velveteenwolf | Dancer AU

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Dancer AU

It was a late call for practice; not until mid-afternoon. Peter and a couple of the other boys had shown up a few hours early to put in some work on one sequence they'd been having trouble with the rhythm of, but, they hadn't actually made it out of the dressing room. It wouldn't be a problem, except that Draco, the blond, had actually mentioned it to Roman. It had been casual, nothing for certain, but it was enough to potentially prompt the Godfrey heir-apparent to come looking when the studio remained empty. Peter was oblivious, at least for the moment, caught up in it as the darker haired boy, Harry, fucked into him. Peter was bent over a table, Draco's hands tight in his long hair as he rocked into the Rise's mouth with lewd, wet noises.

Peter was sort of, well, like that. He liked sex, and was defiantly unashamed of the fact. He'd fuck any of the boys in the show, as long as you understood that the closest he got a relationship with mutual pleasure, working relationship, friends-with-benefits sort of thing. He'd fuck any of them, well, as long as you weren't Roman Godfrey, his co-star.

Roman had something of a reputation for it, to be fair. He'd fuck his co-stars once or twice, and then start fucking other people when they bored him, and by the end of one run of a show, they were out of the company. With his mother running the organization after the suspicious-but-unprovable suicide of her husband, it was no surprise, really. It made it a cursed promotion; none of the other dancers currently part of the troupe wanted it.

Of course, the fact that Peter refused him just seemed to make Roman more intent. Flirtatious looks, lewd comments, stray touches -- there had been attraction since they first looked into each other's eyes. It was about to get a whole lot worse, though. A fact that Peter realized as he looked up to the door on a whim, and his blue eyes locked with Roman's greens. He couldn't look away. And if Roman had been looking for any time at all, it was impossible to miss how he started rocking his ass back onto Harry's cock, or how he seemed to get even more enthralled as he sucked at Draco's dick. Leaning up, letting him sink in deeper between his lips so that it all disappeared down his throat.

Putting on a show. And given that his eyes never wandered, it was impossible to miss just who it was for.

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Roman had been here since early morning, still later than Olivia had arrived, more to prove a point than anything. It was to the point that no one batted an eye to see the red Jaguar parked outside at all hours, early and late.

He’d spent the morning alone in one of the private rehearsal studios, running through a scene that was particularly challenging. He spent a near obsessive amount of time practicing alone, even if for this particular sequence there was only so much he could perfect without his Rise. Without Peter.

The practice later would bring that piece into place that was Peter dancing along side him, that would enable him to get this down, let his body memorize Peter’s. There was already a chemistry between them that was electric. It happened without thought, like a reflex, like their bodies spoke in that natural language between a brain and a limb.

The problem was in the tempo, in the rhythm between them. There was a near perfect interaction, but they swung off course, too fast, too erratic, so obviously interrupted by the thick cloud of sexual tension that hung around them. Peter claimed he wasn’t interested, but Roman wasn’t satisfied with his answer, especially when his body told another story.

Practice was going to be late, but he knew that Peter and a few others were maybe meeting around eleven. It was after eleven when he’d packed up from the room he’d been in and headed down to find them in the larger practice room they’d planned to meet in, but they weren't there. He moved through the halls, annoyed that they’d made a point to meet early and inconvenienced him by not bothering to mention they weren’t actually going to show - never mind the fact that the plans had been tentative - when he heard a noise that drew his attention to the dressing room.

He paused by the open doorway, looking in, eyes growing wide at what he saw. Peter was bent over a table being fucked from both ends. That fuck Draco was the one who told him they might meet, and there he is with his cock down Peter’s throat, hands in that long dark hair like he thinks he’s got some right to it. Harry’s behind him, fucking him, and jealous though he is, he can’t pull himself away. His eyes travel over Peter’s body territorially, drinking in how he moves. He’s rocking back on Harry’s cock like he thinks it’s good enough, like he thinks this pitiful excuse for a fuck is worth bending over for. Peter was better than this.

Roman is thinking about how Peter would know, how he’d learn how much better it could be if he were in Harry’s place behind Peter, how the way they fucked would be so much better, so much more natural, easy and beautifully fluid motions, like they’d been made so that their bodies could move together.

Roman realizes all of a sudden that Peter is watching him, their eyes locked together. Peter’s swallowing that cock deep into his throat, and the show he’s putting on is a cheap one, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Roman can’t look away, because it’s a show that Peter’s putting on for him, and he can’t get enough of it even if the baseness of it has his skin crawling.

Edited 2013-12-02 05:34 (UTC)

The problem, of course, is that the chemistry between Roman and Peter is nearly a physical thing. How people can tell when the other enters a room because their body language, the tension changes. When Peter dances as Odile, it's perfect. They build off the chemistry, and it's easy to see how the Prince gets seduced by the mirror image of his love. It's lust and darkness and they fit and move in a way that's deeper than Peter wants to admit to. It's easy to say it's nothing special; but his body knows better. It's impossible not to feel it when they move together, over and over.

He kept the words sealed on his lips: not interested. But they were a lie, and every time he said them it felt like Roman was more and more aware of how little he meant them. It had been getting dangerous before this, and everyone knew. Everyone, from Roman's mother to the other dancer's could see Roman's slipped touches and Peter's flushed skin and the chemistry that crackled between them.

And now there was this. There was Peter helpless to look away from Roman's eyes, helpless to stop fucking himself against those cocks in a way that said I want this to be you. He did. He just wasn't willing to risk the consequences. He's startled out of that searing eye contact and back to an awareness of Draco and Harry when Harry slaps a hand across Peter's round ass and there's a sound that rings in the small space.

"You wish it was him, don't you? Roman. You want it to be his cock thrusting into your tight ass."

Peter flushes a little and his gaze flicks a little, but, no. There's no way either of them can see the crack in the door. His gaze always comes back to Roman. To be fair, it's not like Draco lets him answer, a state of affairs that Harry seems perfectly content with. He pulls out, and the noise is slick and lewd and Peter whines into Draco's cock.

Peter is shameless. He likes what he likes, and has never pretended otherwise. It's different, however, just a little, having Roman's eyes on him. He'd smile if he could, because he's sure Roman judges him for it, and even then, he doesn't really care.

Harry's sliding fingers into him, toying with that rim that leads into his body as he leans in, pulling Peter's hair so his head yanks back. Draco has to adjust his angle, but he manages.

"You know, I saw his cock once. Hard after practice. He's bigger than I am, thicker. That's what you want, isn't it Rumancek? Godfrey's big dick?"

Draco's holding him down, pinned for the moment with the blond's cock all the way down his throat, right as Harry thrusts in again. But he doesn't take his fingers out. He stretches Peter, tugs at the rim on the younger man's body as he starts a less even, harder rhythm. Peter is flushing, and it's impossible to miss how his shakes every time Harry says Roman's name, how his slim frame jerks and his cock twitches and there's that spark in his blue eyes.

He's gasping, roughly sucking in breath when Draco lets him go, and he joins in the teasing as he fits himself back into Peter's mouth. Harry chimes in as well, of course.

"Does it make it easier to pretend like this, with my fingers fucking into you too? That's what you do, right? Pretend he's the one shoving his cock into your ass?"

The words were harsh, but harder was Roman's gaze and the fact that he couldn't say anything. Just wantonly suck at Draco as the blond rocked against his lips, watching Roman watch him. And fuck. He wants Harry to shut up, stop talking about Roman, because he's not exactly right, but he's close enough. Enough to give away that Peter likes being talked to like that, likes the thought of Roman fucking him. He likes everything he's ever lied and said not interested about.

He doesn’t want to be here anymore. Doesn’t want to stand here watching someone else, two other people fucking Peter like this. He doesn’t want to watch how Peter enjoys it.

He knows that later, at practice, Peter won’t give him the time of day and then he’ll turn around to begin dancing with him only to have his body telling another story as they move together like they were made for each other.

Jealous doesn’t scratch the surface of what it is that Roman’s feeling. It’s deeper than that. It might be called love if it was reciprocated, but even if it were it’s almost too possessive for that. Peter isn’t but he should be his.

Roman almost flinches when Harry brings his hand down on his ass. He’s on edge and all he wants is to pry their hands off of Peter’s body, but then Harry’s talking to him, taunting him, asking him if it’s Roman he wants fucking him, and that changes everything.

