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?