tampered | What Big Eyes You Have (Closed)

Peter turns on his heel when he hears the door open. He tries to hide his hand behind him, to pretend that Roman can possibly not notice the blood, but he swallows hard, looking at the other teen with those bright blues. He'd broken the mirror a few days before and neglecting to touch the shards for a fear of what he might see in them, he'd somehow managed to get a sliver of glass stuck in his left palm. He'd been patently ignoring Roman for obvious reasons, cursing quietly as he tried to work the glass out with slippery fingers.

"Roman..."

He didn't know what else to say, because it's October, and there's that itch, the way they say ghosts and spirits and all that bullshit linger closer this time of year. But, more importantly, his hand is bleeding and there's an upir in his apartment. This is exactly the sort of thing that he's been trying to keep him away from, the temptation.

He doesn't know what happens now, and he inhales slowly, back pressed to the sink. There's that primal fear that says to get away, but more than that, this is Roman, and he means too much for Peter to be able to escape. Where would he run to?

A snappy form of an insult is on his tongue but then his eyes dart from direct contact. There's that smell he knows well. It must be his imagination but now and again it takes on other qualities depending on a person. Blood. Peter's blood. Still in the door way for a few seconds longer he only has a light sort of scent. Earthy. Potent.

"Need help?" Red pools into the lines of Peter's hands if he's cupping it just so. Roman always thought it looked cool like that, like life and fate are warm and right there. He clears his throat and looks back into Peter's eyes. Two blue stones. Or sapphires. Or just a great set of eyes.

And he licks his lips.

"Uh, it's just a piece of glass," he answers, which really isn't an answer at all. Especially not when blood is welling up in his palm, seeping between his fingers. His gaze flicks back up to meet those green eyes that almost seem to shine in the dim light of the little bathroom. God, he's beautiful. It's an almost uncomfortable thought, and he swallows in the back of his throat. Ever since that date, fuck if he'd been in the wrong body, he's even more aware of him. His cheekbones and his lips, and that knowledge of what kissing Roman feels like.

Probably a really dumbshit thing to be thinking of when they're close and Roman's licking his lips, and Peter's still bleeding, and he's distracted by his pulse pounding in his ears. His fingers slip and he slices his thumb on the glass in his hand and he curses, bringing his thumb to his mouth, staining his lips red as he sucks at the wound. It's like there's an electric attraction here, but it's all wrong.

Everything's going right to go wrong.

"And it's cutting you," like it's the most profound fact. Even though he has wet his own lips his mouth, his lips feel parched. It's the tension, he tells himself. And maybe something about how much he likes the red tone of blood on skin.

Help (and hindrance) comes whether Peter wants it or not. Roman holds the shard between his pointer and thumb. Maybe its because he's used to sharp, cutting objects or maybe because his aren't slick the way Peter's is but it comes out easy enough. He drops it into the sink. Already being close to the cut he's stained. How appropriate. That's how he feels. Being close to Peter everything is colored over.

Now would be the time to back away. Now would be the time for jokes and bullshit. Say something glib, Peter. Save Roman from the hunger of the pit inside him that wants dark, weird things. How can he help though when he's got those fucking blue eyes looking right at him.

Hands, one stained, one clean touch against either side of Peter's face. With grim, almost simple logic he decides he is going to take the blues right out of his skull.

He shivers at how Roman says that, because it's somehow fucking profound, yet it cuts like a hot knife, like a brand against his skin. Like the way the blood slips over his skin, warm and yet it binds them here together in what is just one giant fucking terrible idea.

He wants to say that he's got this, even if he doesn't, but Roman is already moving in, grasping the fragment of glass and manages to pull it free from the wound that it made. There's a clatter as the glass bounces across the sink, skittering and trailing blood over white porcelain. There's a heat here, and its impossible to resist what's happening, to do so would be like the earth changing its orbit. He can't escape this.

His mouth is dry except for his own blood on his tongue, and he licks at his lips as his hear pounds. He almost thinks Roman could hear it, that he might devour it. There's a hunger is those green eyes that's no good for either of them. Blue eyes staring into those greens, and his throat feels thin.

"Roman.." It's the best he can manage as bloodied hands clutch at the other teen's chest.

How to do it? He wants to try it with his mouth. That makes no sense at all. Not logistically. Hell, even in the conventional sense. Cohesive thought is difficult in the face of the completely irrational, desperate want.

