|
|
(Not!) Quentin Tarantino (![[info]](http://www.journalfen.net/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} quentin) wrote,@ 2006-02-18 20:16:00 |
 |
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
 |
I've Got Some Bad Ideas (Involving You And Me) - feat. mister_cool
[Players Only] [Occurs after this.]
February 18, 2006
The room has a lovely cloud of happy-enducing smoke and both men are suitably blissed out about an hour after arriving. Quentin has commandeered one end of the sofa for himself and his long, heavy limbs, and Tré has spent the evening alternating between two settings: Vibrate and what Quentin likes to call Ten Ton Drummer. Ten Ton Drummer involves a lot of leaning against Quentin and seems to be the musician's preferred position. Luckily, the weed more or less stripped Quentin of his need to shove Tré away after the first forty minutes and now he just deals with it much the same way that a large, moody cat deals with being bathed. There are a lot of grumpy, pitiful looks, but nothing more.
"How was Billie-boy's birthday party?" Quentin asks his partner in crime. It's the second time he's asked about Billie Joe's birthday since the evening started but he can hardly remember his name at the moment so, hey, no judging.
"Awesome," comes Tré's immediate and yet somewhat delayed response. Getting lit is nothing short of an everyday occurrence for Mr. Cool, but he's been keeping it down after the whirlwind tour he's been on. Still, Quentin is becoming something of an indulgence himself, and Tré breathes out a pretty plume of smoke, ignoring how Quentin gives him a pouting look as Tré leans against him, head nuzzling his shoulder. Mr. Big and Scary is little more than Mr. Scared and Lonely, far as Tré can tell, but he's still keeping as many of his wits about him as he can. Which is to say that at this point, Tré can count to...potato.
"Mike got Billie a really awesome gift, it was all this old Ramones stuff, right?" Tré says, answering the question at hand, smiling at Quentin as he talks. "Yeah, well, you know who they are, or you should, and there was a jacket and a notebook and everything. And then Billie wouldn't give me the jacket, but oh well."
"That," Quentin says with conviction and a pointed finger as his eyes track the joint Tré is waving around, "is because he is a little bitch."
This might be a pretty common occurrence in Tré's life, but it's been a long while since Quentin has trusted anyone enough to let his inhibitions float around the ceiling of the room with smoke. He'd never admit to it having anything to do with trust (not even now when his guard has been more or less squashed beneath the need for another hit and some food), but there's no denying that someone as wound up and calculating as he is might actually dread finding himself in a situation like this one here. But Tré has been decent, well-mannered company and, aside from all the leaning, Quentin doesn't feel threatened.
He actually feels kind of... happy.
"He and Mike are like, taking baths together and buying kittens now, aren't they?" Quentin watches Tré wave the joint around and then snatches it from his fingers a la Man With Chopsticks Catching Fly.
Tré snorts, too relaxed to really care about Quentin's unrelenting obsession with his bandmates. "Dude, I've taken baths with Mike and Billie, and we weren't even fucking back then," he says, giggling as Quentin takes the joint. He closes his eyes a bit, hand trailing slowly and curiously over Quentin's chest, fingers hooking on a clothed collarbone before moving down to his stomach. On some level Tré is excited that Quentin is letting him have so much control, but the other part of him is a little worried.
He watches Quentin take another hit, making a soft sound as he catches a glimpse of the man's pointy teeth. "You really like Mike and Billie, don't you?" he asks, smiling at Quentin. "'Cause you talk about them an awful lot for a man who hates them."
Tré's wandering hand would be more of a problem if Quentin weren't currently focused on inhaling. "Don't try to analyze me," he says, holding in the smoke while he speaks. "It's not gonna work." The director hands the joint back to Tré as he lets the smoke out of his lungs with a satisfied sigh. He's about reached his limit for the night. Any more and his throat might actually collapse it's so dry. "I don't like your friends. I want to fuck them, but I don't like 'em. They're pretty goddamn high and mighty about everything, if you ask me."
Tré giggles hysterically as Quentin talks about Mike and Billie acting high and mighty, because Tré has seen both of them so out of it that idea can't even compute: a) Billie has pissed in his own suitcase and b) he knows for a fact Mike was not nearly as drunk as he should have been to take a shit off a balcony.
"You wanna fuck my friends?" Tré giggles, taking another hit before letting the joint roll onto the table, putting it out on the ashtray as he leans against Quentin again. "Dude, they'd be lousy lays, just saying. Tooooooo skittish." Tré winks at Quentin, slowly, expression clearly illuminating the fact that Tré is anything but skittish.
Quentin watches Tré and then gives his face a good scrub with his hand, chasing away his tiredness. "New topic," he says as his brain whirrs and then stutters, images of Billie and Mike stretched out alongside each other waiting to be fucked enough to make Quentin hard and in need of a subject change.
With a groan, Quentin slides down in his seat and lets his head flop to the side to rest on the arm of the sofa. "You should give me a blowjob," he says with a wave of his hand towards his crotchular region. He's pretty sure he had something witty to say about his dick being like a joint and that Tré should puff away on that for awhile, but as soon as he tried to put the words in order it dissipated.
Tré rolls his eyes at the comment, grinning all the same because he's quickly coming to learn that blow jobs are Quentin's way of conversation, hand shakes, and goodbyes, all in one. "So it's that time of the evening already, eh?" he asks, hands still moving to undo Quentin's belt and fly with quick fingers. He rearranges himself on the couch, moving to all fours between Quentin's legs and gets a bit of a buzz in his forehead as his high relocates to his dick and his face at the same time.
"Hey, big guy," Tré says, charmingly so, as he shoves at the flaps of Quentin's fly, bringing the man's cock out. The tails of Quentin's perennial white shirt prove slightly problematic, and Tré nudges those up a bit to get better room, leaning in and breathing over the man's dick. "You know," he says, leaning up kiss the lowest part of Quentin's belly, "I think I missed this."
There's a sigh in the soft, surprised moan Quentin is unable to hold back when Tré's mouth moves over his stomach, and there's a certain amount of petulance in the way he then shoves at Tré's head to get him to stop the kisses.
"You couldn't have missed that," he says as he gets a graceless palm to Tré's forehead and pushes. "I said blowjob, not undress me and make out with my stomach."
Tré giggles, nuzzling the hand at his forehead, completely nonplussed by Quentin's usual reluctance to get undressed. "Hey, hey, can't suck you off if you're shoving at my face, dude," he says, finally getting his hair away from Quentin's fingers, safe from the danger of being mussed. Then it's a simple drop of his head to lick along Quentin's erection, moaning as he does so.
Tré makes a living with his ears and hands, so he didn't miss the way Quentin moaned at his kiss, and he's pretty sure he can get him to do it again...later, after the necessities have been taken care of, such as giving Quentin his "hello" of a blowjob. Blue eyes flick up to watch Quentin's expression, warm and tender, completely in contrast to the skillful way Tré's mouth and throat slide down over Quentin's prick.
