Fic: Dirty. (Used, Bert/Quinn, NC-17)
stonedtodeath recently made an offer to donate $0.01 per word written for her to Pretty Bird Woman House, a shelter and activist group for Native American women and children that have suffered abuse. The house the group was working out of was recently burned down, and they are attempting to rebuild. Please take a second to read over the blog; if you can't donate, try filling out an application for PBWH to go on Extreme Home Makeover. (Multiple recommendations apparently help increase the chances the group will get on the show.) Here's my donation: porn!
Dirty
The bus isn't exactly the cleanest place in the world.
The Used, Bert/Quinn, rated NC-17 for porn and cursing. (2190 words.)
Quinn kicks three pairs of dirty underwear underneath the bunks, boots an empty plastic vodka bottle down the hall onto the couch, shuffles a stack of scattered notebook paper on the floor into a pile and dumps it on Bert's pillow. He finishes his chores by leaning into the bathroom and saying, "Hey, wait. Are you bagging that?"
"Yes, mom," Bert says, and shifts so that Quinn can see the handles of the plastic bag looped over the toilet seat. "It smells like the inside of your fucking ass already, I don't know why you care."
"I was drunk," Quinn says, "And it's your fault for giving me Jager." Bert just flips him off.
Quinn wobbles back up to the front of the bus, kicks the vodka bottle off the couch again, and flops down on his stomach. Bert wanders up a few minutes later, holding the bag. Quinn grimaces. "Next rest stop," Bert promises, and drops it into the box. Quinn grunts and drops his head back down on his arms. "Hey, where did the lyrics go?"
"The papers? On your bunk."
"Fuck!" Bert kicks something that bangs into the fridge. Quinn ignores him and digs between the cushions of the couch. He's pretty sure he left his ipod in there somewhere. His fingers drag through something gummy and grainy-textured, and he pulls his hand back out and smells it. "I had those fucking organized, you worthless motherfucking cunt!" The gummy stuff is magenta, and it smells like raspberry. Probably some of Jeph's weird organic fruit leather. Quinn wipes his hand on the side of the couch and digs back in. "Are you fucking listening to me?"
"Sure," Quinn says. His fingers find something hard, and he pulls out his ipod, complete with headphones.
"Do you ever get tired of being a little shit?" Bert says, and kicks something else. Repeatedly. He must have actually had the lyrics organized this time.
"Could you stop being obsessive for five minutes?"
"I'm sorry, am I being too sensitive?" Bert says, voice suddenly coy. Quinn can feel an angry flush flooding his face. He bites down on a response, practically choking on it, grinding his teeth against the urge to yell. He shoves the earbuds in his ears, shuffles his songs, and hits play. He can hear Bert yell something, hit something, but then "Repeater" kicks in and drowns him out. Quinn closes his eyes, rests his head on his folded arms, and focuses on falling asleep.
------
Quinn wakes up in the dark. His skin feels hot and tight, and there's grit in the corners of his eyes. He's slept for too long.
He realizes that there's something holding him down when he tries to shift around. He fumbles off his ipod, and just the light from the screen hurts his eyes. He cranes his head back, and glimpses Bert's hand pressed into the cushion by his side before the screen goes dark again. "Wha'?" Quinn's throat is dry and tight, and it clicks when he tries to swallow.
"Shh," Bert whispers. "You're still sleeping."
"Unhm?" Quinn says, but he lays his head back down on his arms. He is pretty tired. With his nose tucked next to his armpit, Quinn can smell himself, the sharp salty smell of old sweat. The bus is quiet, but it's started moving again; the only noise is the wheels on the road, the faint tinny sound of the driver listening to the radio. Quinn drifts a little, thinking about the dusty road he used to walk to school.
Skin drags across Quinn's shoulders, and he shudders.
"Asleep?" Bert asks, and leans forward onto his hands, pressing Quinn down into the couch. Quinn thinks of faking a snore, but that would give Bert the giggles, and if Bert gets the giggles he'll stop. He grunts, instead. Bert laughs, but softly, and he goes back to touching.
