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Roman won’t stop fucking looking at him.
Has been doing that for almost fifteen minutes and what the fuck, he should pay attention to the class instead of doing whatever he’s doing right now. Peter can see every move and every glance Roman throws since their seats are in the same row. It gives him the advantage to know without actually turning his head and staring eye to eye. And it’s truly frustrating. The fact that the whole class and even the teacher are not doing anything, not even acknowledging it, infuriates Peter even more. He knows it must have something to do with Roman being a goddamn Godfrey.
Peter shoots up a hand. Asking for permission to go to the bathroom. From his peripheral vision, Roman’s gaze sharpens as he straightens himself. Peter already stands up before the teacher can even allow him.
He knows well that Roman, without doubt, would follow him to the bathroom.
Thankfully, the bathroom is void of people and Peter does his business because he actually needs to piss. The moment he finishes up, fingers barely leave the zipper, the door opens up and reveals none other than Roman. Peter avoids him and heads to the sink. Roman’s reflection is in the mirror, pressing one shoulder to the wall. Waiting.
“Got a fucking problem, man?” asks Peter without looking up. The water is cold against his fingers.
“I miss you.”
And, what the fuck. “Get a life.”
Roman pushes himself straight, approaching him. Placing himself right behind Peter like he’s caging him in. He then tenderly tucks Peter’s hair to the side, revealing his neck.
“Get your hands off me.” Peter smacks it away with his still-wet hand. Doesn’t care if he flicks water all over him. Their eyes meet because Peter turns his head to spare him an angry look. Roman’s eyes are dark. Wanting. “I’m not your fucking girl.”
He should’ve left then. Should’ve pushed Roman away because he can and he should. Because they are not a thing anymore. Peter broke up with him a week ago. Cut whatever string they had. Spat “we’re done” through clenched jaws, words laced with venomous poison while Roman’s hand still hung in the air, offering his cigarette since they always shared. Turned himself away to flee from the situation and from Roman but only for him to be dragged back in Roman’s arms, fingers around his jaw and words of “you’re mine,” to his ears heavy with ownership before finally those arms letting him go. He should leave because Roman is not actually trapping him to the point he can’t move, as if he’s testing Peter. His hands loosely linger on the sink, circling around Peter which gives him the impression he is caging him. But he actually isn’t. Peter can just elbow the fucker’s ribs and go back to class. But no. Peter does none of those. Instead, Peter stays.
Here is the truth: Peter needs Roman. His bones ache since they broke up, keeping distance away from him. In that week since the break-up, he had been secretly trying to fuck Roman’s cousin. She was pretty and she was there. But she had flinched, wide-eyed like there was a tattoo over his forehead that read ‘Roman Godfrey’s property’ or whatever. Partly, he’s grateful at that because he knows, either way, he’ll find a way to crawl back to Roman’s lap.
Roman’s expression is flat but those greens glint because he knows. “Drop the act. No one’s here.”
“Did your brain get fucked by stupid?” He turns off the sink and wipes the remaining water to his vest ungracefully, watching Roman from the mirror with heat. “What part of we’re done that you don’t fucking get it?”
“Like I give a shit.” Roman’s gaze falls half-lidded, dropping his head slightly, face almost touching Peter’s shoulder. “You’re mine.” He mumbles those words quietly, lips pressed to the clothes like he’s trying to embroider the words past through them and to the skin.
“You don’t own me.”
He hums, low on the throat. “I know you tried to fuck my cousin.”
Peter’s face twitches. “Huh.”
“I told her to stay. Away,” says Roman as he raises his head, meeting Peter’s gaze through the mirror.
His eyes are sharp shades of green. Like jealousy. And Peter understands. Roman used his freaky eyes on Letha.
He has his suspicion toward Roman. Towards how far the taller boy would use his eyes. Has his worry about Roman using it to actually harm the people he loves—to Peter—though he never actually voices it out. Because Peter is almost sure that Roman will never, in a million years, use his freaky eyes on his cousin. He is protective of her the same way he’s protective of Shelley.
Now, looking at those wide forest greens reflecting in the mirror, Peter understands now. Understands how serious he is. Understands that Roman is dangerous.
And he probably should stop fucking playing him, breaking his heart and shit, like a toy.
Gritted teeth, he replies: “What, you’d use ‘em on me, too? Rape me if I say no?”
“If I have to.”
“I’ll bite your fucking limbs off.”
Empty threats, of course.
