tampered | You wanna wash it down I'm pretty in scarlet

Entry tags:

You wanna wash it down I'm pretty in scarlet

When; Jan 23rd (Backdated)
Rating; R?
Characters; Peter Rumancek and Roman Godfrey
Summary; It's Fetish Day. Make of that what you will...
Log; By now, you'd think that Peter would be used to the City's curses. But this one is subtle, hardly seems like a curse at first. He's an eighteen year old teenager, hormones and thinking about sex are hardly anything new. So, sure, he has some very interesting images that he can't get out of his head. It's just another Thursday.

He grabs his towel and heads to the shower. Usually, he's still out inside fifteen minutes. Roman's the one that spends upwards on an hour. But, today, Peter's been in the shower for over an hour. He just. Can't. Stop thinking about sex. And it's more than just sex, it's those dirty little secrets he doesn't admit to having. The closest he'd ever come was that one time after Halloween, sitting with Roman and admitting that bloodplay would be okay. He's spent the past thirty minutes just trying to get his thoughts under control, with the ice cold jet of water raining down on him. It's about that point where the thought that it might be a curse pops into his head, but he's unsure if that's just wishful thinking.

There's banging on the door, Roman's voice, and Peter curses. He'd lost track of time. Of course, it's not like Roman has any fucking room to talk, with how long he takes in the bathroom. He answers in a clipped, rushed tone, hurriedly turning off the water, drying off and wrapping himself in his towel. It takes a moment, he has to gather his breath and ignore how his pulse races in his throat and his heartbeat pounds against his ribcage. And then he turns the handle, stepping out into hallway and refusing to look at the taller teen, because he just can't manage it right now. Not when he kept seeing his perfect fucking mouth, his hands on his body, and fuck, he just... can't right now.

It's been months since he's pulled the whole skittish, unable to look into Roman's green eyes thing, but today he's on edge, skin pulled tight and his insides boiling. He's think it was the full moon, if he didn't know better.

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"Some people don't like to piss in doors!" Okay so he technically wouldn't have a problem with that. It's just not the usual Peter activities. Peter? Deep grooming? Unlikely as all hell. Then again, that much hair to shampoo why bother. That could be a whole portion of his life lost.

Now the door opens. "About time-"

Uh.

Except what the hell's the rush? Luckily Roman was off to the side or else he would have been plowed through. "Did you rinse your personality too? I can check in there, you know. Since the bathroom is clear." He's not actually looking in the bathroom just after Peter. In fact, why leave him alone there.

And his hair's been getting longer since he's been here. Some mix of carelessness and liking being able to pull it back. And he'd never, ever tell Roman, but sometimes he lets Lydia wash his hair and do all that shit he can't typically be bothered with.

He shrugs his shoulder, looks back briefly, but it's that same nervous glance, looking at him, and then jerking his head away like he's not supposed to be caught looking. "It's not a big deal. There's still plenty of hot water." He's going to assume that's what Roman's issue is here, rolling his eyes, damp hair falling just barely past his shoulders.

He doesn't quite walk away, but he does turn toward his end of the hallway.

"Did you get high without me or something?" Because something's not aligning right. Roman is trying to be more intuitive outside the echos of emotions humming around. Usually Peter is pretty straight on. It's all 'go away' even though it is more like 'go away but come here.'

"I want some." Drugs he thinks. Or whatever. Spoiled brat he is, Roman never likes being sent off. So they're not gonna be on opposite ends in a few more steps.

"No, I'm fine." There's a hint of irritation. He almost wants to blame him, but instead he takes a deep breath, trying to get calm. The shower hadn't calmed him down, so hoping that dealing with Roman would result in anything even remotely approximating fucking calm was as fucked as it gets. He almost steps back when Roman steps in, but he feels like that just might make it worse -- make it a chase.

So, instead he just stands there with a towel around his waist and still thinking of absolutely lewd and gorgeous things about the other boy. He swallows, adam's apple bobbing, a faint flush to his skin he'd like to claim is just from the shower.

