Quentin Fucking Tarantino

Musings Of A Hypocritapotamus - Standalone

Mon, 02 Jan 2006 04:05:00 GMT

[Players Only] [Punch thrown here.]

December 20th, 2005

Nothing gets under Quentin's skin in quite the same way Mike Dirnt is able to. Quentin supposes it has to do with the fact that the bassist is a gigantic dick most of the time, too busy being pissy and defensive to take the time for a nice word or a friendly drink like Billie Joe, but Quentin also knows how hypocritical it is of him to think that. While Quentin will wear his hypocritapotamus costume in some cases, he only does it when it'll help him get what he wants.

Getting punched by Mike Dirnt, Quentin also supposes, ranks right up there with having his dick sucked by a girl on Quentin's List O' Things He Doesn't Want, but really, he was almost expecting it. He knows he has a bad habit of saying exactly the first thing that comes into his messy mind and it isn't usually nice. Hell, Quentin will be the first to admit he's a Grade A asshole in most cases, but he'll also point out that it saves a lot of money in postage when birthdays roll around and no one is expecting a gift from the Tarantino Household (Population: 1). Quentin just can't make sense of why Mr. Dirnt and Mr. Armstrong can't figure their shit out. They're lame and it's starting to affect everyone they run into. Also, more importantly, when they're fighting like this they're even grumpier than usual, which totally mucks with Quentin's goal of fucking all three members of the band. Well, Quentin thinks as he rubs his sore jaw and tastes blood on the inside of his mouth, Mike is grumpier. Billie's just one big tattooed ball of pitiful.

Quentin sits down and undoes his pants in his usual no-nonsense manner. As the house sub sinks to his knees to get to work, the director decides that at least two-thirds of Green Day, punk rock band extraordinaire, are fucking idiots. And the other one-third... well, he's still trying to figure out the drummer with the silly hair and tight ass.

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Pass the Tequila - feat. robertrodriguez

Sun, 06 Nov 2005 07:02:05 GMT

[Players Only]

October 28, 2005

Tequila is the best fucking drink on the planet as far as Robert and Quentin are concerned but The Drink's two latest victims may not be singing the same tune come morning. They're currently holed up in Quentin's usual booth at the Establishment's bar, half empty bottle of tequila on the table between them. They'd started out ordering rounds of shots from an annoyed looking waiter and then just asked him to bring them the whole bottle.

"'S not like I dind't--" pause "'S not like I didn't tell you about it." Quentin's words are slurring far worse than his friend's and he finds it annoying. They've been going shot-for-shot all night but Robert seems much less affected by the alcohol.

"But you didn't tell me you told him to call you, man. That's a big deal for you." Robert smiles at Quentin, holding up his next shot by way of a toast. "To small steps."

"You can fuck right off," Quentin quips back, growling a little into his own shotglass as he tips his head back to get all of the burning liquid straight down. He feels like his throat has been burnt raw. Along with his ego. Just a little. "Point is, he didn't call." He pauses for a moment, looking down into his empty glass like its a crystal ball ready to reveal the answers of the universe. "I'll tell you what it is," Quentin starts, looking up suddenly. "It's those bastard friends of his. They told him not to call me because they can't get over the fact that I was right about them from the start."

This time Robert doesn't even try to hold back the laugh. When Quentin is drunk he's either a lot of fun or a lot of headaches and Robert's glad that this time it's the first. "Look, Q, I don't know Tré beyond a shortlived makeout session at the club but he doesn't exactly seem the type to do anything he doesn't want to. No matter who is whispering devious thoughts in his ear."

That earns a long, hard glare from Quentin.

"Right. Sorry. I'm not supposed to bring that up, am I?" Robert flashes Quentin an evil smile that says he's not sorry at all and pours himself another drink.

"You get mean when you're drunk. Here. Hand it over." Quentin leans across the table and snatches the tequila from the other director's hand, managing to spill a little in the process. He isn't quite sure why its bothering him so much that Tré hasn't called because he's never cared about trivial things such as phonecalls. And, on top of that, he doesn't usually fuck the same person twice and he's already fucked Tré. Peter's been the only exception to that rule but that's because Peter lets Quentin do anything he wants. "I know 's got somethin' to do with his friends."