Because Roman knows Peter loves it rough and barely consenting. Shit, he’s fucked up.
Roman laughs. “Down, boy.” His chest shakes with playful laughter. He drops a kiss on Peter’s shoulder as a silent apology. Loosens the knot tangling inside Peter’s chest. And it makes him wonder why hasn’t he decked the fucker away. Right. He has it bad with Roman. “I won’t do it, baby.” He purrs.
His eyes flutter at the pet name. Tempted. “Fuck off, Roman. ‘M serious.”
“I am, too. Scout’s honor. If I use ‘em, you’d just spread your legs for me so easily. Where’s the fun in that?”
To this, Peter shakes his head, looking away with a huff.
“I know you need me.” The words come off like a purr. “‘S why you’ve been on edge these days. You need me, Peter. C’mon,” he whispers, nudging the side of Peter’s head with his nose. “Let me make you feel good.”
“Roman.” Peter warns. His fingers hurt and it only occurs to him that he’s been gripping the sink, white-knuckled.
The warning goes unnoticed. Roman is busy pressing his face to Peter’s hair, eyes closed. Breathing him in.
“God. You smell so fucking good. I miss you. Miss you so fucking bad.” His mouth is parted open, greedy. Left hand dances on Peter’s front, chest, and down to his abdomen like Roman is testing the touch, careful with Peter. And when Peter crumbles, showing that he’s as desperate as him, Roman pulls him in. Back to chest. “You drive me nuts.” The other hand travels to Peter’s side and down to his ass, squeezing through the jeans. Roman breathes hotly, tracing Peter’s jaw with spit-slicked lips and sharp teeth. “Miss this ass, baby. Miss being inside of you.”
That does it for him.
The last fucking string of his resistance snaps.
“Shit.” Peter throws his head.
“Yeah? You want me?”
Words won’t work for Peter, so he nods curtly like fuck, please.
“You let me fuck you here? Right now?”
“Just fucking. C’mon,” he tugs impatiently at Roman’s hand, the one on his stomach, down to his crotch.
He grabs Peter’s jaw, forcing their eyes to meet through the mirror in front of them. “Look at you. Bitch. My pretty bitch,” as he lets the other hand slip into Peter’s jeans. Roman’s fingers are cold and long, engulfing his dick.
Peter still keeps his gaze lingering on Roman as the taller boy unbuttons his jeans and pulls it down along with his boxers in one harsh tug. His dick is hard and the thought of someone bursting through the door makes his inside burn. Roman seemingly notices it. Notice how Peter’s dick twitches as Roman jerks him off.
A sharp grin spreads on his face. “Fucking slut. You’d let me fuck you here like a bitch in heat. Need me so much. Bet you’d let people watch you fuck yourself on my cock.”
“Shut up.” Peter reaches a handful of Roman’s hair and shuts him up with a kiss.
There are too many teeth and too much tongue. Everything is fast and blurry, driven by nothing but heavy lust singing between each kiss and touch. Desperate and greedy and shit, I need him and I fucking miss him so much. His lips still taste like what he remembers. Like smoke and menthols and that stupid mint chewing gum because, for some reason that Peter doesn’t know, Roman wants to be a saint and cut off his smokes even though he knows it works like shit. Hand always reaching for his pocket for a cigarette and a lighter in the moment of stress and agitation. Like how he always reaches for Peter’s hand when the voices get louder. His heart gives a weird constriction at that, thinking why did I even break up with him in the first place because Peter is Roman’s steady, and without him, Roman cannot function.
Peter kicks off the boxers and the jeans blindly before turning around to help Roman out of his as well. But then Roman picks him up, leads them into the stall in the center. On any other occasion, he would’ve pushed him off because Peter hates being picked up. It makes his inside sour. Blushing like a goddamn school girl.
But, at this moment, he can’t even process to make himself feel that. Roman handles him like he weighs nothing, closing the door by pressing Peter against it and Peter just wants him inside now.
“Off.” Peter tugs at his clothes. “Roman.”
He ignores his beg, instead, he spreads one cheek with the hand that’s under his ass. “Patient.”
Then, Roman spits into his palm obscenely. Knows how much Peter loves for it to be him instead of his palm.
“I’ll spit in your mouth if you behave. Now shut up,” then pushes two wet fingers inside.
“Shit,” he keeps his eyes on Roman, waiting.
The surprise on his face makes Peter’s chest tremble, fingers halted and followed with an amused huff. “You’re loose,” mumbles Roman. “Been finger fuck yourself without me, baby?”
