[ 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.
[ 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?
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.
[ 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.
[ 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.
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.
[ 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.
[ 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. ]
[ Tension all over his body, breath shaking until Quentin's tongue meets his dick, the exhale is felt in every muscle, moan equally pained and consoled as the teeth running down his body draw closer together; recoiling, in a way. He twitches in Quentin's mouth, easing into the tight, warm fit as he fills out; one palm rests on his head without pushing, the other presses against the wall, clawing into stone. It's never felt this intense or desperate. He wants to thrust immediately, force him to take more, force him to give more. ]
[ He keeps going, pausing each second to make sure he can still breath, up until he can't move any further and still get hair. A deep pull fills his lungs, and Quentin draws both hands to Petre's thighs, fists them loosely in his trousers. Zadza lights up his closed eyelids, the hollow of his cheek as he forces his jaw loose and takes the last bit of Petre's length till his nose brushes under his navel. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[ 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?
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.no 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.
[ 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.
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.
no subject
(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.
no subject
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?
no subject
Fuck. Your mouth. Suck me off.
no subject
[ 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.
[ 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. ]
no subject
Yeah, keep going—
no subject
fuck it