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"Quentin?"
His fingers tighten at the edge of the bathroom sink as he answers.
"Yeah, just give me a minute."
He’d come in here to be alone. To try and wash some of the metaphorical muck off his skin. The more time he spends around the monster the dirtier he feels. The stink of evil is soaking into his pores.
The door behind him creaks open.
"But my head hurts. Kiss me better?"
This feels so wrong. Of all the horrors in the shitshow that is his recent life, this is what takes the most getting used to. He wants to raise a futile protest when this kind of thing happens, but the words dry up in his throat. There’s no point, unless he wants another bone snapped in two.
The monster’s arms snake about him, the sharp point of its chin resting on his shoulder. He can feel hot breath on his skin. The thing has moved so close that it’s lips brush Quentin’s cheek when it speaks, a ghost of a kiss, a deceptively gentle gesture from such a dangerous creature.
The muscles in Quentin's arms tighten as he grips the sink harder and keeps his eyes closed. When he doesn't return the kiss or even offer his mouth, the monster moves closer still, until its body is pressed flush to Quentin's, trapping him against the sink.
It lays another chaste kiss at the corner of Quentin's mouth. Chaste at least until the sudden warm slip of tongue licks along the curve of Quentin's lips. The tip of its tongue not quite pressing to slide inside but only leaving it as a suggestion. The monster seems to like kissing Quentin, likes pushing its tongue into his mouth until he’s breathless. But it also likes to tease. Get Quentin worked up until Quentin is almost unconsciously chasing after his mouth for more.
It’s just a sense memory is all. Quentin’s body is reacting to Elliot’s. His taste and smell. His body doesn’t know the difference between this unholy abomination and the sweet and gentle Elliot who would smile against Quentin’s mouth when they kissed.
"You're so pretty," the monster says, licking its lips. "and tasty. I could just eat you whole"
"Yeah," Quentin agrees. "But a minute on the lips, is a lifetime on the hips."
The monster just snorts a laugh and ducks his head to Quentin's throat. He lays a hot, open-mouthed kiss where neck meets jaw. At the same time his hips are thrusting gently against Quentin and Quentin can feel the hard line of a cock grinding against his thigh.
He doesn’t move. Follows his instinct, thinking that maybe if he keeps real still the threat will pass him by.
"Please, Quentin," the monster pleads, familiar voice purring in his ear.
A hand has slipped beneath Quentin's t-shirt, fingertips kneading lightly at his belly in a way that would almost feel innocent and soothing if the touch didn't keep dipping lower. "Please… your friend… he wants this.”
A cold shiver runs down Quentin’s spine.
The monster has said this before. Quentin isn’t sure, but he thinks it’s a lie. A manipulation, and fairly rudimentary one at that, to make Quentin go along with whatever the monster wants him to do. But nevertheless it’s damn effective. If there’s even the faintest hope that Quentin can reach Elliot, can help him claw back control of his body, then Quentin will do whatever it takes. Even if that means letting himself be groped and pawed at. Even if he has to spread his legs and think of England.
So he doesn't fight when the monster works his flies down and pushes his hand though the opening. His hips are rolling into Quentin more fiercely now. His breath coming in short, staccato pants.
Suddenly a mouth latches onto his throat again, rough scrape of teeth sending electricity directly to his cock. He makes a pained grunt as the teeth bite deeper, and hears the pleased moan in response.
Naturally, his cock is getting hard, responding on reflex to the slide of a familiar palm over it. It’s like sense memory, all those years of practice, like breathing.
"Come on, Quentin," says the monster. "I know he likes this, I can feel how much he wants it… you, falling to pieces in my hand. He’s inside me, getting off on how desperate you are for his body.”
Quentin doesn’t know if he wants to cringe or come.
There’s a loud sweat-slick sound of Quentin's cock sliding through Elliot’s hand and the unceasing force of Elliot’s hips thrusting up against him. It’s enough to lift Quentin onto his toes, so he braces against the mirror. Closes his eyes to avoid the reflection of himself and the familiar face behind him.
"Just, do it" he says, desperate. It’s instinct.
"Oh Quentin, this is why you’re the best at playing games!”
His hand curls about Quentin's throat like it belongs there, jugular pressed against the thin webbing of skin where thumb sweeps into finger. Then the hand slithers down Quentin's spine and he swallows hard as fingers wriggle between the cleft of his ass. The touch isn't light, it's definite and determined as it slides along the heated skin. Quentin can't help a gasp escaping his throat as a fingertip rubs at his hole, pressing insistently until it begins to push up into him.
When his lips part in a moan, a tongue is pushing between them and into his mouth.
The monster has one hand curled around Quentin's cock, and he's rocking the fingers on his other hand deeper up into Quentin.
He starts to tremble as his climax get’s closer. He clutches the sink, falling forward to rest his forehead again against the cool fogged glass of the mirror. The air in the small rooms stinks of sex and he feels breathless as ceaseless hips thrust against him.
"This is how you and he used to play, right?" the monster says, and speeds up his rhythm.
In the moments before he comes, Quentin thinks about how he’ll explain all this when and if he gets his Elliot back.
Will he claim this was a way to placate the monster, distract him to save a few lives. Or will he say this was all just a ploy to get beneath the monster’s defences. Lull him into a false sense of security and wait for the right opportunity. Both sound plausible.
But deep down, where Quentin keeps all his shameful and base secrets, he knows the truth.
Because he’s broken and trapped. And when it’s Elliot’s arms around on him, and Elliot’s fingers coaxing pleasure from him, and when Elliot’s lips are kissing him, and his honeyed voice is whispering things that sound just the same as they always did...
Those are the only times now that Quentin can forget.
x
fin