"What?" Like he can be distracted. Roman tilts Peter's head one way and he brings his face closer. There's enough glass. That would do it. He relinquishes one hand to reach past that scruffy dark hair to the mirror to take a bigger shard in his hand. Of course it will cut it, Roman has never ever been known to fuss over a small cut he himself has inflicted.

"It'll be quick. I'll take good care of em. You trust me, don't you?"

Green, green eyes stare fixated.

Edited 2013-10-14 06:58 (UTC)

His breath is coming short, thin, his eyes wide as he looks at Roman. There's something off about him, and it makes his stomach plunge in the worst kind of way. No, this isn't going to end well. Not for Peter. Maybe not even for Roman, he doesn't know. What he does know is that it's like there's dark silk drawn over the other teen, that it's like there's a darkness stretched between them.

"Roman," his words come more insistent, trying to snap him out of this as his hands press against his chest. He doesn't seem to be getting through to him, and Roman has a rather intimidating sliver of mirror in his hand, and god, the words that come off those full lips make him shiver. It's like he doesn't even realize how wrong, wrong what he wants is.

"Yeah. Yeah, I trust you. But don't--"

Peter isn't exactly sure why he kisses him right then, but he does. It's desperate and pleading and needy and so many, many things as he presses back against the sink and uses a hand to drag Roman's mouth down to his. Fuck, fuck, fuck this. He told Stiles that if they just kept Roman out of everything, that he'd be fine.

Maybe it had been wishful thinking, or Peter needed to re-evaluate the meaning of fine. His mouth was bloody, but he kissed him anyway, because fuck it. His other hand tangled in his shirt, dragging him in close as he got lost somewhere in the dark of the moment and the sharp edges that were always between them.

What the fuck was he even doing?

Off is only the start. It's like the curse was the key to unlock the door to the long, dark corridor that has been closed off. Upir lineage not entirely awakened. The impulses come and go. Never has it ever been this bad. Then again never has he been in an encounter without a clear frame of mind.

The mirror shard nicks Peter's cheek, his ear as he's dragged out of focus by the other boy's hands and mouth. For the time being this second desire distracts him. Roman's touch at the bristled jaw of Peter's goes into his hair and takes a grip like it will save him from toppling down the rabbit hole.

Wow. There is so much blood. Surface wounds tend to heal the most. And it isn't all Peter's any more, sure. That's all that Roman is tasting and smelling though. Oh fuck it's in his mouth, in Peter's mouth. His tongue chases after it and lips grip to bite at his lips like there'll be more to get that way somehow.

Maybe he'll try to take his mouth first. Then his eyes. Would he actually have the werewolf then? The heady action is enough to start to get a hard on. But that's not the point of the exercise. Just a plus.

There's a catch to his breath as the mirror nicks his cheek, making another red line on skin, and it seems like all he can smell. Just Roman and his own blood, and there's a whine in his throat as Roman's fingers grip tight against his hair. His own fingers are tight in the other boy's shirt, pulling him, pulling him in close as if that will somehow stop this. There's no pushing him away; he'd never make it. That's always been his problem with Roman, a constant inability to escape from him.

There's a catch to his breath as they kiss and Roman's tongue is chasing the blood, and he meets his tongue with his own. Tries to sate his hunger with something else, anything else than that raw, violent, predatory nature. Teeth bite at his lips and Peter returns the gesture, nipping with pearly whites and pulling him down as he threads fingers in his hair.

He knows he's losing, that there's no way this doesn't end bloody, but he's trying. Trying to keep him here, with him, trying to draw him back to something other than blood and body parts. Roman's not the only one starting to struggle with an erection; however fucked up the situation is, the may their lips meet still steals his breath.

Fuck. Fuck this shit. Fingers balled in the other teen's shirt end up slipping beneath the fabric. He needs to make him feel something.

Each aggressive pull and breath is like he is encouraging Roman to have at him. Blood on his cotton shirt makes it stick a little but it can easily be peeled. His skin is warm and his heart is still beating if that counts for anything. All this time the Godfrey boy has allowed himself to believe it's a kink. There are so many in the world. What would be so unbelievable about it? His just didn't seem to quit. Just another addiction like coke, nicotine and the macabre. Oh and the still new, white hot whatever for the gypsy.

