[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.]
[He takes a couple of shaking breaths, still so aware of that pain in his arm but determined not to show it. His forearm is slick with blood now, the towel deep red.]
[he moves in, dangerously close, not quite nuzzling him as their lips almost meet. He's breathing hard, tension between them shooting through like electricity.]
[It won't be you if it's gone. That's his sick, deep down fear, that he can't be himself without the need for violence. To hurt someone, even, not just violence.]
I tried to kill you. [Again. But this time there was no back up plan.]
[Cole's seen and felt Petre's strength. He knows for a fact that the demon held back tremendously during their fight. Whatever happened here was because he wanted it to. Cole lost control while Petre held it the whole time.]
It's okay. Nobody has to know. You can pretend with them.
[But he doesn't stop. He holds both sides of Cole's neck, digging his fingers softly into his hair, pressing painfully light kisses to his jawline, his temple, his cheek, and finally his lips. Foreheads tucked against each other when he closes his eyes, disturbingly sweet and quiet.]
You'll keep an eye out for me. I'll keep this secret for you.
[It feels obscene, being treated this gently after what he's done. But it's more comfort, and he's so lost, not sure how he'll manage without this outlet but not wanting to be the sort of man who needs it anymore. He's changed a lot, hasn't he? He's changed. But always with Petre offering a body to bite and scratch and toss around and now choke.
He doesn't know if he can walk without that crutch.]
Never let it go that far again. [Because Petre does have control, and he allowed that to happen.] Never.
[It's clearly something they need to talk about. It's something he wants to keep happening, but if it'll only serve to freak out the man who choked him - terms need to be set.]
[He looks up sharply, breaking that warm contact where their foreheads met.]
I don't care if I can kill you or not. If it looks like it, if it's anything like it - [What? What does Petre do?] - stop me. Hurt me back if you have to.
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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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[Frustrated, still shaken by what he's done, he drops his head into his hands.]
- what if it comes out with someone else? Someone who doesn't just heal up? This isn't gonna be who I am forever. I'm not killing again.
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[and he should hope there's no one else. Petre quite likes owning this portion of the other man.]
You're the only one who's ever let me have some blood. I'll be the same for you. [and just to add to the performance...] I'll give you my blood.
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[fuck you cole.]
I'm letting you.
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[He takes a couple of shaking breaths, still so aware of that pain in his arm but determined not to show it. His forearm is slick with blood now, the towel deep red.]
- is to stop needing this.
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[he moves in, dangerously close, not quite nuzzling him as their lips almost meet. He's breathing hard, tension between them shooting through like electricity.]
It won't be you if it's gone. I'll help you.
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I tried to kill you. [Again. But this time there was no back up plan.]
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[Cole's seen and felt Petre's strength. He knows for a fact that the demon held back tremendously during their fight. Whatever happened here was because he wanted it to. Cole lost control while Petre held it the whole time.]
It's okay. Nobody has to know. You can pretend with them.
[You don't have to pretend with me.]
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Petre, stop it. [He's just sitting on the floor now, not crouched anymore, his voice soft and strained.] Please.
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You'll keep an eye out for me. I'll keep this secret for you.
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He doesn't know if he can walk without that crutch.]
Never let it go that far again. [Because Petre does have control, and he allowed that to happen.] Never.
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Then what do you want me to do.
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I don't care if I can kill you or not. If it looks like it, if it's anything like it - [What? What does Petre do?] - stop me. Hurt me back if you have to.
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