There's a smirk at Roman's lips, not necessarily coy but entirely wry. He thinks he only likes cutting other people? It's not about the sadism. It's a little about the sadism. It's mostly about the blood.
He props a cigarette into his mouth and lights it without any answer to Peter's questions, his accusations. He doesn't care. Letha goes for what she wants just as Godfreys do, but Roman takes what he wants just as Roman does, and that means him shrugging off his expensive jacket and tossing it carelessly into the back of his car. On his forearm is a bandage wrapped right, blood spattering in small dots where it soaked through the gauze.
It's an admission as much as it is showing off. Cutting other people? Just other people?
Without warning, he reaches out and cranks Peter's seat back into a reclining position, because he knows what he wants right now and Klonopin isn't the only thing at the moment, much as it's starting to soak into his system, that tired kind of warm fuzzy. Lowers the whispers he gets sometimes, clawing inside his head for something more. Lowers his inhibitions, however few he may have, and in one smooth movement he's up and over Peter's legs, straddling his lap and plucking the razor blade out of Peter's fingers.
That's not yours, Peter. That belongs to someone. And in a moment it's pressed to Peter's throat, not cutting in, just sitting there, a reminder, a tease. His expression sifts into something curious, intimidating, almost. Dangerous. But he won't hurt Peter, not without his permission. He wonders if wolf blood tastes different than everyone else's.
"Jealous?" is the only word he has to say, using his height advantage and looming over the other boy. His free hand comes to plant at the headrest just beside Peter's head, and every ounce of energy not to just tangle his long fingers into that hair and tug.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2013-11-12 08:37 pm (UTC)There's a smirk at Roman's lips, not necessarily coy but entirely wry. He thinks he only likes cutting other people? It's not about the sadism. It's a little about the sadism. It's mostly about the blood.
He props a cigarette into his mouth and lights it without any answer to Peter's questions, his accusations. He doesn't care. Letha goes for what she wants just as Godfreys do, but Roman takes what he wants just as Roman does, and that means him shrugging off his expensive jacket and tossing it carelessly into the back of his car. On his forearm is a bandage wrapped right, blood spattering in small dots where it soaked through the gauze.
It's an admission as much as it is showing off. Cutting other people? Just other people?
Without warning, he reaches out and cranks Peter's seat back into a reclining position, because he knows what he wants right now and Klonopin isn't the only thing at the moment, much as it's starting to soak into his system, that tired kind of warm fuzzy. Lowers the whispers he gets sometimes, clawing inside his head for something more. Lowers his inhibitions, however few he may have, and in one smooth movement he's up and over Peter's legs, straddling his lap and plucking the razor blade out of Peter's fingers.
That's not yours, Peter. That belongs to someone. And in a moment it's pressed to Peter's throat, not cutting in, just sitting there, a reminder, a tease. His expression sifts into something curious, intimidating, almost. Dangerous. But he won't hurt Peter, not without his permission. He wonders if wolf blood tastes different than everyone else's.
"Jealous?" is the only word he has to say, using his height advantage and looming over the other boy. His free hand comes to plant at the headrest just beside Peter's head, and every ounce of energy not to just tangle his long fingers into that hair and tug.