[fic] At long last, porn.
Title: Odds Of Roughly A Billion To One
Authors: swear_jar & apiphile
Fandom: The Used
Word Count: 35,000
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: The Used (IT'S A PAIRING SHUT YOUR MOUTH)
Warnings: The Used GSF, some BDSM, general grossness.
Disclaimer: Probably didn't happen, or we'd have seen it on Kyte. There are no facts whatsoever contained in this story. Frankly, we don't even have any evidence that LA exists. It should not be taken seriously, orally, or anally. Unless you really want to.
Notes: This is, effectively, PWP, as long as your definition of porn includes bad jokes and grossness. It is a self-indulgence of the authors who have just finished WeekFight Hotel and need to unwind. Thank you to marika_kailaya for high-speed beta and putting up with our joint grammatical incompetence.
Jepha Howard has a long and illustrious history of agreeing to very stupid ideas when he's drunk: two tattoos, three girlfriends, one tour, any number of one night stands, several life-endangering dares, and letting Bert balance a can of piss on his head and then throw apples at him are just the tip of the iceberg of dumbfuck drunk shit. And Dan is exceptionally persuasive, especially when he has his hand on Jepha's crotch.
"I'm not that easy," Jepha protests, flopping against the back of the booth. He doesn't even sound convincing to himself.
"Uh-huh." Dan waves his beer at him by the base, in real danger of sloshing it onto the table and possibly Jepha's face. "But you aaaaaare. You get off just looking at, like, pictures of dicks. Imaginary ones." Dan points the neck of the bottle at Jepha's face. "Imaginary picture dicks make you hot until you spill, you're so easy."
There are a lot of objections Jepha could raise to this, starting with what the fuck are you talking about, but he's drunk, so the only one that comes out is a frowning, "Do not."
"Bet you can't go ten minutes without soiling your little girl knickers," Dan says, swallowing the rest of the bottle in one go. Jepha has been hearing about his supposed little girl knickers all day and he's getting bored with it now. Dan's hand is hot and heavy on the seam of Jepha's jeans; he tries not to make any sort of needy throaty sound like the ones he can feel himself trying to make, the sort that might just undermine his valiantly upheld position, and grabs at his own beer before Dan can happen to it.
"I'll go as long as you want me to, asshole," Jepha slurs, because he is perverse in more ways than the advertised one, and goddamn but he's fucking drunk.
Dan's smile should, in retrospect, have been a warning.
"Promise?" he says, wielding a grin that a more sober Jepha would immediately recognise as dangerous.
"Fuck you," Jepha says cheerfully, necking his beer.
"What do you bet me?" Dan gives his crotch a squeeze and Jepha spews beer all down himself and over most of the table. He squirms in his seat.
"Everything." Jepha glares, dripping beer onto the floor and flicking it at Dan. His glare's not very convincing when his voice comes out all stupid-drunk-breathy like that. "Everyfuckingthing." He's … quite … drunk, he's noticed. Quite. Drunk.
"Everything?" Dan repeats.
"Everything everything."
"Everything everything everything?"
"Yes." Jepha's not even sure what they're talking about now, just that he's covered in beer and Dan's rambling shit at him and he's horny-drunk and not getting off, what the hell.
"But do you have the receipt to prove you own everything?" Dan mumbles.
"I hate you," Jepha hiccups. "And your fucking hand."
"Too late," Dan says, giving his thigh a farewell pat as he lurches toward the bathroom. "Legally binding contrabble. Signed in beer."
"I hate Los Angeles." Bert has an industrial face mask strapped to the top of his head, and he's watching the traffic fail to zip past the stationary taxi while bike couriers go flitting between idling engines like egrets between rhinos. The bajillion degree heat threatens to overwhelm the car's air-con. "Hate it hate it hate it hate it hate it. Hate. It."
"Oh Bert, if only you'd mentioned it every single other time you were here," Quinn snorts, engrossed in picking crud from his shoes and flicking it on the floor to the point of sticking his tongue out the corner of his mouth. "Maybe we could have picked up the entire fucking studio and moved it to … uh, fuck … San Francissssco."
"Asshole," Bert mutters, pulling the mask down over his mouth and nose and making zombie noises for a minute. And then he inhales. "Ewww. This smells like your sweaty underwear. Quinn, this is not a jock, this is breathing apparatus for surviving in the modern city. You fucking cunt."
"Quit sniffing my underwear," Quinn advises, still rapt with concentration over the crud on his shoes, which looks a lot like very dried-on gum, "or I will start wiping my ass on it."
Bert seizes on the opportunity almost immediately. "What do you mean, start? Why do you think I was sniffing it in the first pla-AUGH!"
Quinn clamps the grody-looking sneaker over Bert's nose, knocking the mask sideways. "That's better! SAY IT'S BETTER."
"AUGH YOU RAPIST," Bert shouts, trying to bat him away. "Imma call the cops and they'll put your ass in jail and fuck you inside-out don't do that-"
Quinn taps him on the top of the head with the shoe. "Ha. Ha." He thinks for a minute. "Could you still smuggle heroin up your ass if you were inside-out?"
Bert shrugs. "Maybe. Heroin blows, though. Fuck heroin."
"Yeah, buuuuuut, it's like … currency … in prison, right? Right?" Quinn slaps him on the head with his sneaker again. Something falls out of it onto Bert's head.
"Don't right me like I know what you're talking about--" Bert stops in mid-complaint and fumbles for a pen in Quinn's backpack. "Don't write me like I know what you're talking about, don't right me like I know what you're talking abouuuuut … mmm … don't fight me like we're … something … blaaaah … fuck … out out."
He's silent and scrawling the rest of the car ride, unconscious ink scrapes on his face as he taps the rhythm of the words over his lips with the pen. Quinn sits quiet, his shoe across his lap like a sleeping baby, and taps along on his knee.
"Don't fight me 'til there's nothing left to right about … NOW …"
The house looks like it was pretty neat once, before Quinn owned it; it now looks like … like a house that used to be neat and has since been owned by Quinn. There are other descriptive terms, of course: single-storey. Sliding doors. A pool. The pervasive smell of a house that hasn't been lived in for several months. A smattering of children's play equipment going sun-bleached in the garden after the previous owner left it behind. The disapproving glances of neighbours from across the street as Quinn hops one-shoed out of the taxi. Mattresses on the floor because there's only one bed and Bert broke it last time by trying to use it as a space trampoline.