He wants to know the same thing, wonders if another answer will come through like this, vulnerable as he is between them. Peter’s flushing pink and Roman’s lips part in a silent gasp.

The physicality of it all, distasteful as it is, is suddenly easier to ignore because he’s straining to hear and see something else. He’s not focused on the sounds of Harry’s cock pulling wetly from Peter’s ass, he’s hanging on the edge of everything that might give Peter away.

It’s just Harry’s fingers and Draco’s cock while the question hangs in the air again, if Peter wants Roman, if it’s his thick cock that Peter craves, and then Harry’s pushing in again alongside his fingers and Peter just takes it. He takes it, and it’s suddenly obvious that it isn’t what they’re doing that sparks the reaction in him, that shakes him, it happens when they say his name, when they say Roman.

Harry doesn't shut up about Roman, much to Peter's growing near-frantic frustration. Because the look on Roman's face has changed, and it seems like he knows something, or at least he thinks he does, and Peter almost wants to slap the look off of his fucking face. Draco rocked his hips a few more times and then Peter was murmuring, sucking as his orgasm spilled down his throat.

"So what is it with you two, anyway? Behind closed door does he wrap a collar around your throat and call you his bitch? I bet you'd get on your knees in front of everyone if he told you to."

Peter's flushed, still catching his breath but his blues flash and the look that gazes into Roman's greens tries to lie. "Of course I listen, he's my anchor. It's not like that."

"Honey, I've seen an Anchor and a Rise work together before. That's not what you two do. That's kinky foreplay. Not that I'm complaining--"

Peter's about to say something, try and deny that it means anything, but then fingers clutch in his hair, yanking his head back. Harry's fucking him faster, harder and Peter can't help how he whines.

"Come on. Say his name."

And fuck, Peter can't help it. Not when he's looking into his eyes, when Harry's teasing him on every breath, ever rock of his hips that makes Peter's body jerk. He's so close, but it's not quite right, not quite what he needs. It's maddening, looking into Roman's eyes, his own blues glassy and he almost sobs.

"Just say it."

And Peter does, in a cry, and it's still on his lips when he comes, when he's shaking and spent and holding onto them both for support as his body trembles.

Just. Fuck.

He’s stood here hating Draco and Harry for fucking Peter when Peter won’t give him the time of day, but maybe he owes Peter a debt of gratitude for it. He’s pushing Peter, pushing him to think about their interactions, about how incongruous what he says is from how they are together. He pushes too far, but it’s clear that Peter needed that, needed it if he was going to admit it, if he was going to cry out for Roman as he comes.

He slips away when it’s over, before he’s caught for real. For a moment, he’s leaning against the wall beside the doorway, pressing the heel of his hand against his aching cock, and he knows he’s not going to make it through practice if he doesn’t get off first. He can still hear the sounds that Peter’s making inside that room as Harry finishes, fucking him through his orgasm, and fuck but that isn’t helping.

He slips down the hall and tries to make it into the bathroom but he’s caught by his mother, who conveniently wants to discuss the show and today’s rehearsal with him right now. In a single glance, she seems to know what’s up, even if she doesn’t know the details of what’s just happened. Her advice to him is to just fuck him already, that the tension between them is ruining their rehearsals, at least when Peter is trying to dance Odette. He shoots back some kind of sarcastic answer about how he’s trying, and the conversation continues.

Dancers trickle in for rehearsal, and by the time they do, Roman’s erection has dwindled on its own. He’s stretched out and warming up when Peter finally arrives.

Peter would have loved the chance to take a shower before practice, but by the time the three of them separate, Harry and Draco leaving, and Peter finally finding his legs again, he barely has time to get dressed again. So it's a rush job; drinking a lot of water to fight the dehydration, wiping off the sweat with a damp cloth, brushing out his hair and redoing his ponytail. And then fin ally, he's sliding back into his tights and leotard and lacing his feet into his toe shoes. He refills his water bottle and then he's heading to the studio, his steps quick for fear of being late.

He's one of the last in, just barely under the wire of being on the receiving end of Olivia's famously scathing tongue. He quickly ditched his bag and sets up doing his stretches, running through some basic motions at the barre before Olivia claps and brings them all to attention. She gives them a run down of what they're going to be working on, and while it's unsurprising, it also makes his heart lurch at the idea that him and Roman are paired up to work on the sequences with Siegfried and Odette.

Right now, Peter can hardly stand to look at him, so it makes things exceptionally awkward.

Roman can tell.

He can tell because if he’d showered, his hair would at least be damp, even if he’d skipped washing it. But when he moves close it’s obvious that he might have cleaned up, but he still smells of sex. He wears it like a perfume or a secret that can only be known when you come in close enough.

He wants to be repulsed, to have the reminder that other men had fucked him turn him off, make him want him less, but it doesn’t. If anything, he wants him more. Wants to pull him from rehearsal and lay claim to him, wants to move with him like Harry and Draco never could, wants to give him what they can only mimic and strive for. Peter should be his, and dancing with him today, knowing what he’s just done, having watched him come in the dressing room is making the dancing difficult.

It’s not as though they’ve ever gotten these sequences right. There’s always been too much tension between them, and it’s made the scenes with Odile work in a way that makes the air between them crackle with desire, but it doesn’t work here, with Odette. Their energy is off, and Olivia keeps stopping them, reprimanding them, reminding them how it should be and Roman knows what she means when she lets her gaze linger on him after her comments. He ignores her, because it’s quite hard enough to handle this without the knowledge that his mother and quite probably the entire company feels that they should just fuck through this blockade between them.

The tension is reaching a crescendo and it’s quickly approaching the point that something will have to give. The reigns of Roman’s control are held tight, but they’re straining, and all that he allows himself is to push. And push he does.

There’s a movement where Peter’s meant to stand in front of him and bend at the waist briefly before moving into a lift, and Roman takes that opportunity of having Peter, of the sequence necessitating their proximity to let himself brush against Peter’s sheer-tight-clad ass. It’s subtle, but with the show of aggression they’ve been putting on as they struggle to tone it down for Odette, eyes are on them and someone else is bound to notice.

It may be subtle, but it’s not entirely brief. It lingers and Roman makes a point of shifting his hips, grinding the thick bulge between Peter’s cheeks, showing him that, yes, Harry was right, he’s as big as they said he was, just what Peter apparently craved. And now, Roman knew that he wasn’t just capable of taking it, but that he wanted it. Wanted him.

His hands come to Peter’s hips as they prepare for the lift, and the beauty is that Peter has to move closer to get in position for it. He’s got no choice but to stay, or else he risks ruining the sequence again. They have to get in close so that Roman can lift him straight up, Peter’s body flush to his for a breath of a moment.

His hands are right where Harry’s were less than an hour before. He wonders if Peter’s hips are bruised, and holds him tighter, digging in, incase they were. He wants him to know, not to just have seen, but feel it in his skin that Roman saw him. He wants him to feel the possession that Roman feels, wants him to feel his hands like a brand, claiming him though he’s already bruised by another.

He’ll just mark over it, and then he’ll find a fresh place to leave a mark, and mark that beautiful skin until there’s no shadow of a doubt whose he is.

It’s not cocky or presumptuous now, because he knows it’s true. He watched Peter come over the dressing room table with his name on his lips. It’s no secret anymore.

“You can fuck the whole company if you want to, but we both know they can’t satisfy you…” he breathes in Peter’s ear.

Edited 2013-12-04 06:55 (UTC)

Peter keeps himself from outright gasping, but there's that catch to his breath, the way that his eyelashes flutter when he feels Roman's cock brush up against his ass. Fuck, but he wants him. He does, even if he doesn't let himself think about it, keeps himself from admitting to it. And Roman knows it, he knows it because of the way that he hints at this, makes Peter feel it like a tease, like I know this is what you want. His cock is thick, thicker than Harry's, and fuck but he was right about that.

His body shakes a little, but his feet don't waver; his balance as perfect as ever, even when he can't deny the urge to lean back into it, to drag the curve of his ass against the thick girth of Roman's cock through the thin-thin layers of their tights. He leans in for the lift; leans in and pretends that nothing's wrong, that everything is okay. That Roman isn't grinding against his ass like he wants to fuck him, and Peter isn't trying to pretend that he doesn't want him to. Because the truth is that it is an act, and that he does want him.

He's just scared of the price.

