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.
no subject
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.