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.
no subject
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.