playing, loud. "Fine," Bert says, and goes to get himself another fucking popsicle.
The thing is, he thought Quinn was different. Everyone else has treated Bert like shit at some point, gotten sick of him and told him to fuck off, but Quinn never did. Quinn gets annoyed, sure, gets pissy like a little bitch if Bert happens to teabag him. He threatened to kill him when Bert ate the last poptart last week. Still, Quinn had never gotten sick of him; he always wanted to hang out.
"Fuck," Bert says to the empty kitchen. He peels back the wrapper and sucks on the popsicle, but it reminds him of giving head, which makes him sad. He really-- he doesn't know what he did this time. Maybe just was around too much, like Quinn said. Maybe if Bert gives him space, Quinn will want to hang out again. Bert takes a bite from the popsicle and nods firmly. Avoidance. It can be done. He's never been able to do it before, but for Quinn he can do it. It'll be awesome. Quinn'll have so much space.
---
It's been three days. Three days of walking into rooms and having Bert walk out of them. Quinn feels like he's going to go insane. He keeps thinking about that afternoon in the den, and then has to either cry or jerk off to the memory of Bert on his knees. Bert had looked so confused.
But Quinn’s also a little pissed. Bert has a fucking mind of his own! Sure, it’s depraved and kind if insane, but he doesn't have to do everything that Quinn tells him to do. Bert’s not a fucking robot! If Quinn says "I need some space", Bert should be able to say "no, fuck you, I'm going to give you head, whether it annoys you or not!"
If Bert wanted to, he would, Quinn thinks. If he wanted Quinn, he'd push, like he always does, push all of Quinn's buttons until Quinn yelled at him, and then he'd laugh until Quinn tackled him, and then they'd end up making out on the floor, like they had that first time, weeks ago. Quinn is nauseated just thinking about it now, about how Bert had gone so still when Quinn's hips had pressed down into his. He thought Bert was into it, the way he tugged on Quinn's hair and cursed in his ear as they rubbed against each other until Quinn came in his pants. Bert had shoved him off and pulled his dick out and jerked himself, just a couple of strokes before his eyes rolled back in his head. It was the first time he ever saw another guy come, and it was awesome.
But he clearly doesn't want Quinn, not like that, and Quinn just feels spectacularly stupid for thinking Bert would ever like him in the first place.
It's not that Bert is a dick to him- or, more of a dick to him-- than he was before. It's just that when Quinn comes into the room, Bert will wait a few seconds to figure out if he's going to stay, and then he’ll give Quinn a little shrug and a half-wave, stuff his hands in his pockets, and leave.
Quinn wonders if Bert would bark like a fucking dog if he asked him. Or, okay, yeah, probably. Or if he'd jump off of... damn it. Quinn wishes Bert were more normal, so he could make analogies that worked right.
---
The thing that Bert didn't realize -- or that he did realize, but he didn't really know -- is how much he needs the time he spends around Quinn.
He's digging at the corner of the tub, trying to get out this one brown stain. It's always fucking bothered him, little ugly fucker ruining the perfect blue and white of the bathroom tile. He's grunting with the effort when Mrs. Allman comes in. She startles. "Bert!"
"Yeah, sorry, you probably need the bathroom, sorry," he says, and gets up. You can barely see the brown spot unless you're right up next to it, but he knows it's there. He snarls at it. Fuckugly motherfucking son of a bitch, ruining the bathroom.
"Thanks," she says. "Are you okay, sweetheart?"
"I'm fine," he says, swiping at his hair. "Just too much Coke, sorry. Coca Cola," he amends, when she inhales to speak, "Pop, you know."
"Okay," she says, and then watches him as he leaves the room. He feels her eyes, he feels the spot in the corner, he feels like he's on fucking meth again. He's so twitchy. Bert tries to walk like a normal person for Mrs. Allman’s benefit and nearly takes a header down the stairs.
Bert hadn’t been able to sleep again the night before. He'd wanted a hit, wanted a fuck, something to cut the power to his brain or amp it up. He'd thought about going to Quinn's room, waking him up, begging him. Quinn would've been warm from sleep, would've touched his trembling skin and murmured sleepily into his hair.
And then Quinn would've been mad. Space. Quinn needed space.
Bert had stayed in bed and touched himself instead; he wrapped his hands around his arms, curled up and talked into his pillow until it was late enough that he could get up and clean.
It's barely been a week. He doesn't know what Quinn meant by space, but it has to be enough by now. The house is fucking spotless, the CDs and books are alphabetically organized, and Bert can do a double back flip on the trampoline in the backyard.
But Quinn looks more pissed, not less. Bert hovers in the doorway of the living room, looking at Quinn's profile as he watches Powerpuff Girls. He looks meaner, jaw set. "What?" Quinn says, but he doesn't look away from the TV.
Bert would quit anything Quinn asked him to, anything. He backs out of the room, thinks one more day. You can do one more.
Maybe Quinn's mom is out of the bathroom. He can hear the brown spot calling him.
