Work Text:
The note reads, “Can I watch?”
Three words written with agonizing curiosity, tossed quickly to Peter’s desk before Roman can come to regret them. Now he waits, watches. Peter unfolds the paper, unhurried, his arms splayed across the desk, relaxed back in his chair. Roman tugs on a lock of hair, hunched over his desk, one shoulder hitched higher than the other, anxious, eager. His pulse quickens.
Peter folds the paper back up, eyes forward, and doesn’t look at all effected.
+
But after class, in the hallway where they mutely acknowledge each other, the look Peter gives him is a deep blue, darkened with intent, lingering on him, on his face, his shoulders, the buckle of his belt… Peter’s eyes meet his and the barest flicker of a smirk tugs on the corner of his mouth. Then he gathers his books and leaves.
Roman breathes again only after he’s gone.
+
That first time, sitting in the second-hand living room of the Rumancek trailer, changed everything. Roman offered a tranquilizer to Lynda mostly because he needed the charitable excuse to take one himself. The energy vibrating off of Peter nearly set his insides shaking with anticipation. Lynda politely explains away Peter’s nerves, but that isn’t all it is.
The jittering of his legs, the clenching of his hands—nervousness, sure. But the shifting of his shoulders, subtle flex of his muscles, the black of his pupils large against the blue, steadily watching him. It plucked a chord of a different vibration altogether, one low in Roman’s stomach.
Peter slipped off his rings, the swift, sure movements drawing Roman’s eye to his fingers, the way his back arched as he reached behind his head to unclasp his necklace.
The simple contact of their eyes makes Roman’s pants tighten. He would be embarrassed if he weren’t so taken in by the sight of something primal rising within Peter, just beneath his skin.
Just behind the blue of his eyes, something gold glimmers, looks back at him.
+
Lynda takes him outside where he tries to reclaim steadiness to his breathing, which fled as soon as he sat on the worn-out couch. He fails immediately when Peter appears in the doorway, nude and gilt in forest green light, the color drawing out the animal yellow in his eyes. He stands there long enough to draw a deep breath, the curve of his ribcage expanding, and Roman notes with some distraction that the muscles in his thigh are flexing, calves tightening as Peter rises briefly onto the pads of his feet.
Truthfully, most of his attention is taken by the sight of Peter’s cock, not an immodest size even soft. Roman’s face feels warm as he looks, glances away, and looks again. The nervous flickering of his gaze catches on Peter’s, who looks back at him, knowing, confident. The warmth in Roman’s face spreads down his neck.
Peter descends the steps in front of the trailer, stalks out across the grass and leaves with a new animal-like ease, muscle shifting under skin, mechanics of motion Roman had never before given pause to think about.
Peter stands facing them without a stitch of shame, modesty shucked with his clothes. There is new and sudden strength in him, in the solidity of his core, the leanness of his limbs, the firm plant of his feet.
Roman’s mouth is suddenly too wet, so he swallows, short of breath.
Peter combs back his hair, half-lidded eyes focused on him. And then the change begins.
It is a physical thing, violent, painful. The low thrum of arousal that had been rising up softly within him dissipates in short order, instead bringing hushed awe to the fore. It’s amazing, horrible and beautiful, and Roman wishes there was a way he could experience it with Peter. If he could just reach his hands out and feel every shift and crack beneath his palms. He wants to breathe the ragged, painful gasps with him. Peter in the throes of intense sensation…it lingers in his mind, a desirous, sensual thing readily adapted to other scenarios, other backgrounds.
Roman drags in a stuttering breath.
The wolf stares at him, drawing deep breaths that swell his chest, nostrils flaring as he catches Roman’s scent. For a moment, everyone is still and Roman half believes that the animal will approach him, but the wolf turns abruptly away and lopes into the darkening gloom of the trees.
Both Lynda and Roman continue watching long after he’s gone.
“I didn’t think it would be like that,” Roman says numbly.
“Like what?” she asks, although her tones says she suspects what Roman means and doesn’t disapprove of him thinking it.
