Title: Going Home Again
Fandom: Hemlock Grove
Series: the Happy Ending Verse
Rating/Warnings: NSFW; Upir mind powers, a bit of blood, the usual kinky sex
Word Count: 9940
Disclaimer: If I owned it, Peter and Roman would make out.
Summary: Peter never planned on going back to Hemlock Grove.
Peter has never planned on going back to Hemlock Grove. Putting that town in his rearview mirror was the best thing he ever did and the werewolf rarely thinks about his days there anymore.
Honestly, why should he? Peter has everything that he never knew he wanted. He has a home, a husband and a daughter he adores. The werewolf even has a job he's pretty good at and an actual mailing address, though Destiny and his mother are the only ones who write him now. Peter has put down roots, as much as a Romani ever can, and for once he doesn't feel trapped without the open road beneath his wheels.
How can Peter feel trapped when he and Roman still run the woods together? When the wolf inside his skin has never felt so settled and his family is the only pack he'll ever need. He loves them dearly: Roman, Speranţă, Lynda and his cousin, and he would do anything to keep them safe from harm.
Which definitely means avoiding Hemlock Grove because that town holds a thousand awful memories. Memories of Letha's death and Shelley's sacrifice and the loss of what little innocence either teen still held. That place was bad for Peter and so much worse for Roman. Olivia had made his entire life a cesspool of lies and misery and dying in a fire had been much too good for her.
So Peter knows that something must be very, very wrong when Roman hangs up the phone one evening and says, “I need to go to Hemlock Grove.”
The Upir looks shaken, his skin even paler than usual, and he leans into Peter when the werewolf wraps one arm around his waist.
“Are you all right? What happened?”
“Norman Godfrey is dead,” Roman tells him. “Apparently he got hit by a bus on his way to work this morning and didn’t reach the hospital alive. That was the family lawyer calling; he wants me to deal with the arrangements and sign some paperwork. He was very certain that I had to go in person, something about stocks and heirlooms and I don’t know. So I guess I’m going back.”
“Shit, babe. I’m sorry,” Peter murmurs. The words feel inadequate considering Roman’s complicated relationship with Norman, but the werewolf doesn’t know what else to say. ‘I’m sorry your uncle who may really be your father and you haven’t talked to in ten years but still kind of miss sometimes just died in a crazy accident’ simply sounds ridiculous. “When do we leave?”
“You want to come with me?”
“Don’t be stupid. Of course I’m coming with you. I’m not letting you go back to that hellhole by yourself,” the Romani tells his husband firmly. “We can get my mother to watch Anţă for a few days and I’ve got plenty of time saved up at work. Even if I didn’t, you know you’re more important. I'd quit my job in an instant if I needed to.”
“I know and I won't let you,” Roman replies, shaking his head with a fond smile. “But if you can really get time off, then I’d love to have you there. All things considered, I'm half expecting Norman's death to be some kind of trap and even if isn't, I still don't want to go back.”
“I don't blame you, babe. You know how I feel about that town,” Peter says, holding the Upir a little closer. “It may have given me you and Anţă, but I wouldn't be surprised to learn that Hemlock Grove is cursed.”
“I think you're probably right,” Roman says with a slightly bitter chuckle. He's still in shock, the werewolf can tell, but his husband will get through this. Peter won't let him shatter as long as he's around. Not after all these years spent proving that Olivia was a liar and a poison while trying to show the Upir that he's a decent person deep inside.
Peter knows that his husband still doesn't quite believe him, but the Romani can be patient. He'll tell Roman the truth until his last breath if he has to and pray that his death doesn't ruin everything. Given his husband’s dramatic tendencies, they’ll probably go together in the end.
Of course, the werewolf has no intention of dying for at least a few more decades and who knows? Maybe shacking up with an Upir will give him extra time as well. So Peter just pulls Roman into another hug and promises, “Don't worry, love. We'll manage. Whatever happens, we'll be fine.”
The pair says goodbye to Anţă and Lynda the next morning, telling their daughter to listen to her grand-mother before getting in their car and setting off. Peter's boss let him have the week off without question – it helps that he's never taken much vacation – and they gave themselves two days to reach their destination.
Peter makes the drive in one.
It's not a conscious decision, not really. There are plenty of hotels when the werewolf starts thinking about stopping and he could use a break after driving through the day. However, when Peter glances over at Roman to ask for his opinion, he finds the Upir passed out in his seat. His husband is worn out from worrying and it seems stupid to wake him up just so that he can worry more.