"Yeah, sure. I've got some pot in my room.

"If your fine then you're on the more pissy side of fine. Lighten up. You were taking forever. I wasn't sure if you fell asleep or drowned. You can drown in a tea spoon or the ocean." Shrug of tall, lean shoulders. And he's still not buzzing off.

Roman puts his hands on Peter's still damp shoulders to help get his feet moving to his room.

"Smoke with me."

There's a tint of concern to that explanation that Roman gives, the bit about not being sure if he'd drowned. And sure, maybe it's bullshit, but these days it's harder and harder to stay mad at Roman for making him give a shit. He'd thought he was past it, but the fact that he can't stop thinking about him, can't get him out of his head, is almost worse. Or maybe it's just how hot the images in his head make his body that's frustrating. How it's not just sex; it's blood and teeth and fingers like a ring around his neck.

Fingers instead slide to touch his damp shoulders, and Roman's warm hands feel cool against his heated skin. He lets Roman urge him backwards, toward the gypsy's room. There's a sigh, but he nods to the request, reaching back with his free hand (the other making sure his towel stayed anchored on his hip) to open the door, and there's a lift of his eyebrow.

"You going to let me get dressed first?"

If the Godfrey boy only knew. He doesn't like to be denied. It's his birthright or at least the legacy of being offered everything. Why say no or be angry when he hasn't done a thing wrong? And in his own very bias opinion, Roman has been very good.

He's learned what cohabitation is really like. How to do things for another person that don't involve hunting a wild beast. Yes, he's the one that turns on the coffee machine before heading to bed at whatever ungodly hour he chooses. Some dishwashing too. That's how it is done when one gives a fuck like normal folk. The domestication is a lie for the wolf boy and for the strange person Roman believes himself to be. Their life here is different. They're different.

The energy and attraction between them is too complex to be summed up as one text book sexuality. Speaking of seeing the other boy in a half state of undress would be more fun if he weren't so...something. And it's up to him to figure it out. For now he'll prod verbally and proceed with caution.

"Do you want to get dressed first?"

Nothing he hasn't seen before after all...

It'd be a lie to say that Peter hasn't noticed. Sure, it's little fucking things that would be obvious to anyone else, but Roman isn't anyone else; and honestly, that's really part of the fucking problem. So the fact that he turns on the coffee, does dishes here and there, actually has a fucking job... it matters. It matters in the same way that the fact that Peter always comes back to this space that they share matters. He still stays at Derek's every now and then, just to be closer to the forest, breathe in the air away from the city, or just take the edge off when he feels a little stircrazy, but it's never more than a night. And he always comes back.

They make it work, somehow. Things are different here, different from how they were back in Hemlock Grove. He's only really admitted to Lydia that he's glad he ended up here. He'd been so hurt and so lost and about to do what he always did -- run. But here, they'd gotten through it, come out the other side or some fucking thing, anyway.

He spares Roman a look, and then looks away, shaking his head. "Pervert," he quips with a shrug of his shoulders as he turns away, pulling out jeans and boxers, hand still firmly on the towel. He turns away, facing the wall, and normally he wouldn't care, but for the thoughts in his head. Not only is he impossibly aroused -- still -- but it's not just sex; it's blood, fingers to his neck.

The last time anything related to that had happened it had been Halloween.

"There's a bag of weed in the drawer in the nightstand." Which meant stop watching.

Noticed yes. Has he said anything? No. Which to Roman means that he either hasn't noticed at all or that he doesn't care. So he must try harder. Is this really how 'normal' people live their lives? Caught up in tedious tasks and trying to get the other to recognize the importance of their existence? Well, maybe. Not like either would truly know. These are the same two strange boys that stood in a park where a girl was mauled. That's just how their friendship started. It could have ended with a mauling too.

"Don't tell me you forgot that I saw you buck naked with your mom as your insides came out." Roman hasn't. He does however seat himself on the bed heavily. The springs complain as he reaches for the objects to make a blunt.

