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Because I Know What Money Smells Like
Nov. 3rd, 2013 12:32 amCael Rich -- fucking ironic fucking name -- was a fraud. Roman was sure of it in a bone-deep sort of way, something he couldn't quite explain but he knew it was a truth. As certain as the sky was blue and a Godfrey's eyes were as green as money, Cael Rich was not from money. Roman had only transferred in a few days ago, but his attention to Cael was slowly becoming intolerable, and he was well aware of it. It was intentional. He wanted to make him lose his cool, he wanted him to fly off the handle, he wanted him to tear that mask off in his attempt to get at Roman so that the upir could taste his desperation as his mouth tasted his true nature from his throat.
He could almost hear the strands of restraint snapping -- and Cael didn't have many. Roman watched him through gym class, as they ran track, and when they were shepherded out onto the basketball court, Roman made a point of caging him in, using his 6'4" frame to be in his space in a way that violated in every small way that was invisible to everyone else. He was faster, stronger than everyone, when he wanted it to be. It was easy enough to me just a hair too close for a fraction of a second.
And then they were back in the locker room, and Roman was dressed, leaning against a locker and watching Cael. Watching as he got dressed, and then lingered like a threat he didn't even know he couldn't follow through with, and Roman licked at the back of his fangs. It took an act of will to retract them so they weren't showing when he spoke. He was closing the distance, using those long, slender legs. He didn't have his sunglasses on here; barely any light filtering through the windows. People over whether he had an eye condition or whether Roman was just a pretentious fuck, even in a school full of pretentious fucks -- most people thought it was the later.
"Is Rich even your last name?"
The smile that curved those lewd, cock-sucking lips was hard and cruel. He wanted to cage him in against the lockers, but failing that, he wanted to be close. Close enough to breathe him in -- earthy, something vague and familiar he couldn't entirely place. Close enough to make him nervous, put him on edge when every boy here seemed to play to the whole heteronormative bullshit. Roman had worked through his problems, more or less -- dying does that to you. He wanted cock, he'd wanted a very specific cock, but the asshole coward had run. He'd run because that's all gypsies knew how to do.
"Because you're not, are you? Rich. You put on a good show, but it's all bullshit. I doubt you can even afford this place. I come from money older than this fucking country, I know what privilege smells like. And you smell like just another fucking street rat."
He could almost hear the strands of restraint snapping -- and Cael didn't have many. Roman watched him through gym class, as they ran track, and when they were shepherded out onto the basketball court, Roman made a point of caging him in, using his 6'4" frame to be in his space in a way that violated in every small way that was invisible to everyone else. He was faster, stronger than everyone, when he wanted it to be. It was easy enough to me just a hair too close for a fraction of a second.
And then they were back in the locker room, and Roman was dressed, leaning against a locker and watching Cael. Watching as he got dressed, and then lingered like a threat he didn't even know he couldn't follow through with, and Roman licked at the back of his fangs. It took an act of will to retract them so they weren't showing when he spoke. He was closing the distance, using those long, slender legs. He didn't have his sunglasses on here; barely any light filtering through the windows. People over whether he had an eye condition or whether Roman was just a pretentious fuck, even in a school full of pretentious fucks -- most people thought it was the later.
"Is Rich even your last name?"
The smile that curved those lewd, cock-sucking lips was hard and cruel. He wanted to cage him in against the lockers, but failing that, he wanted to be close. Close enough to breathe him in -- earthy, something vague and familiar he couldn't entirely place. Close enough to make him nervous, put him on edge when every boy here seemed to play to the whole heteronormative bullshit. Roman had worked through his problems, more or less -- dying does that to you. He wanted cock, he'd wanted a very specific cock, but the asshole coward had run. He'd run because that's all gypsies knew how to do.
"Because you're not, are you? Rich. You put on a good show, but it's all bullshit. I doubt you can even afford this place. I come from money older than this fucking country, I know what privilege smells like. And you smell like just another fucking street rat."
