cybercandy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cybercandy) wrote2014-02-14 10:32 pm
cybercandy) wrote2014-02-14 10:32 pm
Entry tags:
FIC: Interlude
Title: Interlude
Fandom(s): The Used
Pairing(s): Quinn Allman/Bert McCracken
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 2,367 words
Warnings: PWP, The Used being The Used
Disclaimer: All lies.
A/N:: I blame Bert's hair.
The bus is a metal can frying in the sun, the madness of Warped is just a few steps away, but the air conditioning is working, the couch in the front lounge is comfortable and the bus is quiet.
It’s three hours till stage time and Quinn is trying to have a nap.
Trying being the operative word here, because he’s just about to slip-slide into slumber when the door swishes and Bert stomps into the bus. Over the years Quinn, like everyone else who’s around Bert on a regular basis and values their sanity, has gotten good at blanking him out. He doesn’t flinch when Bert comes to a halt right in front of him, but he does open his eyes a little. It’s safer that way.
“Quiiiiinnnnn…” Bert wails, rocking back and forth on the soles of his feet.
“Quinnery... Quinnface… Quiiiinnnnnnn…,” he continues in increasing volume and pitch.
“Quinn,” he says happily when Quinn finally looks up.
“That’s my name,” Quinn confirms and arranges himself into a sitting position.
“We should fuck,” Bert says earnestly.
“What?” Quinn asks, mainly to buy himself some time and wake up.
“You and me,” Bert repeats, pointing at Quinn’s face with index and middle finger, then pointing at his own eyes, “Should fuck”. The latter is accompanied by Bert humping the air.
“You’ve got a wife,” Quinn points out. Bert sometimes needs reminding of the fact that he is, in fact, married.
“Yeah, but she’s not here,” Bert answers. “And you know she’s ok with it.”
“I’ve got a wife,” Quinn remarks. He feels he’s got a chance of winning this. His facts are bullet-proof.
Bert looks around, like he actually has to check that Quinn hasn’t managed to sneak Megan onto the bus, then concludes triumphantly, “She’s not here, either. And I know she’s ok with it, too.”
This, Quinn has to admit, is true. Bert, as well as the rest of his band, are Quinn’s exceptions. He still wonders, sometimes, how he deserves a woman as amazing as his wife.
“You know you want some of this,” Bert says in what Quinn knows he considers to be his seductive voice. He’s running his hands over his chest and, in an inspired detour, grabs his crotch and hitches his hips. Michael Jackson would be proud of him. Michael Jackson wouldn’t be wearing floral shorts and battered old trainers with mismatched laces while doing that move, though.
“Do I?” Quinn tries, but there isn’t much conviction behind it. It’s not like Quinn wants to resist all that much. It’s not like Quinn actually stood a chance.
“I want yoooooouuuu and you want meeeeeee,” Bert singsongs and climbs onto Quinn’s lap. He’s grinding his bony ass against Quinn’s hips and Quinn’s just getting into it when Bert leans back and goes still.
“You do want me, right?” he asks, blue eyes wide and sincere, as if he’s honestly got doubts. Quinn just grabs his hips and pushes him down against the semi in his jeans.
“So you are pleased to see me,” Bert giggles against Quinn’s shoulder.
“Yeah, asshole,” Quinn says softly. “Got lube and condoms?”
He feels Bert shake his head. “‘m sure there’s some in Jepha’s bunk,” Bert mumbles, gnawing on Quinn’s earlobe and drooling on his neck in the process.
“Come on, then, back lounge,” Quinn says and pushes Bert off his legs.
“You’re so romantic,” Bert coos and flutters his lashes like a little girl. It looked slightly more convincing when he had long hair instead of the fluffy tuft of pink hair he’s currently rocking.
“Do you want a fuck or a dinner date?” Quinn asks.
“Dinner would be nice if you’re buying,” Bert beams and flutters his lashes again.
“Back lounge. Now.”
“You always say the sweetest things, Mr Darcy,” Bert pipes. He dramatically throws his arms around Quinn’s neck and presses himself against Quinn’s body, smacking a kiss onto Quinn’s jaw before stomping down the hallway hollering, “I’m gonna get LAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIDDDDD…”.
“KEEP IT DOWN,” Quinn hears Jepha shout in reply.
Jepha’s in his bunk, headphones over his ears, bobbing along to some crazy-ass music that sounds like someone’s murdering a cat. He claims it broadens his musical horizons, but Quinn suspects it’s more to drown out Bert. To his credit Jepha doesn’t even raise an eyebrow, just hands over a bottle of lube and a strip of condoms when Quinn leans into his bunk.