"Maybe I should fuck the whole company," he whispers back softly, just to him as his ass rubs against him, dragging the cleft between his cheeks against the thick girth of Roman's cock. "Maybe I just need more of them, should see how many I can take at once." There's a brief pause with those thin fingers pressing bruisingly hard against his hips. Layering over the ones Harry had left, maybe making new marks.

"It doesn't mean what you think it does." A lie, but it was one he needed to believe.

There’s a flare of anger at the suggestion, the idea that Peter wants to. It doesn’t matter that he’s just made the suggestion, that it was something he’d said first, just hearing him agree and suggest taking more than one at a time has him angry, possessive.

He tries to push it down, take a breath and calm himself, and though he manages not to react, he’s still holding Peter too tightly. In the moment before the lift, he comes a little closer and whispers against his ear, “Are you going to scream my name while they fuck you, too?”

Peter was lying. He was trying to get a rise out of him, because Roman knew. He’d seen him shake when they mentioned him, saw the look in his eyes as they’d fucked him, heard him cry out for him. He could deny it now, but he knew. They both did.

He shifts his hold on Peter’s hips as they move into the lift. It’s brief, a dozen seconds or more and he sets Peter gently back down, hands lingering on his body like he doesn’t want to let him go just yet.

There's a flush to his cheeks, his heart pounding in his chest at that question. He wants to argue it, but he doesn't get the chance, because then Roman is lifting him into the air. Peter knows the lift almost as well as breathing, and he move into it. The way that he shifts into Roman just so, that slight movement to his legs as he extends, that tension in his calves, and then Roman's setting him back down, his landing soft, though Peter knows that even more than before, their energy is off.

It's more than that. It's how Peter is hard in his tights, how his face is faintly flushed and his heart is racing, his blood thrumming in his vein like the tempo of Olivia's metronome that she breaks out whenever she feels that they're being particularly ineffective. She hasn't stopped them yet, which is startling, considering that even Peter can tell that they're off worse than usual.

"It doesn't mean what you think it does." Peter reiterates in a whisper. "He wouldn't have let me come, you know." It was half a lie. Because it did mean something. It meant exactly what Roman thought that it did.

Roman doesn’t see the flush, the bulge in his tights until the next moves, until Peter’s back on the floor. They happen in time but the rhythm is off, step, position, spin and turn, and they’re holding hands, two arms-lengths away, and in the split second before Roman draws him back in he can see the ruddy tell-tale blush and the inviting hardness under his blue-gray tights.

Then he draws him in, a would-be-easy spin bringing them back to front and Roman can smell him again, the sex that clings in the air around him and another scent that’s just Peter and sweat and his brand of deodorant. This feels right. Peter belongs here in his arms, not just on stage but off, and maybe he isn’t thinking yet about whether he wants something serious or not, but he isn’t, like Peter might think, planning to fuck him once and push him out of the company. Contrary to popular rumor, it isn’t Roman that makes them leave.

Well, at least not technically.

Roman’s hand moves down Peter’s body, and this isn’t even the slightest bit subtle. They’re preparing for another lift, Roman bent swept down and holding Peter’s body flush to his. It has the added bonus of putting Peter’s ass against his hips, and leaving Roman’s hands near his waist, and this has been Roman’s single favorite part of rehearsal now for weeks, just because of how perfectly their bodies fit together like this.

Roman’s hand is still in full view of anyone looking their way as it moves to obviously cup Peter’s erection, and there’s a lazy, catlike hum of appreciation in Peter’s ear as his fingers move over the length to get a feel for it.

“You’re a fucking liar and everyone knows it,” Roman breathes against Peter’s neck, more than a hint of aggression there as his hand moves up to brace on his body as they — finally — move into the lift.

Roman isn't the only one that loves this lift, loves how they fit together, although Peter really tries not to. He wants to remind himself that it's not worth it, that Roman is good, but he's not that good. He's not worth losing everything he's worked for over. But god, he can never remember that when they're this close together. The way that Roman's arms wrap around him and pull him in, hold him close, and there's a security he's never had anywhere else, and he has to try and tell himself it's just the parts that they play.

There's a terrible whisper that says that Roman doesn't fit together like this with anyone else.

They're flush together, his ass to Roman's hips, and he can't help that visceral response where his body jerks and he presses lewdly into the press of his cock. It's not hard to imagine Roman sinking inside of him like this, and he's dizzy with the want of it. He almost thinks he can push it out of his head, but then Roman reaches down, slender fingers cupping against Peter's erection and he curses mutedly, breathless and gasping for air as Roman hums appreciatively against his ear.

His breath is hot on his neck as they finally move into the lift, and it's almost obscene. The energy between them sharp and hot and like they're moments shy of just fucking then and there so that Olivia finally calls them on it. She tells them to take twenty, get a drink of water while she works with them on another scene.

Peter doesn't even bother trying to pretend -- he runs for the bathroom. He needs to get away, needs to put a wall and a lock between himself and Roman, because he's right. Of course he's right. He wishes it was the main bathroom door, but he's not fast enough for that. The Godfrey and his fucking long legs. And so, instead, it's the stall door that he slams shut and ratchets the lock shut. He almost collapses back against the door, his head tilting back as one hand rubs helplessly against the front of his tights.

"You shouldn't--" He tries to catch his breath, make it so he sounds less heated, less wanton when he talks. "You should leave."

Because Roman was right. He was a fucking liar. He wanted him, craved him and it shook through him, set his skin on fire.

They’re a perfect fit. Not just here, when he holds Peter cradled against it’s body, but it’s more obvious when they’re pressed together like this. He’s proving a point with the way they move together, with how they fit, and Peter knows it if the way he moves is any indication, pressing back against his cock in the moments before he lifts him in his arms.

When he does, the feel of his body in his arms is warm and heavy and all he wants is to sink with him to the stage floor, collapse together and fuck right there in front of everyone. He doesn’t, but god does he want to. Their energy is electric and it would be so easy to give in to it, but he knows even before his mother stops them that they’ve already gone too far.

He knew that openly fondling him in front of the company was pushing it, but he didn’t care. He’d do it again in a heartbeat if there was a chance that Peter would react like this again, ass pressing back, Peter’s lithe body unable to resist the warm press of his own.

It’s only when Olivia tells them to stop that he realized time had seemed to slow between them while they danced, because it all speeds up and spins out of his control. Peter’s rushing off stage and Roman has to rush after him to catch up — there’s not even the pretense of either of them stopping off to get their water.

He’s just a second too late, slamming the bathroom door into the wall as he rushes through it, just in time to see Peter locking himself in the first stall he comes to, hands practically shaking in his rush to lock himself away. It hurts to see his desperation to get away from him, and he feels like there’s a hand around his throat stealing away his breath.

Peter’s inside, leaning on the inside of the door - he can see his feet - and Roman stops just on the other side, bringing his fist hard against the door, a pounding demand to be let in.

“I’m not fucking leaving. Let me in,” his voice is shaking and his forehead presses against the cool metal of the stall door. Peter’s just on the other side and if not for the door they’d be pressed flush again, like they were on the stage floor, Peter leaning into him for support instead of cold metal.

"Can't. I can't."

Peter's voice is flushed, heated with clear desire. He'd denied it before. Brushed off Roman's advances with every refusal he could think of. None of them have been true, and those lies are useless now, after that dance, after how they fit together, moved together. Roman has to know, if he didn't standing in the doorway as Harry and Draco touched him and pressed into his body.

He knows Roman isn't leaving, but that doesn't stop him from stroking fingers over his erection s he shakes his head vaguely against the metal; in response to a question that hasn't actually been asked. He does want him. He wants Roman to fuck him, he wants those hands on his skin, those lips on his mouth or whispering against his ear.

He's so turned on that he's almost frantic, completely unable to even pretend otherwise. His hands shoving his tights down, revealing slender legs, bare ankles under the stall door as he steps out of them. A low whine as he leans back, fingers curling around his cock.

"Please," and it was beyond fucked up but as fingers started sliding over his cock, Peter wasn't entirely sure what it was he was begging for.

Can’t.

Up until now, he’s said he doesn’t want him, isn’t interested when he so clearly is. This is a change, and Roman needs to know what it means, why he can’t when they both want it. His hand is curled tight, nails digging into his palm so hard they’re in real danger of cutting the flesh.

