Peter shivers as Roman moves that razorblade over the werewolf's throat. It's dangerous, risky, stupid, what the fuck does he even think he's doing? His breath is coming low and fast and he's watching him, wide eyed and trembling, his head tilted back as Roman dances the blade over his skin, smooth movements and not too hard, not biting in just yet, and Peter's letting him.
He doesn't answer that question because it seems so obvious: yes, of course he thinks that he'll cut him. There's a sharp inhale as Roman's hips jerk against his fingers, and he's distantly aware that he should stop this. But with Roman looming over him and the razor at his throat it's objectively already too late; you can't turn back the fucking clock when shit gets inconvenient, even if Peter wished otherwise.
He gasps, his breath sharp and flushed as it finally cuts in, and he can feel the blood welling up on his skin. He murmurs at Roman's remark, at how his thin fingers swipe at the blood on his neck. He traces a circle, wet and red, and it's hot in a way that's better than temperature. He shivers when Roman's forehead touches to his and he's looking up into those green eyes with a flutter of lashes.
This time when Roman rolls his hips, Peter's arching up against him, because just-- fuck. He doesn't know what he's doing. He knows what he wants, but he doesn't want to, he lives in that space that's a mirror to Roman's own -- he can't have what he craves. He's not into dudes anyway, not really, there's just something about Roman that makes him crave him, dream about him, touch himself and think of those stupid long fucking fingers.
"Yeah? You gonna? Pervert."
As if they're different. As if they're anywhere near as different as Peter tries to think. His other hand curls in Roman's wet hair and he curses as his hips jerk into the Godfrey's, and fuck, fuck this. Because he's hard and the lies of it all are slipping away and the longer he stares into those green eyes, the more he's sure as shit than Roman wouldn't let him run from this.
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He doesn't answer that question because it seems so obvious: yes, of course he thinks that he'll cut him. There's a sharp inhale as Roman's hips jerk against his fingers, and he's distantly aware that he should stop this. But with Roman looming over him and the razor at his throat it's objectively already too late; you can't turn back the fucking clock when shit gets inconvenient, even if Peter wished otherwise.
He gasps, his breath sharp and flushed as it finally cuts in, and he can feel the blood welling up on his skin. He murmurs at Roman's remark, at how his thin fingers swipe at the blood on his neck. He traces a circle, wet and red, and it's hot in a way that's better than temperature. He shivers when Roman's forehead touches to his and he's looking up into those green eyes with a flutter of lashes.
This time when Roman rolls his hips, Peter's arching up against him, because just-- fuck. He doesn't know what he's doing. He knows what he wants, but he doesn't want to, he lives in that space that's a mirror to Roman's own -- he can't have what he craves. He's not into dudes anyway, not really, there's just something about Roman that makes him crave him, dream about him, touch himself and think of those stupid long fucking fingers.
"Yeah? You gonna? Pervert."
As if they're different. As if they're anywhere near as different as Peter tries to think. His other hand curls in Roman's wet hair and he curses as his hips jerk into the Godfrey's, and fuck, fuck this. Because he's hard and the lies of it all are slipping away and the longer he stares into those green eyes, the more he's sure as shit than Roman wouldn't let him run from this.