Each bite and press is nice in the way that sugar cubes are in coffee but not quite satisfying. He pulls back mouth and face staying up close. The angle has the tip of his nose a little slick from the cut at Peter's cheek.

"C'mon, Peter. Please." His tongue darts to take a lick following the shallow cut below the slope of his cheekbone.

"Maybe just one?" Sadly he still has that sharp, large shard of glass at hand and the tenderness that he uses to push back a strand of dark hair is completely opposite of his intention. "I can be quick. And of course I'd be careful." The little smile might be sweet if his lips weren't red and slick.

"Don't make me ask again."

It counts for something, it's some sort of reassurance, at least, when Peter half expects his skin to be cool, and his chest silent against his fingers. He doesn't know for sure if upir have a heartbeat, but he remembers a slim bodies naked in the snow from when he'd been younger and he'd always been sure it couldn't be any other way. Roman is an addiction, something Peter can't stay away from, even when that darkness he'd always known was there starts crashing through the cracks.

Their mouths part, faces too close, Peter's blue eyes looking into Godfrey greens. He's gasping, his breath coming rough and heated as their faces press too close still. There's a catch to his breath, a low murmur as Roman's tongue licks at the cut under his cheekbone. There's still that plea, that way he says please as if it's entirely fucking reasonable.

He shivers as those thin fingers brush strands of his dark hair back from his face, seemingly tender. And it fires such conflicting responses. He leans into it, even as he tries to protest. "Fuck. You can't, Roman-- Don't."

Words he knows wont make a difference, wont change where this is going, but he has to keep saying them and hoping that at some point that Roman pulls out of this enough to realize what's going on. He just hopes it's soon, soon enough to stop. Maybe there's already just too much blood.

And then there's that insistence that comes off like a threat and Peter shudders. He brushes fingertip against the side of his face, a look in those bright blues that's pleading and desperate as their noses almost touch.

"Roman, please..."

How could it be unreasonable? Roman won't do anything bad to those eyes. Just take them out. He'd put them in a great looking jar or a glass. Sitting and looking at them will make him know for sure how much the other boy cares and understands to allow him the privilege. Such eyes they are, the things they must have seen. Well. Even if it would be one, Roman tells himself that he would be satisfied.

The curious part is that he is aware. Just cursed in a way that makes this seem regular. An everyday action that people go and do. Nothing amiss about how he takes the mirror glass and sets it below Peter's lower lashes just so and applies pressure.

"Hold still." It's already starting. Roman keeps his face close and his mouth set in concentration. One blue Rumancek eye will be all to himself.

"Roman, don't--"

And the words turn into a breath that catches in his throat, into a whimper of pain as Roman presses the glass under the lower lashes of his eye and he's pressing in. There's pressure and there's that sharp sharp flash of pain and then there's blood. Red crimson that wells up and runs down his cheek like a river of scarlet tears. His hands are shaking, knuckles bone-white as a whimper shifts higher, a cry, but not-quite a scream.

He can't stay still, and so the cut comes out jagged, a twist of his head to the side that rips the piece of mirror out into his hairline. And he reaches up, one hand grasping hard in his hair and he drags him down into another hard kiss. He knows he can't stop it, so he steals this. Just once more, one more moment, his free hand trying to catch Roman's wrist, trying to stop this even as they're both dragged down into it.

Roman clicks his tongue. "I told you-" to stay still. Like they're just fucking around. Another dark mockery. The glass at the depth and uneven line, there's a very good chance that the other boy is going to loose vision there for now. Blood stream like tears or maybe more appropriately half of a veil. Or something. It's too sloppy too uneven.

"Peter-!" He starts again with frustration. Why does he have to make things so hard? Why does he have to try and throw any plan or conception he's got into chaos? Surely that must have been his motive the whole damn time. And here he goes again distracting with his mouth. The proximity makes Roman more sticky with his friend's blood. His shirt is stained by more than half where it was once white. Now that the class has done it's work, he drops it into the sink and sets his hand close to the corner of the cut close to where he started or at least somewhere close. It's so hard to see.

Tongue. Lips. Teeth. Shit, he is trying to think about his next move when he hasn't even got his eye yet. Mouth sounds very good right now.