He's not methodical about it, and he doesn't follow any kind of direction. He pulls at the thin hairs at the small of Quinn's back, then strokes along the curve of his hipbones. He maps every swell and indentation of Quinn's right shoulder blade, then completely ignores the other one.
Bert likes to figure out how people are put together. He's explored before how Quinn's shoulder is hinged, or how his nipples react to water and pinching. It's just surprising to be woken like this, Quinn thinks, that's why his breath is so short, why he's suddenly wide awake and strung tight. Normally Bert would have been distracted by now, too; Quinn's just not used to having Bert's attention for this long.
After he catalogs the spaces between Quinn's ribs, Bert sits back and takes his hands away.
Quinn shifts his hips and huffs a sigh, ruffling the hair in his armpit with his breath. They sit in silence. Quinn waits for Bert to get up.
"You're really asleep," Bert finally says, leaning forward again. His breath is hot and damp on the back of Quinn's neck. Quinn chews on the inside of his lower lip, but he doesn't say anything back.
Bert leans forward a little further, the couch squeaking under their shifting weight. He gently presses his mouth to the top of Quinn's spine, then opens his lips and sucks on the skin there. It feels fucking strange. When Quinn tilts his head down to expose his neck, Bert's laugh hums against the bone. He scrapes his mouth down Quinn's back, banging his teeth into each knob of Quinn's spine. It hurts. When Quinn opens his mouth to say so, Bert scrapes his ragged nails along Quinn’s sides, and Quinn has to muffle a moan against the couch cushions instead. Lint clings to his lips.
Bert rocks forward, scratches the back of Quinn's neck, then over his shoulders, and down into his armpits. The sharp slide of Bert's nails in the damp hair feels strange, like the skin there is too private to let someone touch. Quinn arches his back, and Bert rubs his fingertips there again. "Have you hit puberty yet?" he whispers in Quinn's ear. Quinn chokes on a snort, smushing his nose against the couch to keep it quiet.
Bert stays there, tracing streaks of sweat out of Quinn's armpits and down along his sides. It's soothing, almost like he's winding down, like he's going to stop. Quinn twists his hips against Bert's legs. After a pause, Bert lifts up his weight and lets him turn over.
"Asleep?" Bert asks again, his voice almost a little shy, more quiet than he ever is anywhere but the bus. Through the blur of his eyelashes, Quinn can see the faint outline of his mouth, the dark smudge of his eyebrows.
"Mn," Quinn replies. He rocks up, rubbing his dick against Bert's. Bert's hands scrabble on either side of him, sliding off the fabric of the couch, and Quinn drops one hand to Bert's hips, keeping him steady. "Sure."
Bert starts wriggling out of his grasp, and while it feels fantastic, Quinn doesn't think it'll last long enough to finish the job. He grabs at Bert's wrists, manages to get them squashed together in one hand, and yanks them up over his head. Bert makes a startled squawk, and they both pause.
"Don't wake them up," Bert whispers.
"I'm not even awake."
"Shithead," Bert snaps, but he tilts his hips back and grinds down into Quinn's lap.
Quinn's lungs feel too tight for his breath. "If I were awake, I’d be fucking you," he gasps out, and Bert whines, high and grating in his throat. Quinn slides the hand not holding Bert hostage down the back of Bert's shorts; he crooks the tip of one finger around his tailbone, traces down farther. Bert's skin is damp with sweat. His ass clenches tight against Quinn's fingertip.
"I wouldn't let you," he hisses.
"You would," Quinn says. Bert makes a noise like an outraged cat and surges forward, rotating his shoulders in the wrong direction and snapping his teeth by Quinn's nose. Quinn laughs, louder than he meant to, and squeezes Bert's wrists tighter in his hand. "You would."
"Nah," Bert says, and presses forward to smear his lips across Quinn's. It's like any of his kisses, half hello and half fuck you. Quinn drops his hand a little so Bert's shoulders aren't so out of joint, and Bert takes the opportunity to shove his tongue in Quinn's mouth.
