Taking a stab at it…



Quinn and Carrie questioned Brody and Brody broke. Before the Roya watch truly begins, Quinn went home. The following is what happened back at his apartment…

Quinn arrived back at his studio apartment well past 9:00pm.
It was two days since he’d been back there and what a fucking two days it’d
been. Mathison blew the entire Brody operation, then he had to pull off a
top-notch acting performance while putting a knife through a man’s hand. In
addition to all the other bullshit, he had the shawarma shits the past 12 hours
and was just now feeling better.

He closed and locked his apartment door, kicked out of his driving
loafers while looking around the place. All was the same. Nothing had moved,
nothing had changed. He had such a knot in his gut, but it wasn’t the bad Greek
food. He figured after a solid sleep he’d feel better. He still couldn’t believe
the turn of events. Sure, Carrie was able to pull a confession – with his help
of course- but the whole thing made him sick. The way she fawned over Brody,
the man was a pathological liar. She had
to have seen that.

Quinn undressed making sure to add the clothes he had on to
the wash. The olive blazer he hadn’t really worn and could probably get a
couple more uses out of. HIs shirt, however, was still damp with sweat. Naked, he
pulled on a pair of loose fitting grey shorts and a white t-shirt then grabbed a
beer from the fridge. As Quinn finished off the burrito he picked up earlier, another
lump in his stomach formed knowing he’d have to be back at their headquarters in
about 8 hours. Quinn’s phone buzzed and he ignored the text from Allie, a cute
brunette nurse down at Sibley Memorial. His mind drifted back to work. At least
now with Roya they had someone to watch, somewhere to look, but the whole plan
felt dirty to him. Christ, he thought
to himself, to call Carrie Mathison a piece
of work would be an understatement.

He downed another beer and around 11:00pm, after brushing his
teeth, he went to lay down on top of the sleeping bag on the bed. He was a side
sleeper, sometimes stomach. He moved to his right side and tried to close his
eyes. He felt restless still as he moved to his stomach. The tightness he felt
through his shorts prevented him from turning all the way over. Quinn breathed
a heavy sigh and sat up. He walked across the room to grab his dusty tablet and
the Lubriderm he kept in his green backpack. He hoped he’d be able to sleep, but
more so to relax after he rubbed one out. Yes. Peter Quinn masturbated. He jacked
off, he beat his meat, he flogged his log. He usually did so during his morning
shower but tonight felt somewhat necessary.

Quinn propped up, leaning against the wall and found his way
onto pornhub. He typed in his go to search, “big ass” – for yes, Quinn was an ass man. He usually was able to knock
it out easily as his libido, alone or with someone, was never an issue. As he scrolled
through the options his indifference and indecisiveness made him feel a bit
uneasy. Nudging down his shorts past his thighs Quinn felt it necessary to
filter his search, peering through the choices the only adjustment he made was
checking off the category of “blond’…


For mature audiences.

I am glad that finally some mentions Quinn brushing his teeth and sorting his laundry. And I learnt so many new expressions here!