+
After that night, Peter stands closer to him, leans in a little further, looks a little longer, as though Roman witnessing his change has removed a barrier, green-lighted him to approach. Or maybe it’s Roman who has changed, given him some subliminal signal, welcome: come closer, please. But now Peter steps into his space with purpose, with presence, and it always sets his pulse skipping a bit faster.
Roman is so much taller, it’s difficult for Peter to pull off any of the moves Roman has seen so many guys in school perform: the casual arm-over-shoulder, the looming lean-next-to-locker. But he feels the intent, feels Peter’s desire stroking over his frame every time he stands there and looks.
It makes him nervous, excited.
+
“I find it hard to believe that you’ve never brought anyone over before,” Peter muses aloud as he looks around Roman’s house. Olivia’s taste is expensive, some of the furniture has never even been sat on. Roman worries for a moment that Peter will feel too alienated in this place, all ornamentation and cut crystal, and maybe that’s half the reason Roman has never invited anyone.
“Well, you know, my infamy is very intimidating. Not everyone can handle ‘rich, crazy recluse on the hill.’”
Peter looks at him strangely. “I didn’t mean the house. I meant you’re fucking gorgeous and I can’t believe someone else hasn’t already come along and marked their territory.”
For a moment, he’s speechless, shocked cold. People don’t just say that. Not to him. Something has always set him apart as the strange “other.” He’s never been able to pinpoint it as one thing or another, but it’s not just his mother’s cold power or his sister’s deformity, there’s something in him, too, that keeps people at a distance.
But then. Maybe Peter knows what that’s like and doesn’t find him strange at all.
“Will you?” he asks, the words leaving his mouth before he can think about them.
Peter’s eyes are steady on him. “I would.” He moves closer, only inches between them, and reaches out to tug on the lapels of Roman’s blazer. “You’ve seen me, now let me see you.”
“Okay,” he says hoarsely. “This way.”
+
The first thing Peter does upon entering Roman’s bedroom is push the gray jacket from his shoulders down to his elbows, which doesn’t permit him a lot of freedom of movement. Trapped thusly, Peter trails the backs of his fingers up Roman’s stomach, the warmth of his skin transferring easily through the thin cotton of the shirt. His palm flattens against his chest and gently pushes him step by step until Roman’s back meets the wall.
Peter wraps one hand around the back of Roman’s neck, pulls him down until their lips are scant inches apart, their breath soft on each other’s skin. “You’ve never done this before, have you?” His voice is warm and low, indulgent.
“No,” Roman whispers. “Is it that obvious?”
He catches a glimpse of Peter’s smile just before he kisses him, gentle and yet measuring, feeling him out. Peter breaks the kiss.
“Don’t be so nervous. Or do. I don’t mind, either way.” He presses a brief kiss to Roman’s mouth, the flick of his tongue soft and sudden against his lips. “That fucking mouth. I’ve got so many ideas for that mouth.” A firmer kiss, hungrier, dizzying. Roman tries to catch his breath when Peter pulls away again. He smirks at Roman. “Guess I should pace myself.”
Roman watches, almost dazed, lips tingling, as Peter kisses the skin bared by the vee of his shirt, his breath hot against his chest. And then Peter’s hand is slipping under the hem of his shirt and sliding up his torso, pulling up the shirt with him, holding it high at his collarbone to bare Roman to his attention. His other hand maps out the contours of his abdomen, thumb sliding down his trim stomach, fingers ghosting over the slant of his hipbones, ticklish, making his muscles tense in reaction. Roman is certain he’s never been so aroused in his life.
Peter leaves open-mouthed kisses on his chest, the swipe of his tongue shocking when he moves over Roman’s nipple, and then leads a downward trail of them to his belt. As Peter crouches, the height of the pushed-up shirt lowers with him, falling back over his chest but held at bay just above his stomach. Peter curls one hand around his hip, thumb gliding up and down the line of his hipbone, eliciting a gasping, ticklish reaction from Roman, hips jerking away from his touch.
Grinning, devilish, Peter does it again but on the opposite side.
Roman jerks again. “Peter,” he hisses.
Ignoring him, Peter ghosts his fingertips over Roman’s hips at the same time, releasing the shirt to put both hands to work. Gasping, shivering, Roman twitches away, writhing from side to side in an attempt to escape.