Quentin thinks there is probably a lesson in here somewhere; something like, "Don't ask for a blowjob from a cheeky drummer when you're high and unable to remember why kisses to the stomach are BAD." Only... slightly more universal than that. Probably.
"Why don't you hate me like your friends do?" he asks stupidly, hand that is normally holding the back of Tré's head coming to almost cup the side of the drummer's face instead. Except the only thing Quentin ever cups is his own dick, so that can't be right. It's the drugs. "I say shit to you and it just rolls off, but if I said it to them they'd... burn my movies or somethin'."
If Quentin insists on asking Tré questions, he's going to have to settle for a hand over a mouth. Tré pulls off, speaking as quickly as his slow tongue will allow at the moment. "People have been saying shit to me all the time, you're not the first, probably not the last. No point in fucking around with people you hate, when you can fuck around with people you like," he says, giving Quentin's hand a brief nuzzle, moaning as he moves his mouth down over Quentin's cock again.
"You talk a whole fucking lot," Quentin murmurs in response to Tré's words, nevermind that he asked the question in the first place. He thinks there is something endearing about Tré when he's high and sucking dick. He isn't oblivious to the fact that Tré is the only person, aside from Robert, who has spent this much time with him, and what's more, Tré doesn't make it seem like a job.
With Robert, it's all great fun. They've been friends for so long, worked together so closely, that they don't even need to say anything half the time. But Robert moved back to Texas and LA hasn't been this lonely in years. It's almost like having Robert live so close had spoiled Quentin because now that Robert's gone, the empty space is a gaping, glaring hole through which space and time is being sucked.
None of this is anything he consciously thinks about on a daily basis, but it's there in the back of his mind; tucked behind his reasons for never staying longer than ten minutes after a fuck if he can help it and next to the way he feels like he and Tré are connected because Mike has Billie and Robert has his wife and kids. They're the odd men out in the most important relationships in their lives. Even though it's hidden away back there, it's all apparently more accessible when he's stoned because now he can't seem to stop thinking about it.
"Faster." The desperate-sounding word falls out as Tré's tongue rips his mind back to the here and now. He's never getting high with anyone again. He gets too fucking introspective.
Introspective is not something Tré is real "big" on, he moves too fast from one thing to the next and doesn't like to stop, so Quentin's mental wanderings go unnoticed. Tré likes sucking cock, and that's the only thing on his mind. He moans, low as he can, and long, mouth and throat sliding faster at the command. Quentin's hand is still on his face, making it so much better it's almost insane, the heavy press of Quentin's hand and Quentin's cock inside his throat.
Long lashes flutter as Tré closes his eyes, nose buried in the deep curls at the base of Quentin's cock, the wet slide of his mouth over Quentin's flesh intensified by the warm glow the last couple of joints have left in his belly, happy for this (however brief) moment of contentment with Quentin.
There's a moment right before he comes where Quentin feels completely fucking okay. But no moment lasts forever, and in much the same way that Robert's leaving after being so close has left Quentin feeling lonely, the quick coming and going of peace rocks him. He gasps wetly as he comes, hand staying at the side of Tré's face, body arching up off the sofa. It's almost painful as he crashes back down into himself and he doesn't say anything, only sits there, thumb rubbing over Tré's cheek, body sagging.
Tré swallows happily, and no one will ever take away his title as a Dirty Old Bastard because there is nothing Tré likes more than come flowing down his throat, his spit slick on Quentin's thighs. He pulls off only when Quentin's cock begins to soften, breathing out hard as he finally gets a chance to replenish the oxygen missing from his lungs. His own cock feels heavy in his pants, but he's not willing to break the moment, hyperaware of the thumb rubbing over his cheek. Eyes still closed, he breathes in, breathes out, in time with the gentle caress.
Quentin's breathing eventually slows to match Tré's and then his hand drops away from the drummer's face and he tucks his cock back into his pants. "Come up here and I'll jerk you off." He turns his near-black eyes on Tré, thinking that the weed is fucking with his head because he hasn't felt this calm and this anxious in a long time.
Tré whines softly as he looks up at Quentin, then eagerly crawls forward, belly almost brushing Quentin's as he straddles the man's hips. Tré keeps his bright eyes on Quentin, liking the deep, bottomless black he finds in the man's own gaze. Tré is a chatty person by most everyone's definition, but he knows when to keep his mouth shut and it seems that Quentin finds solace in silence, so instead of another cheeky comment he merely licks his lips, begging Quentin to either tell him to get his cock out, or for Quentin to do it himself.
While Quentin isn't always the quietest of people, right now he doesn't want to talk because the stuff that's on his mind is not stuff he wants to share with anyone. Instead he'd much rather get lost in sex. It's easier that way.
The way Tré is looking at him makes his stomach feel weird and he turns his face away, eyes going down to the drummer's belt as he gets it undone. Considering how loud and pointlessly chatty they were earlier, the silence is heavy. Quentin lets his head tip forward to lean against Tré's shoulder, unable to help the fact that he feels dizzy and needs the balance, and pulls the other man's cock out, wrapping his hand around it and squeezing hard at the base.
Tré mewls, own hand curling fiercely in Quentin's shirt as the larger man viciously grips his cock. "Shit," he whines, turning his face into Quentin's hair, still able to smell come and musk on his own lips. His hips are already stuttering forth into that touch, for Tré is friendly, bubbly, and always there, but it is very rare these days for someone to touch him, especially intimately so. The drugs probably don't help, adding only to his desperation and Tré gives a soft sigh as Quentin's forehead shifts on his shoulder.
It's an interesting balance, Quentin being more intimate than he can maybe ever remember being, but also being rough, jerking Tré off quickly. With his head where it is he can hear and feel Tré's heart racing and the blood rushing through his veins. Their bodies are hot and Quentin imagines he can feel pools of sweat forming at the points where their skin touches.
"C'mon, drummer boy. Do it."
Easier said than done, Tré thinks distractedly as Quentin speaks, hips pumping at an odd rhythm as he alternates between wanting more of Quentin's hand and wanting him to stop, the tight grip uncomfortable. Still, Tré is being allowed to cuddle, so cuddle he does, forehead turning into Quentin's throat, hand spasming against his chest as he presses faithfully forward. The additional contact is moreso what Tré needs than a simple, talented hand around his cock, and it's not long before he lets his orgasm swing loose inside his belly, arching almost painfully in Quentin's sweaty grip.
Quentin curses as his head spins, Tré's come hot against his hand and he's not coordinated enough in his altered state to work his magic to keep the mess from getting everywhere. "Fucking fuck. Motherfucker. All over my fucking pants."
He doesn't push Tré away but he does pull back from him and direct his complete and undivided attention to his clothes, proving that he really is Very Gay. He wipes at them furiously, trying to get the come off, more or less ignoring his lap full of drummer.
Said drummer is left blinking owlishly for a moment or two, but then Tré's trademark, blissed out smile is quickly back in place, breaking across his mouth as he happily shirks his own shirt, using it to help Quentin out in the clean up part. Tré has decided that it is most definitely time to be naked, and eyes Quentin with a questioning glance, pants and undies hanging at thigh level. "Why don't you just take 'em off? Why don't you take anything off?" he asks, high-pitched voice set soft by his orgasm and his increasingly dizzy brain, leaning against Quentin's chest once more.
