[ 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. ]
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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