... it feels like everyone else here is drugged or something sometimes. I -
[He's coming to hate it. With all the things he loves about getting to be here, he hates that constant, pressing peace and quiet. It's become so oppressive that sometimes he just wants to scream.]
[Doesn't he just know what Cole means. Petre has a much better way of controlling it, of finding other venues to let go, but wrath is one of his seven parts and violence is the number one way to let it run loose. It's what he thrives on back home - getting to rip bodies to pieces, kill people just because they're not on the bad guy's side.]
What we did after fight club. We should try it again.
[From what he understands - it'd help them both. Fighting, then sex, the other way around, who cares. Too bad Petre would still have to hold back, though.]
No. [Immediately, and he shakes his head.] No more fighting. Especially not when I'm antsy and you're hungry.
[The rest, though - he's suddenly not humouring Petre by considering it. He wants the roughness and the crudeness and the adrenaline of their sex, at least. Even with his arm still aching and a strip of red blossoming on the towel, he wants to work out the strange night he's had somehow.
So he leans in, shifts his weight toward Petre and starts to kiss up along his jawline. It may actually be the first time he's initiated since they started whatever it is they have.]
Cole moving in is a novelty, but one that immediately shifts the gears inside Petre's head, because how could it not. With a sharp inhale his arm wraps around Cole's shoulders and back, tipping his chin up to expose himself, until he rolls his head back down and tilts to kiss him on the mouth, suddenly breathless and active. He wouldn't have needed the fresh blood, but it undoubtedly helps his own run hotter, faster, rushing through him with an anticipatory jolt of want.
With a small sound he starts to lean back across the couch, until his upper back is on the arm rest, legs on the seat, folded and parted to welcome Cole between them.]
[He follows the movements, allows himself to be moved between Petre's legs and on top of him, even more sore when he has to prop himself up like this but ignoring it. Feeding off it, imagining a knife wound from some fight for his life that Max has stitched up as part of their odd, feral foreplay. But this isn't Max, Max is dead, and this is Petre, and Petre is a man, and the world has never been more upside-down but he needs chaos right now. Any kind he can get.
His kisses are fierce, bruisingly rough, and he starts to grind down on Petre before he's even begun to get hard. It doesn't take long, of course, but he wants this fast and hard. He wants to fuck. It's the best way to get them both ready when they're pressed together with no room for hands, just rubbing together like idiot teenagers. When Petre's mouth won't satisfy him anymore, he moves back down to the neck he barely got to explore earlier, leaving prominent bite marks that won't even last until he's come all over his throat.]
[he moans and whines every time Cole pushes and bites, every time it hurts. It's either crying out of pain or sobbing with pleasure, a match between both courts until the divide is all gone, and he fucking loves it.
It's how it's always been with Cole. He doesn't want gentle touches, doesn't want the illusion that he's cared for - he has that with the woman, apparently, or so he's told - and what he does want is what Petre is the most eager to give. So he rolls up his hips, friction and pressure making the both of them swell until Petre's brows draw together in a tense frown, lips swollen and red as he breaks away from another fierce kiss.]
Take it off.
[ordered urgently, shoving Cole far enough to get his hands on his trousers. He doesn't care about the rest of their clothes; he just wants to get rid of the necessary. It'll be hard and fast - whatever - and he wants it now.]
[When his belt and fly are undone, he sits up and yanks everything off his lower body as quickly as he can. His eyes are blazing with heat as he gets Petre undressed as well, ignoring the shirt just as Petre did to focus on his pants and underwear. There isn't even the illusion of foreplay here, no romance whatsoever - he just gets Petre's legs up over his shoulders to better expose him, guides the head of his aching cock to his entrance with one hand, and pushes in hard. He's used to the burn by now, the pain that comes with no lubrication or prep, so there's no need to hesitate before shoving all the way in with a throaty grunt.]
