No one was there, they took you both I never wanted him out there
let me see you
[ Like he's not coming? Fuck that. It's a fifteen minute walk and it's been weeks and his heart is wound so tight it vibrates like a violin across the line, he needs to see. ]
( does he warn him? about the mud? about the pink petals fluttering from his throat and mouth, like the stem of a dying flower? he'd picked the petals from the black slop, cleaned them off with a splash of whiskey, and with shaky hands pieced them back together into one whole flower, on top of a mossy log, because it'd seemed wrong leaving them there, with the dirt and the worms.
if danny was who quentin thought he was, he would. anyone would. he's got shit leaking from his face. oilslick tears, fattening his eyelashes. he wiped them away, but the tracks are still there, like streaks of mascara down his cheeks. )
something's wrong with me
( he's mourning. but he'll be here whenever quentin arrives, seated on the log beside his reconstructed flower. )
[ It's not a question of what's wrong, or if Danny wants help, or whether Quentin can do anything about it. He'll fix it. Don't worry. Just don't move. For the length of the trip, twelve minutes with his haste and the awful tightness in his lungs, Quentin updates him with all the warmth of a telegraph: what the Duchess offered, what's happening around town, regulars at the clinic, interspersed assurances of I'm almost there.
[ He isn't sure if his lungs are going to release or collapse when he gets eyes on Danny. Each footstep feels like the forecast is changing. Once Quentin sees him, it's a beeline across the sparse campsite, not even skirting the long-dead firepit on his way over. Danny can rise or stay seated; Quentin's arms lash around his neck either way, even if he has to drop to his knees to get there. His ribs are relaxing. His lungs loosen as he sucks a breath in from the crook of Danny's neck. ]
Everyone says--everyone says people come back. [ No sobbing. He's got it together with one determined snuffle, pulling back and dragging his palm over Danny's jaw--thumb smearing the stubborn stains on his cheeks. Quentin scowls, kisses under his eye and over it and into the corner of his mouth before looking closer. Something is wrong. ] ...The waiting's just a fucking bitch.
Danny, does this-- [ It's in his eyes, Quentin sees. There's mud under his ear, in the corner of his mouth. He's already been drinking. ] --are you hurt, or--
cw: violent fantasies, refs to ? death by spider, torture
( danny welcomes quentin between the wide sprawl of his thighs, one arm vising his middle, his hand cupping his nape. he's so warm — not like danny, corpse cold in his water-damp clothes, white shirt clinging like milky saran wrap to a lean, strong back, the shuddering plane of his abdomen, fighting and failing to swallow his fucking irrational tears. quentin pulls away to look at him, grope his face, his eyes dipping to his mouth; danny roughly wipes the corner spot that draws his concern, flaky black dirt ground to dusty streaks between two fingertips.
numbly, ) I ain't hurt.
( the duchess returned him to his body good as new, just like home, but it was a long process, two weeks of mindless horror and boredom as muscle restitched itself to bone, one strip of meat at a time. the entity never came for him. not once.
danny grips quentin's waist, palms his hips slow, reverently, then hauls him deeper into the tight cinch of his legs. if he could split quentin open, dig around in his wet bleeding entrails, maybe he'd find bits of pieces of her still in there, her teeth marks on his ribs, her saliva in his kidneys. there's nothing left of her inside danny anymore, he knows that for sure. it was sucked out of him by the duchess' pet spiders in the castle. how is she supposed to find him now when he's been scrubbed clean of everything that made him hers? she'll smell that bitch all over him. she'll smell john all over him. )
She left me. ( still numb, lifeless, but his eyes are hot with tears again, splattered fatly from his eyelashes to his cheeks. as far as quentin is concerned, he's talking about the duchess, she left him, for weeks, for a month. his mouth smears quentin's mouth with salt as he cups his face between his hands, kissing him chastely. )
[ An argument could be made that no one gets special treatment beyond being expertly rewoven and relaced by Zlatka after death, that a person should be grateful for the difficult of getting that and not ask for more handholding. But when Danny says he was left, it burns between Quentin’s ribs that no one helped him. That she did all that work and threw him out—out here? How long has he been wandering? Is she putting the finishing spitshine on Dwight and kicking him out into the dirt too?
[ Quentin’s lips press back gently, presses a hand broad and flat to Danny’s front. He rubs a slow, wide circle into his chest, warm and heavy, assuring. The touch is a mismatch to the spatter of venom in his mouth. ]
Fuck her. [ The Duchess. But the other her too. ] I’m here. And you’re okay, and that’s pretty good, right? I got you. Baby, don’t cry.
