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.