“You can’t? What do you mean you can’t?” Roman demands. Peter doesn’t answer him right away, and after a few seconds he pounds the door again with his fist, nails cutting in, impatient and angry and growing desperate. Peter was hard under his hand just minutes ago and he wanted to touch him again, wanted to fuck him, bring him off, feel the way his body moved back and back, harder, needy as he gets closer.

“You can,” he pushes, “Let me in, Peter… I want you. I know you want me, too,” his voice is lower, less like he’s demanding and more like he’s trying to convince him, like he’s trying to extend the force of his will and get Peter to open the door and let him in. Sometimes it works, but he doesn’t know just how or that it’s anything more than charisma, doesn’t know that he needs eye contact, and he doesn’t know that it’s not something that would ever work with Peter, that he’s not someone he can compel. It doesn’t mean he isn’t trying.

His forehead is the only point of contact with the door, eyes cast down to the floor, to his feet and the scuffed black ballet shoes that are worn in and conformed to the shape of his feet. He feels something happen first, before he sees it. Peter leans away from the door, and for a moment Roman thinks he’s going to open the door, but he doesn’t. Stepping back, Roman sees his ankles bare beneath the door and realizes suddenly that he’s taken off his tights.

That he’s naked in there and he still won’t let him in.

Roman bites back a groan and slams back into the door, shaking it on its hinges, and now he’s at the gap between the panels, straining to look in. He can see him, but with how Peter’s leaning against the door he can’t see much.

He realizes that Peter isn’t going to let him in, and something changes suddenly in him and he’s changing his aim.

“Move so I can watch you…” he can tell that Peter’s touching himself, that he’s slowly jerking himself off, but he needs him to lean against a different wall. He needs to be able to watch him, see his face. “Lean against that other wall and keep touching yourself.”

Peter gasps sharply, audible, as Roman bangs on the door of the stall. He doesn't have an explanation, at least, not one that he can put into words when he's this hard, when he wants him so much. He wants to slip the latch, let Roman into the stall, let Roman hold him down and push into him. Fuck, he can't get the image out of his head, and it makes him shudder, a low moan on his mouth.

Roman's voice changes, shifts lower, and it makes him whine, his head tilting back, his cock twitching in his fingers. "I want you, but--" He doesn't finish what he's saying just shakes his head, let's the words I can't be carried on the still, silent air. He knows what Roman is, even if he doesn't. He knows how easy it would be to let him in, let him talk him into what he already wants. But then he'd lose everything that he's worked so hard for.

He gasps as the door shakes on its hinges under the impact and there's a brief flash of terror that he might just knock the flimsy lock off. Just Peter and Roman and their same desire. But the words that come next isn't that same request. Move so I can watch you. And he does. Because Harry was right, and when Roman's voice is soft, almost pleading, it's almost impossible to do anything except surrender. Except for that one point he wont compromise on.

But he finds himself giving him this before he even thinks it through. His face is flushed, his head tilting back against the wall that he's shifted to brace against.

"Just.. don't." He trails off into a moan. Just don't come in. Don't push him like that when he can't say no.

The sentence hangs in the air, but it’s clear enough what he means. Roman feels torn in two between anger and desperate, blind desire, and he’s so fucking frustrated he wants to shake the stall apart to get in, to get Peter to understand that he can, that he doesn’t have to be afraid of this.

But everything changes when he’s receptive to his voice changes, less demanding and more low, suggestive, and that has Peter moving when he asks. He watches his slender body lean back against the wall in his line of sight, face flushed a delicious shade of red as he lets his head fall back against the wall.

Being told don’t hurts, but he ignores him because he’s not, he’s not breaking the door in to get to him. He’ll stay outside if staying outside means being allowed to see, means being allowed to talk him through touching himself.

Roman’s attention is drawn downwards, but he doesn’t let the hand wrapped around Peter’s cock keep him from drinking in the rest of his body and how his chest is rising and falling like he’s near-panic and trying to calm himself. He’s hardly doing more than holding himself in his hand and God if Roman were in front of him he’d push his hand away and stroke him slowly, large hand enveloping his cock easily.

He licks his lips slowly, and murmurs, “Show me how you like it…”

Edited 2013-12-09 06:54 (UTC)

He knows Roman's watching him, and his breath catches, sucking his bottom lips into his mouth as he spreads his legs a little. His hand on his cock starting to stroke as his other hand shifts to slide up his chest, touching, feeling. More contact, more sensation. His fingers tightening around his cock, starting to stroke more earnestly. Listening, because there's something about the sound of Roman's voice that pulls at him, makes him bend. Not in a way that has anything to do with what he is, but just the warmth and the feel of it.

He can almost imagine it. Having Roman in here with him, fingers sliding up his inner thighs, spreading Peter's legs so that Roman can fit between them. His blue eyes find Roman's green through the space between the door and the stall wall. He makes a heated, wanton noise, even knowing how dangerous that eye contact is, he can never quite keep from looking.

"Didn't know you were a voyeur, Godfrey," he breathes out, heatedly, playfully teasing; and immediately regrets the decision. It's acknowledging this, that it's happening. It's making it real in a way that Peter tells himself he doesn't want. Wants to brush it off and pretend this never happened.

But in truth, neither of them could have managed it anyway.

Roman’s hard watching Peter.

He can feel his erection pressing insistent against the cool stall door through his tights. He wants to be let in, wants to know why the fuck Peter will stand this far away from him with his cock in his hand, talking like he is, but won’t let him in.

His palm is bleeding. His nails dug too deep, broke the skin, and he can smell it. The copper scent of it fills his nostrils the way he wants the smell of Peter’s arousal to, but he’s not quite close enough for that.

He’s watching how Peter moves, how he’s touching himself, how his hand strokes faster, fingers tight, and he wants to push that hand away and take over. Wants to mimic and tease, give him what he wants but not enough. He wants to bend him over a table, like Harry had, or take him against the wall, or on the floor, or fuck but it doesn’t matter where.

Peter’s teasing him. His gut reaction is to shake the stall again because Peter’s frustrating and Roman’s a near-intolerable mix of angry and aroused. But mostly aroused.

His clean hand moves to press against his cock, to give something but the door he’s leaning on for pressure, for friction, and his bloody palm sweeps over his mouth. It’s part to muffle a sound - it’s the principle of the matter - and a part to quench a thirst.

It’s a thirst he’s always had, a craving no one he’s been with has understood or even tolerated.

His red lips are visible through the crack in the door as his hand comes away, and he breathes, “You fucking like it, Rumancek.”

Not so much a tease as it is a taunting observation.

"Yeah. Maybe you're right. Maybe I do."

It's impossible not to notice how those words make his voice catch, his breath coming faster, his arousal so obvious as his fingers stroke over his cock. His hips jerking, lifting away from the wall, so he's almost fucking into his fingers. He wants more. He wants it to be Roman's fingers, he wants to be bent over, or even better, shoved up against the wall. He wants Roman's strong hands holding him up like he does in their lifts as he fucks him. The intensity with which Peter wants Roman verges on terrifying.

He can see his bright red lips, but he doesn't put it together. Doesn't figure out that it's blood when he's so turned on, when he's touching himself and Roman's watching him with that consuming focus.

"Since you're being good, maybe I should give you a show sometime. What would you want to see, Godfrey?"

He gasps softly as his other hand slides down his chest, molesting his nipples and then over his stomach. It's pretty clear just how much this affects him, that he's not going to last too long.

The way Peter’s moving is fucking intoxicating. Roman’s attention skirts down his body, muscles taut and flexing as his hips come away from the wall. Roman imagines himself in front of him, or behind him, supporting him as he moves back onto him and arches away. He’s imagining hands catching those chiseled hips like when he raises him up in a lift and instead, guiding him down on his cock, sinking deep inside that body that’s all tightly wound muscle and motion.

Roman licks his lower lip slowly and the red comes away on his tongue, and Peter offers him a show. His gaze falls down to Peter’s cock in his hand, green eyes heavily lidded before attention snaps back to his face to watch his reaction as he says, “Finger yourself for me… I know you like having something in your ass…”

He also knows that fingers won’t be enough. They’ll be just a tease, they’ll leave him on edge, and it’s only fair to leave them both wanting more.

Peter gasps roughly, the sound shifting into a wanton sort of moan when Roman tells him to finger himself. He should tell him to fuck off, make some point about the principle of the thing and how he doesn't listen to what Roman tells him do. Not off the stage. But he's lost, caught up in the moment far too much to strand on principle, not that he ever could when it came to Roman.