It takes a twist of shoulder to keep Tré far enough away so Quentin can double check that the clean up job is as good as it can be. Doing so takes two hands and every remaining brain cell and he does not pay too much attention to Tré's question or the masked answer that slips out.
"Because I don't want you to see... Now move your fucking ass so I can go clean up in the bathroom." He glances up at Tré with a look on his face that not only says that he thinks his reason for keeping his clothes on is sufficient, but also that Tré should already be moving or he may very well get shoved to the floor.
Tré has as much patience or respect for warnings as any punk--which is to say none. Quentin's angry look only earns him a quick kiss on the lips, which the man seems almost oblivious to, before Tré is giggling and moving tender, well-talented fingers over the man's thighs, watching Quentin with blitzed, blue eyes. "So I don't see what?" he chirps. "What you got, wings or something?"
Quentin has no idea what Tré's talking about. "Wings?" he asks as he promptly grabs Tré's hips in two large, strong hands, and lift/shoves him to the side, causing him to tumble onto the sofa. "What are you taking about? I was talking about getting your come off my pants."
In movements a little less graceful than the ones he sauntered in with, Quentin extricates himself from the stubbornly soft cushions attempting to suck him into some alternate universe where he's a 43 year-old school teacher with a wife and three kids. He won't go without a fight.
Tré squeaks, unsurprised by Quentin's reaction. He takes his little grab and toss in stride though, using it as a moment to finally wriggle out of everything but his boxers, untrusting of the odd furniture. "DON'T TALK TO STRANGERS," he says cheerfully as Quentin stands, walking like a drunken zombie. Someone, Tré won't say who, could do with a little lightening up.
The bathroom doesn't allow Quentin to do more than create a large wet spot near the crotch of his pants, but it does give him access to a bottle of non-prescription pain pills and he takes a moment to swallow a few down.
"There tequila out there?" he calls, washing his hands and splashing cool water on his face which he then regrets because it chases away the lovely, important fogginess in his head.
"Nope," Tré calls out, scurrying over to grab up said bottle of tequila, placing it in the trash and then covering it up with a bunch of papers. It should strike him as odd, or at least a bad omen, that he doesn't trust Quentin enough to even let him have a drink of liquor, but Tré remembers a time way back when, when he was the one hiding Mike's alcohol, and Mike in turn was hiding his cocaine.
Tré comes over to the bathroom after his narrow dance with the garbage can, opening the door and leaning against the frame. "Hey pretty man, you coming back out?"
Tré's sudden appearance makes Quentin jump and he knocks the upcapped pill bottle over, sending the little white tablets spinning down the drain. Whatever. He's too stoned to care. "Is there at least more pot?" he questions, eyeing the nearly-naked drummer currently blocking his way back into the other room. "Because if the fuckers forgot to stock the room with tequila, I'm going to need a few more hits at least. Where are my cigarettes?" Quentin's mind wanders from the finer points of weed and alcohol to the fact that his pants pockets seem lighter than they usually do which means his gold cigarette case his gone. He looks past Tré, wanting to get out of the bathroom and go find his smokes, but the way is blocked and goddamn, where the hell did he put it?
Tré smiles, eyes barely flickering as he sees the pain meds. "I have cigarettes, and you're forgetting one thing--me." He reaches out, ignoring how Quentin tries to escape his grip and tugs on his sleeve, turning around and leading Quentin out of the bathroom, heading towards the bed. "I have water, ooh, yummy water, and then there's more shit over here, come on," he says, smiling as his boxers slide a little lower.
Quentin has little choice but to stagger after Tré, allowing himself to be dragged through the room which is a testament to just how blasted he is at the moment even though the thoughts poking into his head have convinced him that he needs more weed. Immediately. "You should be naked," the director comments, watching Tré's ass as they head towards the bed, and then all it takes is a quick tug to the bottom of Tré's blue boxers and they're on the floor.
As Tré stops in order to not trip over the evacuating boxers, Quentin ends up bumping into him from behind because his eyes are glued to Tré's ass. "Fuck. What the hell--" Quentin finally pulls his sleeve from Tré's grip and lands a nice sound slap to Tré's right asscheek as he moves past him, continuing the trek to the bed. Once there he sits on the edge and then lies back at an awkward angle, looking as though he doesn't know whether he wants to be on the bed or not. His feet remain on the floor, his legs bent at the knees, but his head rests on an alluring pillow. "There's really no tequila? I told them to make sure there was tequila."
Tré is still staring at Quentin from his bit of carpet, feet stapled to the floor via Quentin's hand to his ass. He arches, craning his neck to stare at his rapidly pinking bum, and then offers Quentin a glare. "Hey, you break it you buy it, dude," he says, then wanders over to the bed, plopping down on the floor as he makes a good show of wrestling with Quentin's boots. "Just give me two seconds," he murmurs, quickly tugging off the shoes before heading back over to the couch and grabbing up his lighter, pipe and baggie. Tré smiles, waving his loot around his head, then crawls quickly onto the bed. "Here you go!"
Quentin snags the lighter from Tré in a flurry of movement and strikes up a flame. "You should let me mark you," he says to Tré, though he is a little preoccupied with the flame dancing high above his thumb. "Get the lighter all nice and hot and then press it into your hip... or maybe put out a cigarette there. That'll never heal right. And then when Mike and Billie see it they'll shit their pants and have you committed. Pansy-ass motherfuckers."
Tré does a dramatic eyeroll, flopping onto the covers and curling towards Quentin for warmth. "Congratulations, that was I think the longest time you've gone before mentioning Mike and Billie," Tré says, an easy touch of mild irritation in his voice. "So, you just fucking me and imagining them, is that it? 'Cause that's sick." Tré reaches out, smiling softly, talented hands snatching the lighter away once more. "And don't you even think about it. I've seen people branded before and it ain't pretty. I'm pretty."
When Tré snatches the lighter back, Quentin follows it with his eyes and then turns them to the other man's face. "I think it'd look amazing," he says, unable to mask the honesty in his voice with any sarcasm. But once the words are out, even his stoned self recognizes how heavy they were and he shrugs, returning his gaze to the ceiling, still refusing to bring his lower body up onto the bed fully.
Quentin Tarantino doesn't lay in bed with anyone. Not even when he's two hits away from a starring role in a Cheech and Chong flick.
"What do your friends say about me behind my back, anyway?"
Tré's smile wavers at Quentin's admission, honestly surprised. Tré is not big on pain, but Tré is curious, and Tré is patient. Hence, when Quentin flicks his eyes away and once again brings up Tré's Not So Ambiguously Gay Duo, he doesn't smack Quentin with a pillow. Tré shrugs, putting the lighter down, eyes looking over Quentin's frame. "My friends don't really say anything about you," he says. "Believe it or not." Tré smiles. "I'm the only one who talks about you." And then I watch them both foam at the mouth.
