tampered | See me bare my teeth for you / Who who are you?

Entry tags:

See me bare my teeth for you / Who who are you?

When; October 6th, early Saturday morning.
Rating; PG-13?
Characters; Peter Rumancek and Roman Godfrey
Summary; This curse... well. Peter wakes up as a girl.
Log;

Peter hasn't been sleeping well these past few days to begin with. Dreams, memories, a white wolf with glowing eyes, with a name he refuses to give back to her. Death, blood, name of young girls that end up on the news and incite a small, backwards town to terror. There's fire, riots, more death than history gives in his dreams. These things weigh on him, drag him down so he wakes feeling like he's drowning under the weight of it Letha, Destiny, fate he couldn't change for anyone.

He wakes gasping, like he can't get a breath, like there's something on his chest, and for half a moment, he's back in Nick's trailer, shoving the cat off his chest. Except it's not a cat. And when he scrambles, screams, his voice comes out high-pitched, instead of that low murmur that tended to rumble in his chest. Ohgod. This can't be real. There is just no way that this is happening. He's suddenly wide awake, uncomfortably aware of how his boxers fit awkwardly, tight in the hips and loose in the waist, and the disconcerting feeling of breasts. Reflex has a hand going down to grope at the front of his boxers and all appearances point the arrow very firmly into the female category.

He's cursing while he fishes out a tank top, and that doesn't fit him much better than his boxers; tight across his chest, the arm holes low enough to give an almost indecent side-view of her breasts. She's intending on running to the bathroom, to the mirror, being able to at least get a look at herself, at what's going on. But she stops short when her even smaller feet pad into the hallway, because she's halfway down the hall when a door opens and there's Roman. She closes her eyes for a moment, running fingers through her hair in frustration.

"Shee-it."

Really, this place could go fuck itself.

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Peter slips out not long after in a red hoodie and a pair of pajama pants that do everything she can manage to disguise her body in baggy clothe. When she comes back it's hours later, well after dusk and Peter looks... completely different. She looks, well, like a girl.

The skirt she's wearing not might be particularly risque, but it is still a black miniskirt. The shirt is less overt, a semi-sheer top layered over a tank top, and finished off with a pair of sensible heels. The look says Lydia Martin's fashion sense all over it. Peter's nails are even done. He tries to sneak in, but the heels click when he walks, and it's not really subtle at all, especially when he has a shopping bag of clothes.

He winces a little with each step.

Slips out sure, does that mean that Roman didn't lurk through the apartment to check after? Absolutely not. Sure enough Peter did leave. He found that a relief but also disappointment. A run away. How is it so easy to make decisions like that to just up and leave? Roman asks himself as he stood in Peter's empty room sort of wishing for a heightened sense of...anything to pick up some remains.

Much, much later in the light of day his roommate returns. Boy and does he. She. All the linear thoughts are very hard to define as he stares at the full silhouette that Peter makes. He wants to laugh but his mouth has gone dry.

"You clean up good."

Was this Peter ever really a boy at all? Roman swallows and can't keep his roofie eyes to himself. Say something more. Well, he lights up a cigarette. There's that.

"Lydia.. took me shopping," Peter supplies by way of explanation, shifting a little uneasily. She's still a little shaky in the heels, but they definitely do nice things for her legs, as Lydia was quick to point out. She doesn't know what else to say, and so she just looks up at him, Roman still markedly taller than her even in those heels. She still has all those things they talked about bouncing in her head, about what she wants, what she can put up with and fuck those are hard things to think about, so clearly the answer is to just... not. Or at least as little as she can manage.

"You going to share?" It's an easy question -- at least it should be. Somehow, the cant of two slender fingers, painted nails for his cigarette seems somehow almost vulgar, sensual in a way it isn't usually. But, right now she really wants a smoke, and they've been sharing cigarettes for as long as they've known one another.

Peter is still Peter, and so of course she plays at pretending not to notice.

"Is there a store left?" Because Peter is full accessorized. The whole get up. Take it from Lydia that each detail would be considered. It is the most complete outfit, costume, drag piece ever.

"You're gonna owe me at this rate." Fat lot of good it does to bitch about it when he is taking out another cigarette for Peter.

"You know, it looks like you're going somewhere or trying to do something." An up nod makes his hair flop this way and that, Roman hasn't slicked it back in his usual way at lest not yet. He places a cigarette, filter facing Peter between those slender fingers.

"Pretty sure," she snarks back with a raise of an eyebrow, a slight shake of her head as she looks at him, hint of amusement to hide how this moment feels strange, an awkward static on her skin.

"Because I don't already?" Same roguish gypsy smile, just on fuller lips. Her eyes follow his hair, how it moves loose, and she kind of likes it like that, not that she'd ever tell him as much.

She take the cigarette, color-tipped fingers curling around the filter and moving to bring it to her lips. She pauses, a tilt of her chin and a quizzical look. "Trying to do something like what?" And then the cigarette is between her lips, and she's hoping Roman has a light because Peter definitely doesn't have a lighter in that miniskirt.