Quinn hasn't dry humped since junior high. It shouldn't be as hot as it is, Bert squirming on top of him and cursing against his lips, biting his tongue with every thrust. It shouldn't be hot at all. Quinn can feel the bones in Bert's wrists grinding together, but he can't stop. He doesn't want to stop.
"Fuck," Bert says, and slides his mouth down across Quinn's cheek, trailing spit. "I--" His breath is harsh and loud in Quinn's ear. When Quinn presses his fingertip against his asshole again, Bert starts shaking, his hips jerking down against Quinn's. Quinn lets go of his wrists, and Bert collapses with his face in the crook of Quinn's neck.
Quinn waits. Bert's breath evens out. Quinn is still really hard. "Um," he says, "so." Bert slithers off of him to the floor. "I--"
"Shut the fuck up," Bert says, and yanks at the waistband of Quinn's shorts. "You're fucking asleep." He barely gets Quinn's dick out before he starts sucking on the head, one of his hands curling comfortably around the shaft.
"Yeah," Quinn gets out, and shoves his hand into Bert's lank hair. Bert pulls off briefly to suck on one of his fingers, and slides his mouth back down before Quinn can get out a complaint. Bert's mouth is hot and wet; he blows Quinn like he's spent time practicing, just on the right side of sloppy. Quinn's hips are rocking up automatically into the wet slide of Bert's hand and mouth; he wants pictures of how Bert looks on his knees, lips stretched, the way the hair that isn't tangled up in Quinn's fist swings around his face and brushes against the inside of Quinn's thighs. Quinn thinks that he's probably going to come in a couple of minutes, honestly, no matter how much Bert makes fun of his stamina later.
Then Bert slides his other hand up Quinn's shorts and sticks his finger up Quinn's ass.
Quinn chokes on a groan. His back arches without any input from his brain; he's not sure what he's trying to do, but it gets his cock farther into Bert's mouth and Bert's finger farther into his ass. Bert moves both of his hands in the same rhythm, rocking him from one to the other. Quinn shapes his mouth around a wordless sound, trying to keep his voice low, trying to tell Bert what it feels like to have something inside of him, making nerves he didn't know he had flare to life. It's enough, that feeling, enough to make his balls draw up tight, to make him come embarrassingly fast.
Bert slides out his finger and takes his mouth off of Quinn's cock with a wet sound. He leans over Quinn's stomach and delicately spits out Quinn's come, then wipes his finger along the hem of Quinn's shorts. "You," he says, like he's just finishing his sentence, "I would be fucking you."
"If I were awake," Quinn says, and surges up to kiss him, running his tongue over Bert's teeth and back into his mouth. Bert leans after him when he pulls away, and Quinn smirks.
"Whatever," Bert says.
"Witty." Bert gets up off of his knees and walks over to his bag. Quinn sits up and stretches. "Man, what a nap." He feels long and loose and ready to play, a day too early to go onstage.
Bert yanks his pants off and tosses them in his bag. When he leans over to get another pair, his shirt rides up to show pink scratches across the soft flesh of his back. Something about them -- Quinn doesn't know what it is, just something -- makes Quinn want to lick him, rub his tongue over every dirty part of Bert's body, cover him in spit and sweat and come.
"Looks like someone had a wet dream," Bert says. He's got a manic smile stretching out the sides of his face when he stands back up. Quinn glances down at the come snaking down over his belly and shrugs. "Who's in your subconscious, little boy?"
"Remember that fat-ass stripper we got for your birthday?"
Bert shrieks with laughter, and there's an incoherent, angry noise from the bunks. Jeph pokes his head out, his hair tangled around his head.
"Die a slow death," he mumbles, and ducks back in. Bert's laughter dwindles down to helpless giggles. Quinn drops his shorts on the floor and toes them back towards the bunks. He'll put them with the underwear.
"You dirty slut," Bert murmurs, his voice admiring. When Quinn walks by him, Bert butts his head against Quinn's shoulder, rubbing like a cat.
