Peter Rumancek (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
velveteenwolf) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
tampered2013-09-19 01:35 pm
velveteenwolf) wrote in tampered2013-09-19 01:35 pm
He's not just a man / He's so much more, he's better
When: September 19th.
Rating: Unknown, I'll say R just in case.
Characters: Anyone with a reason to be out in the forest on the night of the full moon.
Summary: It's the full moon and Peter's first shift in a new place.
Log: It was the Harvest Moon.
The white globe of it still hung low in the sky, yellowed by errant particles of dust in the air in dazzling contrast against the deep, midnight sky. Peter stood on black paws that left light prints on the earth as he surveyed the unfamiliar forest. His eyes burned bright, bright gold, his gaze with its sharp eyes held that worldly look to them that Peter got sometimes. As if he was older than the seventeen year old boy with bright blues who smoked too much and made off-color jokes and relished in the fact of being an outsider. He was large, sleek and powerful and too big to be a wolf, and he wasn't. He was lupus sapiens, the wise wolf.
The papers had called Christina the demonwolf, and maybe they had been right. She had been broken, an abomination. She had been full of too much hate and too much pain when she had turned, and she had never even heard the call of her own true name. Sometimes he wonders if he was the broken one. Was there something wrong with him that when she'd turned herself, from him, it had gone so wrong? Letha was dead, and there have been nights since he came here, when he wonders if she died for him.
When he howls, this time, it's for the loss he doesn't know how to say. In his human skin he ignores it, pushes it down, but as a wolf, he's maybe smarter. He shares the death that surrounds him with the moon, It's round, swollen with plenty, and it takes his pain as surely as it gives him his name.
Gypsy boy that he is, it's hard for him to turn down a party, especially with the prospect of sea-side entertainment, and maybe even free drinks. He might not take charity, but a party is something else altogether. But, it's the night of the full moon, and in a strange place, and Peter is so shaky with anticipation that his fingers can hardly hold a cigarette. His clothes feel itchy and like they're scratching at his skin, and the taste in his mouth is metallic and he licks at his white, human teeth and he grins. He heads out to the forest a little early, and he finds himself wishing that Roman had his car. That he could just curl up in the passenger seat of that cherry cherry red convertible and watch the blond as trees swung into view. The thing was fucking metal and as much a part of Roman in Peter's head as his green roofie eyes or his fucking last name.
He watches the sun, but more than that he's listening. Listening for the way the world calls to him in the old tongue, calls him by a name that carries more weight and just as much a product of gravity as the moon and the tides themselves. He tugs off his rings, his bracelets, yanking his shirt off over his head as he grins wolfishly at the other teen. Peter loves this. Not even the death, and the fighting, and the girl with a broken neck, the scent of which some nights still feels heavy on his skin, can ruin this for him: the nights where he sheds his human skin, and walks the forest with his senses magnified; stronger, faster. Once a month where all the bullshit, and his human cares are devoured like his pale skin.
"I didn't really think you'd want to keep watching. Figured it was too messy for a fucking Godfrey."
He's teasing, something to take the edge off, because there's always this tension, where he's stripping in front of Roman and he's always way too fucking aware of how it could all go wrong. That if they aren't snarking at one another he might do something he might not regret until after.
The sun has just barely hit the horizon, the day is still warm and the sun is still blue, and there comes a howl that carries loud and long. A wolf, a werewolf, the forever howl as his voice throws to the sky, to the world that whispers his name. He's left Roman behind in the clearing, because there's no way the Upyr can keep up with Peter when he's like this. His legs spring forward and he might not be Nicolae, not so fast you could never be sure his paws touched the ground at all, but he's still faster than anything on two legs, than anything natural. He is black as midnight, with gold eyes, a thin scent of blood, but it's his own blood. from flesh and bones and a body that disappeared off the floor as if it had never been. Maybe it's a little bit of magic, but it never stays for hunters to find, unlike his pawprints and the occasionally hairs from his coat.
He doesn't know this place, and he lifts his snout, breathing in unfamiliar air, and he still howls. He howls for Nicolae, even though it's been three years since he hasn't run alone. He knows the words Nicolae said, the words Peter tells himself when the world around him seems empty: about how werewolves don't need a pack. But Peter doesn't always believe it. He misses having his uncle at his side, the white wolf that ran ahead of him, and tolerated his gangly idiot self for the better part of a year, until that night where he left Peter behind, alone, howling like the lost cub he was until he made his way home to curl up by his mother's bed.
The first howl of every moon is for Nicolae.
The nearest familiar scent turns out to be a beautiful redhead with eyes bright but different from Peter's own gold. He seems strange and out of place -- a giant black wolf with searching gold eyes, but the juxtoposition of the familiar and the strange only last a moment. The sun creeps just a little higher in the sky, and in a sight Roman had once described as beautiful, jet dark fur changes to white-pink human skin, gold eyes are replaced with blue, and instead of a wolf, there's a very naked, vulnerable boy that collapses at her feet with a soft whine.
Shifting always exhausts him, though Nicolae always made it sound like that was his fault. As if he was somehow irresponsible; stayed out too long or didn't exhibit control or some shit that Peter's never quite worried about. His mother has always been there to keep him safe. Except this place is different, and all he has to rely on is the girl that Roman might like. His long eyelashes flutter and his blues look up at her, trying to haul himself up onto hands and knees, but then he wobbles and just kind of collapses on the ground.
