velveteenwolf | Dancer AU

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Dancer AU

It was a late call for practice; not until mid-afternoon. Peter and a couple of the other boys had shown up a few hours early to put in some work on one sequence they'd been having trouble with the rhythm of, but, they hadn't actually made it out of the dressing room. It wouldn't be a problem, except that Draco, the blond, had actually mentioned it to Roman. It had been casual, nothing for certain, but it was enough to potentially prompt the Godfrey heir-apparent to come looking when the studio remained empty. Peter was oblivious, at least for the moment, caught up in it as the darker haired boy, Harry, fucked into him. Peter was bent over a table, Draco's hands tight in his long hair as he rocked into the Rise's mouth with lewd, wet noises.

Peter was sort of, well, like that. He liked sex, and was defiantly unashamed of the fact. He'd fuck any of the boys in the show, as long as you understood that the closest he got a relationship with mutual pleasure, working relationship, friends-with-benefits sort of thing. He'd fuck any of them, well, as long as you weren't Roman Godfrey, his co-star.

Roman had something of a reputation for it, to be fair. He'd fuck his co-stars once or twice, and then start fucking other people when they bored him, and by the end of one run of a show, they were out of the company. With his mother running the organization after the suspicious-but-unprovable suicide of her husband, it was no surprise, really. It made it a cursed promotion; none of the other dancers currently part of the troupe wanted it.

Of course, the fact that Peter refused him just seemed to make Roman more intent. Flirtatious looks, lewd comments, stray touches -- there had been attraction since they first looked into each other's eyes. It was about to get a whole lot worse, though. A fact that Peter realized as he looked up to the door on a whim, and his blue eyes locked with Roman's greens. He couldn't look away. And if Roman had been looking for any time at all, it was impossible to miss how he started rocking his ass back onto Harry's cock, or how he seemed to get even more enthralled as he sucked at Draco's dick. Leaning up, letting him sink in deeper between his lips so that it all disappeared down his throat.

Putting on a show. And given that his eyes never wandered, it was impossible to miss just who it was for.

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Peter knows what he means. He can tell, can see it in his face, in his eyes. In the way he leans back, hands braced against Roman’s hips as he lets his head touch the wall like he’s inviting Roman to follow him with his hips, with his cock, to fuck forward until they’re close again, until Peter’s got a mouthful of him and not just the head.

He would like to hear him ask for it out loud, but this is enough, it’s an obvious permission even though it’s silent, like he’s afraid that saying something will break whatever they’ve tentatively got here. Roman should be. God, he really should be more afraid of breaking it, of pushing too hard, but it’s finally within reach and he can’t do anything but press on.

The look on his face is a request, it’s a silent push for more, like it isn’t enough to take it at his own pace, an obvious invitation for Roman to follow up that dirty talk with action, to do what he’s suggesting, what he’s teasing him with.

It’s only now, only when it’s this clear that Peter’s asking for it just as clearly as Roman’s saying he wants it, that he presses forwards, fucking into Peter’s mouth, knowing that he’s trapped between him and the wall. He’s not going to push too far, not going to hurt him, not going to ignore signs that it’s too much, but the fact that it easily could be too much, that it’s one step from rough, from the kind of fucking he’d seen Peter a part of earlier turns him on. He wants so much he can hardly stand it. More than this, more than sex, more than fucking him into the wall. He wants to keep him, wants to do this over and over again, wants to learn his body the way he knows it in the studio, wants to learn just how he likes to be touched because it isn’t all about this either, it isn’t all about him, about Peter on his knees.

After that first push forwards, he rocks in again, starting to do it, to fuck his mouth, feeling the head of his cock drag over the roof of Peter’s mouth as he moves in. His arms are braced against the wall, and his head falls forwards against it with a long, slow groan. It’s casual, the way filthy bathroom sex almost always is, but he wants it to be more than that.