Hyper focus to Peter's mouth around the cigarette could have been something Roman lived without. It happened even when he didn't have breasts. Now though it is all making a real mess of his thoughts. At least he can function enough to lift his lighter, the silver one with his initials engraved at the bottom. The click eats up a space in the thin air.

"I'm not keeping a tally but safe to say a whole pack." The flame touches the end of Peter's cigarette igniting it to a cherry red. Breathe, Godfrey.

Was this part of the transformation really with a wave of Lydia's fashion sensibilities? Really? Bippity boppity bombshell. Except it is Peter flaunting his ability to adapt and transform.

"I don't know. You tell me. Was all that necessary? You got a hot date?" That would be something worth knowing.

"At least," Peter huffs with a murmur of amusement as the lighter clicks and flame flares to life. He sucks in air, and the cherry red ember flares a little brighter as the paper catches, burns. He sucks it in, holds it for a breath and then exhales from almost pouted lips as he slips the cigarette from his mouth.

Transformation was in his blood. Turning skin into something else. This isn't his transformation, but give him a shove and he seems to take to it well enough. He pauses, cigarette dangling between slender fingers as his pale blue eyes look at Roman with a hint of mirth, a tinge of amusement.

"Lydia said I should show off my legs. And nah, not unless you're offering." Pause just long enough for his lips to curve wicked. "Put you in a dress to go with that mouth." And yet, somehow, that joke didn't feel the same when he was standing here in heels and a skirt. Fuck this shit.

Edited (icon) 2013-10-09 20:52 (UTC)

Godfrey eyes, bright, green and greedy are soaking it all in. It's stupid. Ridiculous even. Roman asks himself again--is he a queer or just forever meant to be strange and a mockery of the conventional.

"I got some cash." Which is a form of offering. Shit or get off the pot, Roman. "So I'm in. Without the dress." Big pillowed lips are returning the kind of grin.

"I can't fucking believe you're in heels."

Well, shit. What does she even say to that? She hadn't actually expected him to take that invitation seriously. It feels like the barrel of a fucking gun, and someone's going to get hurt. So she takes a breath off the cigarette, shrugs his shoulder and smiles with a nod.

"Sure, why not?" What's the worst that could happen?

This is the worst kind of dumbshit idea, but Peter can't help himself. He wants him, even if that's still confusing, if the words are harder when it's those green eyes he's looking up into.

"Where to?"

She runs fingers through her hair that still falls down her shoulders and looks loosely mussed. "Dude, you should have seen what the other ones looked like. Girls shoes are crazy."

Edited 2013-10-10 18:07 (UTC)

"You're the one that's gonna walk in those." Eyes cast down and Roman tilts to the side to see how high they are. Peter was short to start but heels look like they're not doing much at fucking all.

...Is that perfume?

What the actual fuck.

"Usually I don't spend too much time looking at girl feel." But he is right now. Then he steps back. Roman might be awake but he's not dressed in a button down because he hasn't left the house yet.

"You think it over. Gimme a sec." He plucks the cigarette from his lips and places it on the deep plate that was decided to be the ash tray on the table. This second he's asking for is to look presentable. Pride as a rich kid.

It's because Roman's so stupidly tall, of course. That's why Peter seems so short. Of course, he did feel like he somehow lost an inch or two when he'd ended up as a girl, and the heels aren't all that tall, black and conservative enough they could be worn in an office somewhere.

Just a hint, a spritz from when they'd been in the salon, and Peter had eyes the makeup dubiously. How did girls even know what to use where?

"Alright."

So, this is actually happening? Well, fuck him. He takes another drag off his cigarette, and then it follows Roman's into the ashtray. He walks into his room, dropping off the bag of clothes and things, which he's not sure what he's going to do with when the curse wears off, but that's another subject altogether.

And then he's leaning against the wall of the living room and trying to pretend like this is a perfectly fucking normal Saturday night. Shit.

Tall is not the only thing that Roman is stupidly. Thinking on the outcome of what this means is important. The momentary thrill much like a thick line of coke will have repercussions. Except he worries that if he thinks over this any more he'll talk himself out of it. Yes. It's weird. But werewolves and shared dreams aren't?

He slips off his casual shirt for a button down and a blazer. Roman also gets on his watch and one of the few pairs of trousers he has. It's a date isn't it? He steps out not too much longer after. He would like to give an air of indifference to his own appearance but that's a bold face lie. Roman likes to feel good. Maybe it makes him feel likes hollow. A glance in the mirror and he slicks back his hair. Staring into his own face he hopes to find a sense of gravity, like a voice of reason will come to him. There is none. Now would be a lousy time to try and reach out to Shelley anyway.

Is he ugly? Sometimes he has no idea. Others he is sure of it.

Out of the room now and it's like being in Peter's presence, no matter the shape, he finds himself pulled to warmer, more lively thoughts.

