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Quiet

Lucius is quiet. He's always quiet when he's furious. When he's simply angry, he snarls and roars and waves his arms about, all teeth and terror. But when he's furious-- when he's quiet and his lips are pressed together in a thin white line-- that's when you have to be afraid.

Peter is not afraid, though. Peter is sitting on his chest, looking down on him, being furious. Peter has not collared him with silver, or tied him down, Peter is simply sitting calmly on his chest, being unafraid and somehow that makes him angrier than ever.

He can't be quiet any more. "Get off me," he growls, rumbling through his teeth.

"A-ha," says Peter, leaning back. "You're not mute, after all."

He sits up halfway, hoping to roll free, but freezes when he is fixed with a direct look and a cocked eyebrow. He wants to turn his face away but he can't; if he were in his wolf-body, he'd flatten his ears and bare his teeth.

"Be still." Peter presses a hand against his chest, just below his neck and along the collarbone, and pushes very lightly. He finds himself flat on his back again, and his hands are shaking, and he tastes his own blood on his tongue where he's bitten down into his cheek.

Peter stands up, then, and he's not pinned down by body weight any more; but Peter does not look away, holds his eyes to Lucius's even while he undresses, fingers slowly fiddling with buttons. One button pops off, clattering on the floor, and rolls towards Lucius. He thinks that it stops quite close to his ear but he does not turn his eyes away to look. He does not watch Peter's shirt fall even though his ears pick up the soft sound of it falling, even though he wants to watch it pile beside those calloused feet. He cannot look away.

His breath is fast in his chest, the anger still rising. His lip curls even though the gesture is futile. This battle has been fought in the past, and he lost it, and so he lays here still and silent like a pup. But inside of him he cannot stop the need to rend and tear and beat back and challenge. One hand twitches with the thought, and even though Peter does not look at it, he reacts.

"Lucius."

He stills, so swiftly and suddenly, that for a moment he forgets to be furious. He looks away and turns his face and finally he catches himself and curses, a wolf curse just beneath his breath, because he has given that last inch, dropping his eyes. He forces himself to look back, to give challenge again, though it is against all instinct, and he is more than furious now at himself instead of Peter.

Peter is naked now, but Peter is shy, and turns himself slightly before dropping into a crouch beside Lucius. Lucius thinks that if he were Alpha here he would not be shy, he would strut and be proud, and he would be sure his Packmate knew his power. But he is not Alpha here, much to his annoyance, and Peter hides his sex as if it were an embarassment, as if he were underendowed.

"I wish you would relax."

Peter's hand is on his chest, and he can feel his heart pound under it, thundering rage and fear and anticipation at once. He would snap his teeth, but that is an odd gesture for a man-body, and he hates looking odd. But Peter's palm slides lower, and it is firm and warm and strokes over his belly, and he cannot help but arch up against it. Again Peter strokes him, like a dog, and again, and again, and he mindlessly relaxes.

Peter knows him too well. The fingers dip lower and trace his hip until it disappears into the low waist of his pants, and he worries for a moment that he doesn't want this, doesn't want to submit this way, he has lost plenty of pride already. But Peter doesn't give him more chance to think of it: Peter covers his mouth with a kiss, just enough teeth to hurt, just enough tongue to soothe. He is gasping then, trying to turn away but his neck not turning, his mouth insisting he stay, his tongue buried in velvet wet with the sweet pinch of fangs against the tip. His arms do not stay at his side, they move to push away the invasive body against his, instead clutching handfuls of rust brown hair and pulling them together harder.

But suddenly he has nothing in his arms, and his body is chilled, but for the warmth emanating from a palm pushed flat against his chest so hard he thinks there will be a hand-shaped bruise there in the morning. Somehow his pants have gotten halfway down his thighs, and his mouth is full of his own blood and the good good taste of his Alpha, and he whines because has forgotten to be furious and wants, he wants, hard and heat and he will even beg if he must. Now.

Peter does not make him beg. Peter leans down to the place where his hand digs into Lucius's breastbone and slowly he licks the flesh peeking from between his splayed fingers. Then he is clawing, a trail of red welts over Lucius's belly made by stumpy man-nails, and even as his tongue laves the rising tracks his nails stop short of Lucius's sex, and his hand is wrapped around it instead, and pulls, just once, from joint of body to swelling tip.

Lucius pants, Lucius trembles, Lucius whines and tries to move his hips, but then he is shot a look and he immediately stills, clawing the floor, biting his lips.

Peter pauses so long it is painful, but then he leans in close, and he scents Lucius, nostrils flaring, one even breath as his face lifts along the curve of his erection. Peter smiles and then he smiles harder and his tongue flashes out, warm tongue over warmer flesh. Lucius's fingers clutch and claw, and Peter is laving him with his tongue, short, slow strokes like a momma cat, tormenting with alternate heat and cold. He wants to growl and snarl, or beg and whine, he doesn't know which, he is in heaven and he is in hell, and he forces himself to lay still, lay still be still, because if it stops he does not know if he could live with himself when he begs for it to continue.

Peter is slow and Peter is patient, but Peter evidently likes the taste of him and Peter wants more, because he is suddenly buried in warm wet, whole, hips in Peter's hands and free to drive his sex in deeper, frenzied thrusting in a rhythm he rules, alpha now, driving, mating, and it is good it is good good good and he is moaning clawing scrabbling, his legs wrapped around Peter's shoulders, Peter rutting good yes yes tongues wet sliding coming howling HOWLING! He is howling or screaming or something like it, coming down, thoughtless, not thinking, Peter releases him and nips him, but he barely notices, limp on the floor.

He lies on the floor and Peter nuzzles him, and he smells his own scent on Peter and thinks that it is flattering, the way it should be. Peter is lying on top of him, stretched out, peaceful, and he thinks maybe he was furious that Peter was on top of him, on top, but now he doesn't really mind. But maybe that wasn't why he was angry, he can't remember, feels good.

Later possibly he will be quite angry, when he remembers why he was so furious, but Peter knows him too well, oh no, Peter knows. Peter is smiling, because Peter has won again, but Lucius thinks that it is acceptable, this time.