“Keep it down. And no come on the upholstery. Or floor. No come anywhere. Oh, and I think he’s showered this morning,” he says.
“I feel special,” Quinn deadpans.
“That’s because you are,” Jepha confirms, deliberately ignoring Quinn giving him the finger.
Bert’s already naked when Quinn walks into the back lounge. He’s standing in the middle of the small room, one hand curled around his cock, the other twirling a strand of bright pink hair.
“I’m getting laid,” he grins.
Manic smile, blue eyes shining, hair sticking up, hand lazily stroking his dick and body covered in tattoos, he looks every inch the sick and twisted cousin of a children’s toy.
“You look like a fucking magic troll,” Quinn remarks dryly. Bert leers and sticks out his stomach some more. There’s not a lot of it, he’s skinny again, but it’s a healthy skinny this time.
“Yeah, wanna rub my belly and make a wish?” he asks.
“You think that would work?” Quinn has his doubts. Bert’s known for a lot of things. The ability to fulfill wishes isn’t one of them.
“Dunno. Does your wish involve my jizz on your face?” Bert asks.
“I don’t think so,” Quinn replies. He really doesn’t see why he’d want that. It’s sticky and burns when it gets into your eyes and Bert never helps with the clean up.
“Then it probably won’t…,” Bert says sadly. “WHY DON’T YOU WANT MY JIZZ, QUINNY?”
“NO JIZZ,” Jepha shouts from the bunks.
“FUCK OFF, JEPH,” Bert screams back, sending spit flying into Quinn’s face.
“Shut up, fuckface,” Quinn says affectionately and grabs Bert’s neck to go in for a kiss.
“Then fuck me, asshole,” Bert mumbles around Quinn’s tongue.
Quinn will never, ever, get enough of kissing Bert.
There was a time when they weren’t kissing. When Bert was kissing Gerard fucking Way. Quinn doesn’t like to think of that time, the memory’s sore and itchy like a badly healing wound. When it was over, when Bert came crawling back with his tail between his legs, heartbroken and bitter, Quinn screamed him a list of all the ways (Ways! Ha!) he sucked. And Bert just took it, just stood there, tears and snot streaming down his face. He wouldn’t go away no matter how often Quinn told him to fuck off, and when Quinn was done screaming, voice hoarse and eyes burning from tears he didn’t want to cry, Bert said sorry. Over and over, until Quinn believed him.
That night they kissed until their lips bled.
Kissing Bert is a full contact sport. It’s tongue, spit and teeth, passionate and rough, no romantic shit, just honest lust. Quinn kisses with his mouth open and his eyes closed, fingers digging hard into Bert’s back, holding him in place. They don’t stop kissing so much as come up for air, panting, briefly escaping the gravity of each other’s body. Quinn’s cock is trapped hard and heavy in his jeans, he feels drunk, high, sweaty even in the chill of the A/C. Bert’s eyes are dark, pupils blown, face flushed, hair standing up like someone’s run a current through him.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” he rasps and launches himself at Quinn, tugging off his t-shirt, pushing down his jeans and boxers just enough for Quinn to step out of them.
They kiss, grope, scratch, bite, relentlessly attacking each other, urged on by the soundtrack of their gasps and moans. Quinn’s walking them towards the couch and Bert goes down easy when the back of his knees hits the seat, legs spread invitingly, hands on Quinn’s hips, trying to pull him down and on top of him.
“Come on,” he says impatiently when Quinn remains standing.
“Yeah, just let me… for fuck’s sake, do you want prep or shall I just stick it in? You’re gonna bitch for days if I do that, you fucking diva,” Quinn snaps, twisting away from Bert’s tugging hands.
“Prep,” Bert says gravely and lies back, silently watching Quinn squirt some lube onto his fingers. His eyes close and his hips tilt up when Quinn gets to work, fast and methodically, because Bert’s not patient and they don’t do this often enough that Quinn could actually go through with his threat. They have done it often enough for Quinn to know exactly how to crook his fingers to make Bert groan and his cock twitch, and Quinn’s just worked a third finger in when Bert starts whining, “Quiiiiin, get it in me, nowwwww...”
“Yeah, yeah, but don’t complain…,” Quinn mumbles and fishes around for the condoms.
“You’re not that fucking big, dude, come on…,” Bert urges. Quinn grunts, too busy rolling a condom over his cock and lining up to argue. Better to let actions do the talking and make Bert feel the size of his, at least average-sized, cock.