Jepha wakes with a thumping heart and a jerk as something truly horrible splits his eardrum like a hammer to the brain and shakes him out of sleep so hard he feels like he'll never get back there again. After a brief, subvocal, "Fuck," and curling into the foetal position in case of imminent death, his brain catches up enough to point out that it's nothing to worry about, just Bert screaming in his ear.
"INDOOR VOICE," Jepha half-whimpers, pulling a pillow over his head. This lasts about a second as a form of protection; Bert just yanks the pillow out of his hands, flings it away, and licks his face.
At least, Jepha's assuming it's Bert. He has dog breath so bad it's kinda hard to tell whether you're getting a face bath from Bert or someone more … waggy.
The warm, slightly wriggly body that flops down next to him with an elbow in his spleen is, however, too large to be a dog (well, too large to be any of the dogs they collectively own) and very definitely Bert-shaped. Bert burrows into Jepha's side and pulls the pillow back over both their faces.
"S'up, Stinky?" Jepha asks in a slightly pillow-muffled voice as Bert shoves his hands under Jepha's side and his face into Jepha's neck.
"Fuck off," Bert says indistinctly, in the face of the fact that he was the one who just wormed into bed with Jepha. His voice cracks in the middle.
"You okay?"
"I SAID FUCK OFF," Bert snaps, his volume a little impeded by having his mouth pressed into Jepha-flesh.
"Okay," Jepha says soothingly, and he puts his hand over Bert's shoulder. His t-shirt is damp with probable-sweat, although again with Bert it's never smart to make assumptions about that.
After a moment or two of silence in which Jepha contemplates the slim likelihood that he'll be able to get back to sleep sometime before next month, one of Bert's hands snake down over Jepha's hip and begin toying absently with the end of his dick, twisting his dickring this way and that like a door key.
"Beeeeert," Jepha mutters into the pillow with no real irritation - it does feel pretty good and the fluttering in his stomach has already started up in a prelude to a hard-on - "Sleeping."
"Fuck off," Bert repeats into his neck with a little less vehemence.
"No," Dan's voice says, and the mattress dips. "Bad Bert. Bad Jepha."
Bert hurls the pillow at him and sits up abruptly. "FUCK OFF!"
"Jepha's on sex probation," Dan explains with a horrible grin, which has the unexpected side-effect of broadening Bert's early morning vocabulary significantly.
"What?" Bert tucks his hair behind his ears and Jepha curls up into a ball and groans. Just when he's managed to put it all out of his mind, the whole miserable fucking irritating stupid bet pops back up like a teenager's dick all over again. "Sex probation? Whaaaaaat? What? WHAT?" He smacks Jepha with the remaining pillow. "Why are you on sex probation, Jepharee? What does that even mean?"
"It means," Dan says before Jepha can even come up with an excuse, "he's not allowed to shoot his wad until I say so." Dan rolls off the bed and onto his feet, smacking Jepha on the ass on his way out. "Have fun. But not too much fun."
"How much did you bet?" Bert asks, having apparently lost interest in manhandling Jepha's manhood. Jepha's dick, however, has really not lost interest in being manhandled; the urge to just jerk off right here and now is almost unavoidable. Even if Bert will, in all probability, offer constructive criticism and a running commentary with barnyard noises; and it will involve losing.
"I don't remember," Jepha says crossly, dragging his fingers away from his burgeoning semi-on, "I was drunk."
"It doesn't count if you're drunk," Bert says with the cheerful hypocrisy of the very experienced philanderer, "I'll totally blow you." He doesn't look like he actually has any intention of going through with this but one can really never tell with Bert.
"Are you drunk?" Again, it doesn't pay to make assumptions.
"No-ooooo-ooo."
"Then it counts." Jepha rolls onto his stomach in an attempt to shut his dick the fuck up, but it has the opposite effect; now humping the mattress is looking like an inviting and viable plan. "And before you ask, yes, it counts if you're drunk. Or I'm drunk. Or if you do it through a pillowcase." He realises he's grinding his hips into the bed and stops with a jerk. "It fucking counts if I come."
"Huh," Bert says in a thoughtful voice. "Does it count if I come?"
Jepha reaches sideways and pulls the pillow over his head. "Kill me. Please. Just. Kill me."
"Here's the thing: the thing is, there's a real lack of hat-related ponds in today's modern, fucking, dwelling."
"As the owner of a fucking dwelling and a hat, I strongly agree."
Quinn is reclining like a Florida retiree resplendent and repugnant in hibiscus Hawaiian print shorts, a polo shirt made of something more synthetic than polyester, and golf socks. Fluoro golf socks. Disrupting the 'old man whose blind wife chooses his clothing' image is the sombrero perched on top of his head. A hat of proportions so epic it could declare itself a republic and break away from America as an extremely sun-safe rogue state.
"I'm glad you have such strong feelings on the matter," Dan says, already crouching by the pool with what had previously been the iced tea jug in his hands. Jepha suspects with a kind of boozy fatalism that the jug will never, ever be fit for containing iced tea again. It's just a hunch, but it's the kind of hunch that has years of experience and pee behind it. "As the owner of a fucking hat I feel that you are ideally situated to fucking have a fucking hat full of fucking water."
"Noooooo," Quinn says, putting his hands over his eyes in what looks like a sarcastic imitation of Jepha at his most pliable. Either that or Quinn's really fucking drunk.
Dan stands with a jug full of dirty pool water and holds Quinn's hat steady on his head. "Prepare yourself, Quinn Allman, to become a place of natural beauty."
"I already have bugs in my ass."
"CRABS IN YOUR PUBES," Bert offers helpfully. A thunderstruck look steals over his face, the advent of an idea shining in his eyes.
"Needs more camera," Dan says, a critical eye on his brand new water feature.
Bert springs into action and darts to Jepha's bag. A second later Jepha's clothes, books, sex toys, CDs, and spare cash are strewn over the grass like the innards of a road kill kitty and Bert's shaky-cam is ready to immortalize this great moment in history: the bringing together of an excessive piece of faux-Mexican novelty headgear and a very small wildlife sanctuary populated largely with children's bath toys that no one can remember buying.
