Why else would he cut him, it's like marking him as his own. Roman is possessive down to a last cell, so used to having his possessions, even as a child. Peter is his, whether he knows it or not, and he's one of those things that someone will have to pry from his cold dead fingers.
Why did it have to be Letha? It could have been anybody but Letha.
He doesn't even know if there's an 'it' in the first place, they just fall into patterns, and he likes patterns; patterns are comfortable, familiar. They bicker, they fuck, they share cigarettes - the one he dropped wasn't lit, he's not too worried - and then it starts over again, with this occasional friendship shit in between. Like fuck he knows how to take it. He doesn't really fuck people more than once too often. He guesses that makes him special, Peter.
Whatever.
Roman sits back on his haunches, undoing the fastenings of Peter's jeans and ordering him with a flicker of his eyes upward. "Budge up," he says, but he doesn't mean it mean it, there's no nosebleed to follow and there's no dagger edge in his eyes like he gets when he's using his ability. It's just enough to get Peter's jeans down and over his hips, his boxers with it, erection out and in the open air.
'Why?' he can almost hear Peter asking, and maybe he hears it in his head but he's not sure if Peter actually says it.
"Because I want to do this," he continues the conversation anyway, and slides almost inelegantly back to take Peter's dick in hand, ducking enough so that, blood still on his lips, he can take him into his mouth, Spine arching so much that his vertebrae stick out through the back of his shirt like ridges.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2013-11-13 01:02 am (UTC)Why did it have to be Letha? It could have been anybody but Letha.
He doesn't even know if there's an 'it' in the first place, they just fall into patterns, and he likes patterns; patterns are comfortable, familiar. They bicker, they fuck, they share cigarettes - the one he dropped wasn't lit, he's not too worried - and then it starts over again, with this occasional friendship shit in between. Like fuck he knows how to take it. He doesn't really fuck people more than once too often. He guesses that makes him special, Peter.
Whatever.
Roman sits back on his haunches, undoing the fastenings of Peter's jeans and ordering him with a flicker of his eyes upward. "Budge up," he says, but he doesn't mean it mean it, there's no nosebleed to follow and there's no dagger edge in his eyes like he gets when he's using his ability. It's just enough to get Peter's jeans down and over his hips, his boxers with it, erection out and in the open air.
'Why?' he can almost hear Peter asking, and maybe he hears it in his head but he's not sure if Peter actually says it.
"Because I want to do this," he continues the conversation anyway, and slides almost inelegantly back to take Peter's dick in hand, ducking enough so that, blood still on his lips, he can take him into his mouth, Spine arching so much that his vertebrae stick out through the back of his shirt like ridges.