Bert’s tight and Quinn takes his time pushing in, giving Bert a few moments to adjust before he starts thrusting. It’s a dance they’ve danced a hundred times before, they know the steps, the beat, the rhythm. It’s familiar, like coming home, always different but still the same.
It’s also really fucking noisy, because Bert’s vocal and he’s loud.
By now everyone in the vicinity who’s not entirely deaf is well informed that Bert’s having sex, who’s fucking him, what that someone’s doing, and how much Bert likes it. Chances are good their neighbours don’t give a fuck, because they’re out, high, asleep or busy fucking someone themselves. Of course Quinn could just put a hand over Bert’s mouth to shut him up, but Bert’s teeth are sharp and he bites and Quinn’s not up for spending half an hour talking Jepha out of dragging him to ER for a tetanus shot. Again.
Besides, he needs both hands on the couch, for leverage, to push deeper, harder, faster.
Bert’s bend over double, legs hanging over Quinn’s shoulders and a hand on his dick, jacking himself in time with Quinn’s thrusts, racing him to the finish and getting there first. He clenches up around Quinn’s cock, come spurting in white streaks onto his belly, and drags Quinn over the edge with him.
Quinn comes with a choked back cry, head against Bert’s shoulder, body jerking rough and uncontrolled. He’s holding himself up on shaky arms, there’s not enough blood in his brain, not enough air in his lungs, and he’s still shuddering through the aftershocks when Bert starts poking him in the ribs.
“Get off me, bitch, you’re heavy,” he complains. Quinn makes a noise that he hopes conveys he’s not heavy and he’s certainly no one’s bitch, but pulls out and pitches to the side nevertheless. He fumbles off the condom and ties it up while Bert gets up and starts moving around, because unlike normal people Bert feels fucking invigorated after sex.
“That’s my shirt, asswipe,” Quinn mumbles when Bert grabs his t-shirt to wipe himself clean, but he’s too lazy to actually do anything about it. His body feels heavy, his eyelids are drooping, he could just pass out now and hope that someone wakes him up in time to go on stage.
Bert leans down, presses a kiss to Quinn’s forehead and whispers, “Later, fuckhead.” Seconds later there’s a loud thump followed by Bert shouting, “Whoa, get a room!”, from what sounds like the hallway. Quinn briefly contemplates just staying where he is, but he’s curious.
Naptimes, it seems, are just not meant to be.
Yawning, Quinn rolls off the couch, flicks the condom into the trash can and gathers his belongings. The t-shirt’s a lost cause, a bunched up mess with Bert’s come drying to a crust all over it. Quinn’s so gonna make Bert pay for his laundry next time. He’s not gonna let Bert do his laundry, because Bert’s approach to washing clothes is to throw everything into the machine, add dubious amounts of detergent, press all the buttons at once and let other people deal with the fall out. Quinn’s underwear still has a slight pink tinge to it and one of his favourite hoodies will never be the same again.
As expected Bert’s nowhere to be seen, but Dan and Jepha are in the hallway. Dan’s got one hand on the rail of the top bunk next to Jepha’s face, the other is resting on Jepha’s crotch. Jepha’s got both of his hands behind his back and a soft smile on his face.
“Oh, good, you’re done,” Dan says happily.
“Didn’t know there was a fucking queue…” Quinn mutters.
“Quinn and Bert fuck. Jeph hear. Jeph get horny. Dan help,” Dan explains in his foreign guy voice and squeezes Jepha’s junk. Jepha, predictably, moans and rocks into Dan’s hand.
“I can see that,” Quinn agrees.
“No space in bunk. Dan want fuck Jeph in hallway. But Dan has no lube. Dan need lube,” Dan says dolefully and waggles his eyebrows.
“Left the lube and condoms somewhere on the couch. And we’re on in two hours,” Quinn answers.
“Aw, plenty of time. Dan quick,” Dan replies, giving the front of Jepha’s jeans one last rub before removing his hand and giving Jepha a pat on the ass. Jepha obediently shuffles off towards the back of the bus.
“I should probably…” Dan starts and cocks his head in the direction Jepha’s just disappeared in.
“Yeah. Have fun,” Quinn yawns and grabs a, probably, most likely, by tour definitions, clean t-shirt out of his bunk.
“Always,” Dan grins and ruffles Quinn’s hair as he walks past.
Quinn stretches and heads to the front lounge, which is pleasantly empty. He settles on the couch, puts on his headphones and presses play.