Jepha more or less inhales what's left of his iced tea straight from the icky plastic bottle and views the carnage of his bag with a stoicism born of long experience and a slightly too-full bladder…
…pressing on his prostate.
Great. Now he can't even fucking pee. His dick is fully out of commission. He might as well cut it off and feed it to Bert's dog. Or one of Dan's. He's not feeding his dick to Zelda, though. That would be weird.
Quinn sits very still as water dribbles through the gaps in his sombrero, and Dan carefully drops another bath ducky into the gradually shrinking pond. If Jepha was in the mood to acknowledge it, he'd say he's pretty impressed that they got a watertight hat. Or at the diligence with which they've selected only the smallest and finest of bath-time toys, or at how Bert has apparently not noticed that he has one foot in the pool as he films it.
Quinn says, "I should get a government grant for this shit. I have a breeding hat."
"No one is going to breed with your hat," Jepha calls, barely bothering to look up from the table. More important than whether or not they would, no one should breed with his hat. Or his shirt, shorts, and golf socks, in case it causes there to be any more of the hideous things in the garden.
"I'm gonna fuck his hat," Bert contradicts, wobbling on one foot.
Jepha squeezes his eyes shut and gives up for lost both the camera and all the footage currently on it, including the several videos of his ass getting pounded which he may or may not have been tormenting himself with because he's a fucking idiot.
"Use a condom," Jepha advises, opening his eyes a crack.
Dan snatches the camera from Bert's hands and, with the other hand, pokes him in the chest, one long forefinger to sternum; it appears he even gets Bert in shot in time to film him as he falls sideways into the pool with a surprised yell.
"YOU FUCKING WHORE!" Bert screams. "IT'S COLD."
"I'll save you, baby," Quinn says, dripping sarcasm like sweat, stationary as before, only his foot twitching. His hat slips slowly over to one side, down over one ear; Dan and Jepha watch with carefully blank faces as the inevitable gently but inexorably transpires.
"MOTHERFUCKER!" Quinn announces as a jug and a half of pool water pours out of the brim of his hat and all over his back and shoulder. "MOTHERFUCKING FUCKERRRRRR-" he tears the hat from his head and stamps on it, soggy and enraged in the late afternoon sun as Dan doubles up laughing and Jepha hiccups into his sleeve.
"SAVE ME, YOU FUCKER," Bert shrieks, splashing about like a sea lion and spitting pool water in his general direction. "I'm a mermaaaaid."
"If you're a mermaid he doesn't need to save you," Dan says, still filming Quinn. "Also, he broke Nature Land. Quinn has to be punished for being an asshole and a nature-hater."
"Fuck nature," Quinn barks, kicking his sombrero savagely. "Nature just … fucking … jizzed down my fucking back."
"And yet when Bert-" Jepha begins, but he bites off the rest of the sentence. Dan's smirking at him, and Jepha flips him the bird. There's another bottle of this weird Belgian iced tea in the fridge, he can go and get that and -
"Quinn, stop shirking your duty," Dan says, filming him. "Get wet."
Jepha snorts and stretches his torso out across the garden table. From where he's half-lying, his ribs humped up over the rim, his arms folded under his head and his empty ice tea bottle rolling between his palms, he can see the remnants of his carefully-packed backpack lying over the grass: underwear. New t-shirts, gym socks, his iPod, a paperback novel he probably wasn't going to read anyway before it ended up spine-up in the dubious weeds.
There's a buttplug, purple, which will be ever after unusable, unless he can disinfect it a thousand times before next use. There's a small drugstore's-worth of lube sachets. If anyone ever needed evidence that he, Jepha Howard, likes things in his ass almost as much as the jerk currently refusing to jump in the pool then all they need to do is examine the garden.
"I'll get you wet in your little girl knickers," Bert crows from the pool, splashing water up and only managing to slop it over Quinn's feet.
Quinn stares down at his feet and shakes the cold, dirty pool water back at Bert like an uppity cat that just walked in piss. "Asshole. These socks are-"
"An affront to humanity," Jepha shouts, not lifting his head. "Your socks fucking suck."
"Stop being a pissy bitch," Bert says, splashing more. It's impossible to tell who he's talking to now, Jepha or Quinn, although Jepha acknowledges that really, he could mean both of them. Quinn's still trying to shake water off his sneakers like it will actually change the fact his feet are soaking or the one where he's going to end up in the pool one way or another, and Jepha's acutely aware that he, himself, Jepha, is sulking.
"Your mom is a pissy bitch," Quinn says, scowling. He dances around on one foot. "I got momjuice on me and it stiiiiinks."
Dan moves the camera away from his eye for a minute and smiles at Jepha. Jepha puts his hands over his head and flicks the iced tea bottle away. No. It's not that he doesn't recognise that smile, know exactly what it means, it's just that he's exercising free will.
He looks up and Dan winks at him.
Free will. It's getting exercised, right this fucking minute. Along with his hangover and the sun beating down on his shoulders, and the gentle whiny demands of his bladder, pee pee pee pee, and the less gentle but much more whiny demands of his fucking balls, come come come.
"Save meeeeee," Bert sings, spinning round and round in the water. "Save me save me save me from your mom's massive vagina or I'm going to drooooown I'm going dooooown dowwwwwn-"
"You're going to turn into Amy Lee," Jepha mutters, but Bert either can't hear him or doesn't care or, most likely, cannot remember who the fuck Amy Lee is and will be mocking Jepha for a week if Jepha admits to knowing.
"I hope you drown," Quinn says with the kind of bitterness that's always alarming if you don't realise it's entirely faked. "I hope you choke on your mom's cuntjuices. My sneakers. My socks. Oh my god. I am wet." He's starting to sound like a valley girl.
"Stop playing with your clit then," Dan says, still grinning at Jepha over the top of the camera. He waggles his eyebrows, and Jepha feels like maybe, maybe he's misinterpreted the wink. Maybe it's not a let me fuck with your head wink.
Maybe it's a you know what to do now wink.
Jepha gets up very slowly and tries not to laugh to himself. He's always been shitty at stealthily sneaking up on people for this precise reason; he can't contain the sniggers before he jumps out on them. Fortunately, Bert and Quinn are still shouting at each other, the kind of rapturous, mutually-abusive love-song that would lead the neighbours to complain if there were any in earshot.