[No foreplay, just the rushed shedding of clothes, until Petre is naked from the hips down, shirt and hair disheveled, hands wherever he can get them when Cole is close enough. Just a quick inhale when he's positioned, helping him with his legs over his shoulders, grabbing him once he's close enough, and then -
It's his loudest cry yet, when Cole pushes in. A pitiful, shaken thing, shuddering all the way through his body. He tenses up, relaxes, utters moans and rolls his head back, mouth open, throat exposed. Cole just keeps pushing and pushing, until he's all the way and Petre is filled up, all pain, burning, raw. It'll be worth fighting through, a thought he demonstrates with his fingers digging into Cole's skin.]
[That's not something he needs to be told twice. The display is another strong part of the appeal with Petre, all that thrashing and moaning and crying out - it shouldn't be appealing, really, how he acts like he's overpowered when he wants it exactly like this. But Cole's always had a very dark side to him, and this is his safe release. Not unlike drinking a bit of blood to keep from devouring a whole human, he takes the illusion of harm over actually attacking someone because he's too keyed up.
What a pair they make.
He's moving immediately, quick snapping thrusts that drive him deep each time, and he bends Petre's body so that he can capture his swollen mouth again - sloppy kisses, dictated by the pumping of his body, but hungry. That fierce light is back in his eye, the one he never gets with anyone else during sex, and he just wants Petre to keep clawing at him. Bite him back. Make it hurt in return. Sear away all the confusion and fear brought about by the unearthly quiet and calm of this city.]
[The pain is still there, still overwhelming, but once Cole starts to move the friction and pressure make other sensations surge up as well. Once again it's pleasure and pain all at once, the excitement of someone so fierce and pent up releasing his energy into him adding to the experience in countless ways. His breaths are cut off, short and sharp, deep through his nose whenever they kiss, gasping for air whenever their mouths part.
Petre's legs tighten around Cole every now and then, tensing his muscles deliberately before they're released, almost in sync with when he's thrust into and emptied again. All the sounds continue - moans, grunts, little whines and cries - and he reaches up and around Cole's back, digging his nails into the skin until it breaks.]
[This'll be quick, there's no helping that. He'll be coming in no time, especially when Petre tears through his skin with his nails and he lets out a startled howl of pain; yeah, that's good. That starts adrenaline pumping through his body, the natural fight or flight that'll come when pain has always meant far more danger for him than for most people, and his response is very much to fight. Snarling low in his throat, speeding up until the steady slap of their skin sounds like a frantic drum solo, and pressing Petre hard into the couch with hands heavy on his shoulders.
It's not enough, though. He's not at the peak, the point when he's at real risk of ending someone's life, but this isn't working out the tension like it usually does. He hasn't got the slightest idea that it's any kind of common kink or anything Petre might like when he curls a hand around Petre's throat and starts to press - he just needs a bit more control, that feeling of holding a life in his hands. Petre would be in real danger if both hands were in action, on either side of his head and ready to snap, but this is more show. He'd be startled out of it enough to stop if Petre showed real signs of asphyxiating.]
[The way Petre grimaces, hammered into so violently, almost makes it look like this is anything but pleasurable to him. His eyes are tightly shut, brows knitted and mouth gaping, whimpering for air and gripping even harder at Cole's skin when his shoulders are shoved down.
The hand around his neck is completely unexpected. He's confused at first, similar to someone being snapped awake. Then he smiles and makes a choked sound, tipping his head back to expose his throat to the thumb pressing hard on it, slowly starting to roll his hips again, harder against Cole's thrusts. It's harder for him to express anything beyond little grunts with his air is being cut off, but he makes no move to try and stop him.]
[Cole has no idea what to make it of when Petre quite openly enjoys having his wind cut off. It snaps him awake as well, makes him want to jerk his hand away in horror, but Petre's craning his head back to expose more and encourage him. There's nothing wrong with it, right? That makes it consensual, which is what matters.
(He's playing with the idea of taking a life. Getting off on it. That's what matters. But he's too fogged with arousal to reach any sort of moral thought right now.)]
