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.
no subject
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.