They say in every relationship, there has to be a balance of masculinity and feminity, regardless of the biological sexes. Peter wasn't impressed by this assessment, but he did accept that Jerry was all man and muscle, all force and dominance, a hard surface Peter could rub himself up against. Whilst the idea of being a stud, a real guy's guy, appealed to Peter, at the end of the day, he just bloody wasn't. He couldn't do anything manly or practical to save his life. He couldn't fight (well). He cared about his clothes. He liked getting it in bed as much as giving it, if not more. Trying to repress his masochistic side just didn't happen when Jerry was around. So with the whole balance thing, Peter just let Jerry do his thing, as the masculine one, sexually, relationship-ly.
Sometimes he wondered if he was approaching a breakdown. Approaching, or maybe a bit more. It was a shame, really, after all that awkward, sympathetic praise he got in his teens from distant relatives that he was coping with everything so well, that he was going to turn out such a well-rounded, healthy individual, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger and all that shit. Even before all this, whatever this was, he had gone from Peter James Vincent Clarke to Peter Vincent, film star, sex god, big shot, known for partying and being high-maintenance, which were nice words for boozer and spoilt brat.
Though that part of his life was sort of on hiatus at the moment. He was avoiding the tabloids like the plague these days, and he didn't have any filming schedules or interviews to think about for a while. He was in between the two men now, between his old frightened self and his slightly less frightened self, somewhere between wanting Jerry dead and just wanting him. It wasn't a relationship, but it had progressed from practically victim and attacker to just fucking like animals, Jerry coming over whenever he felt like it, Peter no longer pleading, or threatening, or reasoning, and not exactly hating it. It was a good thing he'd been too young to remember his parents, really, it'd make him feel even worse. Famous and loaded and grown up, but friendless and alone, if sleeping with his parents' murderer didn't count.
He became vaguely aware of Jerry entering the building, but didn't bother turning the light on, or calling out to him, merely waited for the vampire to come find him. He wondered if he'd left his door unlocked or if Jerry had done some vampire thing, as the other man pulled his shirt off over his head and joined Peter on the bed. He couldn't be bothered asking.
Jerry ran his lips over Peter's hair, hot breath tingling his scalp, and ran his hands over Peter's arms, up to his shoulders, with no preamble. "Not in the mood tonight?" he murmured, after a moment. He liked that, the challenge of it.
Peter kissed him, so he wouldn't have the satisfaction. He wished he had a drink, but the vampire didn't like him drinking, preferred Peter fully sober and aware, senses undulled. Peter missed the feeling of being too tired and drunk to care about things. Still. Feeling the familiar self-loathing lust uncurl through him, the typical hate-love-dread sensation, he couldn't think too clearly anyway.