Well, shit.
Rating: Unknown, I'll say R just in case.
Characters: Anyone with a reason to be out in the forest on the night of the full moon.
Summary: It's the full moon and Peter's first shift in a new place.
Log: It was the Harvest Moon.
The white globe of it still hung low in the sky, yellowed by errant particles of dust in the air in dazzling contrast against the deep, midnight sky. Peter stood on black paws that left light prints on the earth as he surveyed the unfamiliar forest. His eyes burned bright, bright gold, his gaze with its sharp eyes held that worldly look to them that Peter got sometimes. As if he was older than the seventeen year old boy with bright blues who smoked too much and made off-color jokes and relished in the fact of being an outsider. He was large, sleek and powerful and too big to be a wolf, and he wasn't. He was lupus sapiens, the wise wolf.
The papers had called Christina the demonwolf, and maybe they had been right. She had been broken, an abomination. She had been full of too much hate and too much pain when she had turned, and she had never even heard the call of her own true name. Sometimes he wonders if he was the broken one. Was there something wrong with him that when she'd turned herself, from him, it had gone so wrong? Letha was dead, and there have been nights since he came here, when he wonders if she died for him.
When he howls, this time, it's for the loss he doesn't know how to say. In his human skin he ignores it, pushes it down, but as a wolf, he's maybe smarter. He shares the death that surrounds him with the moon, It's round, swollen with plenty, and it takes his pain as surely as it gives him his name.
Gypsy boy that he is, it's hard for him to turn down a party, especially with the prospect of sea-side entertainment, and maybe even free drinks. He might not take charity, but a party is something else altogether. But, it's the night of the full moon, and in a strange place, and Peter is so shaky with anticipation that his fingers can hardly hold a cigarette. His clothes feel itchy and like they're scratching at his skin, and the taste in his mouth is metallic and he licks at his white, human teeth and he grins. He heads out to the forest a little early, and he finds himself wishing that Roman had his car. That he could just curl up in the passenger seat of that cherry cherry red convertible and watch the blond as trees swung into view. The thing was fucking metal and as much a part of Roman in Peter's head as his green roofie eyes or his fucking last name.
He watches the sun, but more than that he's listening. Listening for the way the world calls to him in the old tongue, calls him by a name that carries more weight and just as much a product of gravity as the moon and the tides themselves. He tugs off his rings, his bracelets, yanking his shirt off over his head as he grins wolfishly at the other teen. Peter loves this. Not even the death, and the fighting, and the girl with a broken neck, the scent of which some nights still feels heavy on his skin, can ruin this for him: the nights where he sheds his human skin, and walks the forest with his senses magnified; stronger, faster. Once a month where all the bullshit, and his human cares are devoured like his pale skin.
"I didn't really think you'd want to keep watching. Figured it was too messy for a fucking Godfrey."
He's teasing, something to take the edge off, because there's always this tension, where he's stripping in front of Roman and he's always way too fucking aware of how it could all go wrong. That if they aren't snarking at one another he might do something he might not regret until after.
The sun has just barely hit the horizon, the day is still warm and the sun is still blue, and there comes a howl that carries loud and long. A wolf, a werewolf, the forever howl as his voice throws to the sky, to the world that whispers his name. He's left Roman behind in the clearing, because there's no way the Upyr can keep up with Peter when he's like this. His legs spring forward and he might not be Nicolae, not so fast you could never be sure his paws touched the ground at all, but he's still faster than anything on two legs, than anything natural. He is black as midnight, with gold eyes, a thin scent of blood, but it's his own blood. from flesh and bones and a body that disappeared off the floor as if it had never been. Maybe it's a little bit of magic, but it never stays for hunters to find, unlike his pawprints and the occasionally hairs from his coat.
He doesn't know this place, and he lifts his snout, breathing in unfamiliar air, and he still howls. He howls for Nicolae, even though it's been three years since he hasn't run alone. He knows the words Nicolae said, the words Peter tells himself when the world around him seems empty: about how werewolves don't need a pack. But Peter doesn't always believe it. He misses having his uncle at his side, the white wolf that ran ahead of him, and tolerated his gangly idiot self for the better part of a year, until that night where he left Peter behind, alone, howling like the lost cub he was until he made his way home to curl up by his mother's bed.
The first howl of every moon is for Nicolae.
The nearest familiar scent turns out to be a beautiful redhead with eyes bright but different from Peter's own gold. He seems strange and out of place -- a giant black wolf with searching gold eyes, but the juxtoposition of the familiar and the strange only last a moment. The sun creeps just a little higher in the sky, and in a sight Roman had once described as beautiful, jet dark fur changes to white-pink human skin, gold eyes are replaced with blue, and instead of a wolf, there's a very naked, vulnerable boy that collapses at her feet with a soft whine.
Shifting always exhausts him, though Nicolae always made it sound like that was his fault. As if he was somehow irresponsible; stayed out too long or didn't exhibit control or some shit that Peter's never quite worried about. His mother has always been there to keep him safe. Except this place is different, and all he has to rely on is the girl that Roman might like. His long eyelashes flutter and his blues look up at her, trying to haul himself up onto hands and knees, but then he wobbles and just kind of collapses on the ground.
Well, shit.