Quinn smiles. "Yeah."
------
Thanks to stonedtodeath and besquared for reading this over, and to gigantic for pointing my thoughts in the Bert/Quinn direction in the first place. Any mistakes remaining, particularly issues of canon, are mine alone.
Dirty
The bus isn't exactly the cleanest place in the world.
The Used, Bert/Quinn, rated NC-17 for porn and cursing. (2190 words.)
Quinn kicks three pairs of dirty underwear underneath the bunks, boots an empty plastic vodka bottle down the hall onto the couch, shuffles a stack of scattered notebook paper on the floor into a pile and dumps it on Bert's pillow. He finishes his chores by leaning into the bathroom and saying, "Hey, wait. Are you bagging that?"
"Yes, mom," Bert says, and shifts so that Quinn can see the handles of the plastic bag looped over the toilet seat. "It smells like the inside of your fucking ass already, I don't know why you care."
"I was drunk," Quinn says, "And it's your fault for giving me Jager." Bert just flips him off.
Quinn wobbles back up to the front of the bus, kicks the vodka bottle off the couch again, and flops down on his stomach. Bert wanders up a few minutes later, holding the bag. Quinn grimaces. "Next rest stop," Bert promises, and drops it into the box. Quinn grunts and drops his head back down on his arms. "Hey, where did the lyrics go?"
"The papers? On your bunk."
"Fuck!" Bert kicks something that bangs into the fridge. Quinn ignores him and digs between the cushions of the couch. He's pretty sure he left his ipod in there somewhere. His fingers drag through something gummy and grainy-textured, and he pulls his hand back out and smells it. "I had those fucking organized, you worthless motherfucking cunt!" The gummy stuff is magenta, and it smells like raspberry. Probably some of Jeph's weird organic fruit leather. Quinn wipes his hand on the side of the couch and digs back in. "Are you fucking listening to me?"
"Sure," Quinn says. His fingers find something hard, and he pulls out his ipod, complete with headphones.
"Do you ever get tired of being a little shit?" Bert says, and kicks something else. Repeatedly. He must have actually had the lyrics organized this time.
"Could you stop being obsessive for five minutes?"
"I'm sorry, am I being too sensitive?" Bert says, voice suddenly coy. Quinn can feel an angry flush flooding his face. He bites down on a response, practically choking on it, grinding his teeth against the urge to yell. He shoves the earbuds in his ears, shuffles his songs, and hits play. He can hear Bert yell something, hit something, but then "Repeater" kicks in and drowns him out. Quinn closes his eyes, rests his head on his folded arms, and focuses on falling asleep.
------
Quinn wakes up in the dark. His skin feels hot and tight, and there's grit in the corners of his eyes. He's slept for too long.
He realizes that there's something holding him down when he tries to shift around. He fumbles off his ipod, and just the light from the screen hurts his eyes. He cranes his head back, and glimpses Bert's hand pressed into the cushion by his side before the screen goes dark again. "Wha'?" Quinn's throat is dry and tight, and it clicks when he tries to swallow.
"Shh," Bert whispers. "You're still sleeping."
"Unhm?" Quinn says, but he lays his head back down on his arms. He is pretty tired. With his nose tucked next to his armpit, Quinn can smell himself, the sharp salty smell of old sweat. The bus is quiet, but it's started moving again; the only noise is the wheels on the road, the faint tinny sound of the driver listening to the radio. Quinn drifts a little, thinking about the dusty road he used to walk to school.
Skin drags across Quinn's shoulders, and he shudders.
"Asleep?" Bert asks, and leans forward onto his hands, pressing Quinn down into the couch. Quinn thinks of faking a snore, but that would give Bert the giggles, and if Bert gets the giggles he'll stop. He grunts, instead. Bert laughs, but softly, and he goes back to touching.
He's not methodical about it, and he doesn't follow any kind of direction. He pulls at the thin hairs at the small of Quinn's back, then strokes along the curve of his hipbones. He maps every swell and indentation of Quinn's right shoulder blade, then completely ignores the other one.
