[ 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
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