So his hand drags up his chest to his mouth, sucking lewdly on his fingers as he lifts one of his legs, letting Roman see when those digits come free with a wet sound and then they're slipping between the cheeks of his ass.

He whines, squirming a little as he presses one finger inside of his body, his other hand stroking over his cock as he moans. He's squirming against the wall of the stall, a whimper as he arches and adds another finger, and starts fucking them into his body.

"F-fuck... Roman--"

No excuses this time, except for the sickening way their eyes meet, and how he wants his cock sinking into him because fingers aren't what he wants. His blue eyes are glassy, gaze fixed helplessly on Roman through the crack in the stall.

"It's not-- I want..."

I want you to fuck me, but he doesn't actually say that outloud. He just writhes against the wall, fingering himself as he makes it three and it's still not enough. Of course with the sound of Roman's voice and his own fingers on his cock, it doesn't take him too long to come like that.

"Roman!"

His name on his tongue as he comes, until he slumps boneless against the wall, panting and gasping, soft moans as fluid spills into his fingers. He can't make himself move for that moment, just stunned by the intensity of it.

"Fuck..."

It wouldn’t matter who walked in to the bathroom now. There’s no way Roman can tear his eyes away from Peter, no way he can move from this spot.

He watches as Peter moves like he’s going to do as he says, watches as his fingers tease up his chest to his mouth, watches his lips as he sucks them wet. He wants to feel those lips against his own, wants to feel them wrap around his cock the way they wrap around his fingertips.

Roman’s breath catches in his chest when Peter’s leg comes up, when he’s slipping his fingers down, between his cheeks and then inside. He’s still touching himself, still jerking off, but now he’s fingering himself, body arching as he moves against the wall.

He can see him take another and another and he lets out a breath he hardly realized he’d been holding when it feels like the end of I want is for you to fuck me…

Peter comes with his name on his lips, and Roman can’t help the strangled sound that escapes his mouth as he’s slumping back against the wall.

He doesn’t know why he won’t let him in, doesn’t know what it is that’s keeping him at arms length. This is more than want, more than how hard he is in his tights, how he wants to push him against the wall and take him. It’s near-obsession, how he can’t get Peter out of his head, how he can’t get enough of the way his body moves with his.

It’s how when Peter moves without him, he aches to be there, a counterpoint, a balance, his anchor.

He sees that Peter comes over his hand, but he’s watching his face, the change that comes over him in those moments after. For the longest time, the only sound is Peter’s softly uttered fuck and Roman’s rough breathing, until he breaks the silence.

“I want you,” he murmurs against the door, forehead pressing against the cool metal, but he’s still looking through, still watching Peter, unable to look away.

Edited 2013-12-18 06:49 (UTC)

It's terrible, but Peter want him too. In this way that terrifies him, consumes him, that no matter how many time he tells himself that Roman is no good for him, for his career, for the things he wants from his life, he can't resist him. He can't get him out of his head, can't help the way that when he dances alone, there are pauses, moments meant just for Roman. When he dances alone, he dances with his shadow.

He doesn't say anything at first, he just cleans up as best he can, pulls his tights back on, and tries to pretend that he can't still feel Roman's gaze on him. The smart thing to do would be to lean back and wait. Wait until Roman left, until he was alone to come out. Instead, he goes to the door, blue eyes meeting green as he finally opens the door, leaves them standing face to face.

Peter's breath is rough and uneven and he's staring into Roman's eyes. Standing in the doorway or the bathroom stall, looking up at him, blues slowly sliding down to his lips. Not just full as usual, but they're red - blood red, his senses supply - and he can't look away. He wants to say something, and he tries, mouth opening, and then falling shut when the words don't come.

He can't explain why he does it, how it happens, but one hand clings to Roman's shoulders, and he goes up onto his tip toes, his other hand catching against his jaw and tugging him down. He kisses him hard, wanton and careless.

But Peter doesn't just kiss him. He sucks Roman's bottom lip into his mouth and he chases the blood with his tongue. He moans into Roman's mouth because he needs this too. Primal and powerful and how it means something.

There was a few moments there that he was so certain that Peter was going to wait for him to leave before he opened the door, but then he’s moving. He cleans himself up and tugs his tights back on before opening the door.

Roman knows before anything else happens that something is. Maybe it’s less knowing and more hoping, near-desperately hoping that Peter doesn’t run from him again. Not now, not after this.

Peter’s breathing hard. Roman wants to touch him, wants to push him against the wall or envelope him in his arms, but he wants to let Peter come to him. He can’t risk pushing too hard when it seems like Peter’s finally so close to meeting him where he is.

It’s a long, breathless moment while he waits for Peter to make his move.

He knows that Peter’s looking at his lips, knows that he can tell what’s there now, that the blood on his mouth is obvious. It’s not what Peter thinks, the reason they leave. He doesn’t make them, doesn’t push them out when he’s done with them. The truth is that no one’s ever been okay with this side of him, the Roman that craves more than the touch of skin. Peter gets a taste of it, of what he hides when he kisses him.

It’s that moment that Roman knows that if Peter would just stop fighting himself about this, that he wouldn’t be like the others. He wouldn’t leave him. He knows it when Peter’s sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, licking the blood away.

Roman moves easily, though there’s a half-beat of hesitation, maybe because he can’t quite believe it’s happening, and maybe because he doesn’t want to scare Peter away. But then he is, he’s moving to be where Peter needs him to be, a hand at his back for support, to guide him closer, anchor him on the spot and in the moment.

Peter’s mouth tastes subtly of his blood, and it tastes of Peter, and the moan is lost between them as he pulls Peter away from the stall and in close.

He's so caught up in the moment, in the fading warmth of his orgasm, of the taste of Roman's blood on his tongue, the feeling of his lips against his that for a moment, he forgets why he's fighting this at all. It's there, heavy between them, desire and interest and so much want it's almost more like need.

He isn't pulling away. Not here, not right now. Instead he's pressing in, leaning into Roman's body, into how his hands grip at his back, supporting him, anchoring him here. There something about Roman, about his hands and the feel of it all... He feels safe, here, like this, with his hands holding onto him, pulling him in close like he does when they dance.

It feels like that; communication without words. And he loses himself in it, in the way their mouths fit together. A sigh that mingles with the moans, his hands moving to touch against his shoulders, curl at the back of his neck as he leans in close, their bodies touching, saying so much that Peter doesn't have the courage, or the words for.

He wants him, he needs him, he needs this he's just terrified. Terrified of losing it all because he doesn't actually understand, only knows the rumors.

Roman lets Peter in because that’s all he’s wanted to do since the start. Peter leans in and Roman moves back, guiding, leading him from the stall and backing them towards the wall, making slow headway, hands still at his hips, guiding him in.

He doesn’t understand Peter’s reluctance up until now, but this feels like he’s finally given up his hold on it. What he’s saying with his mouth and with his body is that he wants this, that the blood on his lips isn’t too much, isn’t going to chase him away like it has the others.

There’s a thrill of elation to know that it’s not too much, that Peter’s not pulling from him, disgusted at the smear of blood over his mouth. That instead, he’d dragged a tongue along it as if to savor the last, moaning as the flavor must have burst over his tongue.

He shivers as he feels Peter curling around him, hands at his shoulder, at the back of his neck, and he wants to turn them, push Peter against the wall just to gain the leverage to press their bodies that much closer, but he’s afraid of breaking this spell. Still, no amount of fear of ruining the moment can do anything to flag his erection which, as they move together, brushes against Peter’s body now and again, much less deliberately than it had in the studio. Roman wasn’t trying to make a point anymore. That point had been made. They both knew it was true, that Peter wanted just as much as Roman did.

Peter can't stop, can't get control of himself. All that he can do is lean into Roman, into his hands, into his lips. Because it's true, horrifyingly true, that Peter does want him. He wants his kisses, his touches, and he can't help how he moans and gasps against his dancepartner's mouth. Roman is beautiful and he feels so good against him. Warm and strong, and he needs.

He's so caught up, trapped in the feeling of their bodies, their mouths pressed together, that he doesn't fight, doesn't struggle. Doesn't resist this. Not as Roman moves them away from the stall and is pressing them in towards the wall. His body shakes every moment he can feel Roman's erection brush against his body and he wants. He wants to touch, to feel him, feel his pleasure.