“Peter!”
He relents, smoothing his palms firmly over those hipbones, replacing the sensation with something more tolerable. He places an apologetic kiss against Roman’s stomach. Leaned so closely to him, there’s no chance Peter doesn’t notice the way Roman swells against the zipper of his pants. They both realize it at the same time.
“Haven’t even gotten to the good part yet,” Peter says against his stomach.
“Not my fault you’re taking so long,” Roman quips, his brain-to-mouth filter loosened from the sensory onslaught.
Peter’s eyes almost seem to gleam with sudden eagerness. “Yeah?” he drawls while his hand moves down, cups Roman through his pants. The heel of his palm presses down slowly against Roman’s hard-on, stroking down and down and down again.
Roman bites his bottom lip, muffling a sound, presses his hands back against the wall for balance. The muscles of his legs tighten as he presses his hips forward against Peter’s hand, wanting more, harder, now.
Peter takes his hand away. Roman cries with frustration, pelvis tilted out, offering, asking, “Please.”
“Getting close?” Peter asks, but his tone is smug with knowing.
“Too soon,” Roman manages out between gritted teeth. He’s desperate, but disappointed, frustrated he’s gotten to this point so quickly and he’s not even fucking naked yet.
“Come on,” Peter says, getting to his feet.
He draws Roman away from the wall by his belt, guides him over to the bed. He finally takes the blazer from Roman’s arms and tosses it onto the foot of the bed. Roman’s surprised by the faint disappointment at losing the suggestion of restraint; now he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Peter strips off his own shirt in one quick movement, drops it to the floor, gestures for Roman to do the same.
He backs Roman up against the edge of the bed, forcing him to sit with just his proximity. Roman waits for what he’ll do next, breathing quicker with anticipation, the new change in perspective and angle exciting. Peter slips his fingers through Roman’s hair, then holds Roman’s jaw in his palm, fingers laid flat against his cheek, thumb rubbing softly at his lips. He presses just a little with his thumb, a suggestion, and Roman immediately parts his lips, takes Peter’s thumb into his mouth, giving it a welcome lap with his tongue.
Peter’s eyes fall half-lidded, dark and intense on Roman’s mouth.
He feels his face flush, embarrassed by both his eagerness and the suggestion of the act, and yet pleased. His hands rest hesitantly on Peter’s thighs, wanting closer, wanting not just an approximation, startled by how much he wants that. He strokes at Peter’s thumb with his tongue, sliding his hands up and down Peter’s thighs, inching higher on each pass.
“Shit,” Peter breathes. “Yeah? All right.”
Peter withdraws his thumb, hands settling on the button of his jeans. Roman’s fingers twitch upward of their own accord, making Peter pause, look at him, consider. He moves his hands away, permission granted. Roman quickly takes his place, unbuttons the jeans—a feat harder to accomplish from the reverse side—and pulls down the zipper. He can feel his pulse pounding in his throat as he pulls the flies wide, exposing the bulge of navy cotton beneath the denim, and then pulls back the elastic and cotton, freeing the flushed dark skin, tucking the band under Peter’s balls.
He’s seen Peter naked before, but framed like this, lifted out and presented on cotton and denim, just this part of him below the navel exposed, it’s new and exciting and Roman pulls him in close. Peter puts a steadying hand on the back of his head, but he doesn’t push, lets Roman come to him.
“Mm, yeah. Okay. Take it slow.”
Peter’s skin is smooth against his tongue, a warm, solid weight in his mouth, and the scent of him is closer, richer. He knows enough to keep his teeth away, but the back and forth motion isn’t natural, stilted, without rhythm. He wants to be better, so he works at bobbing, an oscillating forward, up, back, down, forward, which is easier. Gaining his confidence back, Roman attempts to take Peter deeper, but as soon as the head presses against the back of his tongue, he chokes and jerks back. Peter pulls away to give him space while he gasps for breath.
“You all right?” Peter’s fingers stroke through his hair. “We don’t have to do everything tonight, you know. Like I said, take it slow.”
“Sorry,” Roman says raggedly, blinking back excess moisture in his eyes. “I wanted…”
“I know. I appreciate it, trust me.” Peter watches him catch his breath for a moment and then says, “Okay, your turn.”