“This morning,” he drawls. Teasing.
Two can play at this.
“Missed me that much?”
“Not really, no.” The fingers move deeper and Peter’s breath hitches. He forgets how deep Roman can bury those fingers inside him. “Go–Got one of your toys with me,” which means, the dildo in the shape of Roman’s dick.
“I knew it.” He puts the other hand low, right on the dip of Peter’s back before pumping the fingers inside him, crooking them a little to that angle that drives Peter absolutely insane. Barely brushing but there. They graze Peter’s spot every time. Makes Peter’s mouth fall open, legs tighten around Roman’s hips. “Knew you fucking kept it. Goddamn bitch. You been thinking of me, huh?” Roman bucks his hips, making Peter jump. “Answer me.”
“Yes.” Peter gasps. “Don’t need your fingers. ‘M ready.”
“Fuck. You sure?”
Instead of answering, Peter pulls back a little, loosening his legs around Roman while his fingers clumsily unbutton the jeans. He can see the line of Roman’s dick straining through it and when he pulls his pants down, it hits his stomach, wet at the tip. The sight of it makes him drool.
He’s gorgeous. Roman is gorgeous.
Roman’s hips buck instinctively at the warmth of Peter’s hand around him. Groans in relief when Peter starts a pace, pumping and smearing the slick of his precum all over. He kisses him blindly, knocking over each other’s teeth, and bites on Roman’s plump bottom lip as he presses his thumb over the slit, earning a groan from him. In return, Roman rubs a steady circle over the spot inside him as Peter jerks him off some more before finally positioning his dick in front of Peter’s entrance. There’s a slight disappointment at the loss of Roman’s fingers inside him but that’s being brushed off easily when he feels the hand on his lower back drop to his ass, squeezing the meat there before pulling him closer to Roman’s cock. Impatient. Peter can’t blame him, really. He’s impatient as well. The cock in his hand is hard and he finds that he’s tired of pushing Roman away and acts like he doesn’t want to sit on his cock.
The feel of Roman splitting his inside never fails to make Peter moan. He lets his head fall back and hit the door, drawing a long groan as Roman sinks to the hilt. He shudders at the feeling of being spread on his cock, still and balls deep, pressed so close to Roman. One hand under the knee, Roman holds him open and watches his cock go in and out with half-lidded eyes. Watches the way Peter hisses through his teeth, stomach clenches. The way he mutters shit, shit, please before shutting him up with a biting kiss.
When the pace is set, Roman pulls away, spit-slicked lips swollen and red from the kiss.
Peter learns, from being together with Roman, that Roman loves maintaining eye contact. Loves the profound intensity it brings. Watching Peter trembles and knowing that it’s him that makes Peter feel this way.
In return, Peter learns that he has a thing with being degraded by Roman and something called vague consent. Of willingly being used and spread open as he pleases while putting an act of trashing and refusing like no, please, fuck, no. Of being spat on, and called my fucking bitch and all he thinks about is that Peter belongs to him.
So, when Roman grabs his jaw, and: “Open your mouth, bitch,” while still bouncing him on his dick, Peter complies.
He doesn’t spit harshly like he always did, the one that always leaves Peter flinching from the sound and dick twitching against his stomach. This time, he simply gathers the saliva on his tongue and lets it dribble out. Roman even halts his thrust so that it falls directly to his tongue. It makes Peter heady with lust and humiliation as he chases for it, swallowing every drop of it audibly with mouth half-parted then groans as it trickles down his throat, eyes flutter close.
“Shit, Peter.” Roman curses.
His dick twitches, pathetic, spurting a rope of white at the groan Roman lets out, thumbing Peter’s bottom lip. The grip around his jaw suddenly is gone and before Peter can proceed any of it, Roman picks up the pace. Harder and faster, leaving Peter grunting, hands scrambling for something to hold and mumbling incoherently under his breath.
Peter buries his face into Roman’s neck, planting sharp nails on his nape. There’s wetness in the corner of his eyes.
A sharp pain blooms on the junction where his neck and shoulder meet, followed by sharp teeth and he cums with a grunt, spilling to his clothes. He’s running out of fucking breath, weak on the knees and Roman suddenly pulls out, putting him back on the ground with mind that’s barely there.
He whines low. So so empty all of the sudden. And looks up lazily at the fingers sinking to his hair, pulling him back to earth, grounding. Hands sliding to Roman’s front and not letting go.