Robert, just one step beyond being interested in showing his friend any sympathy, gets up from the table and gives Quentin a slap on the back. "Gonna take a piss. When I get back you're going to shut the fuck up about Tré and tell me about this new script you're working on. Okay? Okay."

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Repeat Customer II - feat. peter_facinelli

Thu, 29 Sep 2005 18:18:41 GMT

[Players Only]

July 21, 2005

It's eight o'clock on the dot, Peter doesn't even have to find his watch to confirm that. He has been counting the minutes off with each breath ever since prepping himself--just enough lube to keep what Quentin might have planned from being too painful and more than enough enthusiasm on his part to get himself dangerously aroused, his cock leaking against the floor where he kneels. Every breath is slow and measured, calming, as the time passes. Peter has been damn tempted to touch himself, but he thinks that would likely be dangerous and given how unpredictable Quentin can be and there's no need to start the night off on a bad note. Instead he waits with as much patience as he can muster, breathing in, counting off another minute, breathing out, and all the while pale eyes stay focused on the door.

Quentin walks quickly into the room, door sliding shut behind him with a loud snick, and goes right over to the cabinet of toys, trusting that the club will have exactly what he needs because he didn't think to call ahead and make sure. It isn't until he finds what he's looking for, a leather cockring with an attached chain and a set of ankle cuffs that have a very short strap connecting them, that he turns and acknowledges Peter.

"The only way I'm stopping is if you safeword," he says clearly, eyes already sliding from light and joking to dark and cool. He's been ready for this since they set the date and with all the work he had to put into Billie Joe and Mike just to get thrown from the room... well, he appreciates having someone who's as willing to submit as he is to dominate.

There's something about Quentin's no-nonsense attitude that doesn't fail to pull a delightful shiver down Peter's spine. It's hard to know just what to expect where the other man is concerned, and of course that's part of the appeal--the unknown, the vague sense of danger.

One hand drifts up, absently brushing wayward strands of hair behind his ear as he waits; jade eyes flicking to the handful of leather and chain that the director pulls from the cabinet and then back up to him before Peter gives a nod and says simply, "I understand." He's tempted to add a 'sir' to the end of the sentence, but they've never been particularly formal. Actually, Peter's suddenly very glad of that if Quentin plans on pushing him hard enough that he might safeword.

It's not that Quentin plans on pushing Peter hard enough to safeword because fuck, he's gone at him full force with a chain flogger without hearing the boy's safeword, but this is going to be different; different kind of pain, different kind of helplessness. Quentin doesn't often play with toys these days, preferring his own belt or hand to a strap or flogger, but he feels to need to change things up.

"Shaved for me?" Quentin asks as he crouches down behind Peter, hand snaking around and down Peter's cock and finding that, yes, the boy is soft and clean shaven. He almost purrs into Peter's ear. "Do it yourself or did you have someone do it for you?"

There's the slightest shift of position as Quentin crouches behind him and Peter tips his head back against the voice at his ear, automatically seeking the other man's touch and his breath hitching as that hand cups freshly smooth balls. It lights a warm fire of excitement low in his belly that Quentin sounds pleased by what he finds, and he exhales a slow breath as he stops himself from thrusting against that grip. "I had help," he murmurs in answer.

I had help. Now there's an image that gets Quentin hard, not that he wasn't already. He gives Peter's balls a fierce squeeze and then releases them, hand now pushing between his shoulder blades. "All fours," he commands and smirks in approval as he's obeyed immediately.

Quentin grabs the ankle cuffs and buckles them snugly one at a time without connecting them with the short strap. Then he reaches between Peter's legs, grabbing his cock and pulling it back to fasten the ring around his cock and balls. The chain hanging from the cockring falls a few inches short of the floor. "Now," he says darkly, "kneel up and sit back."

That clench of fingers around his balls is perfect, reminds Peter of the brutal way Quentin got him off last time and his breath hitches sharply in his chest, lashes drifting down against his cheeks as his eyes flutter with the potent stab of physical memory.