It’s two hours till stage time and Quinn’s gonna have a well-deserved nap.
Fandom(s): The Used
Pairing(s): Quinn Allman/Bert McCracken
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 2,367 words
Warnings: PWP, The Used being The Used
Disclaimer: All lies.
A/N:: I blame Bert's hair.
The bus is a metal can frying in the sun, the madness of Warped is just a few steps away, but the air conditioning is working, the couch in the front lounge is comfortable and the bus is quiet.
It’s three hours till stage time and Quinn is trying to have a nap.
Trying being the operative word here, because he’s just about to slip-slide into slumber when the door swishes and Bert stomps into the bus. Over the years Quinn, like everyone else who’s around Bert on a regular basis and values their sanity, has gotten good at blanking him out. He doesn’t flinch when Bert comes to a halt right in front of him, but he does open his eyes a little. It’s safer that way.
“Quiiiiinnnnn…” Bert wails, rocking back and forth on the soles of his feet.
“Quinnery... Quinnface… Quiiiinnnnnnn…,” he continues in increasing volume and pitch.
“Quinn,” he says happily when Quinn finally looks up.
“That’s my name,” Quinn confirms and arranges himself into a sitting position.
“We should fuck,” Bert says earnestly.
“What?” Quinn asks, mainly to buy himself some time and wake up.
“You and me,” Bert repeats, pointing at Quinn’s face with index and middle finger, then pointing at his own eyes, “Should fuck”. The latter is accompanied by Bert humping the air.
“You’ve got a wife,” Quinn points out. Bert sometimes needs reminding of the fact that he is, in fact, married.
“Yeah, but she’s not here,” Bert answers. “And you know she’s ok with it.”
“I’ve got a wife,” Quinn remarks. He feels he’s got a chance of winning this. His facts are bullet-proof.
Bert looks around, like he actually has to check that Quinn hasn’t managed to sneak Megan onto the bus, then concludes triumphantly, “She’s not here, either. And I know she’s ok with it, too.”
This, Quinn has to admit, is true. Bert, as well as the rest of his band, are Quinn’s exceptions. He still wonders, sometimes, how he deserves a woman as amazing as his wife.
“You know you want some of this,” Bert says in what Quinn knows he considers to be his seductive voice. He’s running his hands over his chest and, in an inspired detour, grabs his crotch and hitches his hips. Michael Jackson would be proud of him. Michael Jackson wouldn’t be wearing floral shorts and battered old trainers with mismatched laces while doing that move, though.
“Do I?” Quinn tries, but there isn’t much conviction behind it. It’s not like Quinn wants to resist all that much. It’s not like Quinn actually stood a chance.
“I want yoooooouuuu and you want meeeeeee,” Bert singsongs and climbs onto Quinn’s lap. He’s grinding his bony ass against Quinn’s hips and Quinn’s just getting into it when Bert leans back and goes still.
“You do want me, right?” he asks, blue eyes wide and sincere, as if he’s honestly got doubts. Quinn just grabs his hips and pushes him down against the semi in his jeans.
“So you are pleased to see me,” Bert giggles against Quinn’s shoulder.
“Yeah, asshole,” Quinn says softly. “Got lube and condoms?”
He feels Bert shake his head. “‘m sure there’s some in Jepha’s bunk,” Bert mumbles, gnawing on Quinn’s earlobe and drooling on his neck in the process.
“Come on, then, back lounge,” Quinn says and pushes Bert off his legs.
“You’re so romantic,” Bert coos and flutters his lashes like a little girl. It looked slightly more convincing when he had long hair instead of the fluffy tuft of pink hair he’s currently rocking.
“Do you want a fuck or a dinner date?” Quinn asks.
“Dinner would be nice if you’re buying,” Bert beams and flutters his lashes again.
“Back lounge. Now.”
“You always say the sweetest things, Mr Darcy,” Bert pipes. He dramatically throws his arms around Quinn’s neck and presses himself against Quinn’s body, smacking a kiss onto Quinn’s jaw before stomping down the hallway hollering, “I’m gonna get LAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIDDDDD…”.
“KEEP IT DOWN,” Quinn hears Jepha shout in reply.
Jepha’s in his bunk, headphones over his ears, bobbing along to some crazy-ass music that sounds like someone’s murdering a cat. He claims it broadens his musical horizons, but Quinn suspects it’s more to drown out Bert. To his credit Jepha doesn’t even raise an eyebrow, just hands over a bottle of lube and a strip of condoms when Quinn leans into his bunk.