Fuck. [A low growl, conflicted but drenched in need.] Fuck. [And he presses harder with his hand, covers more of Petre's slender throat, meeting the pace that Petre's once again begun to set with his hips and hanging his head so as not to see the effect this will have on Petre's face. He'll go brilliantly red, then shades of purple and blue. Cole has seen it. He's done this with the express purpose of killing someone, and it's worked. He feels sick, but his hips never stop pumping, and he never stops moaning deliriously.]
[There isn't much to do, when he's being shoved into, held down and choked, a rag doll in the hands of a killer. The little sounds escape him still, an attempt to grunt, struggle lightly, before parted lips and an apparently swollen tongue give way to a grin, skin turning different shades of color. He still manages to move his legs, if nothing else, wrapped around Cole's body to pull him even closer, to clamp around him as well.
He loves it. He fucking loves it. The lust, the wrath. Guilt somewhere in there waiting for the door to unlock so it can come flooding in like blood through a gash. Petre can't let Cole kill him, though, not unless either one of them wants something utterly disastrous to happen tonight, so with his brute strength, his hands come up to grab Cole's wrists, anchoring them in place while red-rimmed eyes stare sharply at him. This will go on for as long as it's minimally safe - for Cole - and now Petre just wants him to come, wants him to growl while he does, to be drenched in sweat and to fill Petre up with his anger and come.
Teeth clenched, he presses his brows, rolls his hips even harder, vessels tight, nostrils flaring. Come on come on come on -]
[He does come, and come hard, snarling loudly rather than growling as it hits him in a rush and he freezes up to empty himself into Petre. He's gasping by the time it's finished washing over him, utterly exhausted, blood seeping through the makeshift bandage on his arm and almost ready to drip, and he looks back to see the horror of Petre's face - and any hint or suggestion of afterglow is gone. He's cold all over, horrified, trying to jerk his hands free so he can release that awful grip and jerk Petre to orgasm instead of choking him. There will be bruises, brief but very much there, he's sure. Handprints around Petre's throat.]
[It isn't until Cole begs him to let go that he does, gasping in fully in a series of deep breaths, coughing and moaning as he continues to roll his hips, pressing and pushing down against Cole's overly sensitive cock for nothing more than a little bit of torture.]
Fuck - hurry up - I wanna come -
[His own cock is torture, too, hard as it can get, aching for release, a drop slipping through the slit before he brings a hand down to jerk himself off with a longing moan.]
[Yep, the continued grinding on his softening cock is about as unpleasant as it could be, but nothing matches the unpleasantness of - yes, there it is, a clear red handprint on Petre's throat. Cole swallows heavily and looks away, but his hand joins Petre's around his cock, willing to help him along or take over completely if Petre wants to let go and leave it to him. He just wants this over with.]
[The grinding doesn't stop - he still rolls his hips up against Cole's hand this time, letting go to grasp at anything he can around him, be it an object, be it Cole's arm, his skin, digging nails. He gasps, voice hoarse after his throat was pressured so tightly, but the marks are slowly fading away and healing. Soon there will be no proof that Cole even harmed him; meanwhile, the blood on that arm will remain.]
I'm close - [ah, he snaps his hips up, throws his head back, throat bare,] So fucking clo - ah - fuck!
[And he ejaculates, a series of smaller spurts after the larger one, coating Cole's hand and Petre's abdomen in come. His legs are trembling, fingers pressed down, until he finally stops and falls back, limbs relaxed, chest heaving.]
[As soon as Petre's finished, Cole climbs off him and gets his pants back up, moving with such intensity that he's almost shaking. His face is twisted up and ugly with a million emotions, fear and anger and self-loathing and deep, deep regret, and blood is now running down his arm from where it's soaked through the towel but he barely seems to notice. Doesn't notice at all, really.]
This has gotta stop. [Going for the entranceway, for his shoes.] This has gotta stop...
[He's still in a daze, movements somewhat delayed in relation to Cole's sudden rush. Cole shoves himself off, leaves Petre empty and come dripping down his body as soon as he's on his feet. Half naked, clothes and hair completely disarranged, the markings on his neck a soft pink at best. He barely even tries to pick his clothes up as he stumbles, a pathetic display against Cole's regret and urgency.]