Hands hitting the floor as soon as the order is given, Peter fingers the soft pile of the carpet as Quentin buckles the leather bands in place. His hard cock isn't happy with the ring that is tightened around it, an intoxicating throb beginning at the treatment, but Peter is nearly purring as he kneels back up and settles comfortably on his heels with thighs spread slightly.

The next bit takes a moment; manipulating the chain and strap until the cockring around Peter's cock and balls is attached securely to the short strap between his ankles via the length of chain. He makes the chain only long enough that in Peter's current position there is only slight tension.

"How's that feel?" he asks, though the tone in his voice isn't questioning but almost mocking.

"Great," his tone is nearly a match for Quentin's, though far more playful than mocking. "So long as you don't expect me to move, or is that the whole point?" The question is quick off the tip of his tongue and Peter is grateful that he's comfortable on his knees, or else being hobbled like this would get uncomfortable fast.

"The point is that when you do move, you won't be able to keep from screaming." Quentin rolls to his feet, not quite as easily as he would have ten years ago but he manages it, and moves around to stand in front of Peter. He undoes his belt and slides it from its loops, folding it in half.

"Don't break position or you're gonna get a belt right across your dick," he says before lashing out with the belt, letting it fall with a sharp snap just to the side of Peter's restrained cock.

It's practically a Pavlovian response for his heart to speed up automatically at the first whisper of leather sliding from fabric, and pale eyes watch Quentin's belt intently as it's pulled free from each belt loop.

Peter just knows it's coming even before the other man says anything, and the sharp sting so near his cock earns a choked, "oh fuck," along with a reflexive jerk that draws forth a sharper cry as the chain tethered to his balls keeps him from moving much. A fine tremor works it's way through his body before he straightens himself slightly, fingers digging in against his thighs as he looks up at Quentin and steels himself to not. fucking. move.

Smirking, Quentin lands another blow, this one just above Peter's cock. The welts appear almost instantaneously, red splotches on the pale bare skin usually hidden by wiry hair. Then there's another crack as the belt hits skin, and another -- blows coming nearly on top of one another now, hardly giving Peter time to process the pain from the belt or his constraints before another falls hard and sharp.

Each smack earns its own ragged sound, stuttered yelps or thready breaths slipping past his teeth even as he bites down on his lip to stifle them. The beating starts so fast that he has the worst urge to double over, protect that tender skin from the bite of the leather, but tethered as he is Peter can't do anything but take it, green eyes dark and wide when he's not wincing from the slaps. It's fast and harsh and overwhelming, everything he has come to expect a beating by Quentin to be, and it doesn't take long for the pain to work its way through him, leaving him dazed, trembling with the rush of endorphins and panting for breath.

Finally, Quentin lets the belt fall to the floor and in a flurry of movement he's kneeling down behind Peter working quickly to loosen the chain a few links, giving the boy a little more room to move. He slides his hand across Peter's forehead, fingers moving almost delicately through his long sweaty hair and pulling it back from his face.

"On all fours now," he whispers hotly into Peter's ear, rock hard and aching in the confines of his pants. "Gonna fuck you until you think you'll pass out from the pain." Fuck but Peter brings out the sadist in him like so few others subs these days.

Even as Quentin loosens that damned chain Peter is reluctant to move. His body shakes as he gives a tentative stretch to see just how much slack he has been given. Olive skin is flushed, enflamed, every inch hurts in the best way. Hell, Peter thought he ached earlier when he was merely aroused, but this, this infernal throb of the chain tugging on his balls and the burning welts left in the wake of Quentin's belt and the so sweet pulse of his dripping cock despite it all--it's almost too much as it blurs the line between pleasure and pain and leaves no room for any thought beyond the seductively sinister words of the man behind him.

"Please," he pants softly, body immediately dropping forward at that deliciously wicked promise whispering from Quentin's lips, fingers clenching against the carpet as he presents himself to be fucked.

There's ten solid seconds of hesitation on Quentin's part, almost entranced by the way his shadows falls across Peter's back and the way every order he gives is obeyed immediately. He's almost lightheaded with the realization of absolute power he has and it takes a shake of his head to bring him back to the present.