He gives Peter a confused look, then his eyes drift down to the slick head proudly arched and waiting for him. “I wasn’t done.”
Peter’s lips quirk into an amused smile. “Later. Told you, I have plans for that mouth. But not now. Now, I want to play.”
The typically innocent word, now packed with innuendo, tugs at the pit of Roman’s stomach, giving his arousal new persistence and making his pants all the tighter. “Oh.”
“Sit back a little,” Peter directs as he pushes his jeans and underwear all from his hips, lets them fall to the floor and then kneels down on the bed.
Obliging, Roman moves backward toward the center of the bed, watching Peter follow him and settle between his legs. Peter slides his hands down Roman’s thighs and works first his belt and then his pants open.
“Oh, fuck.” Roman feels like it’ll all be over if Peter touches him.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he grips belt, waist, and elastic band all and tugs. Roman plants his feet and lifts his hips and Peter slides everything off and up, forcing Roman to sit and lift his legs, bringing his knees toward his chest. When the remainder of his clothing is removed and tossed aside, Roman freezes the way he is, his knees still tucked close. Peter’s eyes roam over the backs of his thighs, his balls, down to his ass—embarrassing, it makes Roman’s stomach tighten—but his cock is hidden. So, when Peter places his hands on his thighs and parts his legs, Roman feels inexplicably shy, revealed slowly, hard and flushed against his stomach.
Peter looks at him with every ounce of his attention, like he’s a visual feast, laid out long and lean on the bed. His thighs tense out of a half-formed instinct to close his legs, the shift of his muscles under Peter’s hands breaking whatever spell Peter has fallen into.
Peter lifts his gaze to Roman’s and shuffles closer on his knees, his hands guiding Roman’s legs to close around him, press against his sides. He leans over Roman, but he isn’t quite long enough so Roman leans up on his elbows to meet him, mouths hot, tongues eager. Peter devours him, so focused and distracting in his efforts that Roman almost doesn’t notice the way Peter’s hips meet his, the brush of his cock against Roman’s.
He moans, tilts his hips upward.
Peter makes a muffled sound against him and responds with a thrust of his own.
A few exchanges of this and then Roman is whining in alarm against his mouth, pushing Peter back with his hands, “Stop, stop! Oh, god, not yet, not yet.”
Peter freezes and then, Roman’s desperate warning finally registering, he relaxes slowly back on his heels, carefully separating himself from the majority of physical contact between them.
“You know, it’s not a one-and-done thing. Goddamn, the way you’re going, I’m positive I could have brought you off twice already.”
Roman, lying back on the bed, arms splayed out on either side of him, focuses on containing the wild sharp-sweetness of near-orgasm that had been so close to spilling. “I know. But I don’t want to stop. I want to feel everything.”
Peter rubs the backs of his fingers against the inside of Roman’s left thigh. “Well, I can’t keep going forever and I don’t want to use all my tricks in one night.”
He doesn’t pout, but it’s a near thing. “Okay.”
“Hey, gotta keep you coming back for more somehow.” Personally, Roman thinks it wouldn’t even take that much, but he’s not going to say that out loud. “Got any lube?”
He blinks. “Uh, yeah. Actually.”
“Get it for me?”
Roman rolls to the right side of the bed and jams a hand beneath the mattress, retrieving the slim tube and offering it to Peter, who raises an eyebrow at him.
“Under the mattress, really?”
He scowls. “I don’t want my sister finding it.”
Peter nods, squeezes a dollop onto his fingers, grins at him. “Got anything else hidden under there?”
“No,” he says, but it’s not like he hasn’t thought about it. Peter seems to sense a deeper answer, a bit of skepticism lingering in his expression. “I don’t!”
“Okay,” Peter says easily, and then without any further discussion, he rubs his lubed fingers against Roman’s hole.
Roman startles with a sound, not expecting to be so sensitive there, not expecting the way Peter’s massaging fingers feel so good—strange, different, but good. And when Peter takes his cock in his other hand, starting long, slow strokes, Roman feels like all his bones have melted. He tips his head back, moans. Relaxed, his legs fall open, wider, permissive, desirous.