“Keep it down. And no come on the upholstery. Or floor. No come anywhere. Oh, and I think he’s showered this morning,” he says.
“I feel special,” Quinn deadpans.
“That’s because you are,” Jepha confirms, deliberately ignoring Quinn giving him the finger.
Bert’s already naked when Quinn walks into the back lounge. He’s standing in the middle of the small room, one hand curled around his cock, the other twirling a strand of bright pink hair.
“I’m getting laid,” he grins.
Manic smile, blue eyes shining, hair sticking up, hand lazily stroking his dick and body covered in tattoos, he looks every inch the sick and twisted cousin of a children’s toy.
“You look like a fucking magic troll,” Quinn remarks dryly. Bert leers and sticks out his stomach some more. There’s not a lot of it, he’s skinny again, but it’s a healthy skinny this time.
“Yeah, wanna rub my belly and make a wish?” he asks.
“You think that would work?” Quinn has his doubts. Bert’s known for a lot of things. The ability to fulfill wishes isn’t one of them.
“Dunno. Does your wish involve my jizz on your face?” Bert asks.
“I don’t think so,” Quinn replies. He really doesn’t see why he’d want that. It’s sticky and burns when it gets into your eyes and Bert never helps with the clean up.
“Then it probably won’t…,” Bert says sadly. “WHY DON’T YOU WANT MY JIZZ, QUINNY?”
“NO JIZZ,” Jepha shouts from the bunks.
“FUCK OFF, JEPH,” Bert screams back, sending spit flying into Quinn’s face.
“Shut up, fuckface,” Quinn says affectionately and grabs Bert’s neck to go in for a kiss.
“Then fuck me, asshole,” Bert mumbles around Quinn’s tongue.
Quinn will never, ever, get enough of kissing Bert.
There was a time when they weren’t kissing. When Bert was kissing Gerard fucking Way. Quinn doesn’t like to think of that time, the memory’s sore and itchy like a badly healing wound. When it was over, when Bert came crawling back with his tail between his legs, heartbroken and bitter, Quinn screamed him a list of all the ways (Ways! Ha!) he sucked. And Bert just took it, just stood there, tears and snot streaming down his face. He wouldn’t go away no matter how often Quinn told him to fuck off, and when Quinn was done screaming, voice hoarse and eyes burning from tears he didn’t want to cry, Bert said sorry. Over and over, until Quinn believed him.
That night they kissed until their lips bled.
Kissing Bert is a full contact sport. It’s tongue, spit and teeth, passionate and rough, no romantic shit, just honest lust. Quinn kisses with his mouth open and his eyes closed, fingers digging hard into Bert’s back, holding him in place. They don’t stop kissing so much as come up for air, panting, briefly escaping the gravity of each other’s body. Quinn’s cock is trapped hard and heavy in his jeans, he feels drunk, high, sweaty even in the chill of the A/C. Bert’s eyes are dark, pupils blown, face flushed, hair standing up like someone’s run a current through him.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” he rasps and launches himself at Quinn, tugging off his t-shirt, pushing down his jeans and boxers just enough for Quinn to step out of them.
They kiss, grope, scratch, bite, relentlessly attacking each other, urged on by the soundtrack of their gasps and moans. Quinn’s walking them towards the couch and Bert goes down easy when the back of his knees hits the seat, legs spread invitingly, hands on Quinn’s hips, trying to pull him down and on top of him.
“Come on,” he says impatiently when Quinn remains standing.
“Yeah, just let me… for fuck’s sake, do you want prep or shall I just stick it in? You’re gonna bitch for days if I do that, you fucking diva,” Quinn snaps, twisting away from Bert’s tugging hands.
“Prep,” Bert says gravely and lies back, silently watching Quinn squirt some lube onto his fingers. His eyes close and his hips tilt up when Quinn gets to work, fast and methodically, because Bert’s not patient and they don’t do this often enough that Quinn could actually go through with his threat. They have done it often enough for Quinn to know exactly how to crook his fingers to make Bert groan and his cock twitch, and Quinn’s just worked a third finger in when Bert starts whining, “Quiiiiin, get it in me, nowwwww...”
“Yeah, yeah, but don’t complain…,” Quinn mumbles and fishes around for the condoms.
“You’re not that fucking big, dude, come on…,” Bert urges. Quinn grunts, too busy rolling a condom over his cock and lining up to argue. Better to let actions do the talking and make Bert feel the size of his, at least average-sized, cock.