"Bullshit," is Quentin's immediate response, Tré's words so unexpected they catch him extremely off guard. He isn't sure if he means it's bullshit that Mike and Billie don't call him a giant asshole prick with a stupid haircut, or it's bullshit that Tré does talk about him. In any form. That is just too weird to think about. "You're not even the least bit interested in what it'd be like to let me burn you?" he questions by way of changing the subject to something more of his liking. He doesn't mention how the idea of marking Tré has him hardening already, or that the idea of someone else, anyone else, seeing his mark on the carefree drummer might be the hottest thing he can imagine.
"Burn me?" Tré laughs. "Well, I'm kinda interested, I guess, but that sounds like it hurts. And a lighter wouldn't leave a cool mark, it'd just look stupid," he says, reaching out and tracing a hand down Quentin's shoulder and arm, sighing contentedly. "What about you, eh? You ever been burned by one? It hurts, doesn't it?"
"Do you see any burns?" Quentin asks. His left shoulder twinges in memory of how it feels to have a cigarette be put out on skin and he pushes Tré a little further. "Find me my cigarette case. One of those would leave a cool mark." Shrugging aside Tré's wandering hand, Quentin moves one of his own down and presses a finger hard into the skin above Tré's hip. "If I burned you right there, I'd be able to feel it when I fuck you."
Tré makes a soft sound at the hand to his hip, liking the touch. He feels mildly interested in a mark...it wouldn't hurt for that long, and his pot-addled mind thinks the idea a bit hilarious in itself. There's also the tantalizing leverage that Quentin is allowing him to have. Tré smiles, rolling over on the bed and leaning almost all the way off (and giving a certain someone a lovely view of his ass) to snag the cigarette case from the floor. He hands it to Quentin. "What do I get if you burn me? And don't say a fuck, that's cheap." Cheap. Tré thinks of all the money Quentin threw at him the first time they fucked and giggles hysterically for a moment.
Quentin swats at Tré to get him to stop laughing because it's vaguely annoying. He's talking serious business here. "What do you-- fucking stop laughing. There. Now, what do you want." He feels a little like he's making a deal with the devil, which is rather ironic, really. Sitting up, Quentin scoots back to lean against the headboard and gets out a cigarette, lighting it quickly and taking a much-needed drag. "And don't be an asshole about it, either."
Tré grins, raising onto all fours and crawling up to Quentin like the most perverted, dirty cherub on the planet. He snags the cigarette and takes a drag, handing it to Quentin, ignoring his cotton mouth. He eyes Quentin's mouth. "A kiss or a blow job, your choice, but neither of them can hurt." Tré shakes his head. "If you're going to hurt me you have to be nice afterwards." He wags his finger, giggling softly, unable to keep a smile off his face. "No Mr. Big Mean Tarantino if you're going to light my fucking flesh on fire."
Right now, Quentin's mind is on the fact that he's going to get to pin Tré to the bed and press a cigarette into his disgustingly perfect skin. "Fine," he growls and then, since he has to be nice afterwards, he more or less slams Tré down onto the mattress, cigarette held between his lips, some of the ash falling just to the side of the drummer's shoulder.
There's a single second when Quentin thinks that it's absurd to want to mark someone this badly when he has little to no relationship with them outside of a few rough fucks. Marking is what people do when they want to lay claim to something and Quentin wonders what he's doing.
He kneels between Tré's legs, hands guiding them apart, and then he takes a long drag on his cigarette and eyes the other man. "Get yourself hard."
Tré feels the growing tingle in his chest that he feels each time Quentin decides to get well...frisky, and start handling him like he is either light as a feather (which he ain't), or like the taller man just can't control himself. Still, fear is starting to beat alongside his heart, but Tré gamely puts a hand to his cock, concentrating on replacing it with pleasure. "Well," he says, blue eyes wide and trusting on Quentin's face, "if you insist." He offers up a cheeky grin, face growing a light shade of pink as he continues pumping.
Quentin watches Tré like any other person would watch a slightly uninteresting television program. He doesn't react at all to the fact that he has a very famous rock star stretched out naked beneath him, jerking off, but instead just looks at him and continues to smoke his cigarette.
When the cigarette is nearly finished Quentin takes it from his lips and then tugs Tré's hand away from his dick. "Enough. Grab onto the headboard and don't fucking move." He slides forward a little, using his knees to spread Tré's legs further apart and then leans to the side to tap the ashes off of the cigarette and onto the floor, leaving an intimidating bright red bud on the end.
Don't move. Sure, no problem. Tré has been known to sit still for long periods of time. Does it for fun.
Actually, the truth is far from that fact, and Tré gives a light whine, body already more than a little shaky by his own excellent handjob, positively terrified by the end of the cigarette as Quentin gets ready to do the deed. "Oh motherfucker, the things I do..." he whispers softly, hands latching onto the headboard. It's a nod to his talent as a drummer that he manages to pull all his wild energy into one focus--keeping still. Tré settles softly on the bed, unable to really wind down enough to truly relax, body poised for damage like a child tenses for a measles vaccination.
Nothing in the world gets under Quentin's skin like that flash of fear in the eyes of the person he's with, because that flash of fear comes with a tangible amount of trust. This is the way Quentin likes to receive his trust and it has a lot to do with why he always pushes so hard, wanting the fear so he can get what comes with it.
Quentin isn't the most patient person when it comes to this type of thing and once he has Tré's complete and undivided attention he taps the cigarette clean of ashes once more and holds it tightly between two fingers. A steadying hand rests above Tré's hip and then he brings the cigarette close, paying attention to what he's doing as he finally presses the burning tip against Tré's smooth skin. As soon as he has it in place, though, his eyes dart up to Tré's and he stares at the drummer's face, grinding the cigarette into the other man's hip like he would into an ashtray, own lips parted slightly in awe.
It's not so bad...for the first, small, tiny hint of heat against Tré's skin, but the minute the bruising, intensely painful heat against his hip flares up Tré reacts instinctively. "Oh fucking shit, STOP!" he yelps, eyes bulging as his strong body bucks on the mattress. Immediately he's met with one of Quentin's weighty hands against his chest, one knee pinning his thigh to the bed. Tears well up instantly, and Tré would push Quentin off if only he could stop hanging onto the headboard for dear life. He shakes, violently so, muscles spasming as his pinned body tries to escape the pain, breathing heavily as he works to take it and fails, miserably. "Fuck," he gasps wetly as the sensation finally starts to fade. "Oh fuck, that hurt."
When holding the cigarette against Tré's skin stops making the drummer writhe in pain, Quentin pulls it away and presses his thumb hard against the blistering skin instead. Once again he uses all his weight to keep Tré pinned as he works through the pain, loving to watch the way Tré's eyes broadcast the panic and overwhelming agony he's going through.
Quentin is quiet through the entire ordeal, own head beginning to spin as he removes his thumb and looks down at the damage he's done. There's blood and black, burnt skin, and he knows how filthy the burn is. A burn from a lighter would have healed, but this one... this one won't ever go away completely.