"I might be able to see what stick is up your ass and help you get it."

Maybe.

In honesty, Peter doesn't know any better either. It feels strange, this urge to do things for the other boy, showing off in a way that's different from coin tricks, or playing with tarot cards. Something happened, changed them, changed this. Peter isn't sure where the lines are, but right now he almost doesn't care. Thoughts are so inescapable that it feels like fighting against the fucking tide.

"Of course not," Peter quips back with a backwards glance. As if he could ever fucking forget the way that Roman looked at him as he changed. There's a flash of white teeth at Roman's jibe, a lift of an eyebrow. "And you fucking liked it. Watching."

It's half accusation, and half a question, even though the wolf that lurks below his skin thinks he already knows the answer. He ditches the towel for his boxers, doing his best to try and hide the can that he's all but painfully turned on. His body is like a livewire, almost like how his skin crawls before a change, except now it's all heat.

Roman Godfrey's excuse is that he doesn't have any restraint. Spoiled. Peter, well, Peter has wildlife in his blood and brain. That's just that. Any impulses are just followed. Together they're lethal levels of juvenile delinquent without considering other, carnal needs. Ones that are oh so noticeable in the darker boy in the buff.

"Guilty." For liking to watch. Spooky eyes do that.

"So you got a boner. What's the matter? Pissed off that I didn't give you time to choke the chicken?" He's still watching now as he licks the flimsy paper and makes sure that the blunt is properly sealed. "I can wait."

And watch. Or help. For now he waits on the nature of Peter's reply. There's a line in the sand that he constantly challenges. How many kisses are too many? How many touches or pushes are allowed exactly?

There's always been a line in the sand. How far can they go before they have to put it in words, have to name whatever the fuck it is that they're doing here. It makes his heart race, the way that Roman says guilty; that entirely casual admittance that he likes watching. He gives a look to the clothes he'd pulled out, but ends up on the bed with that towel only barely clasped to his hip, all firm thighs and slender chest, and a weeping erection tenting at terrycloth.

"Sick fuck. Bet you just wanna watch me get off."

Now they're both kicking at boundaries, pushing. Fuck Roman to having to make it a challenge, a dare in those bright green eyes. Of course, Peter's blue-eyed gaze lingers a little bit lower than that, on Roman's mouth, and the joint in his fingers. Just one more push.

"What's it taste like for you? Blood."

Out of left field, or was it? If Roman was going to push, Peter was going to drag him under with him.

Playing chicken when both are so foolhardy makes it a fight to the bitter end. Roman keeps his spooky eyes trained on the other boy. He licks his lips and places the unlit blunt just so.

"I might. If you make it interesting that is."

Where he can see it all. Actually see it and not know it's happening in the other room or while he's so very distracted doing something else. He's about to light up when the quest does tilt him off balance. What a question and right now. Well plaid, gypsy. Spooky eyes blink slowly.

"Like a full, spiced syrup. Still hot, coppery enough to get your attention. Kinda like chocolate melted too much." He scratches his chin with his thumb nail. Not smoking yet.

Roman swallows and images the taste.

"Some call it freaky shit. Just another day for you." And himself. Roman tries to clear his throat. Not just the taste that gets him, the memory of how it feels slipping on his skin. Liquid life.

This is fucking dumshit, but he's settling in on the edge of the bed, still in that towel, legs curled sideways in front of him as he faces Roman, heart racing as he refuses to back down from this. Especially when Roman says if you make it interesting like just one more fucking challenge. His spooky green eyes, and Peter can't look away, can't pull away from the unspoken line they're crossing.

It's hot as fuck when Roman's talking about blood; hotter than it has any right to be. He has to swallow, and his heart still thrums against his rib cage. He can't help but stare, watching him and his lips and those perfect Godfrey cheekbones. He should let the subject die, but he doesn't, he can't with the images in his head, the sound of Roman's voice as he says it's like chocolate.