He steps sideways over the sad and scattered remains of his belongings, over the disembowelled carcass of his bag, and shuffles like a, a fucking ninja crab, to the edge of the pool. Staying out of Dan's reach, staying quiet and smiling, and smiling, and trying really fucking hard not to start laughing.
"Your mom sucks dicks in McDonald's," Bert says, splashing more water at Quinn. Some of it gets Jepha's leg, but Jepha bites his tongue and pretends it isn't cold because a yelp of dismay might conceivably give the game away. "For fifty cents. And gives change. Bam." Bert makes gunfingers at Quinn. "Bam. Bam bam."
Quinn shakes his head. He looks like a cranky old man, and, in those shorts, the kind of cranky old man who keeps candy for little girls and boys; Jepha wishes Dan had never made that comparison because he can't get it out of his head. Quinn Allman, you look like a paedophile. Great. "After all my mother did for you, Robert McCracken," he says in a distressingly adult voice, "to think you'd lower yourself to-"
Jepha takes a final sidestep and smacks into Quinn with his hips at the same time that Dan reaches out and prods him in the back.
The splash as Quinn narrowly avoids landing on Bert's head is big enough to soak Jepha to the knees but it's so totally worth it; Dan's laughing too hard to film any longer, Bert's howling and probably closer to drowning now than he ever was before, and it's pretty fucking hilarious and Dan's hand is abruptly on the back of Jepha's neck.
"Don't push me," Jepha says quietly.
"Cunt whore cunt cunt cunt whore," Quinn shouts, but it's Bert he's splashing and there are horrifically shrieky giggles tearing up the bright blue sky like steak knives.
"I'm not going to shove you in the pool," Dan says, and reaches back to prop the camera back on Quinn's recently-vacated lounger. His hand is oddly cold in the hot afternoon, cold and refreshing. And maybe if Jepha'd come at all in the last few days he'd just find it refreshing, but he's already acutely aware of Dan's skin touching his. Not … horny, just … aware. Aware of his proximity.
There's a surcease in the shouting from the pool; Jepha squints out of the corner of his eye and notes with fidgety amusement that Bert and Quinn are trying to hold each other's heads underwater and kiss at the same time. Like they're thirteen or something.
Dan's hand is heavy on his nape, fingers rough, squeezing the sun-warmed skin, his tattoos. "But I might push you a bit."
"Fuck off," Jepha complains, but it comes out whiny and unconvincing.
There's a splutter from the pool and Bert squawks, "This pool tastes of your dick."
"Your mom tastes of my mgggfffhhhhh--you prick-"
Jepha holds up his hands in the world's most futile attempt to ward Dan off. Dan rubs his thumb over his jugular, back and forth, slow and gentle and rough-skinned, and Jepha's stupid traitor dick stirs a little in his pants. Dan's thumb is long and bony and his fingers are huge and his hand is heavy and Jepha feels like he's being slowly compressed from above and tugged upwards by his crotch at the same time. Stupid body. Stupid libido. Stupid having been so spoilt until now. Shit.
There's a bump against his hip; Dan's closer now, his proximity casting a literal as well as a metaphorical shadow over Jepha's fucking crotch. "Fuck off?" Dan enquires, rubbing down the side of Jepha's neck and pressing his crotch into Jepha's hip at the same time; there's definitely something in there that's not as squashy as it is when it's disinterested. "Fuck off?"
"No," Jepha admits, as there's a kind of ripply noise from the pool.
"So you don't have to turn around," Dan says in a very low voice, "They're trying to fuck with their clothes on." He runs his other hand up the inside of Jepha's thigh, and Jepha stands very still, staring back at the house and thinking resolutely about video games. La, la, la. Halo. La la la. Katamari Damacy. La. La. Dan's hand is cupping his crotch like a raw egg, careful, kind, and - okay, that's too much of a squeeze for a raw egg. Jepha bites his tongue. Fucking Mario fucking Kart fuck. "All that porn," Dan murmurs in the same low voice, jerking Jepha from his reverie as effectively as his hand is, "you think they might have worked out you take your clothes off."
"Not always," Jepha says, putting his hand over Dan's and pushing it harder into his crotch. It's stupid. Stupid. Dan's hand, pressure, the friction of his underwear against his piercing, the head of his dick. It hurts a little. It hurts a lot. He's got a fucking semi and Dan can feel it.
"Not always," Dan agrees.
"MY BALLS ARE CHAFING," Quinn shouts, and there's a sound which just has to be a wet slap. "Watch what you're --- oh you're going to die--"
"GET OFF MY DICK YOU HOMO," Bert screams in reply.
Jepha chokes on a snigger, then on a much deeper sound as the hand on the back of his neck slides around to rest like a necklace on his collarbones, Dan's thumb taking up a new position over his pulse.
"Your heart's a little fast, Mr Howard, are you anxious about something?" Dan says in that annoyingly amused monotone he's capable of and so often indulges in. His hand lifts and tightens a little; Jepha swallows and makes a concerted and almost successful effort not to thrust his throat into the stretched straight curve of skin between Dan's thumb and forefinger, where it fits so well.
He tries, he does try to keep his voice calm and sneering in response but Jepha's a lousy actor and Dan's currently pressing hard on two of his major … what's the word … erogenous zones. Not that his entire fucking body isn't about to fall into that category like, like, like Quinn into a pool. "Sorta worried someone's going to stick something up my ass, Dr Dan."
"MY THIGHS HURT," Quinn announces after some wet and breathy silence from that direction. "My thighs huuuuurt and your elbow is in my face."
"HOW ARE YOU SO CRAPPY AT SEX," Bert declares, and there's a loud splash followed by a bubbling noise.
"Quinn is trying to drown Bert," Dan says conversationally. "If you would consent to undoing your fly, Mr. Howard, we shall see about the insertion of things into your ass."
"Glub," says someone in the pool.
"Fuck," Dan says in an entirely different tone, letting go of Jepha.
Every single nerve ending in Jepha's body tingles an angry protest, but his mouth doesn't form it. That was quite an urgent-sounding fuck.
He spins on his heel and makes a dive towards the pool; Quinn's proven a little more successful at attempted murder than underwater frottage.