[ His lips press into Danny’s mouth again, into a tear track, up into his temple. When he pushes close, dampness starts to seep from Danny into his clothes. Quentin wraps back around him anyway, combs up the back of his neck to invite Danny to bow into him. His fingertips spiral at the base of his skull. ]
Don’t cry. [ Not into the woods, not into the big sky. If he has to do it, he can empty it against the crook of Quentin’s nice. Safe, clean, and not alone, never alone. ]
( there is a familiar softness hidden in the crook of quentin's neck as danny unwinds into his arms, plants his wet face into his throat, his mouth open and hot on his collar like he needs bare skin between his teeth to keep him pacified. it's a dreamy comfort, more maternal than paternal, tender soothing his mother would have offered him before the drugs took her from him. he doesn't question sinking into it, as his hands rake quentin's spine, grabbing fistfuls of fabric and snaking underneath, callused fingers stroking soft flesh, reading goosebumps like braille.
he knows this body better than he should. his fingers linger over the places he remembers sinking a knife, by memory and feel alone. q always had the perfect body for dismantling, for fucking.
when he inhales on a shivering sniffle, his shoulders shake to match. he lifts his head and smears a kiss over his jaw, following the curve of it to his earlobe. )
I don't feel right. ( nothing feels right anymore. everything about this place is all fucking wrong. wrong deity. wrong body. the whites of his eyes bloodshot, framed by thick dewy lashes as he stares at quentin through the gaussian blur. ) I think I'm becoming something else.
( something ordinary. something human, despite the black mud he vomited up earlier, where quentin kneels now. a transformation of any sort would be a welcome relief, at this point. hard proof that he's not entirely forsaken. )
You’ve been dead for weeks. [ Reminded, low, careful, tone round and warm as the hands over his chest, across the span of his shoulders. ] And we’re all changing. You are becoming something else.
[ Quentin’s body trusts Danny’s, but the way it shakes under the slick coolness of his clothes feels rotten. There is something not right with him. Something is sick. Quentin palms down his spine, inviting his weight down, let him hold it, he can hold it. ]
( protesting childishly, wet and sticky on the vowels: ) No, that—
( that doesn't matter. he's been dead a hundred million fucking times, for weeks for months for years, time and death are meaningless inside the infinite chasm of the entity's mouth. quentin should know. quentin does know, but he doesn't know that danny knows he knows.
he wriggles from his arms, clutches quentin's face between two strong hands and stares at him, all animal panic in his glossy brown eyes, trying to see something that isn't there. he saw it for a couple of seconds in the castle, that wide-eyed look of fear, and it'd almost cracked his resolve right down the center. he'd almost grabbed quentin by the throat and fucked him on the castle floors, beneath a swirling curtain of petticoats and pantlegs. quentin doesn't look at him like that now. it's just — bright empathy. pity. again.
his stomach kicks his guts sharply to his throat, acid boiling behind his tonsils. he's going to retch again. danny strokes both thumbs down the column of quentin's throat, slides a hand back to fist his hair tightly as an anchor, and sinks his teeth into the crook of his neck, right by his shirt collar, hard. )
Edited (why did i say palace) 2023-08-25 22:16 (UTC)
[ Pity. Worry. Deep, deep concern. The searching look in Danny’s eyes scares him. He has no idea what the man is looking for, but he catches Quentin’s heart on a hook like that. He’d do anything to fix it. Anything to fix it. Thumbs scrape over his arteries, and Quentin bows in for a kiss, murmurs: ] I’m sorry, I just—I missed you so—fuck—!
[ The ache in his scalp is shock enough, but the teeth molding into his skin sends a snap down every one of Quentin’s nerves. His soothing hands tighten and twist like a rabbit’s ears, spine zips tight bone by toothed bone. He goosebumps for it, the same as he did for Danny’s hands under his shirt, though.
[ It’s Danny, though, so he must—need it. Whatever rotten thing is trapped in him, leaving tracks down his cheeks, needs it. Quentin forces a breath out, throat flexing, hips creaking as they shift. ]
Okay. Okay, I— [ One hand combs into Danny’s hair, draws the back of his neck and plane of his shoulder. Good. Okay. ] —I had the last mark for almost a week. When it faded, I didn’t know if I’d lost you.
( quentin's body burns molten under the cooler press of danny's hands. normally, he's the one that runs hot, but after leaving the castle he'd walked into the woods straight into the nearest stream, baptised himself head-to-toe as if knife-icy water alone could flay the duchess and her meticulous handiwork from his dna, leave him clean and ready for the entity to retake.
he licks at the marks he leaves behind, dented deep in quentin's creamy skin. his thighs spread, hips canting and pushing forward until he's kneeling in the mud alongside quentin, bullying into his personal space, their faces level. )
You thought I'd leave you? I'd never fuckin' leave you.
( that's not how this works. no one leaves. no one walks away — from him, from him, from him. he decides when this shit is over, he decides when someone has had enough. especially now. especially here, with no one left to stop him, no one left to pull him back by the reins and tell him down, boy. danny cups quentin's jaw between his thumb and index fingers, kisses his way into his sweet pink mouth.
romantic, promising, threatening, between lingering kisses, meaner nips to his bottom lip: ) You're never getting away from me.
[ He doesn't need the personal space. If it was a matter of keeping personal space or keeping his friends (keeping Danny, keeping Danny), he burn the first in a heartbeat. Quentin's eyes flutter closed as fingers catch his chin, lips split with a grin until Danny presses into them. The threat escapes him. The promise glows too golden in his chest.
