[Where is she? Collecting her things from the boarding house - not all of them, but some clothes, essentials. She’s already moved the portraits of her brother, the rest is left to wait in a state of strange purgatory. She doesn’t know if she’ll ever sleep in this bed again.
On her way out she stops by the kitchen to pick at the savoury pastries lingering from the morning. Indulges in goats cheese and jam, and takes a really big gulp of water and gets ready to psyche herself up to go back out into the cold.
[ She doesn't have to be outside for very long. Just out of view from people enough that he can slam his shoulder into her back at full force and stand above her when she turns over, one foot on each side of her waist, crouching and arching over with one arm on his knee, the other flat on the ground. There's still blood on his mouth, in the corner of his eyes, a dried up stream of blood from both nostrils. The only reason no one's bothered him about it is because his mark isn't easily visible and they probably just assume he's skala. ]
[She goes down like a tonne of bricks, unexpected and utterly furious when her elbows and palms hit the ground. She winces on the turn around, hisses, shimmies back and kicks her knee up, foot moving to side-swipe his ankle and says: ] What the fuck, Petre!
[ She can kick, punch, push; Petre barely moves and doesn't take his eyes off her, any trace of his usual front completely wiped from his face. He shifts one hand from his leg to press it against her chest, shoving her down flat on her back with his weight. If her skull hits the cobblestone, he either won't hear it or give a fuck.
Prayers pour out of her mouth; blood immediately pours out of his, retching like he's doing it on purpose, getting as much of it on her as he can. Then he laughs, snatches her jaw, presses his fingers and thumb on the hollow of her cheeks to force her mouth open, like her bones will crush under his grip unless she complies. His nails become sharp, too sharp to be human; his other hand gets off the ground to dig into her mouth and grab her tongue, just barely piercing the flesh. ]
You talk too much, cunt. How about you listen for once.
[ The smile is gone. His face comes dangerously close to hers — and if anyone knows why, it's Jem. She's seen what his teeth can do. ]
You think you're so much better than me. I don't need to guess what that other Petre was thinking when he decided to waste his time on you, though. Girls like you don't end up in nice places. He must've known what you were from the beginning. So do I.
[ His lips are against hers, red, dripping, the taste and smell of old blood mixed with fresh nauseating. The sound of his voice is like the calm before the storm. She asked him what it was like to die. He has a question for her, too. ]
What's it like to kill children, princess?
Edited 2024-02-09 23:01 (UTC)
the above, references to expected emotional/physical abuse
[Her head does hit the cobblestones in a way that has light dancing across her eyes. Little black specks, like glitter. Petre's fingers taste like blood; they feel like a vice, like needlepoints on the cushiony flesh.
What surprises her isn't that he attacks - if Jem's real honest with herself, she's always known this might happen, one day. There was a reason she made that second contract, back in Eudio. There was a reason she knew she'd have to protect herself, it wasn't always going to just be from stray cult members and Saints. She didn't watch Petre and Cole and not learn anything. She kept it with her, buried it deep down and used it so, so quietly. What surprises her is the absolute calm that settles over her: like her body has been waiting for this moment, anticipating it since the first day she confronted Petre in his apartment and asked him do you kill people?
There's something broken inside of her. She doesn't need Petre to tell her that. She doesn't need any of this from him, really, and when the ringing in her ears has stopped, she thinks:] It takes one to know one, cunt.
[She has a knife in her boot. She has another hidden under her dress, high up on the thigh. Petre's got her tongue, bleeding against her mouth in such a fucked up parody of how they used to kiss. Intimate, her blood on his lips, given wholly, consensually, little pieces of her soul fed to him drip by drip. She still loves him, she thinks. There are days she waits to hear his voice call her Jeminy. Instead she gets this.