Peter doesn't know how to ask for it, so he lets his eyes do the talking, lets his mouth, and he hopes that it's enough. And Roman waits for it, waits for that shine of permission, the way that Peter leans back against the wall and tugs, urges, asks for him to move in closer before he moves. That first push isn't deep, it's like he knows, like he's worried about hurting him, pushing too hard, too much. It's pieces of a puzzle that Peter doesn't really understand, and isn't even looking at right now.

He's not worrying about rumors, or feelings, or anything except how Roman feels as he presses into Peter's mouth. He's trapped against the wall, but that's okay. He likes it, is turned on by that fact, by how they fit together like this. He groans, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment, just letting him push, rock in against him, hips against his lips.

His eyelashes flutter, blue eyes finding those greens again for a moment, his face flushed, lips glistening wetly in the light of the bathroom as his hands stay on Roman's hips, fingers curling just a little every time that he pulls back like a silent entreaty to slide back deeper into his mouth. He can take it, he knows he can, even if Roman is thicker, feels good, tastes good against his tongue.

It's different, somehow. Different in that way that he wants to do this again. Someplace still and warm and quiet, do it again, fuck, curl up together after. With Roman, there's so much that he wants, even if he doesn't believe that they're things he can have. He moans heatedly, pupils dilated but not pulling away, even if he'd had room to.

Roman is different in this, just like he is in every other way.

The way Peter keeps looking at him make this more than it is. It’s anything but casual in that moment with their eyes locked. He wants more than this, shows it with his mouth and the pull of his hands.

Roman gives him what he wants, sheds the layer of worry that he’s going to give Peter more than he can handle when it becomes clear that Peter knows what he can take and that he wants it.

That groan tugs at whatever lingering threads of hesitance there still were. He can feel it hum around his cock and his lips part with a heavy exhale and a low sound. Fingers rake through Peter’s hair, encouraging, possessive, forehead still pressed to the tile wall as he stares down at Peter.

He keeps moving, hips rolling, the motion between them taking an edge of insistence that’s near as rough as those he’d witnessed before practice, when Peter had been caught between not Roman and a wall, but the two dancers. It had been slow for him to let go in this, to trust that Peter really wanted it, really could take it, but now that he did, now that he knew, he’s letting go, pushing to find out where the boundaries lie between them. Just how much could Peter really take? He’s careful, paying attention for any sign that it’s too much, ready to pull back, slow down or stop, but right now, he’s fucking his mouth hard, spurred on by the curl of fingers digging into his hips as if they’re begging more and harder.

Peter can't help himself, even if he's still scared, he's caught up in the moment, in the feel of it, in how Roman's hands curl in his long hair, their eyes locked as the other's hips rock against his mouth. He can't help leaning into it, begging for it with lips and fingers and sighs that muffle into the other dancer's thick cock. It's better like this. Better than Harry and Draco, better than any of the other boys in the company that he plays around with. There's a connection Peter's trying so hard to ignore, but it's there anyway.

He wants more, wants Roman to bend him over, fuck him so hard he forgets how to breathe, but he wont let himself. He pulls away just shy of it, except for this one moment, where he's strung so tight that he forgets all the reasons for fighting it. Because Roman feels so good, tastes so good, and with blue eyes on those too-bright greens, there's nothing casual about it. Sucking, moaning into his flesh as Roman fucks him against the wall, hands keeping his head from bouncing with the force of it. It's rough, and it's hot, and it's so fucking good.

Once it sinks in, he'll pull away, but right now, all he can do is press into it, tilt his head just so. He's letting his tongue slide against Roman's cock as he fucks into his throat. His face flushed, blue eyes glassy with how much he needs this, needs him, even if he's too scared to say it, to let it happen.

It’s barely just begun and already Roman is so close.

It’s Peter’s fault, the way he leans in like he’s begging him for it, for more, for harder. Roman gasps, the word slut tumbling off his lips with a tone like a compliment and whispered like a secret between them.

This is nothing like earlier, like Roman watching from the door as Peter was fucked by the two of them at once, but it has that same feeling. The wordless knowing, of watching and being watched, a language they understood without needing to know the words.