NEXT
Authors: swear_jar & apiphile
Fandom: The Used
Word Count: 35,000
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: The Used (IT'S A PAIRING SHUT YOUR MOUTH)
Warnings: The Used GSF, some BDSM, general grossness.
Disclaimer: Probably didn't happen, or we'd have seen it on Kyte. There are no facts whatsoever contained in this story. Frankly, we don't even have any evidence that LA exists. It should not be taken seriously, orally, or anally. Unless you really want to.
Notes: This is, effectively, PWP, as long as your definition of porn includes bad jokes and grossness. It is a self-indulgence of the authors who have just finished WeekFight Hotel and need to unwind. Thank you to marika_kailaya for high-speed beta and putting up with our joint grammatical incompetence.
Jepha Howard has a long and illustrious history of agreeing to very stupid ideas when he's drunk: two tattoos, three girlfriends, one tour, any number of one night stands, several life-endangering dares, and letting Bert balance a can of piss on his head and then throw apples at him are just the tip of the iceberg of dumbfuck drunk shit. And Dan is exceptionally persuasive, especially when he has his hand on Jepha's crotch.
"I'm not that easy," Jepha protests, flopping against the back of the booth. He doesn't even sound convincing to himself.
"Uh-huh." Dan waves his beer at him by the base, in real danger of sloshing it onto the table and possibly Jepha's face. "But you aaaaaare. You get off just looking at, like, pictures of dicks. Imaginary ones." Dan points the neck of the bottle at Jepha's face. "Imaginary picture dicks make you hot until you spill, you're so easy."
There are a lot of objections Jepha could raise to this, starting with what the fuck are you talking about, but he's drunk, so the only one that comes out is a frowning, "Do not."
"Bet you can't go ten minutes without soiling your little girl knickers," Dan says, swallowing the rest of the bottle in one go. Jepha has been hearing about his supposed little girl knickers all day and he's getting bored with it now. Dan's hand is hot and heavy on the seam of Jepha's jeans; he tries not to make any sort of needy throaty sound like the ones he can feel himself trying to make, the sort that might just undermine his valiantly upheld position, and grabs at his own beer before Dan can happen to it.
"I'll go as long as you want me to, asshole," Jepha slurs, because he is perverse in more ways than the advertised one, and goddamn but he's fucking drunk.
Dan's smile should, in retrospect, have been a warning.
"Promise?" he says, wielding a grin that a more sober Jepha would immediately recognise as dangerous.
"Fuck you," Jepha says cheerfully, necking his beer.
"What do you bet me?" Dan gives his crotch a squeeze and Jepha spews beer all down himself and over most of the table. He squirms in his seat.
"Everything." Jepha glares, dripping beer onto the floor and flicking it at Dan. His glare's not very convincing when his voice comes out all stupid-drunk-breathy like that. "Everyfuckingthing." He's … quite … drunk, he's noticed. Quite. Drunk.
"Everything?" Dan repeats.
"Everything everything."
"Everything everything everything?"
"Yes." Jepha's not even sure what they're talking about now, just that he's covered in beer and Dan's rambling shit at him and he's horny-drunk and not getting off, what the hell.
"But do you have the receipt to prove you own everything?" Dan mumbles.
"I hate you," Jepha hiccups. "And your fucking hand."
"Too late," Dan says, giving his thigh a farewell pat as he lurches toward the bathroom. "Legally binding contrabble. Signed in beer."
"I hate Los Angeles." Bert has an industrial face mask strapped to the top of his head, and he's watching the traffic fail to zip past the stationary taxi while bike couriers go flitting between idling engines like egrets between rhinos. The bajillion degree heat threatens to overwhelm the car's air-con. "Hate it hate it hate it hate it hate it. Hate. It."
"Oh Bert, if only you'd mentioned it every single other time you were here," Quinn snorts, engrossed in picking crud from his shoes and flicking it on the floor to the point of sticking his tongue out the corner of his mouth. "Maybe we could have picked up the entire fucking studio and moved it to … uh, fuck … San Francissssco."
"Asshole," Bert mutters, pulling the mask down over his mouth and nose and making zombie noises for a minute. And then he inhales. "Ewww. This smells like your sweaty underwear. Quinn, this is not a jock, this is breathing apparatus for surviving in the modern city. You fucking cunt."
"Quit sniffing my underwear," Quinn advises, still rapt with concentration over the crud on his shoes, which looks a lot like very dried-on gum, "or I will start wiping my ass on it."
Bert seizes on the opportunity almost immediately. "What do you mean, start? Why do you think I was sniffing it in the first pla-AUGH!"
Quinn clamps the grody-looking sneaker over Bert's nose, knocking the mask sideways. "That's better! SAY IT'S BETTER."
"AUGH YOU RAPIST," Bert shouts, trying to bat him away. "Imma call the cops and they'll put your ass in jail and fuck you inside-out don't do that-"
Quinn taps him on the top of the head with the shoe. "Ha. Ha." He thinks for a minute. "Could you still smuggle heroin up your ass if you were inside-out?"
Bert shrugs. "Maybe. Heroin blows, though. Fuck heroin."
"Yeah, buuuuuut, it's like … currency … in prison, right? Right?" Quinn slaps him on the head with his sneaker again. Something falls out of it onto Bert's head.
"Don't right me like I know what you're talking about--" Bert stops in mid-complaint and fumbles for a pen in Quinn's backpack. "Don't write me like I know what you're talking about, don't right me like I know what you're talking abouuuuut … mmm … don't fight me like we're … something … blaaaah … fuck … out out."
He's silent and scrawling the rest of the car ride, unconscious ink scrapes on his face as he taps the rhythm of the words over his lips with the pen. Quinn sits quiet, his shoe across his lap like a sleeping baby, and taps along on his knee.
"Don't fight me 'til there's nothing left to right about … NOW …"
The house looks like it was pretty neat once, before Quinn owned it; it now looks like … like a house that used to be neat and has since been owned by Quinn. There are other descriptive terms, of course: single-storey. Sliding doors. A pool. The pervasive smell of a house that hasn't been lived in for several months. A smattering of children's play equipment going sun-bleached in the garden after the previous owner left it behind. The disapproving glances of neighbours from across the street as Quinn hops one-shoed out of the taxi. Mattresses on the floor because there's only one bed and Bert broke it last time by trying to use it as a space trampoline.