She thinks: ] What's it like to be a pale imitation of the real thing, babe? [It's a low blow. She hasn't reached for a knife. She waits, ever so patient, ever so calm. She thinks:] Imperet illi Deus, supplices deprecamur, tuque, Princeps militiae caelestis -
[And he might rip out her tongue, but she's counting on blood, she's counting on him fucking choking on it, distracted, angry. That's when her hand slips to her thigh, to reach for the knife. ] - Satanam aliosque spiritus malignos, qui ad perditionem animarum pervagantur in mundo, divina virtute, in infernum detrude.
[That's when it slips free and she cuts upward to his his wrist, then again to his thigh. ] You don't know a fucking thing about me - [she thinks, and pushes, rises up to tackle, to bite down on his fucking fingers, to draw blood, to taste it. ]
[ It's a guttural scream, muscles seizing, convulsing, as her thoughts in his mind feel so much more painful than they had before. The claws in his fingers dig into her cheek, he snatches the one on her tongue away, ripping the tip in half so he can clutch his own head. He doesn't even take in her own attempt to bruise his ego, doesn't register the pain of her violence, just the constant, internal yelling to make her stop, no matter what it takes.
He clutches the knife, grabs her neck, skin hot enough to feel like it could melt through the metal and her flesh, and then he laughs. Mad. Losing the fight and taking her down with him. ]
You bitch, [ He spits, pants, voice ripping out of his throat, ] You fucking bitch, I'm going to make sure there's nothing left for them to find—
[She screams. There's nothing to do but scream, there's so much blood filling her mouth, spilling over her chin, down her throat. It hurts, it hurts so much more than she thought it would; hurts more than the knife had hurt when it slid through the meat of her throat -
And he's there, at her throat, hand burning, and she can't stop screaming even when she's choking on her own blood. The calm is gone. All she feels is a red-hot rage, a searing hot kind of anger that makes her narrow down her focus, looking for weak points, looking for an out, but her tongue is agony, her throat is hot, getting hotter, and even through the rage, she can see the signs of a transformation and knows she can't win on her own.
She thinks, because she can't fucking speak:] Kiss me, [while her hand reaches for his face, bloodied palm flat against his cheek. ] Kiss me you absolute fucking coward - [while the other reaches for his neck, dragging his head closer, nose to nose. ] You need the blood, fucking do it before you lose control -
[ Someone's bound to come soon; the street might be empty, but the screams are alarming, and beyond the walls around them, surely someone has to hear it. Surely someone will come to help, to stop him, to whisk her away to safety and make Petre feel the consequences of this attack, because bitches like her always have to be the victim—
An unpleasant noise when she brings him close, likely as delirious as he is, Petre presses his lips without kissing her. The taste of blood reminds the animalistic part of him that he used to have to do this, when Ihutne's gift came with the hunger for human flesh and all its insides, and it tastes just as euphoric. Mouth open, sucking and drinking hungrily, the burning stops. Just not the grip on her knife or the pressure on her neck, forgotten amid everything else.
(He'd licked blood from Aegon's fingers, but it was nothing like this. That was barely an appetiser, foreplay to test how fucked up his new best friend was, but this — fuck. Fresh blood, and it's his, and it's effervescent with rage and pain.) ]
[She could hate this Petre. After this, she could let the little bits of her that still love him - the memory of him, the him that is so far away - burn up and twist themselves into hatred. It might be nice to hate him, even.
This is a horrible parody of something she used to treasure. Her blood, his tongue - he laps at it like a panting dog, like a vile creature, like a fucking monster. He swallows her down and Jem hopes he chokes on her; she hopes her blood curdles in his gut, becomes acrid and putrid and rots him from the inside out. She hopes it fucking burns him, hopes every time he tastes iron he thinks of her and hates it.
She twists her wrist slowly; tests the give of his grip on it and settles the other hand onto the back of his head, fists her fingers in his hair.
She wants to hate him so much. She wants to hate him for how much pain she’s in, she wants to hate him for not loving her, for being a fucking stranger when she needed him.
