“And then,” Peter says, gesturing expansively with a half-empty glass of Jack Daniels, “after we find the dead body, the cops pull up and Roman won’t fucking talk to them until I’m practically begging to suck his dick if he’ll just get them the fuck off our backs.”
Destiny doesn’t look particularly concerned. “Well, clearly he did, right? I mean, you’re here drinking me dry and not sitting in a holding cell.”
Peter feels a maniacal laugh building in the back of his throat. This is what Roman fucking Godfrey does to him. “Oh, no. I’m not done. So Roman mouths off to the cops and they take him away because he’s nice enough to tell them he’s alone.”
“That does sound suspiciously nice,” Destiny agrees, studying her nails. “So?”
“So I had to walk over five miles home from the goddamn Godfrey steel mill because I couldn’t take Roman’s car. Then at school I said I needed to get out of here, make a fresh start somewhere else, and he got all pissed off about it.”
“Ugh,” Destiny groans. “Fuck upir.”
“Yeah,” Peter says slowly. “About that.”
Somewhere between one sip of whiskey and the next, Destiny’s face falls. “Oh, cuz. No way.”
“I know,” Peter mutters. “Fuck, believe me, I know.” Destiny doesn’t need to hear his itemized list of reasons Roman Godfrey can go fuck himself right in his coke-white ass, but she’s perceptive enough to get a pretty good picture of it. Besides, everyone knows about Roman, with his poor little rich boy pockets overflowing with ennui, so used to getting everything he wants by flashing a little cash. They might not know just how devastating he can be with his cocksucking lips and freakishly big Botticelli eyes, but Peter's at the point where he wouldn’t wish that on anyone. “Anyway, for real, there’s some serious shit going down in this town.”
“And that’s really not your problem. Tell your gadjo boyfriend to go ruin someone else’s life.”
“He says we need to check out the White Tower.”
“Is that what he calls his dick? Seriously, cuz. Not your problem.”
Peter sinks even deeper into Destiny’s battered plaid armchair, swirling the liquid in his glass. “No, you’re right. You’re totally right. It’s not my fucking problem.”
“You know this isn’t my problem, right?”
Framed in the, in Peter’s opinion, tacky as fuck front doorway the of the Godfrey mansion, Roman laughs in his face. “Right. There’s a vargulf running around killing people, but nah, this has nothing to do with you. You’re the only person in this town who knows shit about werewolves, but I guess that’s no big deal.”
There’s a half-healed cut on his cheek, razor-thin, and Peter doesn’t have to guess where it came from.
“Jesus, let me fucking finish. This isn’t my fight, but I’m not going anywhere, okay?”
“Great,” Roman has an unlit cigarette in his hand, twirling it through his long fingers dizzyingly fast even by Peter’s lofty standards. “Thanks for sharing. Maybe you shouldn’t have tried to walk away in the first place.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have abandoned me at the fucking steel mill with half of Lisa Willoughby’s dead body, did you ever think of that?”
“Look, are you coming in or did you wanna whine at me like a little bitch?”
In all the mental scenarios Peter ran through as he trudged up the driveway, he never actually anticipated being invited inside. Being completely ignored, sure. Getting the door slammed in his face so hard he’d be walking around with the impression of the door knocker on his forehead for weeks, sure. Roman doing anything remotely hospitable isn’t something that normally crosses his mind to begin with, let alone after they’ve had a blowout.
“Rumancek.” Roman snaps his fingers. “Either get the hell in here or get the hell out.”
“Your mom’s not around, is she?”
One of Roman’s eyebrows does a slow, elegant arch up his forehead. “Disappointed? It’s just me. Shelley’s at a doctor’s appointment for some new experimental treatment and my mom’s probably fucking my uncle by now.”
“Your family,” Peter says, “is so goddamn fucked up.”
“I know.” Roman smiles like a serpent and holds open the door. “I’m just the product of my circumstances.”
With a silent apology to Destiny, Peter follows him in.
Roman’s room is palatial. Peter could probably fit his family’s entire trailer inside. Roman drapes himself across the bed in a graceful sprawl like he’s probably done every day of his life.
“So. What do we do now, kiss and make up?” He quirks a wry smile and puckers his lips in a way that makes Peter’s breath tangle in his lungs.
“It’s been a boring day, might as well,” he says as casually as he can, then practically cannonballs into Roman’s bed just for the hell of it.
Roman lets out a squawk, which makes Peter grin smugly up at him. “Come on, how do you not do that when you’ve got a bed the size of a small country?”
Roman’s color is high in both cheeks, one smooth and unmarred, one bisected by that delicate cut. His hair is a little damp and drying loosely around his face, not slicked into submission the way it usually is. Peter’s fingers itch to push it back and test the softness of it. Upir or not, Roman is a delicate creature with a lifetime’s practice schooling himself into hardness, from his imperious stare to his clothes creased to knifelike perfection. But underneath it all, there’s that perpetually pouting mouth and a body begging to be played with. And it’s been ages since Peter fooled around with another guy.
“Not gonna lie,” Roman murmurs, “I’ve been wondering if you howl like a wolf when you shoot your load.”
That’s a lot more forward than Peter was expecting, but he can roll with it. “Seriously? Because that’s one mystery we can definitely solve with a little teamwork. Then maybe we can get back to the vargulf.”