“Hey. Baby.” Peter licks his lips, mind hazy and Roman cranes his head up with a hand under his jaw.
“Hmm?”
Fierce forest greens to baby blues.
“Color?” Roman asks, weirdly tender and affectionate.
Peter sees how Roman’s dick is still hard.
Oh.
Like, color as in...
“Green,” Peter mumbles. Then, sharper. “Green.”
“Okay.” He drops a kiss to his forehead before manhandling him by the hips. Promptly, Roman closes the lid of the toilet and then bends Peter, guiding his hand on the stall. “Here.”
The haziness goes away as Peter gains some of his energy back. “No, stop, please.”
Roman’s fingers on his hips twitch, pausing. “Color?”
“Green.” He presses, emphasizing like saying I’m good, now please, fuck me. Force me. “Roman. Don’t.”
A pause. Then:
“Shut up.”
Something dark lurks in his tone. He makes a harsh, startling grab at Peter’s jaw while pushing at the dip of his back, positioning him for his own pleasure. When he presses inside and deep, Peter lets out a whine of protest.
The hand on his jaw travels slightly down until it rests around his neck and then, Roman fucks him.
His own dick fills up again, bouncing as Roman’s thrusts build up. Not leaving a place for him to breathe. Fast and hard that the hands spread on the stall slip, unintentionally putting pressure on the grip around his neck. Peter chokes, eyes rolled back as both hands fly to Roman’s arm, pawing at the hand that threatens his airway pathetically. But Roman doesn’t give a fuck. He hears Peter sputter and keen and he doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t soothe Peter. Instead, he hoists his left leg up on top of the lid, right hand on Peter’s waist, and fucks him in that particular angle.
Peter whines. Long and low.
Tight press around the neck and it’s being cut off to a sharp gasp.
“Make a noise and I won’t let you cum, puppy.” Gentle threats pressed directly to his sweaty temple. “So, shut.” Harsh thrust at each word. “The fuck. Up.”
He presses his nails to Roman’s wrist and once the hold loosens and Peter nods.
It isn’t even that painful. But it’s tight, choking him in the most delicious way without actually cutting through his air passage. Roman never chokes him hard unless it is something that Peter asked beforehand. He doesn’t ask for this, so Roman keeps his hold solid and stiff but loose enough for him to breathe.
And something about Roman still applying the same method even when they’ve broken up (not for long, though, Peter is sure he is getting back with him after this) makes his chest ache with longing.
Surrendering, he lets his head hang, panting as he watches his own dick bobbing at each thrust, dripping to the floor.
Letting the taller boy take full control and fuck him stupid.
There are tears on the back of his eyelids and Peter blinks them away until one escapes, spilling to his flushed cheek and catching to his stubble when Roman drives in hard and just grinds there at that angle. Peter can’t help but make a punched-out noise. But he shuts up instantly, reminding himself of Roman’s threat and the hand around his neck.
“Love this ass, baby.” A slap across the cheek and Peter gasps. “Take me like a fucking slut.”
And then he’s moving faster. Deeper.
There’s a loud, wet squelching noise every time Roman fucks him, making his belly burn with want. Something that sounds so lewd. Peter clenches his hole and it doesn’t go unnoticed by Roman.
He lets out a hoarse laugh. “You love that?” he asks, spanking him hard. “Shit. Hear that? So fucking wet for me.”
Peter tilts his head to the side. Shaking his head no albeit weakly.
Seeing this, Roman smoothes a thumb over his throat while still holding him there. Caressing the skin there like soothing balm and the contrast of this tenderness to Roman’s sharp, unrelentless thrusts makes his head spin, cock spurting. Peter can sense his climax close like it’s there on the tip of his tongue. The second Roman’s hips halt for a grind, pressing directly over that same spot, Peter cums. With a gasp and a strained grunt. Untouched. He spills all over the tile and some on the stall, thick white ropes that rise a deep flush to his face.
Roman curses behind him. Peter trembles.
He pulls Peter close, tucked close, mouthing at his nape as the other hand slips across Peter’s stomach, spreading his palm wide. Owning.
It doesn’t take long for Roman to pick up the pace once more. This time aiming for his own climax. His thrusts grow desperate and short and Peter makes those high, pretty keening sounds, vaguely hoping that no one enters the bathroom to hear them.
“No—Rom’n. Nuh. Not inside.”
A tighter grip. Peter chokes.
