[ 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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Yeah, keep going—
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fuck it