Where are you going? Stay a while. What's this 'this has gotta stop' bullshit?
[he tries to do something about his own clothes; instead he grows frustrated and lets them hang around his hips, barely covering his cock. He's absolutely filthy, but Cole is trying to leave and he doesn't want him to.]
You gotta feed into it. It's okay. It's like me, right? Look, I'm fine. Not a mark on me. I'm fucking fine - would you stop that?
[he finally grabs his arm, right below the wound.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Still didn't get what you expected. And you can't decide if that should be a good thing.
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[He's coming to hate it. With all the things he loves about getting to be here, he hates that constant, pressing peace and quiet. It's become so oppressive that sometimes he just wants to scream.]
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What we did after fight club. We should try it again.
[From what he understands - it'd help them both. Fighting, then sex, the other way around, who cares. Too bad Petre would still have to hold back, though.]
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[The rest, though - he's suddenly not humouring Petre by considering it. He wants the roughness and the crudeness and the adrenaline of their sex, at least. Even with his arm still aching and a strip of red blossoming on the towel, he wants to work out the strange night he's had somehow.
So he leans in, shifts his weight toward Petre and starts to kiss up along his jawline. It may actually be the first time he's initiated since they started whatever it is they have.]
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Cole moving in is a novelty, but one that immediately shifts the gears inside Petre's head, because how could it not. With a sharp inhale his arm wraps around Cole's shoulders and back, tipping his chin up to expose himself, until he rolls his head back down and tilts to kiss him on the mouth, suddenly breathless and active. He wouldn't have needed the fresh blood, but it undoubtedly helps his own run hotter, faster, rushing through him with an anticipatory jolt of want.
With a small sound he starts to lean back across the couch, until his upper back is on the arm rest, legs on the seat, folded and parted to welcome Cole between them.]
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His kisses are fierce, bruisingly rough, and he starts to grind down on Petre before he's even begun to get hard. It doesn't take long, of course, but he wants this fast and hard. He wants to fuck. It's the best way to get them both ready when they're pressed together with no room for hands, just rubbing together like idiot teenagers. When Petre's mouth won't satisfy him anymore, he moves back down to the neck he barely got to explore earlier, leaving prominent bite marks that won't even last until he's come all over his throat.]
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It's how it's always been with Cole. He doesn't want gentle touches, doesn't want the illusion that he's cared for - he has that with the woman, apparently, or so he's told - and what he does want is what Petre is the most eager to give. So he rolls up his hips, friction and pressure making the both of them swell until Petre's brows draw together in a tense frown, lips swollen and red as he breaks away from another fierce kiss.]
Take it off.
[ordered urgently, shoving Cole far enough to get his hands on his trousers. He doesn't care about the rest of their clothes; he just wants to get rid of the necessary. It'll be hard and fast - whatever - and he wants it now.]
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It's his loudest cry yet, when Cole pushes in. A pitiful, shaken thing, shuddering all the way through his body. He tenses up, relaxes, utters moans and rolls his head back, mouth open, throat exposed. Cole just keeps pushing and pushing, until he's all the way and Petre is filled up, all pain, burning, raw. It'll be worth fighting through, a thought he demonstrates with his fingers digging into Cole's skin.]
Fuck, [A breath, looking down, brows knitted,] Fuck- Cole.
Move.
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What a pair they make.
He's moving immediately, quick snapping thrusts that drive him deep each time, and he bends Petre's body so that he can capture his swollen mouth again - sloppy kisses, dictated by the pumping of his body, but hungry. That fierce light is back in his eye, the one he never gets with anyone else during sex, and he just wants Petre to keep clawing at him. Bite him back. Make it hurt in return. Sear away all the confusion and fear brought about by the unearthly quiet and calm of this city.]
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Petre's legs tighten around Cole every now and then, tensing his muscles deliberately before they're released, almost in sync with when he's thrust into and emptied again. All the sounds continue - moans, grunts, little whines and cries - and he reaches up and around Cole's back, digging his nails into the skin until it breaks.]