"If you want interesting, then shut up and give me one of your razorblades."

It's a dare, like playing chicken where they both know they're going flying off the cliff here. Pedal to the metal and push it until something breaks. Blue eyes looking into spooky greens, an unasked question like he thinks Roman's not up for it, when they both know better than that. He thinks that it might be some curse, but he doesn't care, not now.

Not when their eyes are smouldering and his skin is crawling with the heat of it. There's always been something in the way that Roman watches him.

Edited 2014-02-01 12:13 (UTC)

"What makes you think I have one?" One part bullshit and another part guilt. They share so much. Is Roman's own private habit as apparent as the ones he puts up his nose? He grins and drops his eyes. Guilty, guilty, guilty. They stop at where he knows the fabric of the towel isn't being lifted by legs. A shift to the side and then he reaches for his wallet. Slipped right behind a null and void ID is a little metal blade.

"I'm gonna want it back." Roman holds it up between two fingers like it's a card trick. Again he's looking into Peter's eyes. His goddamn face. His own long limbs are folded and it's not making a very comfortable amount of room in his fitted trousers.

Peter huffs a laugh at the question, because really, is there any other response? Peter can smell blood, wonders if Roman can, how that attraction works for upir, but that's a question he keeps off the tip of his tongue. He swallows, can feel it as those green eyes slide down to where his erection presses obviously against the towel.

"Not going anywhere with it," Peter comments with a lazy flutter of his lashes over blue eyes. Looking into Roman's stupid face, with those stupid lips and cheekbones and everything about him that gets under his skin. He swallows, and then he reaches out, the pad of his thumb catching on one of the corners of the razorblade as they look into one another's eyes. His adam's apple bobs as he swallows. It doesn't really hurt, but he can smell it, all wet and metallic, fresh on the air.

He's a dumb teenage boy totally caught up in the moment and the images he can't get out of his head. Not that that's new, exactly, when it comes to Roman. But at the very least, he can usually push them aside for five minutes here and there. Today he gets no respite.

He takes the razorblade, still not a hundred percent on where the Hell he's going with this. Take it as it comes, or whatever. He did say he'd make it interesting.

Smell it as much as anyone else does, would be the answer if Peter had asked. Minus the upir thing. He has no idea. It's a strange, oblivious aether he floats in. Answers are all around. There's an answer in the flesh on the bed with him but he's too blinded to see. The here and now is too potent.

Spooky green eyes immediately focus on the pad of his thumb right where the blade presses. He hates to break eye contact but he never knew how much he wanted to see the first red, red drop bead on Peter's skin.

From a young age, Roman discovered that fingers bleed quite a bit. It's more for show than anything. Thin and runny.

"So now what?" A gulp from him now too. He looks back again to Peter and his eyes some how seem wider, more brilliant and far away yet at the same time so very invested in the moment.

He can feel it when Roman's attention changes, shifting from his face to the pad of his thumb, the way the drops of blood well up where the edge of the blade pierced, dripping slowly down his finger when he pulls it away from the razor. It is for show; it's like a tease, a dare, like they're playing chicken without deciding on the rules. Just that it has something to do with Roman and Peter's blood. How far Peter's willing to push, and how much Roman can resist, if the spooky-eyed Godfrey even wants to.

"Shee-it," Peter breathes heavily at the question. He shifts a little, so that he's kneeling, thighs spread, and his fingers release their grip on the towel around his waist, letting it slide away and fall on the bed. His breath stutters as his hand that isn't dripping with blood slides up to curl around the base of his cock, those blue eyes intense as his heart feels like it's gonna fucking break bones. He's shameless, unafraid of his own body, but this is different. He lets a second finger press to the razorblade, still not taking it from Roman's hand.

There's that last moment; the only chance the turn back before this all gets out of hand, but Peter certainly isn't gonna take it.