There's a list of reasons a mile long not to, all the things he's told himself before, but for the moment, he's forgotten. Too overwhelmed to remember the reasons why not. He pulls back from the kiss, breathing heavy and his blue eyes lust dark.

"Roman..."

So many things he should be saying, but none of the words come to his lips. Just a look. A look that's far more desire than refusal.

He likes hearing his name on Peter’s lips, and chases the sound with his mouth, swallowing it as their bodies find the wall.

He turns them when he bumps the tile and lets Peter’s back press against it. He shifts against him, hips rolling forward as if of their own accord, letting the solid bulge of his erection nudge at Peter’s hip, between his legs, inviting and provocative all at once. It’s an invitation for him to touch, to continue, permission to let this move from just making out to fumbling together.

He’s alright with it not being sex yet, but he does want sex. He knows how Peter’s body moves and fuck does he ever want him moving like that on his cock. For right now, a hand, his mouth, his body moving against him, fuck, even just his hot breath teasing through the thin fabric of his tights is going to get him off.

He pulls from the kiss to breathe, forehead pressed to Peter’s like he’s willing him to read his mind. This close, his face is blurry, but green eyes still raise to scan blurred blue.

His hand moves up his hip. Peter’s body is familiar territory, one that Roman can’t help but feel possessive of.

His hand drags his shirt up a little. As it sweeps up over his chest, he can feel his nipple beneath the ribbed fabric. He lingers there, teasing his thumb over it again, feeling it react beneath his touch. Without thinking about the move, he shifts, nose nudging against Peter’s as his hand moves up and curls against his shoulder. The gesture seems to soften the urge of his hand, that suggestion that he wants him to sink to his knees between the wall and his body, the combination of it a wordless communication between their bodies that says he wants Peter on his knees, wants to feel his mouth, but that there’s so much more to this than just that.

Peter doesn’t move immediately, and he moves forwards, nipping at his lips just because they’re there, catching the reddened lower lip between his teeth playfully.

Peter gasps heatedly into the kiss, a flutter of his eyelashes as Roman switches their positions and presses him up against the wall. The tiles are cool through the thin fabric of his shirt, and he murmurs as their foreheads press together, and then Roman's strong hands are lifting up his shirt, fingers dragging against his nipple under the knit fabric and it makes him moan, his head tilting back.

He catches the meaning, the urging in the hand that presses against his shoulder. His blue eyes flickering up to look into Roman's green as best he can from this angle. He wants it, wants this, and that makes it so easy to just sink down to his knees, his hands trailing along Roman's body, touching at his sides until he's settled in front of him, between his body and the wall.

He pauses, leans in, nuzzles against his cock with a low exhale, warm breath and a lick of his tongue against his tights. Not enough to make it too obvious, but enough for Roman to feel it. He's lost, can't even remember why he was fighting this in the first place.

"Take them off," his voice is low, urging, as he drags his cheek against Roman's erection.

He’s almost surprised when Peter sinks to his knees.

He doesn’t want to be, but he is, he’s half afraid that the next step forwards is going to be the one that pushes Peter away. But it’s not. Peter stayed, leaned into his touch, receptive every step of the way until he’s kneeling at his feet.

Peter’s touching him with that same kind of possessiveness, hands skimming his body as he settles down like he’s laying claim to the sharp angles of his body. Roman can’t tear his attention away. He’s staring down at Peter, watching the way he leans in, nuzzling against his cock and fuck he can feel his breath through the fabric. He can feel warmth, the hint of tongue, and before Peter even says it Roman knows what he means, that the tights are in the way, that he wants them off, that he means to be licking his skin, tasting his cock and nuzzling against his bare body.

Hearing it is just a bonus, and Roman hums a low, appreciative moan as his hands drop immediately, easing the tights down his hips to mid-thigh, bringing the dance belt down with it, his cock springing free from the fabric.

He wants everything, anything. He wants Peter to nuzzle in, tease at him with his tongue, wants him to take him in his mouth, but he also wants to fuck into his mouth, his head trapped against the wall. He wants it hard and soft at the same time, wants it slow and right fucking now.

Peter doesn't want Roman in a transient, fleeting sort of way. He wants to keep him, wrap himself up in him. In the warmth, in the security, in the intensity of the way that Roman makes him feel. It's why the rumors are so damning; Peter can't just fuck him and walk away. His heart races every time they're close, every time they touch; he can't resist wanting more.

Peter moans as Roman pushes down his tights and his underwear, and almost immediately, he's leaning in, nuzzling against Roman's cock with a heated murmur and a slow blink of his eyelashes. It's a mistake, a bad decision, but Peter hardly has any choice. He need this, needs him, needs Roman. He's caught up for the moment in the need and the desire and just the feeling of it. Trapped in how good the touches and the proximity feels.

His hands stroke softly against Roman's bared thighs as he shifts, pressing in, slowly licking along the length of Roman's cock. He tastes so good, the feel of his skin, and his eyes close with a low hum of pleasure as Peter shifts his mouth, moves so that he's sucking at the tip, licking, eager and wanton. All that repression, all that he's been hiding behind gone like a bad dream.

The pleasure is obvious in his blue eyes in the curl of his lips, almost a smile as he softly sucks and licks against the head of Roman's cock. And then he's looking up at him, bright eyed as he slowly lets his thick girth slide in between his lips.

He’s starting to lose that edge of fear, the constant voice that nags and wonders if Peter’s going to pull away with the next touch or moan or brush of Roman’s hand.

He tasted the blood on his mouth. He’d licked it away from his lips as he teased his tongue in to deepen the kiss. In his mind, there’s no way this is a fluke, some accidental transgression that Peter will backstep away from.

He doesn’t know how things will be, of course. Doesn’t know if it will work out, if it will last, but that’s not the point. Nothing ever really lasts in the end, but there’s one thing that he knows for sure is that this is different than the other times, this response isn’t the flat no of revulsion.

Peter’s just finally stopped fighting it.

Peter leans in, nuzzling against him, and Roman lets out a long breath he’d hardly realized he’d been holding. His body wants to move. He wants to fuck his mouth, wants to watch Peter take it the way he’d taken Draco’s, wants to see his eyes shining and near-overwhelmed.

Long fingers skim through Peter’s hair just because he can. It’s stolen and intimate. He lingers, letting his fingers curl through his hair. He shivers to feel the way Peter moves, how his hands move over his thighs as he hums to himself, lips wrapped around the head of his cock like he’s cherishing the moment.

Roman feels drunk on this. On the moment, on Peter and the way he stares up at him, blue eyes heavily lidded and sultry, inviting. He wants to be fucking him. It doesn’t matter where, maybe against the door, maybe on the floor, hands and knees so he can feel that ass as Peter grinds back on him.

Peter murmurs, a flutter of his eyelashes as Roman's fingers slide through his long hair. It's intimate, yet another small gesture that preserves the lie of the moment -- that this is somehow actually okay. That he can have this, keep this, and not lose everything in the end. He wont keep Roman, isn't arrogant enough to think he's some special snowflake that will hold his interest where no one else has. But for the moment, it all feels good, right, and he leans just a little into Roman's hands as he presses deeper onto his cock.

He wants him, wants this. Gentle and rough and however they fit together, he just wants to taste him. He wants to feel him. His hands slowly sliding up over his hips, tugging him in a little, as he slides down, takes him deeper as he sucks, slides his tongue against skin and lets the girth of Roman's length brush against his throat. Not quite all the way, but he could, he wants to. He just doesn't want to rush it. Right here, right now, he wants to make it good, wants to make it last.

There's a low moan on his lips, his blue eyes sliding closed for a moment with a hint of a sigh. He'll flinch away later, when it sinks in, but for now, the pleasure, the want, it's too much to resist. He can fall into this, feel how it snakes through him, hot and intense. As much as he tries to deny it, he does want him, wants him like this. In his mouth, against his fingers, wants to touch and feel in the way their dances promise.

There's a brief moment, down on his knees, where he thinks he might actually care about him. Just a little.

It’s not going to last.

Not with how long he’s wanted this, how long he’s wanted more from Peter than just the touches when he lifts him, when their bodies move together in the studio, on the stage. He’s watching Peter lean in, take him deeper into his mouth, feels the head brushing the back of his throat and god he’s gorgeous, blue eyes staring up at him through those heavy lashes.

