velveteenwolf | Let's Wait Until the Morning After

Peter was groggy as his eyelashes fluttered, but it was in that nice, warm way of early afternoon sunlight, languid bodies and skin on skin. Last night was hazy, but more in that pleasant glimpses and memories than blackout drunk, which had never really been Peter's style. He liked a pleasant buzz, the light feeling of being truly drunk, laughter and wandering hands. He was still belatedly amazed that he'd actually let Lydia and Roman talk him into a suit of all fucking things, but united, they were all but impossible to refuse. His eyelashes fluttered, a low groan of protest at the sunlight, rather wanting to just stay here like this, not lose the magic of the moment that he hadn't entirely grasped. So he leaned into Roman's shoulder, trying to hide from the light.

There was something tickling at the back of his mind, too much warmth, too much touch of hands and the scent on the air. Finally he looked around, a bleary flutter of blue eyes only to be confronted with a tangle of arms and limbs and red hair that could only belong to one Lydia Martin. The memories of it filtered back, a low murmur and a huff of amusement. This was... different. Not bad, but different. Her skin warm and soft against his own and he couldn't keep his fingers from crawling up to curl in her hair, as if seeing just how far boundaries had been pushed.

Was this one of those things where everyone dashed for their clothes and no one talked about it? He was hoping not. He liked her, in his own way. Assertive and smart, the sort of girl that Peter really didn't know how to deal with and honestly that was part of her charm. She hadn't forced herself between them, she was just something that happened. Because it felt good, having her here. He just hoped he wasn't the only one that felt that way.

"Morning," he drawled, voice low and deep with sleep, even as the clock insisted that morning had very little to do with anything. In their defense, he remembered watching the sunrise, leaning back against Roman and Lydia.

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Roman is dressed for the most part. One sock is still on. The other foot is bare. God knows why. God knows why he went to the bottle and the merriment like he was fourteen. Movement and sound makes him groan like a wounded animal. He throws an arm up over his face.

His sleeve flaps but then settles partly on Peter's head. It smells like perfume. There's a soft body near by. He can feel it more so than see it. Lydia. Yes. That's right. That explains the sweet smell.

"No loud noises," he says finally.

Coffee would be good. And a fine white line. That all requires moving. Not just yet. Staying here in a wrecked tableau is a better idea. Far more comfortable and less complicated.

Last night involved alcohol and a fast car and not one, but two beautiful boys. Lydia Martin is livin' large. And Lydia Martin never, ever does a walk of shame.

Somebody's running their hands though her hair, and she purrs vaguely in response as she stirs from her heavy sleep. Lifting her head a little bit, she peers over a bare shoulder to study the two young men sleepily through the hair that's fallen in her face.

She smiles. "Hi." Her tone is dreamy.

"Hey," Peter replies -- quietly, as per Roman's request. He doesn't really know what to say here, but at the moment, it seems no one's bolting for the door. Truthfully, Peter isn't entirely certain that person shouldn't be him. Running's always been second nature whenever something unexpected happens -- easier to run than it is to let himself get hurt. But, he's staying, lying here and enjoying the warmth.

There's that uneasy feeling, but he ignores that for the moment, or the day, or honestly for as long as he can. Peter's just about always the last person who wants to talk about feelings, so he's just going to focus on the warmth, and the languid ease in his body and not that hum of questions in the back of his head.

He clears his throat a few times, softly and then with more effort. Finally he has something closer to a real voice. "No one's in a rush to go anywhere, right?"

Because staying in the wreck so far is the only idea he has planed. Waking is after. Sort of. It's hard when it's so comfortable.

Roman slowly raises his arm and keeps his eyes half lidded to shield them from light. He can see the light reflect off of Lydia's hair. How different it is from the mess of dark, dark brown of Peter's in his peripheral. It tickles his neck and ear.

"You might be shit out of luck otherwise."

Lydia makes a satisfied sound, and attempts to roll onto her side, which presses her closer to Peter. With a smirk, she reaches out and twists a curl on her finger off the hair on Roman's head before half sitting up and leaning on her elbow.

"I'm positively cozy. Though I could use breakfast once any of us are in the mood to wake up."

"Well, I can at least put together some orange juice and toast," Peter offered, taking that as his signal, an opportunity to start trying to wriggle his way out from the two other warm bodies in Roman's bed. The upir might at least recognize that urge that tended to grip Peter whenever things in his life went pear-shaped; that desire to get away, to put distance between himself and the wreckage -- someone unsympathetic might call it running away. Which he wasn't, not exactly. He wasn't grabbing for his jeans and his shoes and heading for the door. Just... his boxers and the kitchen.

He'd almost come to like this. Whatever it was that he and Roman had. Liked it enough that he'd even put words to it once or twice when they'd both been too drunk for coherence. It meant something to him, which made the mess that was the tangled limbs in the bed they shared frequently a hard thing to face. He didn't want to lose Roman, and he sighed. Lydia reminded him of a Godfrey in some ways -- the same uncompromising talent for getting the things that she wants.

"Hey," softly because for a moment he thinks it will work. No? Still moving Peter? "Hey." A little louder and more insistent. Of course the gypsy has an impulse to run. For a second he worries that this is going to bite them in the ass, that he's moving away because it's a bad idea. No shove off. And it looks like this gypsy is staying in the room. He reaches for him enough to skim his fingers down his arm before it flops to lay against Roman's bare belly.

"I'm in no rush for room service." He yawns and half turns now to face Lydia. He will have to ask her exactly what she's wearing because it smells great. She shouldn't change it. His eyes are squinting but the thought of food though... shit his stomach is going to growl.

"You're coming back." Lydia half sits up, tugging a blanket over her body that actually seems less about modesty and more about being provocative with what one can't see. She leans her head on Roman's shoulder, sliding her fingers through the upir's hair and gives Peter a look with wide green eyes. "Right?"

She knows your MO, gypsy boy.

He watches her, the way she drapes herself over Roman, her fingers in his boyfriend's hair, and it makes his insides twist. But, it seems a bit too little, too late to be complaining. He shrugs his shoulders, heading for the kitchen.

"My pants are on the floor."

He's just going to pretend that's an answer.

Let's Wait Until the Morning After

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Stop me if you've heard this one: a werewolf, a banshee, and an upir are all naked in a bed...

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