"Hope you prepped," he murmurs as he grabs a condom from his pocket and gets his pants and boxers down around his knees. Condom on, Quentin pushes slowly into Peter without stopping even though the delicious clench of muscle is almost too much to take. There's a delighted voice in the back of Quentin's head reminding him that when he starts to fuck Peter in earnest, the boy's going to be screaming, the length of chain just short enough to be a constant ache that will explode into pain when pulled tight.

Peter nods drunkenly in answering confirmation to Quentin's murmur as he braces himself against the floor, fingers white-knuckled as they seek purchase against the soft nap of the carpet. Suddenly his earlier prepping seems rather inconsequential though, and he wishes he had used a touch more lube because this is going to hurt regardless. However, his cock couldn't care less, twitching flagrantly within that tight ring.

Shuddering with that first full thrust, Peter goes so still that he's practically not breathing. The pressure on his nuts is already beyond a distracting throb, and he tries to keep from shifting forward to minimize that ache as he's unable to keep from squirming on Quentin's cock. It feels good, hurts enough to clear his head and make him concentrate on the pleasure, but he knows what's coming and his breath hiccups in a low whimper that's only two steps from being a sob.

"You can call 'yellow'," Quentin says as he pushes hard in the last inch, sending Peter forward enough for Quentin to feel the resistance. The boy lets out a whimpering scream which tells Quentin that it was a good idea for him to give him the additional word to use and he puts a hand on Peter's shoulder, pulling him back onto his cock as he pushes forward again.

A second's pause to catch his breath and Quentin starts up an unbreaking rhythm, out to the head and then pushing back in, hard and fast.

That slow word just might make Peter think, if he were capable of thinking much at all, that Quentin isn't actually as merciless as he seems. Well, if he didn't know better. As it is the torment has Peter already clinging to the word, a slow chant of yellow yellow yellow starting in his head but not quite making it past his lips as he yelps and cries out wordlessly on every inthrust.

Quentin's first hard push is enough to make his eyes sting, and the steady pulse of blinding pain and unbelievably pleasurable relief is enough to guarantee that Peter will never be able to catch his breath as he cries out with each and every stroke. No matter how much he tries, he can't keep from being shoved forward with every brutal thrust, the movement jarring his body until it's hard to know whether there's more precome or tears trickling to the floor. One particularly hard thrust bows his entire body, and his dark head falls forward as the pain steals his senses for a moment, a ragged sob of "yellow" ripping from his throat.

The word is like a bucket of cold water being dumped over his head and Quentin is secretly relieved to know that he still responds to it -- it's been years since he has heard a safeword or even a plea to slow down -- but he does respond and stops moving, balls deep in Peter. He breathes heavily as he wraps an arm around Peter's waist and pulls him up onto his knees and back against his chest.

"Beg me for it, slut. Beg me to let you out of this," he growls into Peter's ear as he grabs the boys cock and tugs it, once more pulling the chain tight. "Beg me to let you come. Beg me to forget what you just said and finish fucking you until I come in your ass." After all, 'yellow' just means slow down, not stop, and maybe Peter just needs a breather and then Quentin can continue to make him scream.

It's unsettling. Peter knows he has been beaten nearly bloody before and never asked to slow down, but this is an entirely different kind of pain--it just borders being nearly unbearable as it flashes from his balls and straight up his spine, his entire body wants to buckle around the bite of that chain and ease the discomfort. The respite is much needed and Peter sucks in one deep ragged breath after another once Quentin stills.

When he's pulled upright, Peter arches back, head lolling against the other man's shoulder as he shudders at those words. Keening as that hand fists his tortured cock, he's not sure how much more he can take, but no matter how much he wants that damn ring off Peter has always been a greedy slut and even more he wants Quentin to fuck him, to finish. "Please.. ohgodQuentin.. fuck me, please."

With a chilling laugh, Quentin spreads his own knees further so they're to either side of Peter's bound ankles, and then leans back, putting his hands on the floor behind him. "Go ahead and ride me, then. Take as much as you want." He breathes heavily, eyes nearly black though Peter can't see them. "Take as much pain as you can. Want to watch you hurt yourself because you're too much of a slut not to."

Body clenching around Quentin's cock as he shifts on his lap, Peter shudders in response, not unaffected by the other man's laughter. A hot flush of humiliation colors sweat-damp skin and makes his green eyes fever-bright as he glances over his shoulder at the other man. It's one thing to let someone else hurt him and something else entirely to do it himself, and it takes a long moment before Peter moves at all.