Bert likes to figure out how people are put together. He's explored before how Quinn's shoulder is hinged, or how his nipples react to water and pinching. It's just surprising to be woken like this, Quinn thinks, that's why his breath is so short, why he's suddenly wide awake and strung tight. Normally Bert would have been distracted by now, too; Quinn's just not used to having Bert's attention for this long.
After he catalogs the spaces between Quinn's ribs, Bert sits back and takes his hands away.
Quinn shifts his hips and huffs a sigh, ruffling the hair in his armpit with his breath. They sit in silence. Quinn waits for Bert to get up.
"You're really asleep," Bert finally says, leaning forward again. His breath is hot and damp on the back of Quinn's neck. Quinn chews on the inside of his lower lip, but he doesn't say anything back.
Bert leans forward a little further, the couch squeaking under their shifting weight. He gently presses his mouth to the top of Quinn's spine, then opens his lips and sucks on the skin there. It feels fucking strange. When Quinn tilts his head down to expose his neck, Bert's laugh hums against the bone. He scrapes his mouth down Quinn's back, banging his teeth into each knob of Quinn's spine. It hurts. When Quinn opens his mouth to say so, Bert scrapes his ragged nails along Quinn’s sides, and Quinn has to muffle a moan against the couch cushions instead. Lint clings to his lips.
Bert rocks forward, scratches the back of Quinn's neck, then over his shoulders, and down into his armpits. The sharp slide of Bert's nails in the damp hair feels strange, like the skin there is too private to let someone touch. Quinn arches his back, and Bert rubs his fingertips there again. "Have you hit puberty yet?" he whispers in Quinn's ear. Quinn chokes on a snort, smushing his nose against the couch to keep it quiet.
Bert stays there, tracing streaks of sweat out of Quinn's armpits and down along his sides. It's soothing, almost like he's winding down, like he's going to stop. Quinn twists his hips against Bert's legs. After a pause, Bert lifts up his weight and lets him turn over.
"Asleep?" Bert asks again, his voice almost a little shy, more quiet than he ever is anywhere but the bus. Through the blur of his eyelashes, Quinn can see the faint outline of his mouth, the dark smudge of his eyebrows.
"Mn," Quinn replies. He rocks up, rubbing his dick against Bert's. Bert's hands scrabble on either side of him, sliding off the fabric of the couch, and Quinn drops one hand to Bert's hips, keeping him steady. "Sure."
Bert starts wriggling out of his grasp, and while it feels fantastic, Quinn doesn't think it'll last long enough to finish the job. He grabs at Bert's wrists, manages to get them squashed together in one hand, and yanks them up over his head. Bert makes a startled squawk, and they both pause.
"Don't wake them up," Bert whispers.
"I'm not even awake."
"Shithead," Bert snaps, but he tilts his hips back and grinds down into Quinn's lap.
Quinn's lungs feel too tight for his breath. "If I were awake, I’d be fucking you," he gasps out, and Bert whines, high and grating in his throat. Quinn slides the hand not holding Bert hostage down the back of Bert's shorts; he crooks the tip of one finger around his tailbone, traces down farther. Bert's skin is damp with sweat. His ass clenches tight against Quinn's fingertip.
"I wouldn't let you," he hisses.
"You would," Quinn says. Bert makes a noise like an outraged cat and surges forward, rotating his shoulders in the wrong direction and snapping his teeth by Quinn's nose. Quinn laughs, louder than he meant to, and squeezes Bert's wrists tighter in his hand. "You would."
"Nah," Bert says, and presses forward to smear his lips across Quinn's. It's like any of his kisses, half hello and half fuck you. Quinn drops his hand a little so Bert's shoulders aren't so out of joint, and Bert takes the opportunity to shove his tongue in Quinn's mouth.
Quinn hasn't dry humped since junior high. It shouldn't be as hot as it is, Bert squirming on top of him and cursing against his lips, biting his tongue with every thrust. It shouldn't be hot at all. Quinn can feel the bones in Bert's wrists grinding together, but he can't stop. He doesn't want to stop.