With a shaky inhale he echos the word with all the reverence of a prayer. "Shee-iiit." His throat feels tight and somehow his mouth has become devoid of any moisture. It heavily contrasts to how moist, how new and fluid that blood is. Except there are other things to look at, because wow he has seen Peter with not a thing on. He hasn't seen his cock erect, the thickness, the length.

Fuck. Where to look. Where to not look. First thing's first, he reaches out to take the razorblade in one hand, the other on Peter's to hold it steady. Of course he's going to get his own slick with blood. It feels hot, scorching like the entire room has shrunk and become airtight. His own hastiness makes him nick his own palm. Right at the destiny line. Not that he knows a thing about palm reading. Any reading at this moment.

"You're twisted."

Roman steals the razorblade that Peter had so flippantly demanded, fingers holding his hand steady as blood beads on two of his fingertips. It was an offer, an invitation, he was angling for this and they both had to know it. Peter's breath is coming low and fast, his blue eyes darting between Roman's face and how his slender fingers hold Peter's hand. He laughs softly, but it comes out a little rushed, nervous, almost giddy.

"You're one to fucking talk. You said you wanted to watch."

But Peter wants more than just jerking off while Roman watches. He wants the other boy's shirt off, he wants to touch. Wants skin on skin and every fucking thing they've been pulling back from, toeing the line of how much they can get away with before they have to admit that this really means something.

"So what?" Impatient? Frustrated? Can anyone in this room blame the guy? Roman exhales and tries to get a grip. Why? Well, he's not in the practice of out right boning his own sex. It's different because it's Peter. Fuck, anything with Peter is different. It's not without care or thought. There's been so much pretense, so much to the imagination.

"Put it down, you fuck." Let go of the blade completely. Roman sets it, the weed and everything else on the night stand. Already he feels the blood dripping down his skin. His and Peter's.

It's an automatic motion to reach out and lick. It's his own wrist, the darker, hairier boy's is so close. The move from one to the other is easy, simple.

"Gonna still beat off?"

Roman's free hand slips down to his own stomach, click release of his belt. A button and a zipper to go.

There's a huff that's like amusement when Roman demands that he put it down, and maybe surprisingly, maybe not, Peter obliges. He lets the other teen tease it from his fingers. that drip of blood still between their hands and it makes his blood race, his breath quicken as dilated blue eyes look up at the upir.

He gasps softly when Roman licks at it. His eyes still wide, watching intently, how crimson smears against skin and how his tongue laps it up. Fuck. It's not supposed to be that hot, but it is. It has his heart racing, and it makes him want more. The question almost takes him aback, and he doesn't really know why he's pushing, except that he can't resist.

"Maybe," his voice is low, breathy, trembling over his lips. "Maybe I want more." He's fucking sure he didn't mean to say it, but it's out there on the air. So many different ways to take it, and a truth that he almost doesn't want to admit to.

"What are you going to do about it?" Like it's just another fucking challenge.

Tongue moving to stop off the slow, warm run of blood gives Roman something to do while his brain works overtime to try to get a handle on it all. What the hell is a guy to do when presented with something that he knows he's wanted? Is that even a question at all. This Godfrey is going to get what he wants.

"You wanna fuck me." No maybe there. Call it what it is. Say what he means. They're two chumps who thrive on word play, riddles and bullshit because it's the language of the world they live in. Roman wants something more solid. Something more primal to match what's inside of him.

He swallows and shoves his shirt up and over. That means for a moment no contact at all except for how close they are. So what if a little blood gets here or there. The towel is probably fucked. Roman's working on getting naked too. That's what he's gonna do about it.

It makes his breath stutter when Roman says it; you wanna fuck me. Call a spade a spade, which maybe isn't their usual style, but what the fuck else is there to say about it? That Peter wants Roman. Wants him bone-deep and in his skin, his ass on the line because with them it's not just fucking. If it were someone else, he might have made some bullshit warning about being a bad boyfriend, but Roman knows him too well for that. He knows him inside his skin one way and now they're verging on another.