She presses her forehead to his, so briefly it might feel like a dream much later. A quiet, intimate beat, a breath, before she lifts a knee and connects it with his groin, fist yanking his head all the way back to spit blood onto his face. She hauls herself free, pushes him as hard as she can, and then turns and runs. ]
[ The screams didn't go unnoticed, even in this town. Rubeans are raised around the fine line between simple creature and horrible beast, and most are watchful for locals and Void-touched alike who abuse the permeable boundary. But, like most people in the world, in all the universes, they're also hesitant to jump into someone else's business. The house call he's making hears the awful noise, and even Quentin is inclined to ignore it until his client suggests mournfully that it sounds like it's near the boarding house. Gut sinking, he asks her to sit his bag while he checks it out--just to be safe.
[ The sight he stumbles over freezes the blood in his veins. He's not running numbers, debating who to blame here. He approaches at a sprint even before he recognizes the woman under attack. When he's close enough to recognize Jem through the sheet of blood pouring down her chin, smeared across her lips and face, he steels himself to take this as far as it needs to go to keep her safe. Enough nightmares.
[ The kiss throws him. The nutbuster makes more sense, and he takes his cue from that.
[ The moment Jem is free and running, Quentin's arms are lashing around Petre from behind, catching shoulders with his elbows and straining to close his fingers behind Petre's head. Before he manages it, he's already trying to scrape backwards, pull him farther and farther away. ]
Ease up! You're out of control, ease the fuck up, man!
[ Jem makes her decisive escape, Petre yells and hunches over, the sting of pain from her kick immediately drowned out by something different and increasingly agonizing. His insides feel like they're imploding, his face feels like it's being ripped apart, a slit down the middle of his skin. He convulses, too irate to be confused or scared.
His face isn't human anymore. Dark raw flesh shines under the skin that pulls open in a curtain of gore, fangs made to tear through flesh expanding until they're beyond inhuman. All he can think about is Jem, but they're mindless flashes of her body, her face, more determined to disfigure her than he's ever wanted to do to anyone in his fucking life. (When he's done, he's going to consume everything until she's unrecognizable, until everyone she loves has to look away in disgust—)
Quentin catches him with the element of surprise. His advantage is short-lived. ]
GET OFF ME!
[ The sound of his voice is borderline otherworldly. Breaking the grip, Petre snaps around and aims at Quentin's throat with his hand to try and push him against the wall. His eyes are completely black, mouth salivating, drool mixed with blood. His and Jem's. ]
[ Even if he'd seen Petre before, he'd be unrecognizable now. Even if he was strong enough to win any kind of find, he'd still lose his footing to that horror of a face. Quentin's eyes widen, stomach drops out from below, and he can't even think through the distance from where they're standing to the wall. He hits the stone wall before his next thought can even form.Â
[ Throat jumping under his palm, Quentin plants a hand against Petre's chest (spittle, blood, some muddle of it drips along his forearm and he doesn't flinch). He hisses, teeth bared but still careful: ] Hey. Good. You see me?Â
You're losing it. You almost lost it on someone, you need to cool off. [ His hand inches down away from the splitting skin, jesus christ towards Petre's waist. Quentin pries at the hand around his neck. ] I can help you out. Hey. Lemme help you out.Â
[ Panting a thick line of drool from the front of his mouth, hateful oil-black stares back at Quentin. There's very little he's mindful enough to recall, let alone a face he hasn't seen before, but it's not Jem, and that's enough to stop him. The monster's thoughts are increasingly consumed by what others have warned the void-touched about — the amplified hunger for all the impulses that his society reviled, the ones he'd been made to incite so they could also belong to Ihutne — violence waning when Quentin touches Petre to ground him.
He pauses but doesn't settle, ready to snap like a match against the box's striker. ]
I'm not fucking losing it.