---
Quinn's only been out of the room for fifteen minutes-- had to take a call from his grandma, his mom doesn't fuck around about that-- and he'd left Dave in the den playing Grand Theft Auto by himself. It's a kick to his gut when he walks back into the room and Bert is there, giggling maniacally as Dave holds the controller high above his six foot frame. Bert's already got one leg around Dave's waist, a hand on Dave’s shoulder pushing him higher. Dave is laughing. "Get off me, you fucking monkey!" Dave shouts, and sees Quinn in the doorway. "Allman! Call off your dog!" Bert barks once in Dave's ear and growls low in his chest.
"What the fuck?" Quinn says. He's across the room in three strides, pulling Bert off Dave hard enough that Bert ends up flat on his back on the floor, wincing at the impact and staring up at Quinn with wide, wet eyes.
"Dude, hey," Dave says behind him, tone flat and unsure. "It was cool."
"Just go home," Quinn says, not even looking over his shoulder.
“Dude,” Dave says, and then, “Whatever, you guys are fucking weird.” Quinn can hear him grabbing his backpack and slamming the front door. Quinn’s chest is rising and falling in short, hot pants. Bert's is too; he hasn’t gotten up, just propped himself on his elbows on the floor.
"Sorry, I didn't know your friends were off limits too," Bert sneers. Quinn kicks him hard in the thigh. He's so fucking pissed, and he doesn't know why, doesn't know why the sight of Bert being weird and grabby and... Bert has his heart racing like this, has him pulling his foot back to strike another blow. But Bert's been in more fights than he has; he swings his leg out of the way and then back, knocking Quinn sideways and onto his hands and knees.
"Fuck you," Quinn spits. Bert’s fist makes contact with his side hard enough to bruise.
"Why are you fucking like this," Bert grits out. He rolls over into Quinn, swinging hard, fists connecting on every other punch. "What did I fucking do?" He sounds angry, but also like he's going to cry, and that makes Quinn madder. He's been the good guy, here. He's been the one trying to keep himself from doing something Bert doesn't want. He didn’t kiss him when Bert made a mutant turtle out of his mashed potatoes; he didn’t press him into the backseat of Quinn’s dad's car and jerk him off, just because Bert can be as loud as he wants as he comes when they do it there and Quinn loves the sound of it.
Quinn grabs Bert’s wrists and tugs so he'll stop hitting, but that just topples him onto Quinn's chest, both of them still kicking and cursing. Bert's thigh slips strong and solid between his and Quinn can feel the blood rushing to his dick. He squeezes his eyes shut and pushes at Bert as hard as he can, praying he doesn't notice.
*
Bert rocks back on his knees when Quinn shoves him away, but he's too angry now to give up. He hurls himself down at Quinn again, snarling, "Bullshit, fucking bullshit." He almost gets his wrists free, but Quinn's got bigger hands and more leverage, and he gets them caught up again, crushed together. Bert uses his mouth instead; he spits, aiming for Quinn's eyes and mouth.
Quinn turns his face and shoves again, hard, almost frantic. Bert rides the movement out, then cranes his head forward between his shoulders and bites down around Quinn's collarbone. He clenches his jaw and squeezes, until his gums hurt from the pressure. Quinn makes an anguished noise, and Bert laughs. The sound scratches his throat and vibrates through his teeth.
He only lets go when he knows he's broken the skin. He drops his head again and drags his tongue over the bite marks, expecting Quinn to curse and struggle, maybe to cry. Instead Quinn makes a thin, weak sound that Bert doesn't quite have a word for. It cuts through his anger. Quinn's-- Quinn is hard, Bert realizes, and stills. He was too angry to get hard himself, but the realization that Quinn is -- that Quinn wants him -- is enough to make his dick twitch and start to harden, obvious inside his shorts.
Quinn finally lets go of Bert's wrists when Bert stops moving, and he tries to lever himself up and throw Bert off. "Fuck off," he says, but he doesn't look pissed. He looks rumpled, turned on. Bert knocks Quinn’s hands out from under him and scrambles up to kneel on his shoulders, bracing himself on the floor over Quinn's head. Quinn struggles uselessly, then goes limp. They stare at one another, panting, and then Quinn slowly brings his hands up to rest against Bert’s thighs.
"Let me," Bert says, and then, grudgingly, "Please." Quinn's fingertips curl against the fabric of his shorts. Bert shifts his weight so that he can use one hand to get the waistband down. He leaves the shorts stretched around the tops of his thighs, uses his hand to take hold of his dick, rest it against Quinn's mouth. "Please," he says again, less grudging, more needy. Quinn just opens his mouth.
It's the wrong angle to be good. Bert ends up using his hand more than Quinn's mouth, but it's not important. What's important is the way Quinn's lips drag and shift around his cock as he thrusts in, Quinn's eyes wide and fixed on Bert's face, Quinn’s hands digging into the flesh of his ass, urging him forward. "Let me," Bert chants, "Let me, let me."
Part Two