[The Used Drabble]
[bert/??? *self thought of quinn so :P*, rated r, ‘just bert’… sigh, for poisonedromance because any bertslash I write is all her fault, even when she’s not around, don't like how it ends, I got distracted and fell out of my moment :( ]
You always wanted to play games with Bert, but now everything's going wrong, and nothing quite fits the way it should. His wrists are skinny, so skinny you stare and just wait for him to slip out of the cuffs. His breathing is so sporadic, his chest rises and falls, so quickly, that you can't secure the straps without fear of really crushing him, so they stay too loose and the extra length of the leather flaps against his skin.
At least the gag stays in place, but he whimpers and he whines, and a big chunk of his stringy hair falls between his eyes and he tries to look at it, and he's reminiscent of a cross eyed puppy, one with hair over most of their eyes. Wriggly and disobedient in their own playful way. There's no time for drawn out fun with Bert, no barely-there touches, no teasing.
Instead you play the only way he seems to know how. Hard, fast, painful. Not the slow, agonising pain, sharp quick snatches of pain, like being slapped in the face, but everywhere. He arches his back and twists in ways you didn't know were possible, he could be a piece of scaffolding, a helter-skelter, or just the tip of a pencil on a page, ready to move wherever you take it.
He splits his own lip from biting on it, but it’s nothing new. Everyone else would be watching TV, or reading a magazine, and Bert would be sitting on the couch, cross-legged, picking at his fingernails and biting his lip til he began to bleed. Someone asked if he’d been a destructive child; self-destructive was really what they wanted to ask, and you remember someone frowning and furrowing their eyebrows and saying “No, not really, he’s always just been… Bert.”
But if someone asked what ‘just Bert’ was, you don’t think you’d be able to answer. He was too many things; he was a blur of dark hair with red in it as he raced you to the stage, or to the bus, or the bathroom. He was the innocent childish grin when he’d won a board-game, or found the most things, or had a bag of sweets. He was a black shirt with a band logo on, on top of another shirt with longer-sleeves, creased and twisted around his body where he jumped and spun around and his clothes didn’t quite follow in time. He was odd shoes with broken laces, he was lips pressed against a lollipop without realising the implications, he was fear, and curling up in someone else’s bed during a storm like the clouds were going to single out the bunk he slept in personally.
Right now he was whimpering quietly, and clinging to your bare skin, nails digging into your back too much from him not being able to judge where to stop. His eyes were screwed shut and he curled up into a ball against your chest, and your arms snaked around him like he might fall out of the bunk unless you held on tight.
He was always impish, childlike Bert, but he managed to quite innocently make himself whatever anyone wanted him to be.
You wanted him to be yours.
You always wanted to play games with Bert, but now everything's going wrong, and nothing quite fits the way it should. His wrists are skinny, so skinny you stare and just wait for him to slip out of the cuffs. His breathing is so sporadic, his chest rises and falls, so quickly, that you can't secure the straps without fear of really crushing him, so they stay too loose and the extra length of the leather flaps against his skin.
At least the gag stays in place, but he whimpers and he whines, and a big chunk of his stringy hair falls between his eyes and he tries to look at it, and he's reminiscent of a cross eyed puppy, one with hair over most of their eyes. Wriggly and disobedient in their own playful way. There's no time for drawn out fun with Bert, no barely-there touches, no teasing.
Instead you play the only way he seems to know how. Hard, fast, painful. Not the slow, agonising pain, sharp quick snatches of pain, like being slapped in the face, but everywhere. He arches his back and twists in ways you didn't know were possible, he could be a piece of scaffolding, a helter-skelter, or just the tip of a pencil on a page, ready to move wherever you take it.
He splits his own lip from biting on it, but it’s nothing new. Everyone else would be watching TV, or reading a magazine, and Bert would be sitting on the couch, cross-legged, picking at his fingernails and biting his lip til he began to bleed. Someone asked if he’d been a destructive child; self-destructive was really what they wanted to ask, and you remember someone frowning and furrowing their eyebrows and saying “No, not really, he’s always just been… Bert.”
But if someone asked what ‘just Bert’ was, you don’t think you’d be able to answer. He was too many things; he was a blur of dark hair with red in it as he raced you to the stage, or to the bus, or the bathroom. He was the innocent childish grin when he’d won a board-game, or found the most things, or had a bag of sweets. He was a black shirt with a band logo on, on top of another shirt with longer-sleeves, creased and twisted around his body where he jumped and spun around and his clothes didn’t quite follow in time. He was odd shoes with broken laces, he was lips pressed against a lollipop without realising the implications, he was fear, and curling up in someone else’s bed during a storm like the clouds were going to single out the bunk he slept in personally.
Right now he was whimpering quietly, and clinging to your bare skin, nails digging into your back too much from him not being able to judge where to stop. His eyes were screwed shut and he curled up into a ball against your chest, and your arms snaked around him like he might fall out of the bunk unless you held on tight.
He was always impish, childlike Bert, but he managed to quite innocently make himself whatever anyone wanted him to be.
You wanted him to be yours.