Roman snorts. “You think you’re so fucking smooth, don’t you? Yeah, get over here and give me an education.”
The second Peter moves, Roman pins him, mouth-first.
Peter can’t decide if this is a surprise or not. Rich kids are supposed to be greedy, cramming every last luxury into themselves with the ease of lifelong hedonists, and Roman’s got a reputation for burning through girls like dime store prayer candles. On the other hand, Roman’s also the kind of guy who’s used to calling the shots and getting his way. Besides, they are on his turf here, which means he’s comfortable stretching things out as long as he likes.
And for the past several minutes, Roman’s been stretching Peter’s patience to the breaking point one kiss at a time. His mouth is just as soft as it looks and Peter’s probably going to have an aneurysm if he doesn’t get to find out what it feels like on his dick.
By now, Roman’s let Peter bury his hands in his hair, hissing at the skim of nails against his scalp, and he’s let him undo his shirt buttons until the halves of it are hanging freely. But he’s taken his sweet time just rucking up Roman’s thermal, spending an age just stroking his stomach, letting his thumb smooth along the trail of hair below his navel, then back against the grain.
“Fuck,” Peter yelps when Roman’s touch finally roams high enough to rub against his nipples, then low enough to undo the button of his jeans. “Just a suggestion? If you’re gonna have a moment of gay panic, I’d appreciate it if you’d at least let me get my pants off first.”
“You know,” Roman says, rolling the words around in his mouth like he’s savoring a mouthful of particularly potent smoke, “you’re really not that hairy for someone who can turn into a fucking wolf.”
“Yeah, I’m a walking paradox.”
“Mmm.” Roman gives him a knowing look from beneath hooded eyelids. “Have you ever fucked anyone who knows what you are?”
“None of your fucking business,” Peter says, arching his hips up with a slow, luxurious sigh. “Bet you’d love to be the first, huh? We can play that game if you want.”
Peter never in a million years thought his day would involve easing his cock between Roman’s swollen pink lips, guiding him to take in a little more with each thrust until there are tears running down his face. It turns out the poor little rich boy with a mouth made for cock hasn’t ever done this before, but Roman loves a challenge and Peter knows he can take it. Even with his eyes streaming, he doesn’t pull off once, just gamely takes everything Peter gives him.
By the time Peter works a hand down the front of Roman’s thousand-dollar slacks, Roman is practically hyperventilating. When Peter closes a fist around the hot, hard length of him he can't help groaning through his teeth at the heat and the strangled wail Roman utters. “Christ, you’re wet.”
Roman somehow swears without letting Peter’s dick slip out of his mouth, which is something Peter will be impressed with once he’s back in his right mind. He's rutting like an animal, humping shamelessly into Peter's hand, and Peter can feel himself grinning, wide and feral.
“Jesus, you’re such a fucking slut,” he murmurs, soft and almost crooning. “I bet you could slide your dick right up my ass and we wouldn’t even need lube. Look at this.” He stops pumping Roman’s cock and lifts his hand between them so Roman can get a good long look at the way his fingers are glistening. "I bet you taste incredible."
It's an exaggeration for the sake of the moment, since swallowing bodily fluids is never what Peter would call incredible, but then, he's not the upir here. He plays it up for all he's worth, though--slides his fingers into his mouth and groans around them, taking in the taste of Roman Godfrey like he's being paid to do it.
By now, Roman has eased back enough to start curiously licking over the head of his cock with a hot tongue that is not, Peter has discovered, actually forked. Roman seems to delight in prodding at his slit with the wicked tip of it, then humming with pleasure whenever Peter moans.
And yeah, he moans a lot; he’s always been loud and it’s not like there’s any room in his brain left to worry about self-consciousness now. He’s already gripping a fistful of Roman’s hair with one hand and jerking him off as best he can with the other. Peter’s an excellent multitasker, but this is an especially trying situation. And that’s not even taking into account the fact that he’s having a small heart attack every five seconds because there’s an upir sucking his cock and if Roman fucking bites him then Peter is going to give him a piece of his mind and probably cry. Literally tearing out of his own body on a monthly basis doesn’t mean he’s prepared for this.
He doesn’t howl when he finally comes with Roman’s mouth snug and hot around him, but it’s a very near thing.
Afterward, Roman is still sprawled across his bed, but this time he’s not wearing anything but a scowl. But, in Peter’s expert opinion, it’s a friendlier scowl than usual. “The fuck are you staring at?”
“Nothing. Just...close your fucking mouth, man.”
“I kind of need it to breathe, man.”
“Yeah, well, you breathe like a whore.” And really, that’s putting it mildly. Roman’s mouth is so indecent it defies reality.
“I guess you probably hang out with whores a lot more than I do.”
Peter hits him with one of the five thousand pillows scattered around them. “I can’t fucking believe I’m sticking around to battle a rogue werewolf with you.”
"I can't either." Even Roman's snort is somehow aristocratic. "You really suck at it."
"Do you really want to start shit now that I know how to shut you up?"
"I don't know," Roman says slowly, giving a stretch and smirking when Peter's eyes obligingly track the sinuous movement of his body. "I think it's your turn to teach by example."
This definitely, definitely is not the direction Peter saw his day going, but he's not going to kick up a fuss about it now. He's just not going to tell Destiny either.