tampered | 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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"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.

You wanna wash it down I'm pretty in scarlet

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