Glancing down at his hands clenched on his thighs, Peter moves tentatively at first, finding just how far he can move before that chain causes a shudder of pain and a quick jerk down onto the other man's cock. Those shallow strokes are bad enough, jarring his aching balls, but the first full thrust jerks a thready cry from behind clenched teeth and his rhythm falters.

"Fucking do it," Quentin growls when Peter's compliance falters with the rhythm of his movement. He's so high on the rush he gets from how far he can push Peter without a fight that this one hiccup is like a slap in the face. "If you wanna make me come this time you'd better get to fucking work or I'll just jerk off and shoot my load on the floor." He's past the point of relying on pure physical stimulation to come and he needs the extra rush of pushing harder and taking more command. Of knowing he owns everything Peter has to give and can take what he wants. "I won't even let you lick it up."

The shocking sight of Quentin coming on the floor last time they scened is still all too vivid in Peter's mind, and he shakes his head in adamant refusal at the thought of causing another repeat. Swiping at the damp strands of hair sticking to his face, he lifts himself again, eyes clenching tight at the sharp tug on his balls. Setting up a fiercer rhythm, his teeth bite at his bottom lip but do little to hold back the stuttered cries that accompany each sharp snap on his balls and the following pleasure of the other man's prick raking against his prostate. Gasping, he babbles softly, words slurred with exertion, pleasure and pain, "Please please.. oh fuck.. Please, Quentin, godplease.." Though, not even Peter is sure whether he's begging for Quentin to come, for him to release that wicked ring, or for it to not stop, all the more aroused by the humiliation and pain.

The desperation and pain in Peter's begging is exactly what Quentin is looking for and he quickly gets a hand around to unsnap the leather ring. Then, hand securely back on the floor to support his weight, he starts thrusting up as Peter slides down on his cock just waiting for the perfect clench of Peter's body to pull him over. "Come," he gets out through gritted teeth, eyes focused on a bead of sweat sliding down Peter's neck and along his spine.

A raw sob of relief rips from Peter's chest as that evil band falls away, his abused balls immediately drawing up tight with the need for climax as the pressure is released. The sudden swell of pleasure is dizzying and his thrusts come even harder, almost violent, as he rides Quentin's cock. That command is irresistible with Peter so far past being on the edge that that single syllable wrenches a scream from him, his body convulsing around Quentin's cock as he comes nearly hard enough to black out, and though his rhythm stutters his hips never stop grinding down against the man behind him.

With a hitching gasp, Quentin's hips stutter to a stop as he comes, Peter's movement helping coax him through the intense orgasm. His body is ready to check out for the night but Quentin doesn't listen to the scream of his muscles because no matter how much he enjoys the sex, he doesn't do the 'hanging around after' thing.

It's like a written script he repeats after every scene and he goes through the motions without thought. He undoes the cuffs around Peter's ankles, getting to his feet with a little trouble and vowing, as he always does, not to fuck on the floor next time when his knees crack loudly. He walks towards the cabinet as he pulls the condom off, tying it and dropping it into the trash can before doing his pants back up. He grabs a small bottle from the cabinet and tosses it to Peter who is still on the floor, tucking his shirt back in as he speaks. "Make sure you put some of that on or you're not even gonna be able to take a piss without crying."

If he weren't so dazed, then Peter might be impressed by Quentin actually getting up and moving around so quickly after such intense sex, but then again the other man wasn't the one feeling like his balls were going to be ripped off. As it is, Peter barely cares enough to avoid flopping in the sticky pool of his own come as he stretches out on the floor, heavy-lidded eyes watching Quentin move through the room.

Catching the bottle of salve with an amused snort, it's actually more after care than he's accustomed to where the temperamental director is concerned, which is fine with Peter--it's always worth it, though he gives a sated grin and mutters, "I'd rather a cigarette."