Oh, later he would fuck him. He knows there’s more to negotiate, that this wordless way they’d come together wasn’t enough, but it was a step, a sign that Peter accepted what everyone else was repulsed by. They could figure out the rest.

Right now, he’s pressing right back, he’s fucking into Peter’s willing throat, gasping at how fucking tight and perfect he is. He just takes it like it’s easy, and Roman’s reaching his climax so fucking fast it’s damned near embarrassing. He can still smell, still taste the metallic flavor of his blood, lingering in his mouth, on his lips, but it’s not the blood he’s focused on as he comes down Peter’s throat, but his glassy blue eyes and how utterly fucked he looks, lips wrapped around his cock.

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?

The moment doesn’t last, but nothing does.

It started as awkward and only got worse as they recovered, Roman from the orgasm and Peter from how caught up he’d gotten in the whole thing. Roman didn’t expect him to pull away so fast, especially not quite like this.

It came out that the reason was that Peter knew, knew why they left, why anyone who got with Roman was doomed here. That it was Roman’s fault, that he got bored, orchestrated them being let go or simply pushed them to resign their contracts.

It wasn’t true, but hearing it was such a shock that Roman didn’t have time to set the record straight before Peter left. He just stood there, in slack jawed shock as he watched Peter pull his clothes back on, run his fingers through his hair and leave. What could he say?

He could have explained. After, he knew that he could have, should have, but he hadn’t expected that kind of rejection, hadn’t expected Peter to pull away again after it seemed that they’d finally bridged the distance between them.

He let him go.

He’d needed time, time to think, time to figure out just what to say and if Peter would even give him the time to say it. Things were awkward, and the dancing was stiff, almost forced. It wasn’t the same kind of awkward that made dancing the scenes with Odile work. That had been so heavy with sexual tension, while this was uncomfortable, hurt feelings and confusion. Any time their bodies came too close, any time it approached anything like intimacy, Peter pulled away, or pushed at him, at hands that might try to linger.

This had to stop. He had to tell him, but each day that passed made it that much harder to tell him the truth. To confront him and end this. He was afraid that, like when they danced, Peter wouldn’t hear him out, that he’d push him away and turn cold. He’d rehearsed what he’d say to him a hundred times in his head, and was waiting for a moment when Peter would listen, when he wouldn’t pull away.

Maybe the Christmas party hadn’t been the best time, but seeing him in that dress had made it impossible to stay away. Knowing Peter wanted him to was like a knife twisting in his side. He’d waited until Peter was alone and came over and stammered through his explanation, telling him how it wasn’t anything he actively did that made them leave, but that it was their choice, their reaction to Roman on a visceral level, repulsed by his proclivities once they’d seen… and Peter had seen and hadn’t pulled away. Peter, as far as Roman knew, only stayed away because he thought that Roman would grow bored of him, because he misunderstood the truth, only seeing the rumor.

Peter doesn’t say much after his explanation, but there’s something different. He hears him, and it registers, but it hasn’t really sunk in yet. So Roman leaves it there, gives him time, even though it’s the hardest thing to do because all he wants is to stay, to finally, finally come close again.

He doesn't say anything because it sounds like truth, because his heartbeat flutters with hurt and vulnerability and hope and Peter doesn't know how to process it all at once. He doesn't even know how to deal with the fact that despite how awkward, how wrong everything has been, that he dressed up for Roman anyway. A little red dress that flared over his hips and thighs, satin fabric that shimmered in the light.

And then finding out that he'd been wrong, and now he just felt like an idiot. There was a part of him that almost wanted to push himself on Roman, kiss him and beg to make up for lost time, but it was too confusing. Peter had never been good with feelings, and now he didn't have that convenient lie to hide behind. He didn't have any denials left, except for the fact that it scared him.

They don't talk about it, but the dancing becomes easier. Not just like before, but the scene where it's Odette and Siegfried finally slowly start to come together. Instead of just raw desire, there's the first showings of what might be intimacy. Olivia, who had been as tolerant as she was capable of when they'd fit together all wrong, took the opportunity to start pushing harder.