[ His low hum shows off pleasure, agreement, hunger as he tips into the attention. Breathes deep into his stomach so his body swells into and sinks against Danny, rewards the next nip at his lip with sucking Danny's between his teeth more harshly. Knuckles skitter down his cheek, follow the stubble down his throat. There's a fleck of mud there, but Quentin just scrubs it off and sinks both hands into Danny's hair--tilts his head to tongue eagerly into his mouth. ]
( the sick, erotic thrill of having quentin's tongue in his mouth like this, knowing he doesn't know whose hands he's allowing on him, is only a soft balm for the larger ache hollowing into his center. how can he not know, when danny's palm drops to his throat and squeezes, nooses tight beneath his jaw to angle him into slick-mouthed submission, licking a tendril of spit laced between their lips? how is it not obvious? these aren't just anyone's fucking hands, q.
but he's so sweet. but he's so hot for it. danny fucking bets — as he squeezes his throat one last sentimental time, skimming up to his skull to knot his hair between his knuckles, pull his neck taut, strangling tight — that he would've let him hit even in the fog. he should've fucked him in the castle. he should've fucked him the one time he cornered him alone in a classroom in springwood, right over a rickety desk, pounded his cunt raw and full to the rhythm of the sputtering generator just outside the window.
his friends would've come for him, most likely. they ain't coming for him now. it's just quentin and the ghost face, unmasked. )
No. ( voice like a knife's edge. he's not crying anymore, but his lashes are still full and dark, tears like grainy glitter on the ends. he stares down at quentin and presses his mouth to his mouth, softly. teeth in his throat. nose in his twitching collar. ) I need you to say it, Quentin.
( danny's a practiced magician at working one-handed. he pops quentin's fly, wrangles his trousers down his hips in the time it takes him to blink twice, cupping his hand under his ass and drawing his hips flush, to meet danny's hardening cock, weighed down in damp cotton. )
[ The groping, the greed of it isn't strange for Danny. The ache in his scalp and even the taffy stretch of his throat so thin and fast he can't swallow--those are part of the territory. When Danny scoops under his cheek, Quentin jumps from ticklishness, but he's well on his way to hard when they clatter together--even farther on his way when he feels Danny along his hip. It's not the pain that sets him on edge.
[ Something about his voice, though. Quentin's throat jerks, hard swallow to keep down a sudden, sick feeling. He has to open his eyes, has to get a good look to remember who he's here with--his friend, his beautiful friend, even if the dirt under his knees and the fierce strain on his neck tells him something awful is here with them. ]
...I'm never-- [ What a strange ask. He isn't running. His Adam's apple snaps once more, hands drop between them to ruck up Danny's shirt. The nerves will disappear if he dives in. Whispered, unsure: ] I'm never getting away from you.
( that's right. that's it, his, mine, good boy, good, good — )
Good girl.
( danny may not have the entity's gifts or blessing anymore, but as quentin's pale hand rucks up his shirt, touches his abdomen, that's all muscle he's groping, junkyard lean and unyielding, rippling like a snake mid-strike. the hand in his hair loosens, fingertips massaging his scalp gently, comfortingly raking through to the messy golden tips. his little wavy curls have always been cute, dishwater blond to match his baby blues.
he kisses him again, as a reward, sharp, breathless, curve of teeth clinking teeth. it might even be mistaken as an apology, for a few languorous seconds. mud splatters when danny upends their world, steering quentin by a fistful of hair, turning him so his back meets danny's front and following him all the way to the ground, forcing him to catch their combined weight on his hands or eat fucking dirt, literally. he wrenches his trousers into a loop around his knees, then hooks a thigh between his legs, spreading them into a quivering v. )
Fuck, that's my good girl. ( look at that pink cock, his taint like a landing strip for danny's tongue, leading him to his balls. he licks them once just to feel quentin twitch, pinches his thumbs into both ass cheeks and spreads him shamelessly. licks him there, too, on his tight hole, spitting messy as emphasis, half to slick him up and half to watch him clench. ) I knew you'd have a sweet pink cunt.
( danny's hands close bruising firm on quentin's hips, holding him steady while he ruts, fully clothed, against his pert little ass, cock sliding thick and muffled into his crease. his breath shivers into a vicious hiss through his teeth. )
Did you save it for me, baby? Did you let anyone in while I was gone?
( like that fucking cunt felipe. maybe danny will sleeve his cock down his throat once he's done with quentin, see how much dick that motherfucker can take. )
[ He catches them both on his elbows and still ends up with a mouthful of mud, nearly swallowed when he tries to protest that he’s no one’s girl—but Danny’s tongue is hotter than any other part of him that Quentin has touched so far. His palms slip in the wet soil, curse shudders out of him, hole clenches against Danny prying him open, and Quentin throws one muddied hand back to push at his hips. ]
Danny. Wait, here? If you— [ for ages, Danny said back at the castle, but this wasn’t how Quentin imagined their after happening. He pulls his knees close again, fingers pulsing around Danny’s wrist as he straightens up. When he looks over his shoulder, his eyes are lit, zadza crackling around his nostrils, the dark ring of his lips. ] If you need this, let’s go back. We can use my room, we can—find somewhere.
( danny's thigh between quentin's legs acts as a roadblock, preventing him from clamping down on anything but more of danny, bettering his leverage to fuck against his ass. they rock forward again, quentin teetering dangerously, seesawing closer and closer to the ground, until he drags a hand up his throat, pulls quentin straight onto his knees, back into danny's warmth, cocooning him against his chest.
his fingers hook his jaw, turns his head to kiss his mouth tenderly. this one is an apology, a shushing, following the zipline crackles of zadza with his tongue, that strange blue light setting quentin's insides aglow. danny gets mud and flowers, quentin gets ozone and glinting electricity. hardly seems fair. )
Shhh, hey, it's okay. You trust me, don't you, Quentin? I got you, it's okay. ( he spits into his free hand and finds quentin's cock, funneling him in tight strokes, dripping open-mouthed kisses into his neck, behind his ear. little fucking slut, so hot and wet in his palm already. none of that secret venom leaks into his voice; it's all thick eroticism, heavy and rawed, i want you so fucking bad underlining every word. ) You're sick, too, baby. Let me take care of it.
