Roman's smirk turns into a frown like it always does, that bit of a pout to his lips like he thinks Peter doesn't believe him, like he won't do it. The razor blade slides its way all across his throat, dangerously close to cutting in - it bites at his skin, smooth-like, but it doesn't dig in, not yet. It would be so easy to slit his throat here and right here where Peter's at his full mercy. It's not even that he needs to, wants to, but he could.
"You think I won't?" Roman shoots back at him, irritated like he seems to be by everything, but Peter's hand's at his hip and Roman's pelvis bucks into his own, making that friction, trousers against jeans, before he does nick into Peter's neck with the blade, just enough. "Looks like you cut yourself shaving," he adds lightly, and at once his fingers are at Peter's throat, He doesn't taste it, doesn't move towards it yet, just traces his fingers around the blood that's beading up already, draws a perfect circle in the spot and wets his lips at the look of it, the slick feeling of that warm and the smell of copper in the air.
It's enough to make his head duck against Peter's, their foreheads pressed, his hips undulating again, because he is a fucking Godfrey, he will get what he wants. He has before and he's not about to stop now, not with the sight of Letha and fucking hands on her tits. His hair's still wet, slicked back from the rain. He doesn't care.
"You're like an art project," he observes, almost lazily, and there's an intimacy to it when they're close like this, when Roman's other hand comes to rest at the other side of Peter's head, bloodied and shaking in the slightest - a consequence of holding himself back. "I could paint you." All his weird, roundabout compliments, for Peter, mostly for Peter. Like he's on some pedestal rather than down in the dirt with everyone else.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2013-11-12 09:10 pm (UTC)Roman's smirk turns into a frown like it always does, that bit of a pout to his lips like he thinks Peter doesn't believe him, like he won't do it. The razor blade slides its way all across his throat, dangerously close to cutting in - it bites at his skin, smooth-like, but it doesn't dig in, not yet. It would be so easy to slit his throat here and right here where Peter's at his full mercy. It's not even that he needs to, wants to, but he could.
"You think I won't?" Roman shoots back at him, irritated like he seems to be by everything, but Peter's hand's at his hip and Roman's pelvis bucks into his own, making that friction, trousers against jeans, before he does nick into Peter's neck with the blade, just enough. "Looks like you cut yourself shaving," he adds lightly, and at once his fingers are at Peter's throat, He doesn't taste it, doesn't move towards it yet, just traces his fingers around the blood that's beading up already, draws a perfect circle in the spot and wets his lips at the look of it, the slick feeling of that warm and the smell of copper in the air.
It's enough to make his head duck against Peter's, their foreheads pressed, his hips undulating again, because he is a fucking Godfrey, he will get what he wants. He has before and he's not about to stop now, not with the sight of Letha and fucking hands on her tits. His hair's still wet, slicked back from the rain. He doesn't care.
"You're like an art project," he observes, almost lazily, and there's an intimacy to it when they're close like this, when Roman's other hand comes to rest at the other side of Peter's head, bloodied and shaking in the slightest - a consequence of holding himself back. "I could paint you." All his weird, roundabout compliments, for Peter, mostly for Peter. Like he's on some pedestal rather than down in the dirt with everyone else.