"Your call," Quentin says as he pats himself down in search of his cigarettes. He finds the keycard to his other room in his left pocket and the gold cigarette case deep in his right. Quentin pulls it out, opening it with a click to take one out. A simple flick of his wrist and he's got it lit, taking a drag for himself before moving over to Peter and holding it out for him. His legs still feel like jelly and he really needs to lie the fuck down but that'll have to wait until he can get to his room. "The room's yours for the night if you wanna stay."

Reaching up to take the cigarette, Peter practically purrs with the first satisfying drag, "Thanks." Hell, he doesn't know if he even wants to move enough to crawl onto the bed, there's no way he's leaving the room, not right away anyhow and he acknowledges the offer with a soft grunt as he watches him through half-closed eyes. Exhaling a lungful of smoke and commenting before the other man leaves, "This was fuckin' good, y'know."

"I know," Quentin tosses over his shoulder as he exits and pulls his keycard out to check the room number; his room is just down the hall. He can't help but laugh at how stupid the whole thing is but it's been years since he's hung around after a scene and he's no good at sleeping in the same bed with someone else anymore so fuck it. Less than a minute later he's lying face down in his own bed, fast asleep before he can even get under the covers.

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Flashback: November 14, 1990, New York City

Fri, 12 Aug 2005 17:44:34 GMT

November 14, 1990, New York City

Quentin is shaking like a heroine junkie in need of a fix as his eyes dance over the card rack in the back of a poorly lit convenience store. He's not going to buy the boy a fucking card but he can't do nothing, even if he's only met the boy one time, even if he was only a random fuck in a long line of faceless fucks. He feels like he should be out doing something because he's tired of being shut up in his house with its too-white walls and his too-fucked thoughts. He's had so many cigarettes in the last three days that it's like he can feel his lungs weighted down with nicotine.

He scratches the back of his neck and winces, nails tearing open a barely healed cut. Turning away from the card rack, a sick feeling rising in his throat, he catches his reflection in the mirror over the table of sunglasses. It's like he's looking at a stranger. His eyes are hollow - definitely not his own - he has a swollen eye, and a bruise in the shape of a hand on one side of his neck.

You look like shit.

Yeah well, you should see the other guy.

But it's not funny. Pulling up the collar on his coat, he leaves the store and wanders the streets until the moon is gone and the sun begins to peek up from behind the buildings. When he realizes he doesn't know where he is he hails a taxi and gives the driver the same destination he's given the last nine cab drivers he has met:

"Mount Sinai Medical Center, please."

In the end, a scribbled note on the back of a take-out menu made its way up to room 423.

I'm sorry.
-Q

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Two Simple Facts - Standalone

Tue, 09 Aug 2005 00:12:23 GMT

[Players Only]

August 8, 2005

Quentin's been shut up in his studio for the last three hours, trying to focus well enough to put in some time on actual work - the last few weeks having been spent prowling the club and fucking anything that could be talked into going to its knees - but as soon as he clears his mind of one thing something else sneaks in and now he's sitting bent over with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands as he fights off a migraine.

He can't, for the life of him, figure out why he has such a hard time talking to Robert these days. Robert is hands down his best friend, save for Uma whom he hasn't spoken to in months, and he should be the one person he can sit down with and explain himself to. But lately, even when Robert is sitting next to him, he seems miles away. Quentin can't fault his friend. There are days when he sees Robert happier than he's been in as long as Quentin can remember, and isn't that worth it all? Isn't that worth giving up having someone to talk to about his problems? He's never been one to get sentimental and emotional anyway and he sure as fuck hates playing the troubled guy that everyone pities. He looks at it as a lucky out.

But there's a lot on Quentin's mind these days and he can't seem to escape the ghosts of his past. If he were one to have panic attacks he probably wouldn't be able to leave his house.

In the end it comes down to this simple set of facts: The appeal in submitting lies entirely in the way he is able to shut his mind down and escape his problems. The fear of submitting in a place as familiar as the Establishment lies entirely in his troubled past and warped mind.

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Email for peter_facinelli

Wed, 13 Jul 2005 07:00:19 GMT

To: peter_facinelli
From: quentin
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Nice shoes...

>> You still haven't said when.

Getting pushy, are you?

Thursday the 21st works for me. I'm meeting a boy earlier that day, but I've got time that night. I want you naked and waiting for me by 8pm in a room at the club. The only choice you get for the night is how much lube to use when you prep yourself.