"This Could Be Love," by Alkaline Trio. Download. Lyrics. Mirror.
[All comments screened should you want to leave feedback. Click here for more info.]
mister_cool[Players Only] [Occurs after this.]
February 18, 2006
The room has a lovely cloud of happy-enducing smoke and both men are suitably blissed out about an hour after arriving. Quentin has commandeered one end of the sofa for himself and his long, heavy limbs, and Tré has spent the evening alternating between two settings: Vibrate and what Quentin likes to call Ten Ton Drummer. Ten Ton Drummer involves a lot of leaning against Quentin and seems to be the musician's preferred position. Luckily, the weed more or less stripped Quentin of his need to shove Tré away after the first forty minutes and now he just deals with it much the same way that a large, moody cat deals with being bathed. There are a lot of grumpy, pitiful looks, but nothing more.
"How was Billie-boy's birthday party?" Quentin asks his partner in crime. It's the second time he's asked about Billie Joe's birthday since the evening started but he can hardly remember his name at the moment so, hey, no judging.
"Awesome," comes Tré's immediate and yet somewhat delayed response. Getting lit is nothing short of an everyday occurrence for Mr. Cool, but he's been keeping it down after the whirlwind tour he's been on. Still, Quentin is becoming something of an indulgence himself, and Tré breathes out a pretty plume of smoke, ignoring how Quentin gives him a pouting look as Tré leans against him, head nuzzling his shoulder. Mr. Big and Scary is little more than Mr. Scared and Lonely, far as Tré can tell, but he's still keeping as many of his wits about him as he can. Which is to say that at this point, Tré can count to...potato.
"Mike got Billie a really awesome gift, it was all this old Ramones stuff, right?" Tré says, answering the question at hand, smiling at Quentin as he talks. "Yeah, well, you know who they are, or you should, and there was a jacket and a notebook and everything. And then Billie wouldn't give me the jacket, but oh well."
"That," Quentin says with conviction and a pointed finger as his eyes track the joint Tré is waving around, "is because he is a little bitch."
This might be a pretty common occurrence in Tré's life, but it's been a long while since Quentin has trusted anyone enough to let his inhibitions float around the ceiling of the room with smoke. He'd never admit to it having anything to do with trust (not even now when his guard has been more or less squashed beneath the need for another hit and some food), but there's no denying that someone as wound up and calculating as he is might actually dread finding himself in a situation like this one here. But Tré has been decent, well-mannered company and, aside from all the leaning, Quentin doesn't feel threatened.
He actually feels kind of... happy.
"He and Mike are like, taking baths together and buying kittens now, aren't they?" Quentin watches Tré wave the joint around and then snatches it from his fingers a la Man With Chopsticks Catching Fly.
Tré snorts, too relaxed to really care about Quentin's unrelenting obsession with his bandmates. "Dude, I've taken baths with Mike and Billie, and we weren't even fucking back then," he says, giggling as Quentin takes the joint. He closes his eyes a bit, hand trailing slowly and curiously over Quentin's chest, fingers hooking on a clothed collarbone before moving down to his stomach. On some level Tré is excited that Quentin is letting him have so much control, but the other part of him is a little worried.
He watches Quentin take another hit, making a soft sound as he catches a glimpse of the man's pointy teeth. "You really like Mike and Billie, don't you?" he asks, smiling at Quentin. "'Cause you talk about them an awful lot for a man who hates them."
Tré's wandering hand would be more of a problem if Quentin weren't currently focused on inhaling. "Don't try to analyze me," he says, holding in the smoke while he speaks. "It's not gonna work." The director hands the joint back to Tré as he lets the smoke out of his lungs with a satisfied sigh. He's about reached his limit for the night. Any more and his throat might actually collapse it's so dry. "I don't like your friends. I want to fuck them, but I don't like 'em. They're pretty goddamn high and mighty about everything, if you ask me."
Tré giggles hysterically as Quentin talks about Mike and Billie acting high and mighty, because Tré has seen both of them so out of it that idea can't even compute: a) Billie has pissed in his own suitcase and b) he knows for a fact Mike was not nearly as drunk as he should have been to take a shit off a balcony.
"You wanna fuck my friends?" Tré giggles, taking another hit before letting the joint roll onto the table, putting it out on the ashtray as he leans against Quentin again. "Dude, they'd be lousy lays, just saying. Tooooooo skittish." Tré winks at Quentin, slowly, expression clearly illuminating the fact that Tré is anything but skittish.
Quentin watches Tré and then gives his face a good scrub with his hand, chasing away his tiredness. "New topic," he says as his brain whirrs and then stutters, images of Billie and Mike stretched out alongside each other waiting to be fucked enough to make Quentin hard and in need of a subject change.
With a groan, Quentin slides down in his seat and lets his head flop to the side to rest on the arm of the sofa. "You should give me a blowjob," he says with a wave of his hand towards his crotchular region. He's pretty sure he had something witty to say about his dick being like a joint and that Tré should puff away on that for awhile, but as soon as he tried to put the words in order it dissipated.
Tré rolls his eyes at the comment, grinning all the same because he's quickly coming to learn that blow jobs are Quentin's way of conversation, hand shakes, and goodbyes, all in one. "So it's that time of the evening already, eh?" he asks, hands still moving to undo Quentin's belt and fly with quick fingers. He rearranges himself on the couch, moving to all fours between Quentin's legs and gets a bit of a buzz in his forehead as his high relocates to his dick and his face at the same time.
"Hey, big guy," Tré says, charmingly so, as he shoves at the flaps of Quentin's fly, bringing the man's cock out. The tails of Quentin's perennial white shirt prove slightly problematic, and Tré nudges those up a bit to get better room, leaning in and breathing over the man's dick. "You know," he says, leaning up kiss the lowest part of Quentin's belly, "I think I missed this."
There's a sigh in the soft, surprised moan Quentin is unable to hold back when Tré's mouth moves over his stomach, and there's a certain amount of petulance in the way he then shoves at Tré's head to get him to stop the kisses.
"You couldn't have missed that," he says as he gets a graceless palm to Tré's forehead and pushes. "I said blowjob, not undress me and make out with my stomach."
Tré giggles, nuzzling the hand at his forehead, completely nonplussed by Quentin's usual reluctance to get undressed. "Hey, hey, can't suck you off if you're shoving at my face, dude," he says, finally getting his hair away from Quentin's fingers, safe from the danger of being mussed. Then it's a simple drop of his head to lick along Quentin's erection, moaning as he does so.
Tré makes a living with his ears and hands, so he didn't miss the way Quentin moaned at his kiss, and he's pretty sure he can get him to do it again...later, after the necessities have been taken care of, such as giving Quentin his "hello" of a blowjob. Blue eyes flick up to watch Quentin's expression, warm and tender, completely in contrast to the skillful way Tré's mouth and throat slide down over Quentin's prick.
Quentin thinks there is probably a lesson in here somewhere; something like, "Don't ask for a blowjob from a cheeky drummer when you're high and unable to remember why kisses to the stomach are BAD." Only... slightly more universal than that. Probably.