Danny— [ It wobbles on the end, unsteady as Quentin’s footing. Secure but uncomfortable, aroused but anxious, trusting but confused, confused, why is he—Danny kisses behind his ear just the same time as the ring of his fingers pops over over the ridge of his cock, and Quentin just about melts but— ]
I just—I haven’t—be careful, just be careful, okay, just—
( sure, he can be careful. he can take his time. he has work to do anyway, like: holding quentin's jaw steady in his hand, neck stretched out for danny's mouth and his tongue licking into his pulse and sucking, sharp teeth grinding bruising hard into his shoulder. he bites another mark into his throat, and another one for the corner hinge of his jaw, right beneath his earlobe, half-crescent track marks he won't be able to hide away without a scarf or high collar.
his mouth buzzes, high off the salt on quentin's skin. danny's fist over quentin's cock jacks him in toe-curling firm passes, nursing his plump cockhead spit wet. )
I'll take care of you. ( like he always has, here or in the fog. his knee sloshes through the mud, back between quentin's legs to butterfly pin them apart. the hand stroking him to fullness serves him one last squeeze before it drifts between them, thumb hooking into his crease and spreading him, index finger running the length of his shivering cunt. ) Did you ever think about my dick in your hot little cunt and touch yourself? I've dreamed of it.
( danny folds him back onto his elbows, leaving him sprawled for his body behind him, for more spit dribbled onto his hole. one hand soothes over his back, hiking his shirt up his spine, as he fucks into him two fingers at a time, prodding in on resisting muscle slowly, then stroking in deeper, firmer, down to the first knuckles and beyond. tight. hot. the goldilocks of cunts for danny's dick. he fucking knew it. )
[ Danny's fist drives him high enough that the bruising pressure of his teeth fades to the background. Quentin nearly reaches back for a fistful of his hair, nearly breathes harder the moment before Danny lets him go. The welts stay hot, something to warm him up when his forearms sink into the cool mud.
[ dreamed about it, Danny says, and Quentin flushes fierce enough that he half expects the sludge to come to a simmer. ]
Yes. [ And the only thing that kept him from spreading himself for the thought was time, hygiene, some sense of anticipation for his return. Quentin pushes around his fingers, pushes back against him with a drawn out exhale. ] Danny, all the time. All the fucking--time.
[ The digits don't sink deep enough, but the next firm press yanks some string loose; his back dips suddenly, balls tighten, zadza rolling dully through the bite marks over his neck. Quentin's forehead falls onto his stacked fists. ]
I waited for you. [ Rumbling, wet. ] Tell me what you dreamed.
( it shouldn't please him the way it does, knowing quentin waited for him. in a fit of post-death fucking madness, he wants to tell him everything — all his dreams, good and bad, sick and sicker and sickest. how sometimes, when he'd catch him unwisely out and about in the woods or in springwood or some derelict location built by the entity's awesome power, his mouth recently bitten red or fucked swollen by one of his undeserving compatriots, he'd imagine stroking his hair and guiding him onto his knees to fill his throat with his cock. nurse him through it, like a lover. slit his throat when he was done, little fucking cumslut good for nothing but his dick and his knife.
he wants to tell him. he wants him to know. he wants him to suffer again, and he hates this fucking place, these fucking people, for taking that right from him. he owns quentin's pain, all of it. danny's fingers quiver dangerously where they're slotted in quentin's insides, fucking him loose in preparation for his cock. )
You're mine.
( every pale, blushing inch of him, every angry and indignant teardrop squeezed from his stupid pretty blue eyes. danny's voice cracks like he's crying. because he is, again. iridescent oil-thin tears drip from his chin, anointing the milky curve of quentin's ass like black squirming beetles. )
I'm going to fuck you up, baby. ( baby, sweetheart, q. his throat squeezes, spasms on a hiccuping gasp. ) Quentin. You fucking slut.
( he's going to make him hurt again. his fingers glide out of him, replaced by his thumb and the plush head of danny's cock, pushing in side-by-side. one to pry his clenching cunt open, the other to fuck him full, little hitches until his cockhead pops his sweet cherry and he can snap in smooth, mean hips rutting him deeper into the mud. )
cw: did we warn for major dubcon? lets do that just in case
[ His. He has to say something to that, but words hinder him and tangle over themselves. Quentin slips into the connection between them like a needle, plunges the feeling directly to him, the yawning, the opening, the beckoning you can have it, I'll have you too, I'll have you, cry for me
[ The feeling flinches when Danny goes on. Recoils from his own name and the one Danny gives him. The words come quick when his hole stretches too far, too bright around his thumb and crown. ]
Wait--wait, waitwait, Danny--Danny, wait!