Jepha wakes with a thumping heart and a jerk as something truly horrible splits his eardrum like a hammer to the brain and shakes him out of sleep so hard he feels like he'll never get back there again. After a brief, subvocal, "Fuck," and curling into the foetal position in case of imminent death, his brain catches up enough to point out that it's nothing to worry about, just Bert screaming in his ear.
"INDOOR VOICE," Jepha half-whimpers, pulling a pillow over his head. This lasts about a second as a form of protection; Bert just yanks the pillow out of his hands, flings it away, and licks his face.
At least, Jepha's assuming it's Bert. He has dog breath so bad it's kinda hard to tell whether you're getting a face bath from Bert or someone more … waggy.
The warm, slightly wriggly body that flops down next to him with an elbow in his spleen is, however, too large to be a dog (well, too large to be any of the dogs they collectively own) and very definitely Bert-shaped. Bert burrows into Jepha's side and pulls the pillow back over both their faces.
"S'up, Stinky?" Jepha asks in a slightly pillow-muffled voice as Bert shoves his hands under Jepha's side and his face into Jepha's neck.
"Fuck off," Bert says indistinctly, in the face of the fact that he was the one who just wormed into bed with Jepha. His voice cracks in the middle.
"You okay?"
"I SAID FUCK OFF," Bert snaps, his volume a little impeded by having his mouth pressed into Jepha-flesh.
"Okay," Jepha says soothingly, and he puts his hand over Bert's shoulder. His t-shirt is damp with probable-sweat, although again with Bert it's never smart to make assumptions about that.
After a moment or two of silence in which Jepha contemplates the slim likelihood that he'll be able to get back to sleep sometime before next month, one of Bert's hands snake down over Jepha's hip and begin toying absently with the end of his dick, twisting his dickring this way and that like a door key.
"Beeeeert," Jepha mutters into the pillow with no real irritation - it does feel pretty good and the fluttering in his stomach has already started up in a prelude to a hard-on - "Sleeping."
"Fuck off," Bert repeats into his neck with a little less vehemence.
"No," Dan's voice says, and the mattress dips. "Bad Bert. Bad Jepha."
Bert hurls the pillow at him and sits up abruptly. "FUCK OFF!"
"Jepha's on sex probation," Dan explains with a horrible grin, which has the unexpected side-effect of broadening Bert's early morning vocabulary significantly.
"What?" Bert tucks his hair behind his ears and Jepha curls up into a ball and groans. Just when he's managed to put it all out of his mind, the whole miserable fucking irritating stupid bet pops back up like a teenager's dick all over again. "Sex probation? Whaaaaaat? What? WHAT?" He smacks Jepha with the remaining pillow. "Why are you on sex probation, Jepharee? What does that even mean?"
"It means," Dan says before Jepha can even come up with an excuse, "he's not allowed to shoot his wad until I say so." Dan rolls off the bed and onto his feet, smacking Jepha on the ass on his way out. "Have fun. But not too much fun."
"How much did you bet?" Bert asks, having apparently lost interest in manhandling Jepha's manhood. Jepha's dick, however, has really not lost interest in being manhandled; the urge to just jerk off right here and now is almost unavoidable. Even if Bert will, in all probability, offer constructive criticism and a running commentary with barnyard noises; and it will involve losing.
"I don't remember," Jepha says crossly, dragging his fingers away from his burgeoning semi-on, "I was drunk."
"It doesn't count if you're drunk," Bert says with the cheerful hypocrisy of the very experienced philanderer, "I'll totally blow you." He doesn't look like he actually has any intention of going through with this but one can really never tell with Bert.
"Are you drunk?" Again, it doesn't pay to make assumptions.
"No-ooooo-ooo."
"Then it counts." Jepha rolls onto his stomach in an attempt to shut his dick the fuck up, but it has the opposite effect; now humping the mattress is looking like an inviting and viable plan. "And before you ask, yes, it counts if you're drunk. Or I'm drunk. Or if you do it through a pillowcase." He realises he's grinding his hips into the bed and stops with a jerk. "It fucking counts if I come."
"Huh," Bert says in a thoughtful voice. "Does it count if I come?"
Jepha reaches sideways and pulls the pillow over his head. "Kill me. Please. Just. Kill me."
"Here's the thing: the thing is, there's a real lack of hat-related ponds in today's modern, fucking, dwelling."
"As the owner of a fucking dwelling and a hat, I strongly agree."
Quinn is reclining like a Florida retiree resplendent and repugnant in hibiscus Hawaiian print shorts, a polo shirt made of something more synthetic than polyester, and golf socks. Fluoro golf socks. Disrupting the 'old man whose blind wife chooses his clothing' image is the sombrero perched on top of his head. A hat of proportions so epic it could declare itself a republic and break away from America as an extremely sun-safe rogue state.
"I'm glad you have such strong feelings on the matter," Dan says, already crouching by the pool with what had previously been the iced tea jug in his hands. Jepha suspects with a kind of boozy fatalism that the jug will never, ever be fit for containing iced tea again. It's just a hunch, but it's the kind of hunch that has years of experience and pee behind it. "As the owner of a fucking hat I feel that you are ideally situated to fucking have a fucking hat full of fucking water."
"Noooooo," Quinn says, putting his hands over his eyes in what looks like a sarcastic imitation of Jepha at his most pliable. Either that or Quinn's really fucking drunk.
Dan stands with a jug full of dirty pool water and holds Quinn's hat steady on his head. "Prepare yourself, Quinn Allman, to become a place of natural beauty."
"I already have bugs in my ass."
"CRABS IN YOUR PUBES," Bert offers helpfully. A thunderstruck look steals over his face, the advent of an idea shining in his eyes.
"Needs more camera," Dan says, a critical eye on his brand new water feature.
Bert springs into action and darts to Jepha's bag. A second later Jepha's clothes, books, sex toys, CDs, and spare cash are strewn over the grass like the innards of a road kill kitty and Bert's shaky-cam is ready to immortalize this great moment in history: the bringing together of an excessive piece of faux-Mexican novelty headgear and a very small wildlife sanctuary populated largely with children's bath toys that no one can remember buying.
