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Kiss

He likes, he'll tell you what he likes; he likes the way Lucius's face looks when he's fallen asleep after sex.

When Lucius is awake there is something about him that screams "werewolf." Something in the expression, the constant snarl on his lips, the flash of his yellow eyes. Peter can't remember the last time he's seen Lucius smile. He knows he has. He just can't remember it, or what it looks like.

But after Peter's made him come, one or two or three or more times, horny insatiable ravenous wolves, and Lucius falls asleep, he's too exhausted to snarl, too pleased to furrow his brow. He relaxes.

Peter thinks he's never seen anything more lovely.

Human, that's what he looks like, painfully human. Stripped of all that anger, he's only got (sadness/disappointment/melancholy) Peter. And then he almost smiles.

Peter makes Lucius smile. He's seen it sometimes, he knows he has, even if he can't remember it.

Peter thinks about all the things he can't remember Lucius doing.

Lucius has never worn any of his clothes since the night Peter caught him out and about in wolf form. Lucius never sleeps in Peter's bed unless Peter drags him there or unless he's fallen asleep after sex. Lucius has never come on to him. Lucius has never kissed him. On the mouth, that is.

Peter wants to taste Lucius.

Lucius is staring at Peter's print of "The Scream." Lucius can stand for hours in front of the various paintings and photographs around Peter's house. He never says a word, just stares, as if he has lost a part of his soul in them and needs to find it.

"Lucius," he says, but Lucius does not turn around. He repeats it.

"What?"

Peter sighs because the moment is lost. He contemplates other ways of tasting Lucius. He contemplates... many things. He wonders if werewolf culture even allows Lucius to come on to him.

He wants Lucius to want him.

Peter takes his clothes off, silently, folding them neatly and stacking them beside his armchair, the same way he would before he changes into a wolf. (He rarely does this any more. He hates his wolf-body more and more everyday.) At some point Lucius turns around and watches him.

The musky smell of arousal drifts over to Peter's nose. Any other day... he might tease Lucius, pin him, suck on his neck, bite his lips and bury himself inside Lucius.

Instead he lets the smell excite him, and sits in his armchair. The upholstery is rough, with a slightly powdery feel. He needs to wash it.

"What are you doing?" Lucius asks. His face is closed, but his eyes are curious.

"It's hot," he says, but the air conditioning is raising gooseflesh in the most unusual of places.

More than anything else he wants something in his mouth.

"Can you get me a beer...?"

Lucius's mouth jerks. He obviously wants to reply, "Get it yourself," but he doesn't. He crosses to the little kitchen, pulls the fridge open so hard the freezer door swings open as well. Both hit the wall with a dull thud.

The bottles of liquor on top of the fridge shake when Lucius slams both doors shut again.

Peter takes the beer from Lucius but he makes sure that their fingers don't touch at any point. Lucius blinks at this; Peter's usually eager to take any opportunity to run his hands over that smooth, dusky skin. Both of them hold onto the bottle until a bead of condensation rolls and explodes over Lucius's fingers. He lets go immediately.

Peter presses the beer against his cheek, his lips, his neck. He imagines Lucius's fingers brushing away the cold, wet places left behind by the beer. His body aches between his thighs.

His mouth wraps around the cold glass, and he thinks about Lucius's lips.

He wants them

Wants to kiss

Wants *a* kiss.

His tongue plays on the lip of the bottle before he makes himself put the bottle down. Lucius is looking at him suspiciously.

He sets the beer on the arm of the chair.

Above the tang of alcohol, Peter smells Lucius, and Lucius smells like sex.

He wishes he had his underwear. It's sitting, neatly folded, on the top of the pile of clothing next to his LazyBoy. Boxers not briefs. They have Daffy Duck on them, and they're red plaid. They embarrass Lucius.

Not like underwear would hide anything.

Something hot and wet slides down onto his thigh. Oh great, now he's drooling.

In his mind, Peter bends Lucius over the arm of the chair and he is turning him over and his mouth is on Lucius's and there's a knee hooked over his shoulder and he's pushing himself deep, deeper...

He moans and gasps, his arm jerking involuntarily. The beer knocks over and spills in his lap, and he yelps, leaping out of the chair, his sex burning even under the ice cold wetness, worse if anything.

He wants, needs....

"Lucius," he says, "A paper towel, get the paper towels."

"Fuck you, Peter." But that's not what Lucius says. Lucius gets the paper towels and chucks them at Peter, who wads up four or five sheets and stomps them into the seat cushion to squeeze out as much liquid as he can.

Peter feels vaguely silly.

And sticky.

He tries to wipe himself off gracefully, goes to the kitchen sink and wets a paper towel and mops at himself.

"Look, stop that."

It's Lucius, and he's frowning. Doesn't he ever smile? Peter can't remember.

Lucius takes a dish towel, wets it down and squeezes a little dish soap onto it. He patiently wipes up and down Peter's stomach, down his legs, around his sex. Finally Lucius rinses the towel, until the water runs clear, and rinses Peter. Then he wraps one hand, with towel, around Peter's cock.

He wipes. Peter groans. His hips jerk forward even though he tries to stop them.

Peter thinks he hears Lucius make a little noise.

Lucius tries not to wipe there any more. But there's still a sticky patch along the left side, and Peter shifts uncomfortably, until Lucius has to. The warm, damp cloth envelops him gently again, and this time he thrusts into it, shamelessly. When it stops, Peter looks down, at Lucius.

Lucius's eyes have slipped shut, his nostrils flared, his lips barely parted. Peter knows what he's doing, what he's smelling, how crazy it's making him.

"*Fuck*," Lucius says.

Peter presses his sex against Lucius's mouth, and Lucius swallows him down. Warm, wet, hot, tight. Peter drives himself deeper, until Lucius gags, jerking, urgent, pounding, thrashing, coming...

Vaguely white slips out of the corner of Lucius's mouth, and he turns his head and spits.

"God, I hate the taste of beer."

Peter smiles, and he kneels down so that he's head-to-head with Lucius. He leans in, and kisses him.

But all he can taste is himself.