Roman's pushing his shirt up and over and Peter's hands press to his chest, hungry to touch, feel, skin on skin. He's His fingertips curl slightly for a moment, just long enough to feel his heartbeat. The towel is a lost cause, leaving Peter naked on his knees as he looks into Roman's eyes, his breath coming fast as his chest rises and falls.

"I want you," he breathes in an admission that's almost terrifying. This is a fucking cage, it's a chain around his neck that he's asking for. What the fuck. There's nowhere to run and he can't hide from this. His hands slide up, curving against the other teen's shoulders. Probably getting in the way of Roman getting undressed, but fuck it. He wanted so much.

The blood they passed between them, Roman between his thighs, fingers at his throat and more. It was like every fantasy he's never admitted to thrumming with his pulse. Raw, primal, feral.

"You want to fuck me." He's no parrot but that's the fact, the thing he wants to hear. Wanting alone out of his mouth as a phrase, a real and true statement gets far more of a reaction then he had ever thought.

It's all going too slow. It's like he's high. His blood and mind are racing. Around him it's slow, too slow. His hands reach out and Peter is still warm and in the flesh. He grips him by the back of his head and pulls him face to face to hiss him.

His dick is hard. He's uncut too. Why? He has no idea. It doesn't matter. What matters is that he's hard and hot. And Peter is too. They've kissed before. And they'll kiss again. He hopes that they'll fuck again.

First. First they have to fuck. Why does it feel like a bigger plunge then it should. Fucking girls has happened so much. Beating off to bodies soft and hard has too. Peter's been a fixed point, a very real and honest example of something good, strange and some sort of torch to guide away from the stale darkness his home has been. Don't think of him as a pussy if it flavors how his tongue sweeps into the other boys mouth.

"You saying you want me to fuck you?" He asks it with a raised eyebrow, and a smirk that wavers just a little. He's not as confident about this as he's playing at, even if he has not intention of admitting to that. He can't pull back, doesn't want to, and so there's only pushing forward.

They're both hard, and the fact that he can feel Roman's dick dragging against his skin is ridiculously hot. Fuck. He feels almost feverish, with Roman's slender fingered hands almost an anchor. Fingers on the back of his head, pulling him in until their mouths meet again, and it's searing, hotter than it's ever been before.

Those quiet moments like under the mistletoe, soft and smooth, but not like this. Not feverish and taking as much of the other as they could get, and it's still not enough. His hands are sliding over skin, touching his chest, his fingertips rough. Dragging thumbs over his nipples, hands splaying against his ribs. Touching. It was the ultimate ache, a fire they kindled hand in hand.

"I'm saying if we don't do anything else I'm gonna die of blue balls." Stupid and true words panted out when they do break apart. What a way to go. What a shame. An improvement on his own father's untimely end at least. Both Godfreys would go out their way. Roman believes that his father never ever had it so good.

Before he can say another stunning line, Roman is back to Peter's mouth. He's still gripping tight to dark, dense hair. He's got another hand though and it reaches down between them to take a grip on the other boy's prick. This is real. Right or wrong. If it's wrong well, he's never had a very good sense anyway. Now and then even as he strokes, his own cock moves to touch Peter's and frot. It feels so fucking fine.

Peter tries to laugh, but it's strained and heated, and it come out more like a gasp. Those words are true enough, and not just for Roman, Peter's shaking with want, with the ache of desire. He needs more too, the way that flesh feels against flesh is so good it's almost blinding.

He moans into Roman's mouth when fingers curl around his cock and fuck. This is different, better, a need that burns in his veins, has his hands slipping from his hair and grasping against skin, trying to touch, feel more. He's almost climbing into Roman's lap, trying to get closer, feel more, the way their erections slide together now and again makes his lashes flutter over his blue eyes.

He groans, kisses shifting, Peter biting softly at Roman's mouth. He needs more, wants more. Curses muffled in between mouths, and he's so greedy.

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You wanna wash it down I'm pretty in scarlet

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