[ Then he withdraws his hand swiftly, turns around to start chasing Jem, and gets two steps before hunching over with another cry of pain. His body isn't done transforming, the breach that peeled the skin of his face in half ripping down the rest of his body. Petre falls to his knees with a hideous scream. Angry, resisting the transformation. It's futile. ]
Edited (oops forgor a word) 2024-02-16 04:05 (UTC)
cw throughout: self-destructive thought, blood, body horror, dubcon, weird
[ The fuck that slips out under his breath when Petre relents is far from relieved. For a split second, he's ready to run, even if he's unsure whether or not he can keep up--but he isn't so sure he's ready to take a knee. The sound of skin splitting, like so much soaked thread tearing loose, turns his stomach. This transformation is already burning fast, faster than talking down is going to help. Quentin takes Petre's shoulder, possessed with the though of whipping him around--maybe hitting him, starting a fight, if it really goes south, he'll come back to life in a few weeks and at least it won't do anymore damage--
[ The sight of blood splattering to the ground between Petre's knees reminds him that he doesn't know what's happening on the other side of this body. Reminds him that he's promised people he'll be less reckless and more wise. One face comes to mind, and a handful more follow quickly.Â
[ He takes a knee instead, lets his hand come to Petre's waist and spear around till he feels blood soaking through his clothes in the crook of his hip, down until he smears blood over Petre's crotch. Quentin's chin hooks over his shoulder, holds his breath to not suck in the warm air leaching out of Petre's chest. ] My bad. You're totally together. Look at you, the picture of composure.Â
Leave her, man-- [ Fingers split as they push around the shape of his cock through his trousers, palm rounds over his shaft when Quentin draws it back up, like he's going to anchor Petre from splitting right down the middle. ] --I can take care of you. I got you.Â
[ Hyperventilating and cursing through a torn throat, disjointed bones crack and clack back into place, blood pouring from between teeth on each half of a gaping torso. It's more grotesque than anything he could've imagined. His body has never changed like this, and he doesn't know what to do other than hope that his anger gets him through the pain.
(Vaerqui's face comes to mind. He wishes she were here. She'd know what to do. She'd tell him the right things. She'd know how to fix him and then she'd help him rip that bitch to pieces—) ]
Mnn—
[ A jolt, instinctively reaching down to tear Quentin's hand away from him, Petre's claws dig into skin until he realizes how fucking sensitive he is. The warm press against his cock registers, pushing him to harsh out a breath with a jump. It's a different kind of ache, one that almost drowns out the torture and urges Petre to cling onto it for relief.
The grip changes from stopping Quentin to trapping him in place. ]
Okay. Okay. [ Breathed sharply on the heels of a wincing hiss. His wrist aches viciously when he tries to move it again; he won't worry if the skin is broken yet. There'll be time later. Now, he focuses on stretching his fingers out long, blunt nails dragging the coarse fabric of Petre's trousers when he draws them back in. That's good. Keep the focus here. ] I'm gonna stop it. You gotta come for me, okay?
You can put it in my mouth. [ Better than his thighs, better than inside him, where he'll have to contend with the split curtains of skin exposing nothing Quentin wants to see. Better than trying to swallow enough fear to get hard. Shoulder shifts, arm twists in Petre's grip to get more pressure on that dry jack, to find the shape of him more surely. ] You can do it right here. You gonna do it for me? Can you fuck me like that?
[ Without lips, Petre tries to close his mouth when he inhales; the drool keeps running down his chin in a sickening display, though, a rippling-like noise in his throat as he tries to swallow and mutters instead. He tries to press his hips against Quentin's hand, chasing his touch, the sound of his voice. Instructions, reassurances, coaxing and luring Petre away from the only other way to satisfy the curse; he leans into the words, hangs his head with his eyes closed. He thinks of Quentin's mouth, wet and hot, and the pulse of arousal from anticipation makes him jerk in the other man's hand. Petre finally relaxes his fingers. ]
[ He comes in as close to Petre's ear at he dares, presses a reminder (an open-mouthed kiss, tongue flat, teeth following viciously) against the spot of skin just below it that is yet unbloodied, before leaning back. Quentin's hand hooks in the seam of Petre's thigh and hips, leads him up and the few steps over to where Quentin backs against the building wall. When he gets a knee under him, he can push his face between Petre's legs lewdly, a moment of distraction for Petre while Quentin fumbles his fly and for Quentin as he tries to get worked up.Â
[ It works well enough. The heavier scent of body that he huffs out of Petre's crotch is miles more appealing than the bright tang of blood. When he looks up, mouth slack, zadza blue cracks along his cheek. When he catches the head of Petre's dick on his tongue and pulls it into the hot ring of his lips, the motion sinks through Quentin's gut too. Yeah, he's got this. If he smooths his hand up, he can cover that last little split of skin. He can hold it from going any farther. His tongue swirls the Petre's ridge, hugs against him until Quentin has to relax it to get him further back. ]Â
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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got any other kind of virginity left
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(i won't)
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our father who art in heaven hallowed be thy name thy kingdom come thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.