Peter's lost. There's this sinking feeling that's curling into his bones, into the marrow like he can't resist this, can't avoid what's happening. All he can see out of his left eye is red, his own blood. There's no stopping this, no stopping him, and it's a fact he had maybe never accepted before, never had to face... Just how deep the darkness goes. He wasn't a toothless prince without a crown. Just like Olivia had never been the bored actress he'd thought of her as.

They're both red with blood, with Peter's blood, and with all this blood, there's no way to push him back, contain the monster that seems to have claimed Roman, overwhelmed the things about him that he tried to hold onto. "Roman-- please." He says please about as often as the Godfrey heir, but with all that copper scent that's so heavy, heady on the air. It's like the bouquet of alcohol or strange perfume.

The piece of glass clatters, shatters, and then fingers are pressing into the cut, and all he wants to do is shrink down. He wants to vanish, be too small to hurt. He's never liked violence, especially not against him, especially not when.... Roman. He's lost and he's dead, and he takes a breath, and there's a moment of calm, like something that passes between them. Hunter and prey.

His fingers lace over Roman's, and all he can see are jellyfish that glow against the darkness of summer nights.

"You're okay. You can trust me." The calm sincerity isn't even being enforced by whatever weird power he has behind his eyes. Each step, each action is as natural as breathing. All it takes is a little curse and he thrives like an animal raised in captivity to be unleashed to the wild.

Roman pulls back and they're forehead to forehead. One blue, blue eye wide and shining with what can't possibly be fear. Peter? Afraid of Roman? That's impossible. There's nothing to be afraid of not when all this time he has strongly believed it's the gypsy boy with the power. He must be trying to get a rise out of the Godfrey. Stained red lips perk to a grin maybe it's best all that torn up socket can see is red because it must not be a pleasant sight to have lips seal over the area. Slowly, carefully he sucks like he would on a sore finger or a swollen cock.

There's always been some smell of herbs and earth in Peter. The life of the road must have given him the smell and the down home life that Lynda brought about with her and her ample cooking skills. It complements the particular odor his blood has slipped beneath the standard sharp copper scent. Pleasant and warm, in a weird world like the City it is something like home that Roman has never had.

Ah. There we go. Under his attention the eye has pulled just enough out from the lid and socket. All he has to do is chomp down on the nerves behind then it's free. His.

It's terrible and strange, but he lets those words be soothing. He lets himself pretend that it's okay that everything is alright and that what is happening here really isn't. There's a choked whine that bubbles up in the back of his throat as their foreheads touch, and he's leaning into Roman, and there are tears that mix with the blood, adding that scent of salt to the copper of his blood.

And then Roman's mouth seals over his eye, and the whine shifts into a whimper, like a kicked puppy, like such acute knowledge of pain, even before it starts. It's somehow intimate, just a strange sensation as Roman sucks against his eye, and at first it's so careful, almost gentle, almost sensual as Peter's lashes flutter against red lips.

And then it shifts, shifts as Roman sucks and it pulls and it tears, and he's sure that somewhere, someone is screaming, but it doesn't feel like him, even though his lips part and his throat feels raw. Surely this is someone else's death. His fingers hold onto Roman until strength slips from his hands.

On the other end, even though Roman is caught up in the euphoria all of the cries and reaction it is exaggerated, it has to be. Or rather, it is natural but Peter isn't really fighting. Best that he is not. Olivia's son would give chase without a doubt and in his amped state of playing predator and prey do more harm than he is now.

"Mmmmm." His fingers grip him tight to hold him there, hold him perhaps even upright as he sways. It's a savoring and 'tut-tut' noise.

As if to say, now watch, he delicately takes the organ from his mouth. There it is. His prize. His token.

"You're cool. You're cool." A pale, solid arm slips around the smaller wolf boy. "I got you." So so so much blood. Maybe Peter will pass out.

And so, Peter dies, eyes on the upir's prize, one milky white globe with that core of blue. His body is flushed, feverish, and if he can just catch his breath this will be okay.

It's not okay.

You wings unfurl as scales fall from his eyes.
The zenith is dipped in blood and the wolf already fallen in darkness.

Sunrise beats for a bond deeper than death.
Remember what she wrote, oh choir sweet: 'Today I have seen the Dragon'.

Edited (icons sorry) 2013-10-19 15:18 (UTC)

What Big Eyes You Have (Closed)

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