"Fuck," Bert says, and slides his mouth down across Quinn's cheek, trailing spit. "I--" His breath is harsh and loud in Quinn's ear. When Quinn presses his fingertip against his asshole again, Bert starts shaking, his hips jerking down against Quinn's. Quinn lets go of his wrists, and Bert collapses with his face in the crook of Quinn's neck.
Quinn waits. Bert's breath evens out. Quinn is still really hard. "Um," he says, "so." Bert slithers off of him to the floor. "I--"
"Shut the fuck up," Bert says, and yanks at the waistband of Quinn's shorts. "You're fucking asleep." He barely gets Quinn's dick out before he starts sucking on the head, one of his hands curling comfortably around the shaft.
"Yeah," Quinn gets out, and shoves his hand into Bert's lank hair. Bert pulls off briefly to suck on one of his fingers, and slides his mouth back down before Quinn can get out a complaint. Bert's mouth is hot and wet; he blows Quinn like he's spent time practicing, just on the right side of sloppy. Quinn's hips are rocking up automatically into the wet slide of Bert's hand and mouth; he wants pictures of how Bert looks on his knees, lips stretched, the way the hair that isn't tangled up in Quinn's fist swings around his face and brushes against the inside of Quinn's thighs. Quinn thinks that he's probably going to come in a couple of minutes, honestly, no matter how much Bert makes fun of his stamina later.
Then Bert slides his other hand up Quinn's shorts and sticks his finger up Quinn's ass.
Quinn chokes on a groan. His back arches without any input from his brain; he's not sure what he's trying to do, but it gets his cock farther into Bert's mouth and Bert's finger farther into his ass. Bert moves both of his hands in the same rhythm, rocking him from one to the other. Quinn shapes his mouth around a wordless sound, trying to keep his voice low, trying to tell Bert what it feels like to have something inside of him, making nerves he didn't know he had flare to life. It's enough, that feeling, enough to make his balls draw up tight, to make him come embarrassingly fast.
Bert slides out his finger and takes his mouth off of Quinn's cock with a wet sound. He leans over Quinn's stomach and delicately spits out Quinn's come, then wipes his finger along the hem of Quinn's shorts. "You," he says, like he's just finishing his sentence, "I would be fucking you."
"If I were awake," Quinn says, and surges up to kiss him, running his tongue over Bert's teeth and back into his mouth. Bert leans after him when he pulls away, and Quinn smirks.
"Whatever," Bert says.
"Witty." Bert gets up off of his knees and walks over to his bag. Quinn sits up and stretches. "Man, what a nap." He feels long and loose and ready to play, a day too early to go onstage.
Bert yanks his pants off and tosses them in his bag. When he leans over to get another pair, his shirt rides up to show pink scratches across the soft flesh of his back. Something about them -- Quinn doesn't know what it is, just something -- makes Quinn want to lick him, rub his tongue over every dirty part of Bert's body, cover him in spit and sweat and come.
"Looks like someone had a wet dream," Bert says. He's got a manic smile stretching out the sides of his face when he stands back up. Quinn glances down at the come snaking down over his belly and shrugs. "Who's in your subconscious, little boy?"
"Remember that fat-ass stripper we got for your birthday?"
Bert shrieks with laughter, and there's an incoherent, angry noise from the bunks. Jeph pokes his head out, his hair tangled around his head.
"Die a slow death," he mumbles, and ducks back in. Bert's laughter dwindles down to helpless giggles. Quinn drops his shorts on the floor and toes them back towards the bunks. He'll put them with the underwear.
"You dirty slut," Bert murmurs, his voice admiring. When Quinn walks by him, Bert butts his head against Quinn's shoulder, rubbing like a cat.
Quinn smiles. "Yeah."
------
Thanks to stonedtodeath and besquared for reading this over, and to gigantic for pointing my thoughts in the Bert/Quinn direction in the first place. Any mistakes remaining, particularly issues of canon, are mine alone.