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It's not enough, though. He's not at the peak, the point when he's at real risk of ending someone's life, but this isn't working out the tension like it usually does. He hasn't got the slightest idea that it's any kind of common kink or anything Petre might like when he curls a hand around Petre's throat and starts to press - he just needs a bit more control, that feeling of holding a life in his hands. Petre would be in real danger if both hands were in action, on either side of his head and ready to snap, but this is more show. He'd be startled out of it enough to stop if Petre showed real signs of asphyxiating.]
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The hand around his neck is completely unexpected. He's confused at first, similar to someone being snapped awake. Then he smiles and makes a choked sound, tipping his head back to expose his throat to the thumb pressing hard on it, slowly starting to roll his hips again, harder against Cole's thrusts. It's harder for him to express anything beyond little grunts with his air is being cut off, but he makes no move to try and stop him.]
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(He's playing with the idea of taking a life. Getting off on it. That's what matters. But he's too fogged with arousal to reach any sort of moral thought right now.)]
Fuck. [A low growl, conflicted but drenched in need.] Fuck. [And he presses harder with his hand, covers more of Petre's slender throat, meeting the pace that Petre's once again begun to set with his hips and hanging his head so as not to see the effect this will have on Petre's face. He'll go brilliantly red, then shades of purple and blue. Cole has seen it. He's done this with the express purpose of killing someone, and it's worked. He feels sick, but his hips never stop pumping, and he never stops moaning deliriously.]
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He loves it. He fucking loves it. The lust, the wrath. Guilt somewhere in there waiting for the door to unlock so it can come flooding in like blood through a gash. Petre can't let Cole kill him, though, not unless either one of them wants something utterly disastrous to happen tonight, so with his brute strength, his hands come up to grab Cole's wrists, anchoring them in place while red-rimmed eyes stare sharply at him. This will go on for as long as it's minimally safe - for Cole - and now Petre just wants him to come, wants him to growl while he does, to be drenched in sweat and to fill Petre up with his anger and come.
Teeth clenched, he presses his brows, rolls his hips even harder, vessels tight, nostrils flaring. Come on come on come on -]
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Jesus - Petre, let go -
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Fuck - hurry up - I wanna come -
[His own cock is torture, too, hard as it can get, aching for release, a drop slipping through the slit before he brings a hand down to jerk himself off with a longing moan.]
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I'm close - [ah, he snaps his hips up, throws his head back, throat bare,] So fucking clo - ah - fuck!
[And he ejaculates, a series of smaller spurts after the larger one, coating Cole's hand and Petre's abdomen in come. His legs are trembling, fingers pressed down, until he finally stops and falls back, limbs relaxed, chest heaving.]
Fuck...
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This has gotta stop. [Going for the entranceway, for his shoes.] This has gotta stop...
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[He's still in a daze, movements somewhat delayed in relation to Cole's sudden rush. Cole shoves himself off, leaves Petre empty and come dripping down his body as soon as he's on his feet. Half naked, clothes and hair completely disarranged, the markings on his neck a soft pink at best. He barely even tries to pick his clothes up as he stumbles, a pathetic display against Cole's regret and urgency.]
Where are you going? Stay a while. What's this 'this has gotta stop' bullshit?
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I'm not doing this again. I gotta - I gotta get rid of this thing in me, not keep feeding it with you. It's gonna get worse.
[His hands are shaking. He can't get the loops done for the life of him.]
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[he tries to do something about his own clothes; instead he grows frustrated and lets them hang around his hips, barely covering his cock. He's absolutely filthy, but Cole is trying to leave and he doesn't want him to.]
You gotta feed into it. It's okay. It's like me, right? Look, I'm fine. Not a mark on me. I'm fucking fine - would you stop that?
[he finally grabs his arm, right below the wound.]
You're bleeding. You can't leave like this.
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This isn't - what I am. It's what I had to be, it's not what I am. I can stop this.
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[he could laugh at Cole, but decides not to be so cruel.]
Don't. Then it will get worse. Look at me. You knew that when you came here. We're the same. We need each other.
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