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He's coming to find you now, Jem.
... After he's done throwing up. ]
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On her way out she stops by the kitchen to pick at the savoury pastries lingering from the morning. Indulges in goats cheese and jam, and takes a really big gulp of water and gets ready to psyche herself up to go back out into the cold.
She forgets about Petre entirely.]
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Do it.
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[She sees the crusted over blood, the smear on his mouth, and finds that she could not give less of a shit now that her hands are scuffed. ] Fucking - prick - [There's a hand that flies punch his junk as she sits up, at the same time she opens her mouth to begin: ] Sáncte MÃchael Archángele, defénde nos in proélio -
cw: physical abuse, misogyny, a lot of blood, emeto, child murder
Prayers pour out of her mouth; blood immediately pours out of his, retching like he's doing it on purpose, getting as much of it on her as he can. Then he laughs, snatches her jaw, presses his fingers and thumb on the hollow of her cheeks to force her mouth open, like her bones will crush under his grip unless she complies. His nails become sharp, too sharp to be human; his other hand gets off the ground to dig into her mouth and grab her tongue, just barely piercing the flesh. ]
You talk too much, cunt. How about you listen for once.
[ The smile is gone. His face comes dangerously close to hers — and if anyone knows why, it's Jem. She's seen what his teeth can do. ]
You think you're so much better than me. I don't need to guess what that other Petre was thinking when he decided to waste his time on you, though. Girls like you don't end up in nice places. He must've known what you were from the beginning. So do I.
[ His lips are against hers, red, dripping, the taste and smell of old blood mixed with fresh nauseating. The sound of his voice is like the calm before the storm. She asked him what it was like to die. He has a question for her, too. ]
What's it like to kill children, princess?
the above, references to expected emotional/physical abuse
What surprises her isn't that he attacks - if Jem's real honest with herself, she's always known this might happen, one day. There was a reason she made that second contract, back in Eudio. There was a reason she knew she'd have to protect herself, it wasn't always going to just be from stray cult members and Saints. She didn't watch Petre and Cole and not learn anything. She kept it with her, buried it deep down and used it so, so quietly. What surprises her is the absolute calm that settles over her: like her body has been waiting for this moment, anticipating it since the first day she confronted Petre in his apartment and asked him do you kill people?
There's something broken inside of her. She doesn't need Petre to tell her that. She doesn't need any of this from him, really, and when the ringing in her ears has stopped, she thinks:] It takes one to know one, cunt.
[She has a knife in her boot. She has another hidden under her dress, high up on the thigh. Petre's got her tongue, bleeding against her mouth in such a fucked up parody of how they used to kiss. Intimate, her blood on his lips, given wholly, consensually, little pieces of her soul fed to him drip by drip. She still loves him, she thinks. There are days she waits to hear his voice call her Jeminy. Instead she gets this.
She thinks: ] What's it like to be a pale imitation of the real thing, babe? [It's a low blow. She hasn't reached for a knife. She waits, ever so patient, ever so calm. She thinks:] Imperet illi Deus, supplices deprecamur, tuque, Princeps militiae caelestis -
[And he might rip out her tongue, but she's counting on blood, she's counting on him fucking choking on it, distracted, angry. That's when her hand slips to her thigh, to reach for the knife. ] - Satanam aliosque spiritus malignos, qui ad perditionem animarum pervagantur in mundo, divina virtute, in infernum detrude.