Jepha more or less inhales what's left of his iced tea straight from the icky plastic bottle and views the carnage of his bag with a stoicism born of long experience and a slightly too-full bladder…
…pressing on his prostate.
Great. Now he can't even fucking pee. His dick is fully out of commission. He might as well cut it off and feed it to Bert's dog. Or one of Dan's. He's not feeding his dick to Zelda, though. That would be weird.
Quinn sits very still as water dribbles through the gaps in his sombrero, and Dan carefully drops another bath ducky into the gradually shrinking pond. If Jepha was in the mood to acknowledge it, he'd say he's pretty impressed that they got a watertight hat. Or at the diligence with which they've selected only the smallest and finest of bath-time toys, or at how Bert has apparently not noticed that he has one foot in the pool as he films it.
Quinn says, "I should get a government grant for this shit. I have a breeding hat."
"No one is going to breed with your hat," Jepha calls, barely bothering to look up from the table. More important than whether or not they would, no one should breed with his hat. Or his shirt, shorts, and golf socks, in case it causes there to be any more of the hideous things in the garden.
"I'm gonna fuck his hat," Bert contradicts, wobbling on one foot.
Jepha squeezes his eyes shut and gives up for lost both the camera and all the footage currently on it, including the several videos of his ass getting pounded which he may or may not have been tormenting himself with because he's a fucking idiot.
"Use a condom," Jepha advises, opening his eyes a crack.
Dan snatches the camera from Bert's hands and, with the other hand, pokes him in the chest, one long forefinger to sternum; it appears he even gets Bert in shot in time to film him as he falls sideways into the pool with a surprised yell.
"YOU FUCKING WHORE!" Bert screams. "IT'S COLD."
"I'll save you, baby," Quinn says, dripping sarcasm like sweat, stationary as before, only his foot twitching. His hat slips slowly over to one side, down over one ear; Dan and Jepha watch with carefully blank faces as the inevitable gently but inexorably transpires.
"MOTHERFUCKER!" Quinn announces as a jug and a half of pool water pours out of the brim of his hat and all over his back and shoulder. "MOTHERFUCKING FUCKERRRRRR-" he tears the hat from his head and stamps on it, soggy and enraged in the late afternoon sun as Dan doubles up laughing and Jepha hiccups into his sleeve.
"SAVE ME, YOU FUCKER," Bert shrieks, splashing about like a sea lion and spitting pool water in his general direction. "I'm a mermaaaaid."
"If you're a mermaid he doesn't need to save you," Dan says, still filming Quinn. "Also, he broke Nature Land. Quinn has to be punished for being an asshole and a nature-hater."
"Fuck nature," Quinn barks, kicking his sombrero savagely. "Nature just … fucking … jizzed down my fucking back."
"And yet when Bert-" Jepha begins, but he bites off the rest of the sentence. Dan's smirking at him, and Jepha flips him the bird. There's another bottle of this weird Belgian iced tea in the fridge, he can go and get that and -
"Quinn, stop shirking your duty," Dan says, filming him. "Get wet."
Jepha snorts and stretches his torso out across the garden table. From where he's half-lying, his ribs humped up over the rim, his arms folded under his head and his empty ice tea bottle rolling between his palms, he can see the remnants of his carefully-packed backpack lying over the grass: underwear. New t-shirts, gym socks, his iPod, a paperback novel he probably wasn't going to read anyway before it ended up spine-up in the dubious weeds.
There's a buttplug, purple, which will be ever after unusable, unless he can disinfect it a thousand times before next use. There's a small drugstore's-worth of lube sachets. If anyone ever needed evidence that he, Jepha Howard, likes things in his ass almost as much as the jerk currently refusing to jump in the pool then all they need to do is examine the garden.
"I'll get you wet in your little girl knickers," Bert crows from the pool, splashing water up and only managing to slop it over Quinn's feet.
Quinn stares down at his feet and shakes the cold, dirty pool water back at Bert like an uppity cat that just walked in piss. "Asshole. These socks are-"
"An affront to humanity," Jepha shouts, not lifting his head. "Your socks fucking suck."
"Stop being a pissy bitch," Bert says, splashing more. It's impossible to tell who he's talking to now, Jepha or Quinn, although Jepha acknowledges that really, he could mean both of them. Quinn's still trying to shake water off his sneakers like it will actually change the fact his feet are soaking or the one where he's going to end up in the pool one way or another, and Jepha's acutely aware that he, himself, Jepha, is sulking.
"Your mom is a pissy bitch," Quinn says, scowling. He dances around on one foot. "I got momjuice on me and it stiiiiinks."
Dan moves the camera away from his eye for a minute and smiles at Jepha. Jepha puts his hands over his head and flicks the iced tea bottle away. No. It's not that he doesn't recognise that smile, know exactly what it means, it's just that he's exercising free will.
He looks up and Dan winks at him.
Free will. It's getting exercised, right this fucking minute. Along with his hangover and the sun beating down on his shoulders, and the gentle whiny demands of his bladder, pee pee pee pee, and the less gentle but much more whiny demands of his fucking balls, come come come.
"Save meeeeee," Bert sings, spinning round and round in the water. "Save me save me save me from your mom's massive vagina or I'm going to drooooown I'm going dooooown dowwwwwn-"
"You're going to turn into Amy Lee," Jepha mutters, but Bert either can't hear him or doesn't care or, most likely, cannot remember who the fuck Amy Lee is and will be mocking Jepha for a week if Jepha admits to knowing.
"I hope you drown," Quinn says with the kind of bitterness that's always alarming if you don't realise it's entirely faked. "I hope you choke on your mom's cuntjuices. My sneakers. My socks. Oh my god. I am wet." He's starting to sound like a valley girl.
"Stop playing with your clit then," Dan says, still grinning at Jepha over the top of the camera. He waggles his eyebrows, and Jepha feels like maybe, maybe he's misinterpreted the wink. Maybe it's not a let me fuck with your head wink.
Maybe it's a you know what to do now wink.
Jepha gets up very slowly and tries not to laugh to himself. He's always been shitty at stealthily sneaking up on people for this precise reason; he can't contain the sniggers before he jumps out on them. Fortunately, Bert and Quinn are still shouting at each other, the kind of rapturous, mutually-abusive love-song that would lead the neighbours to complain if there were any in earshot.