-Quentin

Email for peter_facinelli

Wed, 13 Jul 2005 02:51:40 GMT

To: peter_facinelli
From: quentin
Subject: Re: Re: Nice shoes. Wanna fuck?

Adult-type things are overrated. You should be on call at all hours of the day, if you ask me.

By the way, I have something specific in mind. I'd like you shaved for me, and I'm not talking about your face. If it's a problem let me know, though this kind of request has never been a problem in the past.

You're a slut for it, always.

Quentin

Email for peter_facinelli

Sat, 18 Jun 2005 15:02:17 GMT

To: peter_facinelli
From: quentin
Subject: Nice shoes. Wanna fuck?

Didn't want to wait another year before we got together again. Interested in meeting up at the club sometime next week? I could do with a repeat performance of our last meeting, with the added pleasure of me getting to come down your throat or in your ass this time.

Let me know,
Quentin

Mending Things - feat. robertrodriguez

Wed, 15 Jun 2005 23:14:13 GMT

[Players Only]

May 12, 2005

"Hey, Quentin." To say Robert's voice is timid would be an understatement. All his life he's handled problems head on but this tiff with Quentin has him nervous and confused, two emotions he despises as much as pretentious directors working for big corporations.

"Who's this?" Quentin knows who it is but his defenses are up immediately and, when he hears Robert sigh, already sounding defeated, he can't help but feel like the man deserves it.

Ouch. "You know who it is, Q. Should I hang up and try again some other time? This isn't about me cornering you or forcing you to talk to me. I fucked up and I'm trying to make amends."

All those words. Quentin holds his hand up to the boy kneeling next to him and then nods towards the door. Without question, the boy stands and leaves the room. "What happened?" he asks, voice softer than it's been in more than a month.

What happened? Good question. Robert is lying on his bed, being in San Antonio somehow making this phonecall harder. He scratches his stomach, trying to find an acceptable answer. He doesn't have one. "I don't know. But whatever happened only got worse the longer I didn't call you. I'm sorry about that."

Now that Robert's apologized, Quentin isn't even sure it was even necessary. Robert wasn't the only one at fault and he knows it, but with his friend backed up against a wall feeling guilty, Quentin knows he'll be able to get some more information out of him. And maybe that's what this is all about. Robert hasn't talked to Quentin since moving to LA and now he feels like he has to guilt the other man into sharing things with him.

"So, what kept you from calling? Last time I spoke with you, you were sneaking out of bed with someone. Was it Lou?"

Robert realizes just how out of touch they've been if Quentin thinks he's been seeing Lou. "No, it wasn't Lou," he says softly. "Haven't seen him since that first scene you set up for me. Thanks for that, by the way. Did I ever say that?"

"Hey, listen," Quentin interrupts, getting up and going to the window of his hotel room. He pulls back the curtain to look out at the city in the dark. "I don't want you to feel like you need to apologize for anything else 'cause that'll just sit there between us and dig us into some deep motherfucking shit. So just forget about it, okay?" Then, after a pause when he can hear Robert's acceptance, he adds, "How's the fucking going?"

Robert laughs, his first genuine laugh with Quentin in longer than he can remember. "It's going well," he begins, "you know Billy Zane?"

"You're not telling me you're fucking a man that did a movie in a skin-tight purple suit," Quentin teases as he closes his curtains and climbs into bed, turning out the bedside lamp sending the room into darkness.

"I am. Or, more like he's fucking me." Robert closes his eyes, enjoying the relief he's feeling. At least they're back to a place where they can joke with one another. "You're just jealous because he's more versatile than you are. Anyone can tell a movie's yours from a mile away, my friend."

"And if it's a trilogy it's yours, fuckmook," Quentin throws back, smiling.

This is good.

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Email for g_eads

Sun, 22 May 2005 17:01:59 GMT

To: g_eads
From: quentin
Subjects: Re: Membership

Explains so much? Funny, I get that a lot. What is it about me? I'd smile innocently as I ask that, but my face has long since forgotten how to do innocent.

If I had known you were a member while we were working together it would have made it harder to work for the distraction of what I'd have been picturing in my head.