Peter presses a rewarding kiss to the side of his knee, bending over to reach. While his fingers work in circles against Roman, with his thumb planted on the smooth skin behind his balls, Peter’s other hand curves over the damp head of his cock, glancing his fingers off the sensitive glans with every pull. It makes his legs twitch each time.
And then Peter leans down and licks him, root to tip, tracing the vein on the underside, and Roman groans deep from his chest.
“Yeah, there you go.”
He can’t hold back the sounds he makes, all of it so much but not too much. He’s chasing the edge for the third time tonight, but he hasn’t met it yet. He doesn’t want it to be over yet, it feels too good to stop, but his hips meet the angle of Peter’s touch eagerly and Peter gives it back to him with just as much enthusiasm.
Peter surprises him again, one finger pressing firmly in and in and in, gentle but persistent. The stretch of Roman’s body accepting him is another new and strange thing and, at first, he doesn’t like it, distracting him from the delicious pull of Peter’s hand on his cock. It’s not as good, muscles tightening, not sore, but not as good. His legs draw up again, his knees forming high arches in the air, defensive.
Peter curses breathlessly, his head hanging low, leaning his forehead against Roman’s knee. “Fuck, holy shit, Roman, relax. Relax, it gets better.”
He tries, does, because Peter’s hand has paused and he wants that back and maybe if he’s good Peter will reward him.
“Yeah, like that. Good. Just keep yourself relaxed, gonna stretch you out a little, and then things are going to be fucking euphoric. Trust me.”
Peter moves his hand, shallow back-and-forth motions that draw all of Roman’s attention to the smooth slide against him, within him, and then it gets better. He stays relaxed, the discomfort fades, the slide-thrust teasing, ticklish, tripping over a hunger for more. One finger is so slight compared to everything else Peter has given him, he begs for whatever else Peter can make him feel, pushing back against him, tilting into the hand still stroking him.
“Goddamn, Roman. You want it so bad, don’t you?”
“Please. Please.”
He doesn’t know what else to offer Peter, he just wants to feel it on his skin, everywhere, encompassing. He wants to feel Peter around him, in him, needs to be touched.
“Okay. You got it.”
Peter pressed in, in, deeper, and touches something that sparks an inferno, strokes over the network of nerves threaded through every inch of him just from this one spot. He gasps, clutches at the bedsheets with white-knuckled hands, his legs strain to simultaneously push closer and pull away.
“Fuck. Oh. God fucking damn. Peter.”
“Yeah,” Peter breathes. “Yeah, want it?” He strokes back-and-forth, back-and-forth, minute motions that swell a storm in him.
Roman makes a noise, a sob. He didn’t want it to end but now it’s too sharp, lightning under his skin, he wants to be eclipsed. And Peter knows just how much, just how close, because he finally makes a tighter grip around his cock and strokes him with purpose.
“Come on. Yeah, Roman, come on.”
He crashes over, a surge across all his synapses, he cries out and shakes, shakes, wetting his stomach. The impact leaves him momentarily stunned, deaf, dumb, and the high as it fades, relieves, makes him feel light, delirious. Roman comes back to himself in time to hear Peter’s muttered, fervent cursing and feel his climax seizing his muscles, landing on Roman’s skin.
Peter groans and collapses onto his elbows, resting his forehead against Roman’s chest. Their breathing is fast, Peter’s faster, his breath gusting hot, damp. Roman reaches for him with clumsy hands, resting one palm against his back, the other in his hair.
“That was fucking amazing,” Roman mumbles, his body still echoing with it.
The response he gets is an inarticulate groan from deep in Peter’s chest which vibrates through Roman’s ribcage.
“I want to do that again. As soon as I wake up.” Because he’s going to pass the fuck out now. In seconds. He’s totally wrung out, his muscles hardly want to cooperate, but he manages to clasp his thighs around Peter’s lower half and turn them both onto their sides.
Peter looks at him through a messy curtain of hair, dazed, and says with a little awe, “That wasn’t even the best I can do.”
And Roman groans out a throaty, “Fuck.”
Peter smiles lazily at him. “Next time.”