[That's when it slips free and she cuts upward to his his wrist, then again to his thigh. ] You don't know a fucking thing about me - [she thinks, and pushes, rises up to tackle, to bite down on his fucking fingers, to draw blood, to taste it. ]
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He clutches the knife, grabs her neck, skin hot enough to feel like it could melt through the metal and her flesh, and then he laughs. Mad. Losing the fight and taking her down with him. ]
You bitch, [ He spits, pants, voice ripping out of his throat, ] You fucking bitch, I'm going to make sure there's nothing left for them to find—
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And he's there, at her throat, hand burning, and she can't stop screaming even when she's choking on her own blood. The calm is gone. All she feels is a red-hot rage, a searing hot kind of anger that makes her narrow down her focus, looking for weak points, looking for an out, but her tongue is agony, her throat is hot, getting hotter, and even through the rage, she can see the signs of a transformation and knows she can't win on her own.
She thinks, because she can't fucking speak:] Kiss me, [while her hand reaches for his face, bloodied palm flat against his cheek. ] Kiss me you absolute fucking coward - [while the other reaches for his neck, dragging his head closer, nose to nose. ] You need the blood, fucking do it before you lose control -
cw: misogyny, blood, mentions of cannibalism
An unpleasant noise when she brings him close, likely as delirious as he is, Petre presses his lips without kissing her. The taste of blood reminds the animalistic part of him that he used to have to do this, when Ihutne's gift came with the hunger for human flesh and all its insides, and it tastes just as euphoric. Mouth open, sucking and drinking hungrily, the burning stops. Just not the grip on her knife or the pressure on her neck, forgotten amid everything else.
(He'd licked blood from Aegon's fingers, but it was nothing like this. That was barely an appetiser, foreplay to test how fucked up his new best friend was, but this — fuck. Fresh blood, and it's his, and it's effervescent with rage and pain.) ]
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This is a horrible parody of something she used to treasure. Her blood, his tongue - he laps at it like a panting dog, like a vile creature, like a fucking monster. He swallows her down and Jem hopes he chokes on her; she hopes her blood curdles in his gut, becomes acrid and putrid and rots him from the inside out. She hopes it fucking burns him, hopes every time he tastes iron he thinks of her and hates it.
She twists her wrist slowly; tests the give of his grip on it and settles the other hand onto the back of his head, fists her fingers in his hair.
She wants to hate him so much. She wants to hate him for how much pain she’s in, she wants to hate him for not loving her, for being a fucking stranger when she needed him.
She presses her forehead to his, so briefly it might feel like a dream much later. A quiet, intimate beat, a breath, before she lifts a knee and connects it with his groin, fist yanking his head all the way back to spit blood onto his face. She hauls herself free, pushes him as hard as she can, and then turns and runs. ]
KICKS IN HERE
[ The sight he stumbles over freezes the blood in his veins. He's not running numbers, debating who to blame here. He approaches at a sprint even before he recognizes the woman under attack. When he's close enough to recognize Jem through the sheet of blood pouring down her chin, smeared across her lips and face, he steels himself to take this as far as it needs to go to keep her safe. Enough nightmares.
[ The kiss throws him. The nutbuster makes more sense, and he takes his cue from that.
[ The moment Jem is free and running, Quentin's arms are lashing around Petre from behind, catching shoulders with his elbows and straining to close his fingers behind Petre's head. Before he manages it, he's already trying to scrape backwards, pull him farther and farther away. ]
Ease up! You're out of control, ease the fuck up, man!
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His face isn't human anymore. Dark raw flesh shines under the skin that pulls open in a curtain of gore, fangs made to tear through flesh expanding until they're beyond inhuman. All he can think about is Jem, but they're mindless flashes of her body, her face, more determined to disfigure her than he's ever wanted to do to anyone in his fucking life. (When he's done, he's going to consume everything until she's unrecognizable, until everyone she loves has to look away in disgust—)
Quentin catches him with the element of surprise. His advantage is short-lived. ]
GET OFF ME!