"Why don't you hate me like your friends do?" he asks stupidly, hand that is normally holding the back of Tré's head coming to almost cup the side of the drummer's face instead. Except the only thing Quentin ever cups is his own dick, so that can't be right. It's the drugs. "I say shit to you and it just rolls off, but if I said it to them they'd... burn my movies or somethin'."
If Quentin insists on asking Tré questions, he's going to have to settle for a hand over a mouth. Tré pulls off, speaking as quickly as his slow tongue will allow at the moment. "People have been saying shit to me all the time, you're not the first, probably not the last. No point in fucking around with people you hate, when you can fuck around with people you like," he says, giving Quentin's hand a brief nuzzle, moaning as he moves his mouth down over Quentin's cock again.
"You talk a whole fucking lot," Quentin murmurs in response to Tré's words, nevermind that he asked the question in the first place. He thinks there is something endearing about Tré when he's high and sucking dick. He isn't oblivious to the fact that Tré is the only person, aside from Robert, who has spent this much time with him, and what's more, Tré doesn't make it seem like a job.
With Robert, it's all great fun. They've been friends for so long, worked together so closely, that they don't even need to say anything half the time. But Robert moved back to Texas and LA hasn't been this lonely in years. It's almost like having Robert live so close had spoiled Quentin because now that Robert's gone, the empty space is a gaping, glaring hole through which space and time is being sucked.
None of this is anything he consciously thinks about on a daily basis, but it's there in the back of his mind; tucked behind his reasons for never staying longer than ten minutes after a fuck if he can help it and next to the way he feels like he and Tré are connected because Mike has Billie and Robert has his wife and kids. They're the odd men out in the most important relationships in their lives. Even though it's hidden away back there, it's all apparently more accessible when he's stoned because now he can't seem to stop thinking about it.
"Faster." The desperate-sounding word falls out as Tré's tongue rips his mind back to the here and now. He's never getting high with anyone again. He gets too fucking introspective.
Introspective is not something Tré is real "big" on, he moves too fast from one thing to the next and doesn't like to stop, so Quentin's mental wanderings go unnoticed. Tré likes sucking cock, and that's the only thing on his mind. He moans, low as he can, and long, mouth and throat sliding faster at the command. Quentin's hand is still on his face, making it so much better it's almost insane, the heavy press of Quentin's hand and Quentin's cock inside his throat.
Long lashes flutter as Tré closes his eyes, nose buried in the deep curls at the base of Quentin's cock, the wet slide of his mouth over Quentin's flesh intensified by the warm glow the last couple of joints have left in his belly, happy for this (however brief) moment of contentment with Quentin.
There's a moment right before he comes where Quentin feels completely fucking okay. But no moment lasts forever, and in much the same way that Robert's leaving after being so close has left Quentin feeling lonely, the quick coming and going of peace rocks him. He gasps wetly as he comes, hand staying at the side of Tré's face, body arching up off the sofa. It's almost painful as he crashes back down into himself and he doesn't say anything, only sits there, thumb rubbing over Tré's cheek, body sagging.
Tré swallows happily, and no one will ever take away his title as a Dirty Old Bastard because there is nothing Tré likes more than come flowing down his throat, his spit slick on Quentin's thighs. He pulls off only when Quentin's cock begins to soften, breathing out hard as he finally gets a chance to replenish the oxygen missing from his lungs. His own cock feels heavy in his pants, but he's not willing to break the moment, hyperaware of the thumb rubbing over his cheek. Eyes still closed, he breathes in, breathes out, in time with the gentle caress.
Quentin's breathing eventually slows to match Tré's and then his hand drops away from the drummer's face and he tucks his cock back into his pants. "Come up here and I'll jerk you off." He turns his near-black eyes on Tré, thinking that the weed is fucking with his head because he hasn't felt this calm and this anxious in a long time.
Tré whines softly as he looks up at Quentin, then eagerly crawls forward, belly almost brushing Quentin's as he straddles the man's hips. Tré keeps his bright eyes on Quentin, liking the deep, bottomless black he finds in the man's own gaze. Tré is a chatty person by most everyone's definition, but he knows when to keep his mouth shut and it seems that Quentin finds solace in silence, so instead of another cheeky comment he merely licks his lips, begging Quentin to either tell him to get his cock out, or for Quentin to do it himself.
While Quentin isn't always the quietest of people, right now he doesn't want to talk because the stuff that's on his mind is not stuff he wants to share with anyone. Instead he'd much rather get lost in sex. It's easier that way.
The way Tré is looking at him makes his stomach feel weird and he turns his face away, eyes going down to the drummer's belt as he gets it undone. Considering how loud and pointlessly chatty they were earlier, the silence is heavy. Quentin lets his head tip forward to lean against Tré's shoulder, unable to help the fact that he feels dizzy and needs the balance, and pulls the other man's cock out, wrapping his hand around it and squeezing hard at the base.
Tré mewls, own hand curling fiercely in Quentin's shirt as the larger man viciously grips his cock. "Shit," he whines, turning his face into Quentin's hair, still able to smell come and musk on his own lips. His hips are already stuttering forth into that touch, for Tré is friendly, bubbly, and always there, but it is very rare these days for someone to touch him, especially intimately so. The drugs probably don't help, adding only to his desperation and Tré gives a soft sigh as Quentin's forehead shifts on his shoulder.
It's an interesting balance, Quentin being more intimate than he can maybe ever remember being, but also being rough, jerking Tré off quickly. With his head where it is he can hear and feel Tré's heart racing and the blood rushing through his veins. Their bodies are hot and Quentin imagines he can feel pools of sweat forming at the points where their skin touches.
"C'mon, drummer boy. Do it."
Easier said than done, Tré thinks distractedly as Quentin speaks, hips pumping at an odd rhythm as he alternates between wanting more of Quentin's hand and wanting him to stop, the tight grip uncomfortable. Still, Tré is being allowed to cuddle, so cuddle he does, forehead turning into Quentin's throat, hand spasming against his chest as he presses faithfully forward. The additional contact is moreso what Tré needs than a simple, talented hand around his cock, and it's not long before he lets his orgasm swing loose inside his belly, arching almost painfully in Quentin's sweaty grip.
Quentin curses as his head spins, Tré's come hot against his hand and he's not coordinated enough in his altered state to work his magic to keep the mess from getting everywhere. "Fucking fuck. Motherfucker. All over my fucking pants."
He doesn't push Tré away but he does pull back from him and direct his complete and undivided attention to his clothes, proving that he really is Very Gay. He wipes at them furiously, trying to get the come off, more or less ignoring his lap full of drummer.
Said drummer is left blinking owlishly for a moment or two, but then Tré's trademark, blissed out smile is quickly back in place, breaking across his mouth as he happily shirks his own shirt, using it to help Quentin out in the clean up part. Tré has decided that it is most definitely time to be naked, and eyes Quentin with a questioning glance, pants and undies hanging at thigh level. "Why don't you just take 'em off? Why don't you take anything off?" he asks, high-pitched voice set soft by his orgasm and his increasingly dizzy brain, leaning against Quentin's chest once more.