The moan travels through him, hits him like a shiver of sensation, and his hips arch into it. He’s pressing in, a little deeper, pushing the boundaries between them, and it would be so fucking easy to fuck his mouth, to not give more than a passing thought to whether he’s pushing too hard or asking too much and just let his head fall back against the wall, pinned there by his hips.

His hips twitch, and he groans, heavy and breathy, and barely breathes the words, “I wanna fuck you… right into the fucking wall…” one arm braces him and the other hand rakes through Peter’s hair, messing it up, curling in it as he adds, “Just like this…”

He won't really push that far, not unless it's alright, unless Peter can really handle it, because this isn't all one sided. It's not just about what Roman wants without consideration for Peter. He wants to be let in, wants to give him what he wants, what he craves, and he knows that it includes this, pushing the boundaries, roughness that not everyone would like. He'd seen Peter in the changing room earlier, he knew that he got off on being treated roughly, but that didn't mean he'd push without permission.

There's a murmur, breathy and hot as Roman leans in, hips pressing into Peter's mouth, and he knows. He knows that he's holding himself back, that he's not pressing in like he wants to, not taking what he wants. He could. Peter would have let him, but he's not, and even if it will take a while for Peter to admit it, that does mean something. Mean that he means something, and that maybe the rumors aren't all there is to the story.

The words are hot, and Peter whines, muffled into his cock, those blue eyes looking up, connecting to those spooky green eyes. His fingers curl tight against his hip, and he slowly leans back, back until his head touches the wall and it's only the head of Roman's cock in his mouth, resting against his tongue, and Peter's looking up at him. Hot and needy and inviting.

It's not outloud, but it's almost. He's not quite brave enough for that, not yet. It would break this fragile, crystalline dream to say what he wants, to say it like he can really have it, hold onto it. And so he doesn't, he just looks at him with lust-drunk blues and sucks on his cock in a way that's almost like worship, almost like begging.

Peter likes it rough, but he also likes how Roman let him decide. Based on what people say, he wouldn't have expected it. But if he's honest, he's always wondered how someone like how people talk about Roman could dance with him like he does. In part, it's an excuse. To keep it casual, to keep pulling away.

It's easier when he tells himself he's not willing to risk his career.

Peter knows what he means. He can tell, can see it in his face, in his eyes. In the way he leans back, hands braced against Roman’s hips as he lets his head touch the wall like he’s inviting Roman to follow him with his hips, with his cock, to fuck forward until they’re close again, until Peter’s got a mouthful of him and not just the head.

He would like to hear him ask for it out loud, but this is enough, it’s an obvious permission even though it’s silent, like he’s afraid that saying something will break whatever they’ve tentatively got here. Roman should be. God, he really should be more afraid of breaking it, of pushing too hard, but it’s finally within reach and he can’t do anything but press on.

The look on his face is a request, it’s a silent push for more, like it isn’t enough to take it at his own pace, an obvious invitation for Roman to follow up that dirty talk with action, to do what he’s suggesting, what he’s teasing him with.

It’s only now, only when it’s this clear that Peter’s asking for it just as clearly as Roman’s saying he wants it, that he presses forwards, fucking into Peter’s mouth, knowing that he’s trapped between him and the wall. He’s not going to push too far, not going to hurt him, not going to ignore signs that it’s too much, but the fact that it easily could be too much, that it’s one step from rough, from the kind of fucking he’d seen Peter a part of earlier turns him on. He wants so much he can hardly stand it. More than this, more than sex, more than fucking him into the wall. He wants to keep him, wants to do this over and over again, wants to learn his body the way he knows it in the studio, wants to learn just how he likes to be touched because it isn’t all about this either, it isn’t all about him, about Peter on his knees.

After that first push forwards, he rocks in again, starting to do it, to fuck his mouth, feeling the head of his cock drag over the roof of Peter’s mouth as he moves in. His arms are braced against the wall, and his head falls forwards against it with a long, slow groan. It’s casual, the way filthy bathroom sex almost always is, but he wants it to be more than that.

Peter doesn't know how to ask for it, so he lets his eyes do the talking, lets his mouth, and he hopes that it's enough. And Roman waits for it, waits for that shine of permission, the way that Peter leans back against the wall and tugs, urges, asks for him to move in closer before he moves. That first push isn't deep, it's like he knows, like he's worried about hurting him, pushing too hard, too much. It's pieces of a puzzle that Peter doesn't really understand, and isn't even looking at right now.

He's not worrying about rumors, or feelings, or anything except how Roman feels as he presses into Peter's mouth. He's trapped against the wall, but that's okay. He likes it, is turned on by that fact, by how they fit together like this. He groans, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment, just letting him push, rock in against him, hips against his lips.

His eyelashes flutter, blue eyes finding those greens again for a moment, his face flushed, lips glistening wetly in the light of the bathroom as his hands stay on Roman's hips, fingers curling just a little every time that he pulls back like a silent entreaty to slide back deeper into his mouth. He can take it, he knows he can, even if Roman is thicker, feels good, tastes good against his tongue.

It's different, somehow. Different in that way that he wants to do this again. Someplace still and warm and quiet, do it again, fuck, curl up together after. With Roman, there's so much that he wants, even if he doesn't believe that they're things he can have. He moans heatedly, pupils dilated but not pulling away, even if he'd had room to.

Roman is different in this, just like he is in every other way.

The way Peter keeps looking at him make this more than it is. It’s anything but casual in that moment with their eyes locked. He wants more than this, shows it with his mouth and the pull of his hands.

Roman gives him what he wants, sheds the layer of worry that he’s going to give Peter more than he can handle when it becomes clear that Peter knows what he can take and that he wants it.

That groan tugs at whatever lingering threads of hesitance there still were. He can feel it hum around his cock and his lips part with a heavy exhale and a low sound. Fingers rake through Peter’s hair, encouraging, possessive, forehead still pressed to the tile wall as he stares down at Peter.

He keeps moving, hips rolling, the motion between them taking an edge of insistence that’s near as rough as those he’d witnessed before practice, when Peter had been caught between not Roman and a wall, but the two dancers. It had been slow for him to let go in this, to trust that Peter really wanted it, really could take it, but now that he did, now that he knew, he’s letting go, pushing to find out where the boundaries lie between them. Just how much could Peter really take? He’s careful, paying attention for any sign that it’s too much, ready to pull back, slow down or stop, but right now, he’s fucking his mouth hard, spurred on by the curl of fingers digging into his hips as if they’re begging more and harder.

Peter can't help himself, even if he's still scared, he's caught up in the moment, in the feel of it, in how Roman's hands curl in his long hair, their eyes locked as the other's hips rock against his mouth. He can't help leaning into it, begging for it with lips and fingers and sighs that muffle into the other dancer's thick cock. It's better like this. Better than Harry and Draco, better than any of the other boys in the company that he plays around with. There's a connection Peter's trying so hard to ignore, but it's there anyway.

He wants more, wants Roman to bend him over, fuck him so hard he forgets how to breathe, but he wont let himself. He pulls away just shy of it, except for this one moment, where he's strung so tight that he forgets all the reasons for fighting it. Because Roman feels so good, tastes so good, and with blue eyes on those too-bright greens, there's nothing casual about it. Sucking, moaning into his flesh as Roman fucks him against the wall, hands keeping his head from bouncing with the force of it. It's rough, and it's hot, and it's so fucking good.

Once it sinks in, he'll pull away, but right now, all he can do is press into it, tilt his head just so. He's letting his tongue slide against Roman's cock as he fucks into his throat. His face flushed, blue eyes glassy with how much he needs this, needs him, even if he's too scared to say it, to let it happen.

It’s barely just begun and already Roman is so close.

It’s Peter’s fault, the way he leans in like he’s begging him for it, for more, for harder. Roman gasps, the word slut tumbling off his lips with a tone like a compliment and whispered like a secret between them.

This is nothing like earlier, like Roman watching from the door as Peter was fucked by the two of them at once, but it has that same feeling. The wordless knowing, of watching and being watched, a language they understood without needing to know the words.

Oh, later he would fuck him. He knows there’s more to negotiate, that this wordless way they’d come together wasn’t enough, but it was a step, a sign that Peter accepted what everyone else was repulsed by. They could figure out the rest.

Right now, he’s pressing right back, he’s fucking into Peter’s willing throat, gasping at how fucking tight and perfect he is. He just takes it like it’s easy, and Roman’s reaching his climax so fucking fast it’s damned near embarrassing. He can still smell, still taste the metallic flavor of his blood, lingering in his mouth, on his lips, but it’s not the blood he’s focused on as he comes down Peter’s throat, but his glassy blue eyes and how utterly fucked he looks, lips wrapped around his cock.