[ His vision whites out, senses battered out by the dry scrape as Danny fucks into him. Quentin screams and immediately bites around his forearm to stop, stop stop shut up. Mud climbs between his teeth. Holds his knees too tight, he realizes how wide he's splayed when he tries to pull away and his thighs ache and his hips moan and his knees don't budge.
[ Filthy past his elbows, he scrabbles for the hand holding his hips. Hold him. Hold his hand. ] --please--
Edited 2023-09-10 04:43 (UTC)
i did warn for dubcon upthread but it was before any real dubcon happened so u right
( oh, fuck. that's beautiful. quentin's reedy scream is a sound he hadn't realized he'd missed so viscerally until he hears it again, needled out of him in jittery notes, record-skipping and repeating as danny hitches him onto his cock and thumb. his insides resist him as fiercely as his guts always resisted his knife, but only at first, all trembling clenching fucked out of him and tighttighttight muscle yielding to the firm give of danny's cock—knife—hook as his hips jerk one final time, conqueror mean and brutal, notching into him as deep as he can go.
danny slides his thumb from quentin's trembling cunt. stares hazily between them where they're fused at the hips, quentin's muddy hand groping for danny's hand like an anchor to keep him from drowning. )
Sweetheart. ( danny can't get oxygen into his lungs quickly enough. he's the one drowning, shivery kitten moans to complement his little kitten tears like he's got the thick cock inside him instead. he takes quentin's hand, palm to hand top, lacing their fingers at the knuckles.
wrecked, needy, vicious: ) Quentin, fuck — oh fuck, fuck, baby, I knew you'd be a fucking slut for this.
( he never imagined it happening like this: out in the woods, quentin on his hands and knees in the mud, danny bowed over his spine like a fucking animal in breeding season. he always thought he'd be kissing him, licking his begging and whimpering dannys from his mouth, and he's suddenly sorry that he can't.
squeezing quentin's hand, danny draws them down in unison between the fanned spread of his thighs and wraps their joined fists around his sweet pink cock. his other hand grinds into his skinny hip, holds him steady for the backward cant of his hips as he glides out of him and keeps him corked open by the chubby lip of his cockhead. another round of spit dolloped onto his flexing, gaping cunt, you're welcome, then danny fucks back into him. )
[ At least, with Danny sunk into him, it’s warm. Quentin’s tongue drops from the roof of his mouth, lets a wobbly moan loose once the first and worst push is fully inside. Danny has to feel his heartbeat, he’s sure. Tough start, but Quentin adapts dependably with time and attention; the fingers slipping between his knuckles remind him who he’s with. ]
Danny. [ His Danny. This is okay. This is fine. Same as the first time Quentin had him down his throat. Resistance, stuttering, and then-- ] Baby—okay. Okay—
[ Quentin shudders around him when their hands wind around his cock. His forehead plants on his fist. He’d imagined them being cleaner, closer, sharing breath and whispering. But like this, Danny’s strange, raw sounds leak directly down Quentin’s spine and into his ears sweet and poisonous. The second thrust still makes him wince, but Quentin pushes back into it. ]
Fuck me. [ His wrist loosens to stroke himself, lungs loosen to stoke the fire with a hoarse demand: ] Fuck me, babe, I’m all yours.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
danny where are you
come here
i'll come there
are you okay baby where are you
no subject
dwight's old campsite
you took it down
don't come ( he says, knowing he'll come. )
no subject
I never wanted him out there
let me see you
[ Like he's not coming? Fuck that. It's a fifteen minute walk and it's been weeks and his heart is wound so tight it vibrates like a violin across the line, he needs to see. ]
no subject
( does he warn him? about the mud? about the pink petals fluttering from his throat and mouth, like the stem of a dying flower? he'd picked the petals from the black slop, cleaned them off with a splash of whiskey, and with shaky hands pieced them back together into one whole flower, on top of a mossy log, because it'd seemed wrong leaving them there, with the dirt and the worms.
if danny was who quentin thought he was, he would. anyone would. he's got shit leaking from his face. oilslick tears, fattening his eyelashes. he wiped them away, but the tracks are still there, like streaks of mascara down his cheeks. )
something's wrong with me
( he's mourning. but he'll be here whenever quentin arrives, seated on the log beside his reconstructed flower. )
no subject
we'll fix it, don't worry
I can help
[ It's not a question of what's wrong, or if Danny wants help, or whether Quentin can do anything about it. He'll fix it. Don't worry. Just don't move. For the length of the trip, twelve minutes with his haste and the awful tightness in his lungs, Quentin updates him with all the warmth of a telegraph: what the Duchess offered, what's happening around town, regulars at the clinic, interspersed assurances of I'm almost there.
[ He isn't sure if his lungs are going to release or collapse when he gets eyes on Danny. Each footstep feels like the forecast is changing. Once Quentin sees him, it's a beeline across the sparse campsite, not even skirting the long-dead firepit on his way over. Danny can rise or stay seated; Quentin's arms lash around his neck either way, even if he has to drop to his knees to get there. His ribs are relaxing. His lungs loosen as he sucks a breath in from the crook of Danny's neck. ]
Everyone says--everyone says people come back. [ No sobbing. He's got it together with one determined snuffle, pulling back and dragging his palm over Danny's jaw--thumb smearing the stubborn stains on his cheeks. Quentin scowls, kisses under his eye and over it and into the corner of his mouth before looking closer. Something is wrong. ] ...The waiting's just a fucking bitch.