It takes a twist of shoulder to keep Tré far enough away so Quentin can double check that the clean up job is as good as it can be. Doing so takes two hands and every remaining brain cell and he does not pay too much attention to Tré's question or the masked answer that slips out.
"Because I don't want you to see... Now move your fucking ass so I can go clean up in the bathroom." He glances up at Tré with a look on his face that not only says that he thinks his reason for keeping his clothes on is sufficient, but also that Tré should already be moving or he may very well get shoved to the floor.
Tré has as much patience or respect for warnings as any punk--which is to say none. Quentin's angry look only earns him a quick kiss on the lips, which the man seems almost oblivious to, before Tré is giggling and moving tender, well-talented fingers over the man's thighs, watching Quentin with blitzed, blue eyes. "So I don't see what?" he chirps. "What you got, wings or something?"
Quentin has no idea what Tré's talking about. "Wings?" he asks as he promptly grabs Tré's hips in two large, strong hands, and lift/shoves him to the side, causing him to tumble onto the sofa. "What are you taking about? I was talking about getting your come off my pants."
In movements a little less graceful than the ones he sauntered in with, Quentin extricates himself from the stubbornly soft cushions attempting to suck him into some alternate universe where he's a 43 year-old school teacher with a wife and three kids. He won't go without a fight.
Tré squeaks, unsurprised by Quentin's reaction. He takes his little grab and toss in stride though, using it as a moment to finally wriggle out of everything but his boxers, untrusting of the odd furniture. "DON'T TALK TO STRANGERS," he says cheerfully as Quentin stands, walking like a drunken zombie. Someone, Tré won't say who, could do with a little lightening up.
The bathroom doesn't allow Quentin to do more than create a large wet spot near the crotch of his pants, but it does give him access to a bottle of non-prescription pain pills and he takes a moment to swallow a few down.
"There tequila out there?" he calls, washing his hands and splashing cool water on his face which he then regrets because it chases away the lovely, important fogginess in his head.
"Nope," Tré calls out, scurrying over to grab up said bottle of tequila, placing it in the trash and then covering it up with a bunch of papers. It should strike him as odd, or at least a bad omen, that he doesn't trust Quentin enough to even let him have a drink of liquor, but Tré remembers a time way back when, when he was the one hiding Mike's alcohol, and Mike in turn was hiding his cocaine.
Tré comes over to the bathroom after his narrow dance with the garbage can, opening the door and leaning against the frame. "Hey pretty man, you coming back out?"
Tré's sudden appearance makes Quentin jump and he knocks the upcapped pill bottle over, sending the little white tablets spinning down the drain. Whatever. He's too stoned to care. "Is there at least more pot?" he questions, eyeing the nearly-naked drummer currently blocking his way back into the other room. "Because if the fuckers forgot to stock the room with tequila, I'm going to need a few more hits at least. Where are my cigarettes?" Quentin's mind wanders from the finer points of weed and alcohol to the fact that his pants pockets seem lighter than they usually do which means his gold cigarette case his gone. He looks past Tré, wanting to get out of the bathroom and go find his smokes, but the way is blocked and goddamn, where the hell did he put it?
Tré smiles, eyes barely flickering as he sees the pain meds. "I have cigarettes, and you're forgetting one thing--me." He reaches out, ignoring how Quentin tries to escape his grip and tugs on his sleeve, turning around and leading Quentin out of the bathroom, heading towards the bed. "I have water, ooh, yummy water, and then there's more shit over here, come on," he says, smiling as his boxers slide a little lower.
Quentin has little choice but to stagger after Tré, allowing himself to be dragged through the room which is a testament to just how blasted he is at the moment even though the thoughts poking into his head have convinced him that he needs more weed. Immediately. "You should be naked," the director comments, watching Tré's ass as they head towards the bed, and then all it takes is a quick tug to the bottom of Tré's blue boxers and they're on the floor.
As Tré stops in order to not trip over the evacuating boxers, Quentin ends up bumping into him from behind because his eyes are glued to Tré's ass. "Fuck. What the hell--" Quentin finally pulls his sleeve from Tré's grip and lands a nice sound slap to Tré's right asscheek as he moves past him, continuing the trek to the bed. Once there he sits on the edge and then lies back at an awkward angle, looking as though he doesn't know whether he wants to be on the bed or not. His feet remain on the floor, his legs bent at the knees, but his head rests on an alluring pillow. "There's really no tequila? I told them to make sure there was tequila."
Tré is still staring at Quentin from his bit of carpet, feet stapled to the floor via Quentin's hand to his ass. He arches, craning his neck to stare at his rapidly pinking bum, and then offers Quentin a glare. "Hey, you break it you buy it, dude," he says, then wanders over to the bed, plopping down on the floor as he makes a good show of wrestling with Quentin's boots. "Just give me two seconds," he murmurs, quickly tugging off the shoes before heading back over to the couch and grabbing up his lighter, pipe and baggie. Tré smiles, waving his loot around his head, then crawls quickly onto the bed. "Here you go!"
Quentin snags the lighter from Tré in a flurry of movement and strikes up a flame. "You should let me mark you," he says to Tré, though he is a little preoccupied with the flame dancing high above his thumb. "Get the lighter all nice and hot and then press it into your hip... or maybe put out a cigarette there. That'll never heal right. And then when Mike and Billie see it they'll shit their pants and have you committed. Pansy-ass motherfuckers."
Tré does a dramatic eyeroll, flopping onto the covers and curling towards Quentin for warmth. "Congratulations, that was I think the longest time you've gone before mentioning Mike and Billie," Tré says, an easy touch of mild irritation in his voice. "So, you just fucking me and imagining them, is that it? 'Cause that's sick." Tré reaches out, smiling softly, talented hands snatching the lighter away once more. "And don't you even think about it. I've seen people branded before and it ain't pretty. I'm pretty."
When Tré snatches the lighter back, Quentin follows it with his eyes and then turns them to the other man's face. "I think it'd look amazing," he says, unable to mask the honesty in his voice with any sarcasm. But once the words are out, even his stoned self recognizes how heavy they were and he shrugs, returning his gaze to the ceiling, still refusing to bring his lower body up onto the bed fully.
Quentin Tarantino doesn't lay in bed with anyone. Not even when he's two hits away from a starring role in a Cheech and Chong flick.
"What do your friends say about me behind my back, anyway?"
Tré's smile wavers at Quentin's admission, honestly surprised. Tré is not big on pain, but Tré is curious, and Tré is patient. Hence, when Quentin flicks his eyes away and once again brings up Tré's Not So Ambiguously Gay Duo, he doesn't smack Quentin with a pillow. Tré shrugs, putting the lighter down, eyes looking over Quentin's frame. "My friends don't really say anything about you," he says. "Believe it or not." Tré smiles. "I'm the only one who talks about you." And then I watch them both foam at the mouth.