That word sends a shiver through him, a breathless noise because he likes it. Being treated rough just like this, that permission in his blue eyes. Roman can call him anything he wants because it's not about disrespect. It's a little sharp, but it's hot, it's an accent to his fingers in his hair and his cock down his throat, and Peter loves it, as much as he wishes it was otherwise.

Peter doesn't pull away, he just lets it happen, moaning as Roman's release slides down his throat in soft pulses. His lips flushed, slick, a little swollen, bruised from the press of Roman's hips. He wants Roman to fuck him. He doesn't know how to admit it, doesn't know how to pull away from it, but it's a truth that they both know. His fingers tightening against his hips, hard, leaving little red crescents of his nails on Roman's skin.

He's gasping, rough and low and so utterly fucked, completely undone slumped back against the bathroom wall. And for a few moments, fighting to catch his breath, he's not guarded. It hasn't caught up to him just yet, the reality of it hasn't sunk in and so he just leans against the tiles with his long hair falling messily over his shoulders.

".....Fuck." Because what else is there to say right now?

The moment doesn’t last, but nothing does.

It started as awkward and only got worse as they recovered, Roman from the orgasm and Peter from how caught up he’d gotten in the whole thing. Roman didn’t expect him to pull away so fast, especially not quite like this.

It came out that the reason was that Peter knew, knew why they left, why anyone who got with Roman was doomed here. That it was Roman’s fault, that he got bored, orchestrated them being let go or simply pushed them to resign their contracts.

It wasn’t true, but hearing it was such a shock that Roman didn’t have time to set the record straight before Peter left. He just stood there, in slack jawed shock as he watched Peter pull his clothes back on, run his fingers through his hair and leave. What could he say?

He could have explained. After, he knew that he could have, should have, but he hadn’t expected that kind of rejection, hadn’t expected Peter to pull away again after it seemed that they’d finally bridged the distance between them.

He let him go.

He’d needed time, time to think, time to figure out just what to say and if Peter would even give him the time to say it. Things were awkward, and the dancing was stiff, almost forced. It wasn’t the same kind of awkward that made dancing the scenes with Odile work. That had been so heavy with sexual tension, while this was uncomfortable, hurt feelings and confusion. Any time their bodies came too close, any time it approached anything like intimacy, Peter pulled away, or pushed at him, at hands that might try to linger.

This had to stop. He had to tell him, but each day that passed made it that much harder to tell him the truth. To confront him and end this. He was afraid that, like when they danced, Peter wouldn’t hear him out, that he’d push him away and turn cold. He’d rehearsed what he’d say to him a hundred times in his head, and was waiting for a moment when Peter would listen, when he wouldn’t pull away.

Maybe the Christmas party hadn’t been the best time, but seeing him in that dress had made it impossible to stay away. Knowing Peter wanted him to was like a knife twisting in his side. He’d waited until Peter was alone and came over and stammered through his explanation, telling him how it wasn’t anything he actively did that made them leave, but that it was their choice, their reaction to Roman on a visceral level, repulsed by his proclivities once they’d seen… and Peter had seen and hadn’t pulled away. Peter, as far as Roman knew, only stayed away because he thought that Roman would grow bored of him, because he misunderstood the truth, only seeing the rumor.

Peter doesn’t say much after his explanation, but there’s something different. He hears him, and it registers, but it hasn’t really sunk in yet. So Roman leaves it there, gives him time, even though it’s the hardest thing to do because all he wants is to stay, to finally, finally come close again.

He doesn't say anything because it sounds like truth, because his heartbeat flutters with hurt and vulnerability and hope and Peter doesn't know how to process it all at once. He doesn't even know how to deal with the fact that despite how awkward, how wrong everything has been, that he dressed up for Roman anyway. A little red dress that flared over his hips and thighs, satin fabric that shimmered in the light.

And then finding out that he'd been wrong, and now he just felt like an idiot. There was a part of him that almost wanted to push himself on Roman, kiss him and beg to make up for lost time, but it was too confusing. Peter had never been good with feelings, and now he didn't have that convenient lie to hide behind. He didn't have any denials left, except for the fact that it scared him.

They don't talk about it, but the dancing becomes easier. Not just like before, but the scene where it's Odette and Siegfried finally slowly start to come together. Instead of just raw desire, there's the first showings of what might be intimacy. Olivia, who had been as tolerant as she was capable of when they'd fit together all wrong, took the opportunity to start pushing harder.

Practice regularly ran late, and not having much of a home to go back to in the first place, Peter had always had a tendency to sleep in one of the smaller studios. He'd stayed late after rehearsal, working on Odette's solos. The arm motions, feelings conveyed in fingertips. When he was so exhausted he didn't think he could manage one more pirouette, he just pulled out a mat, and fell asleep.

He had a bag he kept in one of the changing rooms: a change of clothes, both for the studio and the world outside, a towel and such things, a pillow and a box of his favorite tea bags. Just for nights like these. As tired as his body was, it was easy enough to fall asleep, even without a blanket.

Letting him have the time he needed felt excruciating, but he let him have it.

It wasn’t as though he could completely avoid him. There was still rehearsal, and it consumed so much of their waking lives that not talking about it, not asking him about it was maddening. He wants to know what Peter thinks of it, if, knowing now what he knows, if he’d change his mind, if he would be willing to try. Peter’s the only one who hasn’t pulled away when they saw, and the rumors of those who had had nearly driven him away.

The only save was rehearsal. Dancing with Peter, and conveying to him what they weren’t discussing aloud. There’s still that desire that’s obvious with every touch, every brush of their bodies together or Roman’s hands on him, but it’s intimate. It’s a conversation between them carried out without words, says that if Peter will just let him, Roman will be there for him just like this, close and warm behind him, a promise of something like symbiosis, that they would fit together like this. He’s confident they will, in their own way.

They both need something and maybe they don’t yet know how the other will fill the lack, but they haven’t had the time or the opportunity to explore that. Roman just knows things sometimes, and this is one of them.

Maybe that’s what kept him late one night. In reality, he knew it wasn’t that, wasn’t Peter and any feeling of knowing. It was him avoiding going home, actively trying to piss off Olivia that had kept him late. He’d spent the time alternately going through the routines alone in the main studio and lounging against the wall, staring out at the dark seats, a lit cigarette between his lips.

Finally, he’d been about to leave, and was on his way to the dressing rooms to change when he switched directions suddenly. There wasn’t a sound that had tipped him off, he just had a feeling that he needed to follow. He stepped into one of the smaller studios and saw Peter asleep on a thin mat. Even without a blanket, Roman understood that he meant to stay the night here.

He wondered if Peter had nothing to go home to. There was a twist in his chest at that, more the fact that he didn’t know one way or another, the fact that so much of Peter was a mystery to him and all he wanted was to be let in.

He crossed the room in silence, movements carelessly graceful until he came to sit down beside Peter, careful not to make a sound that would wake him, and crossed his legs comfortably. When Peter didn’t stir and Roman was confident he could press through the space between them slightly more, he rearranged himself somewhat closer.

Close enough that, when he dared, he was able to tuck a stray lock of hair back behind Peter’s ear.

Peter wasn't a particularly light sleeper to begin with, and he was exhausted, so he didn't stir when Roman came close, shifting in closer to where Peter was curled up, almost fetal position on the mat, hands tucked in against his chest. He felt safe here, in the studio, even if things between him and Roman were awkward, complicated... maybe now more than ever, he still felt safe here. He had friends, ex-lovers, and this place was the pillars of his passion. Olivia might be cool, but they tolerated one another, based on a sort of mutual respect. She'd been a very, very good dancer, even if she was retired.

This place was home. He didn't really have one anyway; a little studio apartment he lived in by himself. He didn't really need a bigger place, but it got lonesome. Had ever since he'd stopped living with his mother, though he was pretty good at not letting it show.

Peter sighed in his sleep as Roman tucked dark hair back behind the gypsy boy's ear. He shifted a little, chasing Roman's fingers, nuzzling into them softly. He had always been desperate for affection, and he wanted Roman, he maybe even needed him, even if he had trouble with the words. With figuring out how to go from where they were now to talking about it.

He could only speak in how their bodies moved together.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Dancer AU

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