Work Text:
“Darling, what is that mess on your neck?”
Roman’s hand went to his collar and he touched self-consciously at the place he knew his mother was referring to. A smile flickered onto his lips and he looked Olivia in the eye as he answered, “Sorry mom. Peter got a little rough last night in bed.”
Her nose wrinkled and she wiped her mouth with her napkin, excusing herself from the table.
They both knew it wasn’t a joke.
Shelley ogled the deep purple bruising on her brother’s neck and he winked at her conspiratorially. “He’s an animal.”
+
Later in the evening, while Olivia was doped up and lounging in her own bedroom, Roman invited Peter over. They talked about school, and about the vargulf, and about Letha’s growing belly, and then Peter pulled out two fat blunts loaded with “the best shit you’ll ever taste.”
“I don’t know man, weed’s not my kind of high,” Roman replied, sticking a finger in his mouth and rubbing his gums absently. Peter ignored him and offered the joint. Roman took it.
Letting his head fall back on his pillow, Roman opened his mouth and blew rings of smoke towards the ceiling, letting his mouth linger open and his tongue swipe along his lips to savor the sticky sweet substance.
“My mom saw your marks you fucking retard.”
Peter looked at him with a lazy smile. “What’d you tell her?”
“I told her we got rough in bed and you got carried away.”
Laughing, Peter shook his head and took another hit. “Shee-it.”
“Shee-it,” replied Roman.
A silence carried between them as the waves of smoke flowed through the air like clouds, the low lamp light showing just how full the room was with the thick fog of their delinquency.
At some point, Roman’s eyes had fallen shut. He’d been humming some dumb tune he’d heard on the radio earlier, and then suddenly there were fingers at his collar, undoing the buttons to reveal pale white skin painted with purple. Roman watched as Peter admired the newly revealed skin, continued to peel the black dress shirt open almost reverently. “Is the Big Bad Wolf going to eat me?”
“If I’m the Big Bad Wolf, does that make you Red Riding Hood?” Peter asked, working on Roman’s belt.
Roman didn’t answer, choosing instead to take a long drag and let it curl out of his nostrils—a dragon, tamed by a wolf. Roman snorted.
“What are you laughing at?”
“Shut up and suck my cock.”
Peter shrugged and did as he was told.
The thing about marijuana was that it made your whole body lazy. You got horny slower, you reached orgasm slower. Everything was lazy and felt better, not as good as it felt with veins full of cocaine, but it was good, and Roman enjoyed it. He wasn’t anywhere near cumming by the time he got bored, and pushed Peter off.
“Lay down,” he ordered. “Get your prick out.”
Roman pushed his tailored slacks the rest of the way off his legs and toed off his socks before going to his dresser and pulling out the essentials.
Peter licked his lips and backed up on the bed, head on the pillow and heels dug into the mattress in anticipation. Roman descended on Peter’s cock, rolling a condom onto it before squirting a liberal handful of lube onto it, stroking it for a moment with an appreciative eye. Thick and dark and uncut, Peter’s dick was a thing of natural beauty. Roman loved it.
“Come on,” Peter urged, and Roman straddled him.
They’d fucked last night, twice, they’d fucked the night before, also twice, and they’d fucked a good twenty times in the last week to be honest—Roman’s body was ready and waiting, accustomed to that Gypsy cock he’d grown to love so much. Two slick fingers slid into him and he hissed, green eyes slipping shut as he stretched himself briefly and then he was steading himself, sinking down, down, seated completely on Peter with a lopsided grin. The burn of the stretch was a high better than weed could ever give him, better than cocaine, better than Xanax. Roman’s ass was made for taking Peter’s cock.
The ride was messy, hasty, Roman’s spider-fingers splayed on Peter’s hairy chest as he bounced up and down, gyrated his hips, dug manicured nails into the Gypsy’s shoulders so hard that Peter growled at him.
Roman’s mouth hung open, red and damp and panting, his cheeks flushed, and his thigh muscles burning with the effort to keep up the pace.
“Fuck me,” Roman slurred, “Fuck me, Peter. Harder.”
Instead of doing so, Peter bit his lip and raised his hand, bringing it down in an arc across the side of Roman’s face, a hard slap that caught the lanky boy off guard. He did it again, his nails biting into skin this time, and a trickle of blood rose to the surface of Roman’s gorgeous, gaunt face.
Sitting back a moment, Roman brought a thumb up to his cheek, and stared at the blood on his finger, his own blood, eyes glazed over with a hungry look fit for an upir. He brought the blood to his mouth and moaned. Then he swiped another bit of blood onto his finger and smeared it over Peter’s lips, grinned at the boy under him, and then slammed his mouth down on Peter’s with an animalistic growl to rival that of a wolf.
Peter flipped them over then, his red-smeared mouth sinking to Roman’s jaw and sucking hard at the pale arch of Roman’s neck. A ring of dark reddish purple, a collar to claim what was his, tongue laving up and down that long expanse of neck as Peter fucked hard into Roman’s tight ass.
Roman came first, with Peter’s hand lazily tugging at his prick. A high keen in Roman’s throat had Peter speeding up his pace until he spilled over the edge, panting and running his fingers through bleach blond pampered tresses.
Afterwards, when Peter had discarded the condom and they’d cleaned up the slick mess that was Roman’s ass, they lay on the bed side by side staring at the ceiling, their joints relit and their movements languid. Roman’s blunt went out first and he sighed, turned to Peter, and gave him a look. Peter raised an eyebrow and took a big hit of his own before leaning forward and pressing his lips to Roman’s, pushing the smoke into the upir’s mouth. His tongue followed the smoke, licking into Roman’s mouth as they kissed, sharing the sticky sweetness between them.
+
In the middle of the night, long after Peter had snuck out back to his own trailer, Roman went down for a midnight snack.
Olivia sat at the bar and eyed his neck with distaste. “You lay with dogs often enough darling, and you’ll get fleas.”
Roman stared at her as he drank orange juice straight from the carton. He licked his lips.
“Woof woof.”