Practice regularly ran late, and not having much of a home to go back to in the first place, Peter had always had a tendency to sleep in one of the smaller studios. He'd stayed late after rehearsal, working on Odette's solos. The arm motions, feelings conveyed in fingertips. When he was so exhausted he didn't think he could manage one more pirouette, he just pulled out a mat, and fell asleep.

He had a bag he kept in one of the changing rooms: a change of clothes, both for the studio and the world outside, a towel and such things, a pillow and a box of his favorite tea bags. Just for nights like these. As tired as his body was, it was easy enough to fall asleep, even without a blanket.

Letting him have the time he needed felt excruciating, but he let him have it.

It wasn’t as though he could completely avoid him. There was still rehearsal, and it consumed so much of their waking lives that not talking about it, not asking him about it was maddening. He wants to know what Peter thinks of it, if, knowing now what he knows, if he’d change his mind, if he would be willing to try. Peter’s the only one who hasn’t pulled away when they saw, and the rumors of those who had had nearly driven him away.

The only save was rehearsal. Dancing with Peter, and conveying to him what they weren’t discussing aloud. There’s still that desire that’s obvious with every touch, every brush of their bodies together or Roman’s hands on him, but it’s intimate. It’s a conversation between them carried out without words, says that if Peter will just let him, Roman will be there for him just like this, close and warm behind him, a promise of something like symbiosis, that they would fit together like this. He’s confident they will, in their own way.

They both need something and maybe they don’t yet know how the other will fill the lack, but they haven’t had the time or the opportunity to explore that. Roman just knows things sometimes, and this is one of them.

Maybe that’s what kept him late one night. In reality, he knew it wasn’t that, wasn’t Peter and any feeling of knowing. It was him avoiding going home, actively trying to piss off Olivia that had kept him late. He’d spent the time alternately going through the routines alone in the main studio and lounging against the wall, staring out at the dark seats, a lit cigarette between his lips.

Finally, he’d been about to leave, and was on his way to the dressing rooms to change when he switched directions suddenly. There wasn’t a sound that had tipped him off, he just had a feeling that he needed to follow. He stepped into one of the smaller studios and saw Peter asleep on a thin mat. Even without a blanket, Roman understood that he meant to stay the night here.

He wondered if Peter had nothing to go home to. There was a twist in his chest at that, more the fact that he didn’t know one way or another, the fact that so much of Peter was a mystery to him and all he wanted was to be let in.

He crossed the room in silence, movements carelessly graceful until he came to sit down beside Peter, careful not to make a sound that would wake him, and crossed his legs comfortably. When Peter didn’t stir and Roman was confident he could press through the space between them slightly more, he rearranged himself somewhat closer.

Close enough that, when he dared, he was able to tuck a stray lock of hair back behind Peter’s ear.

Peter wasn't a particularly light sleeper to begin with, and he was exhausted, so he didn't stir when Roman came close, shifting in closer to where Peter was curled up, almost fetal position on the mat, hands tucked in against his chest. He felt safe here, in the studio, even if things between him and Roman were awkward, complicated... maybe now more than ever, he still felt safe here. He had friends, ex-lovers, and this place was the pillars of his passion. Olivia might be cool, but they tolerated one another, based on a sort of mutual respect. She'd been a very, very good dancer, even if she was retired.

This place was home. He didn't really have one anyway; a little studio apartment he lived in by himself. He didn't really need a bigger place, but it got lonesome. Had ever since he'd stopped living with his mother, though he was pretty good at not letting it show.

Peter sighed in his sleep as Roman tucked dark hair back behind the gypsy boy's ear. He shifted a little, chasing Roman's fingers, nuzzling into them softly. He had always been desperate for affection, and he wanted Roman, he maybe even needed him, even if he had trouble with the words. With figuring out how to go from where they were now to talking about it.

He could only speak in how their bodies moved together.

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Dancer AU

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