"So...?" Big palms rub together for warmth and to do something. Normally he'd take the girl's hand or arm. Peter's not a girl. Really. Sort of.

Somehow, seeing Roman all dressed up just makes this more real. Going on a date. His hair is slicked, and the clothes he's in are nice, make her think of home, of Godfreys and their money, despite the fact that its not true here. A fact she's sure must be driving Roman mad, if she pauses to think about it. Her blue eyes slide up then down his body and she leans away from the wall, a shrug of those thin shoulders.

Unfairly attractive was also a descriptor that could be applied to Roman. Not that Peter really went out of his way to check out guys or anything. Sure, there'd been a couple boys. Nothing serious, nothing that went that far, but a couple stolen kisses in the later afternoon dust of a fair's stolen tickets in the dustbowl of midwest America after too many equally illicit beers. Roman was different from that.

Roman was like a candle burning from both ends, like fireworks, an attraction he'd fought for so long that at some point admitting to it was almost easier. At least when no one seemed to even buy the pretense.

"So show me the town, or whatever the fuck it is people do on a Saturday night." Peter doesn't do dates, he doesn't even know where to start. He's used to being told, instructed to escort Letha to the frozen yogurt place in town, or those magic moments that just happened like in a small town where he'd stolen concert tickets and grinned with a bruised mouth.

"I thought this was your thing."

Really is a miracle what the City deems to be transferable for features from male to female. The eyes are at least the same. That is still Peter. Somehow from the change from skin to fur and eye color there was familiarity, blue to blue really does help. Real and surreal are taking one long, long walk together.

"It is my thing." Coat adjust and he even dusts off a shoulder to be more of a shit. "My thing is making the lady happy before I make me happy." Bullshit comes so easy right on out of his lips. It's a lie. Roman is, for this moment, very happy.

At least he has Peter. Peter is alive. Peter is within his touch. The sheer pride and comfort akin to ownership makes him feel confident.

"No car so we're going on foot. Drinks first. You can do that in heels right?" Even though he's turning away, Roman puts his hand out to take a hold of Peter's in an ancient, unspoken courtship grade action that happens without a thought. It still feels right.

Don't think, Roman. Go with it.

Peter rolls her eyes and her fingers ache for a beer to twist between them. The line would be funny, steal a conspiratorial snicker at least from Peter's mouth if things were different, if they were normal. But, instead, he's a girl, and Roman's taking him on a date, and that line is edged in places where it wouldn't normally be, and they catch on her spine. At least in part because she's not entirely sure what she'd do if he tried. Not that she thinks he would, which is what made accepting the idea of a date so easy in the first place, even if it had been her joke.

"The drinks or walking?" That's a smirk on her lips and she shrugs thin shoulders. "I can walk, thanks." She's certain that when she's back to being a seventeen year old boy that all of this is going to seem really, really weird. "Sucks your car isn't here, though. That thing was fucking metal." She's going to pretend to be oblivious about how she was pretty sure dates and Roman and that car ended.

Somehow, Roman puts his hand out to take Peter's, and Peter lets him, though the unexpected contact makes her heart skip. She doesn't talk about it, doesn't think about it, at least, as much as she's able, anyway. It makes it feel like a date, in some weird fucking way Peter hadn't expected, but she shoves the thought down and lets him lead as her heels click as she walks with him.

Doing a line of coke would have been in the preparation process but here they are. Hitting the streets is easy. And holding onto Peter's hand for something that's not some ritual is surprisingly easy. Well. What was he expecting? Heat? Electricity? Anticipation does stupid things like that to the brain. Werewolf, sure. But he's still skin, bone and blood.

"Sucks balls." He has thought about saving up. Saving is a really peculiar word. And paychecks for 'all the labor' he has been secretly putting in don't cut the bill for saving all of it. Roman is determined to figure out something. A prince can't live like a pauper. That's part of what he puts into his dates. That's how it is supposed to be. A bird flies, a Godfrey drops bills like crumbs.

"How come you've never had a car? You can drive."

It feels strange, how Roman's hand is so much larger than hers, how their fingers curl against each other. It's not just that this is happening, but that Peter's a girl when it is. It just makes it even stranger.

Peter was no great feminist, never had been, really, which made being a girl an even more awkward experience. Turns out that she didn't spontaneously start believing in rainbows and floating cupcakes or whatever else it had seemed lived in their heads. Admittedly, Lyds and Jules had done a lot to get rid of at least some of those notions of non-Romani girls to begin with, but still.

"Assholes. If they're going to trap people here, they should at least give them their creature comforts." Peter still doesn't know about Roman's job, doesn't know where he's working, though she'd find it kind of... inspiring, if nothing else. She shrugs his shoulders at the question, eyes him with those bright blues.

"Too much fucking trouble. I just drive Lynda's if I really need to."

Which had happened all of pretty much never. Really, if Peter couldn't walk there, it was probably just too much effort anyway.

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See me bare my teeth for you / Who who are you?

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