"Bullshit," is Quentin's immediate response, Tré's words so unexpected they catch him extremely off guard. He isn't sure if he means it's bullshit that Mike and Billie don't call him a giant asshole prick with a stupid haircut, or it's bullshit that Tré does talk about him. In any form. That is just too weird to think about. "You're not even the least bit interested in what it'd be like to let me burn you?" he questions by way of changing the subject to something more of his liking. He doesn't mention how the idea of marking Tré has him hardening already, or that the idea of someone else, anyone else, seeing his mark on the carefree drummer might be the hottest thing he can imagine.
"Burn me?" Tré laughs. "Well, I'm kinda interested, I guess, but that sounds like it hurts. And a lighter wouldn't leave a cool mark, it'd just look stupid," he says, reaching out and tracing a hand down Quentin's shoulder and arm, sighing contentedly. "What about you, eh? You ever been burned by one? It hurts, doesn't it?"
"Do you see any burns?" Quentin asks. His left shoulder twinges in memory of how it feels to have a cigarette be put out on skin and he pushes Tré a little further. "Find me my cigarette case. One of those would leave a cool mark." Shrugging aside Tré's wandering hand, Quentin moves one of his own down and presses a finger hard into the skin above Tré's hip. "If I burned you right there, I'd be able to feel it when I fuck you."
Tré makes a soft sound at the hand to his hip, liking the touch. He feels mildly interested in a mark...it wouldn't hurt for that long, and his pot-addled mind thinks the idea a bit hilarious in itself. There's also the tantalizing leverage that Quentin is allowing him to have. Tré smiles, rolling over on the bed and leaning almost all the way off (and giving a certain someone a lovely view of his ass) to snag the cigarette case from the floor. He hands it to Quentin. "What do I get if you burn me? And don't say a fuck, that's cheap." Cheap. Tré thinks of all the money Quentin threw at him the first time they fucked and giggles hysterically for a moment.
Quentin swats at Tré to get him to stop laughing because it's vaguely annoying. He's talking serious business here. "What do you-- fucking stop laughing. There. Now, what do you want." He feels a little like he's making a deal with the devil, which is rather ironic, really. Sitting up, Quentin scoots back to lean against the headboard and gets out a cigarette, lighting it quickly and taking a much-needed drag. "And don't be an asshole about it, either."
Tré grins, raising onto all fours and crawling up to Quentin like the most perverted, dirty cherub on the planet. He snags the cigarette and takes a drag, handing it to Quentin, ignoring his cotton mouth. He eyes Quentin's mouth. "A kiss or a blow job, your choice, but neither of them can hurt." Tré shakes his head. "If you're going to hurt me you have to be nice afterwards." He wags his finger, giggling softly, unable to keep a smile off his face. "No Mr. Big Mean Tarantino if you're going to light my fucking flesh on fire."
Right now, Quentin's mind is on the fact that he's going to get to pin Tré to the bed and press a cigarette into his disgustingly perfect skin. "Fine," he growls and then, since he has to be nice afterwards, he more or less slams Tré down onto the mattress, cigarette held between his lips, some of the ash falling just to the side of the drummer's shoulder.
There's a single second when Quentin thinks that it's absurd to want to mark someone this badly when he has little to no relationship with them outside of a few rough fucks. Marking is what people do when they want to lay claim to something and Quentin wonders what he's doing.
He kneels between Tré's legs, hands guiding them apart, and then he takes a long drag on his cigarette and eyes the other man. "Get yourself hard."
Tré feels the growing tingle in his chest that he feels each time Quentin decides to get well...frisky, and start handling him like he is either light as a feather (which he ain't), or like the taller man just can't control himself. Still, fear is starting to beat alongside his heart, but Tré gamely puts a hand to his cock, concentrating on replacing it with pleasure. "Well," he says, blue eyes wide and trusting on Quentin's face, "if you insist." He offers up a cheeky grin, face growing a light shade of pink as he continues pumping.
Quentin watches Tré like any other person would watch a slightly uninteresting television program. He doesn't react at all to the fact that he has a very famous rock star stretched out naked beneath him, jerking off, but instead just looks at him and continues to smoke his cigarette.
When the cigarette is nearly finished Quentin takes it from his lips and then tugs Tré's hand away from his dick. "Enough. Grab onto the headboard and don't fucking move." He slides forward a little, using his knees to spread Tré's legs further apart and then leans to the side to tap the ashes off of the cigarette and onto the floor, leaving an intimidating bright red bud on the end.
Don't move. Sure, no problem. Tré has been known to sit still for long periods of time. Does it for fun.
Actually, the truth is far from that fact, and Tré gives a light whine, body already more than a little shaky by his own excellent handjob, positively terrified by the end of the cigarette as Quentin gets ready to do the deed. "Oh motherfucker, the things I do..." he whispers softly, hands latching onto the headboard. It's a nod to his talent as a drummer that he manages to pull all his wild energy into one focus--keeping still. Tré settles softly on the bed, unable to really wind down enough to truly relax, body poised for damage like a child tenses for a measles vaccination.
Nothing in the world gets under Quentin's skin like that flash of fear in the eyes of the person he's with, because that flash of fear comes with a tangible amount of trust. This is the way Quentin likes to receive his trust and it has a lot to do with why he always pushes so hard, wanting the fear so he can get what comes with it.
Quentin isn't the most patient person when it comes to this type of thing and once he has Tré's complete and undivided attention he taps the cigarette clean of ashes once more and holds it tightly between two fingers. A steadying hand rests above Tré's hip and then he brings the cigarette close, paying attention to what he's doing as he finally presses the burning tip against Tré's smooth skin. As soon as he has it in place, though, his eyes dart up to Tré's and he stares at the drummer's face, grinding the cigarette into the other man's hip like he would into an ashtray, own lips parted slightly in awe.
It's not so bad...for the first, small, tiny hint of heat against Tré's skin, but the minute the bruising, intensely painful heat against his hip flares up Tré reacts instinctively. "Oh fucking shit, STOP!" he yelps, eyes bulging as his strong body bucks on the mattress. Immediately he's met with one of Quentin's weighty hands against his chest, one knee pinning his thigh to the bed. Tears well up instantly, and Tré would push Quentin off if only he could stop hanging onto the headboard for dear life. He shakes, violently so, muscles spasming as his pinned body tries to escape the pain, breathing heavily as he works to take it and fails, miserably. "Fuck," he gasps wetly as the sensation finally starts to fade. "Oh fuck, that hurt."
When holding the cigarette against Tré's skin stops making the drummer writhe in pain, Quentin pulls it away and presses his thumb hard against the blistering skin instead. Once again he uses all his weight to keep Tré pinned as he works through the pain, loving to watch the way Tré's eyes broadcast the panic and overwhelming agony he's going through.
Quentin is quiet through the entire ordeal, own head beginning to spin as he removes his thumb and looks down at the damage he's done. There's blood and black, burnt skin, and he knows how filthy the burn is. A burn from a lighter would have healed, but this one... this one won't ever go away completely.
"This Could Be Love," by Alkaline Trio. Download. Lyrics. Mirror.
[All comments screened should you want to leave feedback. Click here for more info.]