Danny, does this-- [ It's in his eyes, Quentin sees. There's mud under his ear, in the corner of his mouth. He's already been drinking. ] --are you hurt, or--
cw: violent fantasies, refs to ? death by spider, torture
numbly, ) I ain't hurt.
( the duchess returned him to his body good as new, just like home, but it was a long process, two weeks of mindless horror and boredom as muscle restitched itself to bone, one strip of meat at a time. the entity never came for him. not once.
danny grips quentin's waist, palms his hips slow, reverently, then hauls him deeper into the tight cinch of his legs. if he could split quentin open, dig around in his wet bleeding entrails, maybe he'd find bits of pieces of her still in there, her teeth marks on his ribs, her saliva in his kidneys. there's nothing left of her inside danny anymore, he knows that for sure. it was sucked out of him by the duchess' pet spiders in the castle. how is she supposed to find him now when he's been scrubbed clean of everything that made him hers? she'll smell that bitch all over him. she'll smell john all over him. )
She left me. ( still numb, lifeless, but his eyes are hot with tears again, splattered fatly from his eyelashes to his cheeks. as far as quentin is concerned, he's talking about the duchess, she left him, for weeks, for a month. his mouth smears quentin's mouth with salt as he cups his face between his hands, kissing him chastely. )
no subject
[ Quentin’s lips press back gently, presses a hand broad and flat to Danny’s front. He rubs a slow, wide circle into his chest, warm and heavy, assuring. The touch is a mismatch to the spatter of venom in his mouth. ]
Fuck her. [ The Duchess. But the other her too. ] I’m here. And you’re okay, and that’s pretty good, right? I got you. Baby, don’t cry.
[ His lips press into Danny’s mouth again, into a tear track, up into his temple. When he pushes close, dampness starts to seep from Danny into his clothes. Quentin wraps back around him anyway, combs up the back of his neck to invite Danny to bow into him. His fingertips spiral at the base of his skull. ]
Don’t cry. [ Not into the woods, not into the big sky. If he has to do it, he can empty it against the crook of Quentin’s nice. Safe, clean, and not alone, never alone. ]
no subject
he knows this body better than he should. his fingers linger over the places he remembers sinking a knife, by memory and feel alone. q always had the perfect body for dismantling, for fucking.
when he inhales on a shivering sniffle, his shoulders shake to match. he lifts his head and smears a kiss over his jaw, following the curve of it to his earlobe. )
I don't feel right. ( nothing feels right anymore. everything about this place is all fucking wrong. wrong deity. wrong body. the whites of his eyes bloodshot, framed by thick dewy lashes as he stares at quentin through the gaussian blur. ) I think I'm becoming something else.
( something ordinary. something human, despite the black mud he vomited up earlier, where quentin kneels now. a transformation of any sort would be a welcome relief, at this point. hard proof that he's not entirely forsaken. )
no subject
[ Quentin’s body trusts Danny’s, but the way it shakes under the slick coolness of his clothes feels rotten. There is something not right with him. Something is sick. Quentin palms down his spine, inviting his weight down, let him hold it, he can hold it. ]
We can change together. You and me.
no subject
( that doesn't matter. he's been dead a hundred million fucking times, for weeks for months for years, time and death are meaningless inside the infinite chasm of the entity's mouth. quentin should know. quentin does know, but he doesn't know that danny knows he knows.
he wriggles from his arms, clutches quentin's face between two strong hands and stares at him, all animal panic in his glossy brown eyes, trying to see something that isn't there. he saw it for a couple of seconds in the castle, that wide-eyed look of fear, and it'd almost cracked his resolve right down the center. he'd almost grabbed quentin by the throat and fucked him on the castle floors, beneath a swirling curtain of petticoats and pantlegs. quentin doesn't look at him like that now. it's just — bright empathy. pity. again.
his stomach kicks his guts sharply to his throat, acid boiling behind his tonsils. he's going to retch again. danny strokes both thumbs down the column of quentin's throat, slides a hand back to fist his hair tightly as an anchor, and sinks his teeth into the crook of his neck, right by his shirt collar, hard. )
no subject
[ The ache in his scalp is shock enough, but the teeth molding into his skin sends a snap down every one of Quentin’s nerves. His soothing hands tighten and twist like a rabbit’s ears, spine zips tight bone by toothed bone. He goosebumps for it, the same as he did for Danny’s hands under his shirt, though.
[ It’s Danny, though, so he must—need it. Whatever rotten thing is trapped in him, leaving tracks down his cheeks, needs it. Quentin forces a breath out, throat flexing, hips creaking as they shift. ]
Okay. Okay, I— [ One hand combs into Danny’s hair, draws the back of his neck and plane of his shoulder. Good. Okay. ] —I had the last mark for almost a week. When it faded, I didn’t know if I’d lost you.
no subject
he licks at the marks he leaves behind, dented deep in quentin's creamy skin. his thighs spread, hips canting and pushing forward until he's kneeling in the mud alongside quentin, bullying into his personal space, their faces level. )
You thought I'd leave you? I'd never fuckin' leave you.
