[The resistance causes him to pull back as he bites his tongue through a curse about a pace he was fine with until the butterflies started. He bites down on his bottom lip, pricking it enough to draw blood and put the taste in his mouth that distracts him for the moment. The copper scent, so familiar to him, mingles with the smells of the glade and adds to Molly's own aroma of sweat and various spicy oils and incense and that constant ever present old copper piece smell that never goes away no matter how much he cleans himself or his clothes. Blood is just a natural part of him, whether he's drawn it or not.
He sucks on his bottom lip, letting the taste linger, letting him sink into that instead of craving the taste of that mouth on his or more- always more. That tongue is not the only thing he's aching to taste.
His hands move from guiding to settle on Peter's shoulders, pads of his fingers resting on the back of his neck, while his long fingernails drag through the soft hair.] They've all got stories. [Most of them lies. The words catch in his throat and he swallows hard, the blood acting as a chaser.] You've got your mouth on a lot of history.
no subject
He sucks on his bottom lip, letting the taste linger, letting him sink into that instead of craving the taste of that mouth on his or more- always more. That tongue is not the only thing he's aching to taste.
His hands move from guiding to settle on Peter's shoulders, pads of his fingers resting on the back of his neck, while his long fingernails drag through the soft hair.] They've all got stories. [Most of them lies. The words catch in his throat and he swallows hard, the blood acting as a chaser.] You've got your mouth on a lot of history.