Bert’s tight and Quinn takes his time pushing in, giving Bert a few moments to adjust before he starts thrusting. It’s a dance they’ve danced a hundred times before, they know the steps, the beat, the rhythm. It’s familiar, like coming home, always different but still the same.
It’s also really fucking noisy, because Bert’s vocal and he’s loud.
By now everyone in the vicinity who’s not entirely deaf is well informed that Bert’s having sex, who’s fucking him, what that someone’s doing, and how much Bert likes it. Chances are good their neighbours don’t give a fuck, because they’re out, high, asleep or busy fucking someone themselves. Of course Quinn could just put a hand over Bert’s mouth to shut him up, but Bert’s teeth are sharp and he bites and Quinn’s not up for spending half an hour talking Jepha out of dragging him to ER for a tetanus shot. Again.
Besides, he needs both hands on the couch, for leverage, to push deeper, harder, faster.
Bert’s bend over double, legs hanging over Quinn’s shoulders and a hand on his dick, jacking himself in time with Quinn’s thrusts, racing him to the finish and getting there first. He clenches up around Quinn’s cock, come spurting in white streaks onto his belly, and drags Quinn over the edge with him.
Quinn comes with a choked back cry, head against Bert’s shoulder, body jerking rough and uncontrolled. He’s holding himself up on shaky arms, there’s not enough blood in his brain, not enough air in his lungs, and he’s still shuddering through the aftershocks when Bert starts poking him in the ribs.
“Get off me, bitch, you’re heavy,” he complains. Quinn makes a noise that he hopes conveys he’s not heavy and he’s certainly no one’s bitch, but pulls out and pitches to the side nevertheless. He fumbles off the condom and ties it up while Bert gets up and starts moving around, because unlike normal people Bert feels fucking invigorated after sex.
“That’s my shirt, asswipe,” Quinn mumbles when Bert grabs his t-shirt to wipe himself clean, but he’s too lazy to actually do anything about it. His body feels heavy, his eyelids are drooping, he could just pass out now and hope that someone wakes him up in time to go on stage.
Bert leans down, presses a kiss to Quinn’s forehead and whispers, “Later, fuckhead.” Seconds later there’s a loud thump followed by Bert shouting, “Whoa, get a room!”, from what sounds like the hallway. Quinn briefly contemplates just staying where he is, but he’s curious.
Naptimes, it seems, are just not meant to be.
Yawning, Quinn rolls off the couch, flicks the condom into the trash can and gathers his belongings. The t-shirt’s a lost cause, a bunched up mess with Bert’s come drying to a crust all over it. Quinn’s so gonna make Bert pay for his laundry next time. He’s not gonna let Bert do his laundry, because Bert’s approach to washing clothes is to throw everything into the machine, add dubious amounts of detergent, press all the buttons at once and let other people deal with the fall out. Quinn’s underwear still has a slight pink tinge to it and one of his favourite hoodies will never be the same again.
As expected Bert’s nowhere to be seen, but Dan and Jepha are in the hallway. Dan’s got one hand on the rail of the top bunk next to Jepha’s face, the other is resting on Jepha’s crotch. Jepha’s got both of his hands behind his back and a soft smile on his face.
“Oh, good, you’re done,” Dan says happily.
“Didn’t know there was a fucking queue…” Quinn mutters.
“Quinn and Bert fuck. Jeph hear. Jeph get horny. Dan help,” Dan explains in his foreign guy voice and squeezes Jepha’s junk. Jepha, predictably, moans and rocks into Dan’s hand.
“I can see that,” Quinn agrees.
“No space in bunk. Dan want fuck Jeph in hallway. But Dan has no lube. Dan need lube,” Dan says dolefully and waggles his eyebrows.
“Left the lube and condoms somewhere on the couch. And we’re on in two hours,” Quinn answers.
“Aw, plenty of time. Dan quick,” Dan replies, giving the front of Jepha’s jeans one last rub before removing his hand and giving Jepha a pat on the ass. Jepha obediently shuffles off towards the back of the bus.
“I should probably…” Dan starts and cocks his head in the direction Jepha’s just disappeared in.
“Yeah. Have fun,” Quinn yawns and grabs a, probably, most likely, by tour definitions, clean t-shirt out of his bunk.
“Always,” Dan grins and ruffles Quinn’s hair as he walks past.
Quinn stretches and heads to the front lounge, which is pleasantly empty. He settles on the couch, puts on his headphones and presses play.
It’s two hours till stage time and Quinn’s gonna have a well-deserved nap.
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They're just so... adorkable. Love them to bits :)