( that's not how this works. no one leaves. no one walks away — from him, from him, from him. he decides when this shit is over, he decides when someone has had enough. especially now. especially here, with no one left to stop him, no one left to pull him back by the reins and tell him down, boy. danny cups quentin's jaw between his thumb and index fingers, kisses his way into his sweet pink mouth.
romantic, promising, threatening, between lingering kisses, meaner nips to his bottom lip: ) You're never getting away from me.
no subject
[ His low hum shows off pleasure, agreement, hunger as he tips into the attention. Breathes deep into his stomach so his body swells into and sinks against Danny, rewards the next nip at his lip with sucking Danny's between his teeth more harshly. Knuckles skitter down his cheek, follow the stubble down his throat. There's a fleck of mud there, but Quentin just scrubs it off and sinks both hands into Danny's hair--tilts his head to tongue eagerly into his mouth. ]
cw: violent fantasies wrt dub-con/non-con, potential dub-con going forward, nsfw
but he's so sweet. but he's so hot for it. danny fucking bets — as he squeezes his throat one last sentimental time, skimming up to his skull to knot his hair between his knuckles, pull his neck taut, strangling tight — that he would've let him hit even in the fog. he should've fucked him in the castle. he should've fucked him the one time he cornered him alone in a classroom in springwood, right over a rickety desk, pounded his cunt raw and full to the rhythm of the sputtering generator just outside the window.
his friends would've come for him, most likely. they ain't coming for him now. it's just quentin and the ghost face, unmasked. )
No. ( voice like a knife's edge. he's not crying anymore, but his lashes are still full and dark, tears like grainy glitter on the ends. he stares down at quentin and presses his mouth to his mouth, softly. teeth in his throat. nose in his twitching collar. ) I need you to say it, Quentin.
( danny's a practiced magician at working one-handed. he pops quentin's fly, wrangles his trousers down his hips in the time it takes him to blink twice, cupping his hand under his ass and drawing his hips flush, to meet danny's hardening cock, weighed down in damp cotton. )
You're never getting away from me.
no subject
[ Something about his voice, though. Quentin's throat jerks, hard swallow to keep down a sudden, sick feeling. He has to open his eyes, has to get a good look to remember who he's here with--his friend, his beautiful friend, even if the dirt under his knees and the fierce strain on his neck tells him something awful is here with them. ]
...I'm never-- [ What a strange ask. He isn't running. His Adam's apple snaps once more, hands drop between them to ruck up Danny's shirt. The nerves will disappear if he dives in. Whispered, unsure: ] I'm never getting away from you.
no subject
Good girl.
( danny may not have the entity's gifts or blessing anymore, but as quentin's pale hand rucks up his shirt, touches his abdomen, that's all muscle he's groping, junkyard lean and unyielding, rippling like a snake mid-strike. the hand in his hair loosens, fingertips massaging his scalp gently, comfortingly raking through to the messy golden tips. his little wavy curls have always been cute, dishwater blond to match his baby blues.
he kisses him again, as a reward, sharp, breathless, curve of teeth clinking teeth. it might even be mistaken as an apology, for a few languorous seconds. mud splatters when danny upends their world, steering quentin by a fistful of hair, turning him so his back meets danny's front and following him all the way to the ground, forcing him to catch their combined weight on his hands or eat fucking dirt, literally. he wrenches his trousers into a loop around his knees, then hooks a thigh between his legs, spreading them into a quivering v. )
Fuck, that's my good girl. ( look at that pink cock, his taint like a landing strip for danny's tongue, leading him to his balls. he licks them once just to feel quentin twitch, pinches his thumbs into both ass cheeks and spreads him shamelessly. licks him there, too, on his tight hole, spitting messy as emphasis, half to slick him up and half to watch him clench. ) I knew you'd have a sweet pink cunt.
( danny's hands close bruising firm on quentin's hips, holding him steady while he ruts, fully clothed, against his pert little ass, cock sliding thick and muffled into his crease. his breath shivers into a vicious hiss through his teeth. )
Did you save it for me, baby? Did you let anyone in while I was gone?
( like that fucking cunt felipe. maybe danny will sleeve his cock down his throat once he's done with quentin, see how much dick that motherfucker can take. )
no subject
Danny. Wait, here? If you— [ for ages, Danny said back at the castle, but this wasn’t how Quentin imagined their after happening. He pulls his knees close again, fingers pulsing around Danny’s wrist as he straightens up. When he looks over his shoulder, his eyes are lit, zadza crackling around his nostrils, the dark ring of his lips. ] If you need this, let’s go back. We can use my room, we can—find somewhere.
no subject
his fingers hook his jaw, turns his head to kiss his mouth tenderly. this one is an apology, a shushing, following the zipline crackles of zadza with his tongue, that strange blue light setting quentin's insides aglow. danny gets mud and flowers, quentin gets ozone and glinting electricity. hardly seems fair. )
Shhh, hey, it's okay. You trust me, don't you, Quentin? I got you, it's okay. ( he spits into his free hand and finds quentin's cock, funneling him in tight strokes, dripping open-mouthed kisses into his neck, behind his ear. little fucking slut, so hot and wet in his palm already. none of that secret venom leaks into his voice; it's all thick eroticism, heavy and rawed, i want you so fucking bad underlining every word. ) You're sick, too, baby. Let me take care of it.
no subject
I just—I haven’t—be careful, just be careful, okay, just—
no subject
his mouth buzzes, high off the salt on quentin's skin. danny's fist over quentin's cock jacks him in toe-curling firm passes, nursing his plump cockhead spit wet. )
I'll take care of you. ( like he always has, here or in the fog. his knee sloshes through the mud, back between quentin's legs to butterfly pin them apart. the hand stroking him to fullness serves him one last squeeze before it drifts between them, thumb hooking into his crease and spreading him, index finger running the length of his shivering cunt. ) Did you ever think about my dick in your hot little cunt and touch yourself? I've dreamed of it.