He steps sideways over the sad and scattered remains of his belongings, over the disembowelled carcass of his bag, and shuffles like a, a fucking ninja crab, to the edge of the pool. Staying out of Dan's reach, staying quiet and smiling, and smiling, and trying really fucking hard not to start laughing.
"Your mom sucks dicks in McDonald's," Bert says, splashing more water at Quinn. Some of it gets Jepha's leg, but Jepha bites his tongue and pretends it isn't cold because a yelp of dismay might conceivably give the game away. "For fifty cents. And gives change. Bam." Bert makes gunfingers at Quinn. "Bam. Bam bam."
Quinn shakes his head. He looks like a cranky old man, and, in those shorts, the kind of cranky old man who keeps candy for little girls and boys; Jepha wishes Dan had never made that comparison because he can't get it out of his head. Quinn Allman, you look like a paedophile. Great. "After all my mother did for you, Robert McCracken," he says in a distressingly adult voice, "to think you'd lower yourself to-"
Jepha takes a final sidestep and smacks into Quinn with his hips at the same time that Dan reaches out and prods him in the back.
The splash as Quinn narrowly avoids landing on Bert's head is big enough to soak Jepha to the knees but it's so totally worth it; Dan's laughing too hard to film any longer, Bert's howling and probably closer to drowning now than he ever was before, and it's pretty fucking hilarious and Dan's hand is abruptly on the back of Jepha's neck.
"Don't push me," Jepha says quietly.
"Cunt whore cunt cunt cunt whore," Quinn shouts, but it's Bert he's splashing and there are horrifically shrieky giggles tearing up the bright blue sky like steak knives.
"I'm not going to shove you in the pool," Dan says, and reaches back to prop the camera back on Quinn's recently-vacated lounger. His hand is oddly cold in the hot afternoon, cold and refreshing. And maybe if Jepha'd come at all in the last few days he'd just find it refreshing, but he's already acutely aware of Dan's skin touching his. Not … horny, just … aware. Aware of his proximity.
There's a surcease in the shouting from the pool; Jepha squints out of the corner of his eye and notes with fidgety amusement that Bert and Quinn are trying to hold each other's heads underwater and kiss at the same time. Like they're thirteen or something.
Dan's hand is heavy on his nape, fingers rough, squeezing the sun-warmed skin, his tattoos. "But I might push you a bit."
"Fuck off," Jepha complains, but it comes out whiny and unconvincing.
There's a splutter from the pool and Bert squawks, "This pool tastes of your dick."
"Your mom tastes of my mgggfffhhhhh--you prick-"
Jepha holds up his hands in the world's most futile attempt to ward Dan off. Dan rubs his thumb over his jugular, back and forth, slow and gentle and rough-skinned, and Jepha's stupid traitor dick stirs a little in his pants. Dan's thumb is long and bony and his fingers are huge and his hand is heavy and Jepha feels like he's being slowly compressed from above and tugged upwards by his crotch at the same time. Stupid body. Stupid libido. Stupid having been so spoilt until now. Shit.
There's a bump against his hip; Dan's closer now, his proximity casting a literal as well as a metaphorical shadow over Jepha's fucking crotch. "Fuck off?" Dan enquires, rubbing down the side of Jepha's neck and pressing his crotch into Jepha's hip at the same time; there's definitely something in there that's not as squashy as it is when it's disinterested. "Fuck off?"
"No," Jepha admits, as there's a kind of ripply noise from the pool.
"So you don't have to turn around," Dan says in a very low voice, "They're trying to fuck with their clothes on." He runs his other hand up the inside of Jepha's thigh, and Jepha stands very still, staring back at the house and thinking resolutely about video games. La, la, la. Halo. La la la. Katamari Damacy. La. La. Dan's hand is cupping his crotch like a raw egg, careful, kind, and - okay, that's too much of a squeeze for a raw egg. Jepha bites his tongue. Fucking Mario fucking Kart fuck. "All that porn," Dan murmurs in the same low voice, jerking Jepha from his reverie as effectively as his hand is, "you think they might have worked out you take your clothes off."
"Not always," Jepha says, putting his hand over Dan's and pushing it harder into his crotch. It's stupid. Stupid. Dan's hand, pressure, the friction of his underwear against his piercing, the head of his dick. It hurts a little. It hurts a lot. He's got a fucking semi and Dan can feel it.
"Not always," Dan agrees.
"MY BALLS ARE CHAFING," Quinn shouts, and there's a sound which just has to be a wet slap. "Watch what you're --- oh you're going to die--"
"GET OFF MY DICK YOU HOMO," Bert screams in reply.
Jepha chokes on a snigger, then on a much deeper sound as the hand on the back of his neck slides around to rest like a necklace on his collarbones, Dan's thumb taking up a new position over his pulse.
"Your heart's a little fast, Mr Howard, are you anxious about something?" Dan says in that annoyingly amused monotone he's capable of and so often indulges in. His hand lifts and tightens a little; Jepha swallows and makes a concerted and almost successful effort not to thrust his throat into the stretched straight curve of skin between Dan's thumb and forefinger, where it fits so well.
He tries, he does try to keep his voice calm and sneering in response but Jepha's a lousy actor and Dan's currently pressing hard on two of his major … what's the word … erogenous zones. Not that his entire fucking body isn't about to fall into that category like, like, like Quinn into a pool. "Sorta worried someone's going to stick something up my ass, Dr Dan."
"MY THIGHS HURT," Quinn announces after some wet and breathy silence from that direction. "My thighs huuuuurt and your elbow is in my face."
"HOW ARE YOU SO CRAPPY AT SEX," Bert declares, and there's a loud splash followed by a bubbling noise.
"Quinn is trying to drown Bert," Dan says conversationally. "If you would consent to undoing your fly, Mr. Howard, we shall see about the insertion of things into your ass."
"Glub," says someone in the pool.
"Fuck," Dan says in an entirely different tone, letting go of Jepha.
Every single nerve ending in Jepha's body tingles an angry protest, but his mouth doesn't form it. That was quite an urgent-sounding fuck.
He spins on his heel and makes a dive towards the pool; Quinn's proven a little more successful at attempted murder than underwater frottage.
NEXT