Just watching. Cool. Just fucking watching, that's not disturbing at all. Quentin growls strangled and frantic between his teeth, and tries using his hands over his elbows for a second--and nearly drops. Elbows it is. Cursing, sweating, grunting, he does his best to ignore the eyes on him. Just focus on getting to that opposite, empty platform. He's almost there now. About six feet--three feet--look, he can brush his fingertips against the platform if he stretches now--
…Is it disturbing? He doesn’t notice. It’s just… normal for him. The usual. He likes to watch. The struggle is always the best part.
The closer Quentin gets to the platform at the other side, the closer Corey moves the blade of his knife towards the rope. One hand holds the rope itself, the other makes the knife hover. Closer and closer. It’s a silent threat. He just smiles.
Until he sees the stretch, the desperate reach for stability. The smile is wiped off his face, replaced with that same coldness from before. And it doesn’t take much effort for the blade to saw through the rope. It’s almost like Corey sharpened it especially for the occasion. What’s quicker - the knife or Quentin? There’s really not a lot of time to hesitate here, because that rope is as good as snapped.
Edited (thx for smacking sense into me.) 2023-03-25 03:41 (UTC)
Later, he'll wonder if he actually felt the rope shearing or if he just filled in the feeling with his imagination. It'll haunt him either way, more than his nails bending on the platform or the raw wood edge jamming against the soft underside of his arms. Technically, he makes it, but Quentin squawks as his back end drops into midair and yanks him till he's just hanging on be the elbow. The rope slaps loose and heavy against his side, more hindrance than help now that it's gone slack, blocking an easy path to the ladder nailed into the tree trunk. The platform groans but doesn't give.
It's a distant view, but maybe a satisfying one. Quentin looks particularly scrawny trying to shimmy his way up onto the platform but, ultimately, tangling himself up in the ropes instead. It's graceless, and he's noisy about it, but it's easier to get to the safety of a wide branch from the rope. Then--at last--he can hug himself to the trunk. Panting, feet sure on the ladder plank, he keeps one arm secure around the tree and uses the other to throw Corey a middle finger.
The fact that he doesn’t trip up and plummet to the forest floor? More than mildly disappointing. Corey tries not to let it show on his face (and fails). So much for the big finish. It was a good idea at the time, but he definitely underestimated his potential victim.
“Yeah fuck you too buddy.”
He doesn’t want to stoop to Quentin’s level, so there’s an absence of crude gestures. Corey just stands up and points the knife in his direction.
“Nice hustle by the way. Be more careful about picking your meeting places next time, okay?” Or just stay out of his way entirely. Quentin‘s choice really.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
no subject
The closer Quentin gets to the platform at the other side, the closer Corey moves the blade of his knife towards the rope. One hand holds the rope itself, the other makes the knife hover. Closer and closer. It’s a silent threat. He just smiles.
Until he sees the stretch, the desperate reach for stability. The smile is wiped off his face, replaced with that same coldness from before. And it doesn’t take much effort for the blade to saw through the rope. It’s almost like Corey sharpened it especially for the occasion. What’s quicker - the knife or Quentin? There’s really not a lot of time to hesitate here, because that rope is as good as snapped.
no subject
It's a distant view, but maybe a satisfying one. Quentin looks particularly scrawny trying to shimmy his way up onto the platform but, ultimately, tangling himself up in the ropes instead. It's graceless, and he's noisy about it, but it's easier to get to the safety of a wide branch from the rope. Then--at last--he can hug himself to the trunk. Panting, feet sure on the ladder plank, he keeps one arm secure around the tree and uses the other to throw Corey a middle finger.
no subject
“Yeah fuck you too buddy.”
He doesn’t want to stoop to Quentin’s level, so there’s an absence of crude gestures. Corey just stands up and points the knife in his direction.
“Nice hustle by the way. Be more careful about picking your meeting places next time, okay?” Or just stay out of his way entirely. Quentin‘s choice really.
“We done here?”