“Stahp.”
“Shut. Up.”
His breath is ragged, clawing at the hand.
And, Roman cums. Buries himself deep to the hilt.
Peter strains another whine at the hot cum spilled inside him before growing limp in seconds and Roman wraps both arms around him. Pressing him so close in a sweaty embrace.
He doesn’t care what happens next because his mind is shattered everywhere. Roman fucks him stupid. When he does gain his consciousness back, Roman’s arms still hold him tightly, one across his chest and the other around his stomach, reluctant to go, as he presses kisses all over his stubbled cheeks and any part of the skin he can reach like a possessive boyfriend. Peter blinks owlishly, resting his head on Roman’s shoulder with a heavy sigh, laying a hand over Roman’s arm.
“Color?” asks Roman, soft.
“Fuckin’ green. Jesus.”
Shrugging, Roman says. “Just making sure.”
He shifts and pulls a face when he realizes that Roman’s still inside him. “You got a new kink you wanna tell me?”
The hands on his stomach shifts slightly. Roman doesn’t answer, merely humming thoughtfully.
“Pull out.” He curls his fingers over Roman’s arm like hold on. Then, hurriedly pulls a handful of tissues. “Slowly.”
Roman does as Peter says and the movement makes Peter hisses. Warm cum trickles down his thigh and he wipes it off before it can reach his knee. He doesn’t hide the wince that creeps into his face as he wipes the ones on his clothes, the stall and the tile that are, thankfully, haven’t dried yet before finally putting them in the trash.
When he turns to Roman, he already puts himself back inside his pants and that reminds him that his goddamn jeans and boxers are outside. Peter tries to slip away and reaches for the handle but Roman drags him for a kiss.
A softer one. Less teeth but still with tongue, though this time less passionate. Just pure with adoration that makes his inside fucking melt. The kiss leaves him breathless and head filled with questions. Because what does this mean and despite that, Peter gives a soft tug of lips and a nod like saying yeah, okay, it’s fine, we will be okay. And to this, Roman offers him a grin. The one that’s a little too excited but he presses it down. Like that time when Peter allowed him to use his eyes on the guys that bullied Shelley.
Thankfully, no one is outside when Peter opens the door.
His jeans and boxers are still where he left them. He wears them back in silence. Avoiding eye contact because Peter is never good at confronting shit.
The silence stretches as Peter washes his hand. Roman lingers behind him.
“Did I do something?”
“What?” Peter raises his head.
Roman has his back leaning on the wall, arms crossed. “The break up. Did I—?” He cuts it off with a shake of his head. Closes his eyes briefly before opening them and meeting Peter’s gaze through the mirror. “Whatever it was. Whatever shit I did, I didn’t mean it. I’m... sorry.”
Something flickers on his face, expression hardens. Thoughtful.
Peter opens his mouth to answer but Roman cuts him off.
“I’m sorry.” He repeats, more determined.
“Okay.”
“I’m sorry. And I miss you.” He shifts to the other feet. “I meant that.”
He turns off the sink, flicking his hand lightly so they dry off faster. “I don’t even know what I’m mad about, honestly.” Then, turns to face Roman, approaching him. “You were probably being a possessive, jealous asshole or some stupid shit.”
Roman shrugs a shoulder. “Still.”
“It’s okay, man. Don’t sweat it.” Eyes on those greens. Then: “I forgive you.”
The tension in those shoulders dissipates immediately, followed by a slow grin on his face. “Thanks.”
Then. “I miss you, too,” and averting his gaze because he’s shy.
The grin grows wider now. Fond. He lets Roman wrap an arm around his waist, pulling him in gracefully like a goddamn prince. When they kiss, Peter can still taste menthols and the fucking mint gum on his tongue but it’s dulled out and instead, he focuses more on the phantom pain around his neck, darkened in the shape of Roman’s hand and the scent of sex and sweat and cum intermingled on their bodies.
He’s sweaty under the clothes but can’t find himself caring about it as he presses further.
Peter pulls away first, gasping for air but keeping himself close. Somewhat clingy.
“Drive me home?”
“Now?”
“Later. Don’t wanna take the bus.”
“Sure,” with a kiss on his forehead to seal the deal.
They go back to the class, walking side by side. And if the teacher looks at them weirdly while a couple of students snicker, giving a knowing look, curious eyes lingering on the hickey and the claiming bruise forming on his neck as they enter the class, Peter really doesn’t give a fuck.