[ The sound of his voice is borderline otherworldly. Breaking the grip, Petre snaps around and aims at Quentin's throat with his hand to try and push him against the wall. His eyes are completely black, mouth salivating, drool mixed with blood. His and Jem's. ]
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[ Throat jumping under his palm, Quentin plants a hand against Petre's chest (spittle, blood, some muddle of it drips along his forearm and he doesn't flinch). He hisses, teeth bared but still careful: ] Hey. Good. You see me?Â
You're losing it. You almost lost it on someone, you need to cool off. [ His hand inches down
away from the splitting skin, jesus christtowards Petre's waist. Quentin pries at the hand around his neck. ] I can help you out. Hey. Lemme help you out.Âno subject
He pauses but doesn't settle, ready to snap like a match against the box's striker. ]
I'm not fucking losing it.
[ Then he withdraws his hand swiftly, turns around to start chasing Jem, and gets two steps before hunching over with another cry of pain. His body isn't done transforming, the breach that peeled the skin of his face in half ripping down the rest of his body. Petre falls to his knees with a hideous scream. Angry, resisting the transformation. It's futile. ]
cw throughout: self-destructive thought, blood, body horror, dubcon, weird
[ The sight of blood splattering to the ground between Petre's knees reminds him that he doesn't know what's happening on the other side of this body. Reminds him that he's promised people he'll be less reckless and more wise. One face comes to mind, and a handful more follow quickly.Â
[ He takes a knee instead, lets his hand come to Petre's waist and spear around till he feels blood soaking through his clothes in the crook of his hip, down until he smears blood over Petre's crotch. Quentin's chin hooks over his shoulder, holds his breath to not suck in the warm air leaching out of Petre's chest. ] My bad. You're totally together. Look at you, the picture of composure.Â
Leave her, man-- [ Fingers split as they push around the shape of his cock through his trousers, palm rounds over his shaft when Quentin draws it back up, like he's going to anchor Petre from splitting right down the middle. ] --I can take care of you. I got you.Â
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(Vaerqui's face comes to mind. He wishes she were here. She'd know what to do. She'd tell him the right things. She'd know how to fix him and then she'd help him rip that bitch to pieces—) ]
Mnn—
[ A jolt, instinctively reaching down to tear Quentin's hand away from him, Petre's claws dig into skin until he realizes how fucking sensitive he is. The warm press against his cock registers, pushing him to harsh out a breath with a jump. It's a different kind of ache, one that almost drowns out the torture and urges Petre to cling onto it for relief.
The grip changes from stopping Quentin to trapping him in place. ]
Make it stop.
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You can put it in my mouth. [ Better than his thighs, better than inside him, where he'll have to contend with the split curtains of skin exposing nothing Quentin wants to see. Better than trying to swallow enough fear to get hard. Shoulder shifts, arm twists in Petre's grip to get more pressure on that dry jack, to find the shape of him more surely. ] You can do it right here. You gonna do it for me? Can you fuck me like that?
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Fuck. Your mouth. Suck me off.
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[ He comes in as close to Petre's ear at he dares, presses a reminder (an open-mouthed kiss, tongue flat, teeth following viciously) against the spot of skin just below it that is yet unbloodied, before leaning back. Quentin's hand hooks in the seam of Petre's thigh and hips, leads him up and the few steps over to where Quentin backs against the building wall. When he gets a knee under him, he can push his face between Petre's legs lewdly, a moment of distraction for Petre while Quentin fumbles his fly and for Quentin as he tries to get worked up.Â
[ It works well enough. The heavier scent of body that he huffs out of Petre's crotch is miles more appealing than the bright tang of blood. When he looks up, mouth slack, zadza blue cracks along his cheek. When he catches the head of Petre's dick on his tongue and pulls it into the hot ring of his lips, the motion sinks through Quentin's gut too. Yeah, he's got this. If he smooths his hand up, he can cover that last little split of skin. He can hold it from going any farther. His tongue swirls the Petre's ridge, hugs against him until Quentin has to relax it to get him further back. ]Â
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