Peter's eyes are drawn away from Roman's eyes as he shrugs out of his jacket, and then there's that bandage on his forearm, and he finds himself staring. Looking at the speckles of blood that seep through the gauze and there's a thought for a moment about what his blood tastes like on skin instead of on metal. He's not fixated, not addicted the way that the upir are, but he's a werewolf. Blood is primal, essential, and he can understand the urges. What better measure of a person is there than their blood on your tongue?
And then Roman cranks his seat to reclining and it catches him off-guard. It catches him flat on his back and no time to move before Roman is up and ontop of him, straddling his body and he steals the razor from his fingers. He gasps sharply when Roman presses it to his throat, and the wolf tilts his head back -- just a little. Peter isn't even sure if it's another game of chicken, a stupid, fucked-up dare, or if he actually trusts him.
The more pressing issue is how Roman's body presses down on him, how his slender, bony frame is surprisingly solid, surprisingly strong like this. He huffs a laugh at the question, swallowing against his throat and it makes his adam's apple bob. His heart is racing in his ears, though he still almost manages that look of not quite interested. One hand comes up, a touch at his hip. His tongue licks at his lips, his mouth feeling suddenly dry as he stares up at him.
"Maybe."
It's off his lips with a smirk, and it's his fucking funeral.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2013-11-12 08:58 pm (UTC)And then Roman cranks his seat to reclining and it catches him off-guard. It catches him flat on his back and no time to move before Roman is up and ontop of him, straddling his body and he steals the razor from his fingers. He gasps sharply when Roman presses it to his throat, and the wolf tilts his head back -- just a little. Peter isn't even sure if it's another game of chicken, a stupid, fucked-up dare, or if he actually trusts him.
The more pressing issue is how Roman's body presses down on him, how his slender, bony frame is surprisingly solid, surprisingly strong like this. He huffs a laugh at the question, swallowing against his throat and it makes his adam's apple bob. His heart is racing in his ears, though he still almost manages that look of not quite interested. One hand comes up, a touch at his hip. His tongue licks at his lips, his mouth feeling suddenly dry as he stares up at him.
"Maybe."
It's off his lips with a smirk, and it's his fucking funeral.