( danny folds him back onto his elbows, leaving him sprawled for his body behind him, for more spit dribbled onto his hole. one hand soothes over his back, hiking his shirt up his spine, as he fucks into him two fingers at a time, prodding in on resisting muscle slowly, then stroking in deeper, firmer, down to the first knuckles and beyond. tight. hot. the goldilocks of cunts for danny's dick. he fucking knew it. )
no subject
[ dreamed about it, Danny says, and Quentin flushes fierce enough that he half expects the sludge to come to a simmer. ]
Yes. [ And the only thing that kept him from spreading himself for the thought was time, hygiene, some sense of anticipation for his return. Quentin pushes around his fingers, pushes back against him with a drawn out exhale. ] Danny, all the time. All the fucking--time.
[ The digits don't sink deep enough, but the next firm press yanks some string loose; his back dips suddenly, balls tighten, zadza rolling dully through the bite marks over his neck. Quentin's forehead falls onto his stacked fists. ]
I waited for you. [ Rumbling, wet. ] Tell me what you dreamed.
no subject
he wants to tell him. he wants him to know. he wants him to suffer again, and he hates this fucking place, these fucking people, for taking that right from him. he owns quentin's pain, all of it. danny's fingers quiver dangerously where they're slotted in quentin's insides, fucking him loose in preparation for his cock. )
You're mine.
( every pale, blushing inch of him, every angry and indignant teardrop squeezed from his stupid pretty blue eyes. danny's voice cracks like he's crying. because he is, again. iridescent oil-thin tears drip from his chin, anointing the milky curve of quentin's ass like black squirming beetles. )
I'm going to fuck you up, baby. ( baby, sweetheart, q. his throat squeezes, spasms on a hiccuping gasp. ) Quentin. You fucking slut.
( he's going to make him hurt again. his fingers glide out of him, replaced by his thumb and the plush head of danny's cock, pushing in side-by-side. one to pry his clenching cunt open, the other to fuck him full, little hitches until his cockhead pops his sweet cherry and he can snap in smooth, mean hips rutting him deeper into the mud. )
cw: did we warn for major dubcon? lets do that just in case
[ The feeling flinches when Danny goes on. Recoils from his own name and the one Danny gives him. The words come quick when his hole stretches too far, too bright around his thumb and crown. ]
Wait--wait, waitwait, Danny--Danny, wait!
[ His vision whites out, senses battered out by the dry scrape as Danny fucks into him. Quentin screams and immediately bites around his forearm to stop, stop stop shut up. Mud climbs between his teeth. Holds his knees too tight, he realizes how wide he's splayed when he tries to pull away and his thighs ache and his hips moan and his knees don't budge.
[ Filthy past his elbows, he scrabbles for the hand holding his hips. Hold him. Hold his hand. ] --please--
i did warn for dubcon upthread but it was before any real dubcon happened so u right
danny slides his thumb from quentin's trembling cunt. stares hazily between them where they're fused at the hips, quentin's muddy hand groping for danny's hand like an anchor to keep him from drowning. )
Sweetheart. ( danny can't get oxygen into his lungs quickly enough. he's the one drowning, shivery kitten moans to complement his little kitten tears like he's got the thick cock inside him instead. he takes quentin's hand, palm to hand top, lacing their fingers at the knuckles.
wrecked, needy, vicious: ) Quentin, fuck — oh fuck, fuck, baby, I knew you'd be a fucking slut for this.
( he never imagined it happening like this: out in the woods, quentin on his hands and knees in the mud, danny bowed over his spine like a fucking animal in breeding season. he always thought he'd be kissing him, licking his begging and whimpering dannys from his mouth, and he's suddenly sorry that he can't.
squeezing quentin's hand, danny draws them down in unison between the fanned spread of his thighs and wraps their joined fists around his sweet pink cock. his other hand grinds into his skinny hip, holds him steady for the backward cant of his hips as he glides out of him and keeps him corked open by the chubby lip of his cockhead. another round of spit dolloped onto his flexing, gaping cunt, you're welcome, then danny fucks back into him. )
no subject
Danny. [ His Danny. This is okay. This is fine. Same as the first time Quentin had him down his throat. Resistance, stuttering, and then-- ] Baby—okay. Okay—
[ Quentin shudders around him when their hands wind around his cock. His forehead plants on his fist. He’d imagined them being cleaner, closer, sharing breath and whispering. But like this, Danny’s strange, raw sounds leak directly down Quentin’s spine and into his ears sweet and poisonous. The second thrust still makes him wince, but Quentin pushes back into it. ]
Fuck me. [ His wrist loosens to stroke himself, lungs loosen to stoke the fire with a hoarse demand: ] Fuck me, babe, I’m all yours.