So Peter hits the gas instead of braking. He's used to long nights – he is a werewolf – and the 'Welcome to Hemlock Grove' sign flashes by just after 4 am.
The Romani starts looking for hotels then and a few minutes later, he pulls into the Motel 6 parking lot. Both of them will feel safer close to the town boundaries; Destiny moved away some years ago and even if they had the keys to Norman's house, the building holds too many ghosts for the Upir or the werewolf to sleep there peacefully.
Peter leaves Roman in the car and goes inside. He pays for a one night in a double, the teenager behind the desk not even glancing up when he uses Roman's card. The kid can't have been more than ten when they left Hemlock Grove and the werewolf is actually glad to know that some folks don't give a shit about the Godfreys. The next generation couldn't care less about half a dozen murders that happened years ago.
“You're in room six,” the desk clerk tells Peter, handing over the key and then going back to his book as the werewolf heads outside.
The Romani lets his husband sleep as long as possible, carrying their bags inside their room before opening the passenger side door. Unfortunately, the werewolf can't get Roman out of the car without some help; he may be stronger than he looks, but the Upir is all angles – too tall and lanky for him to manage on his own.
“Hey, babe. We're here,” Peter murmurs, shaking Roman gently. “I need you to wake up.”
“Fuck off,” his husband grumbles without opening his eyes. The words are clear but the werewolf knows that the Upir isn't actually awake. Roman has a remarkable ability to hold entire conversations while half asleep, conversations that he never remembers afterwards.
“Come on, sweetheart. You're too damn tall for me to carry,” the Romani says, poking his husband one more time. “You either get up now or you're sleeping in the car.” And I'm the one you'll bitch to when your neck hurts later on But that threat gets Roman to open his eyes, the Upir pinning Peter with a truly epic pout.
“Wher- arwa?” he asks. The werewolf translates that mumble to “Where are we?” with the ease of long practice, his skill at understanding his husband's grumbling exhaustion honed to perfection through the years.
“A motel,” Peter tells him, his answer vague on purpose. “Now, come on. I paid for a bed and everything; we should get our money's worth.”
“Fine,” Roman groans before holding out his arm. Peter pulls the Upir upright and helps him from the car; his husband clearly still dozing even now. The werewolf steers him through the parking lot and into their hotel room, biting back a chuckle when Roman flops down face first on the bed.
Trying to move him would be pointless so Peter pulls off his husband's shoes and lets him lie there fully clothed. Then the werewolf brushes his teeth and takes a quick shower, during which the Upir manages to sprawl out across the entire mattress without ever waking up. His clothes are going to be wrinkled as fuck in the morning but complaining about that will take his mind off Norman Godfrey – and anyway, Peter finds his husband more attractive when he's mad. When Roman gets all snarky, the werewolf wants to climb him like a tree.
So he just shoves his husband over until he can climb under the covers, Roman gravitating toward his warmth as soon as he settles down. The Upir curls around him, his face buried in Peter's neck and an arm across his chest, right leg hooked over his husband as though to trap him there. This too is familiar and the Romani falls asleep almost instantly.
Peter wakes up with a moan and Roman's mouth around his cock. He bucks his hips, driving his dick deeper into that tight heat as his hands clutch his husband's hair. The werewolf shoves him down and holds him there until a normal person would have choked. But the Upir just hums and sucks him harder, taking everything. Roman doesn't actually need to breathe, not anymore, and he fills his throat with Peter's cock instead.
Roman's mouth should be a fucking crime, his lips a felony, and the werewolf doesn't last. He thrusts his hips again as the Upir moans around him, only letting his husband go once Roman has sucked down every drop.
“Don't get blood on the sheets,” Peter warns when the Upir moves to nuzzle the inside of his thighs.
“Yeah, yeah,” his husband mutters before gently biting down. There's not real pain, just a liquid glow as Roman drinks his blood and the wolf beneath his skin rumbles with contentment knowing that its mate is fed.
So Peter just waits patiently, running his fingers through his husband's hair. He can hear the Upir jerking off, his strokes timed with his swallows until he comes with a gasp. Roman keeps licking at the bite a little longer, waiting for it to stop bleeding. Then he crawls up Peter's body, the werewolf swatting at his husband lazily when he wipes his hand on Peter's thigh.
But the Upir just grins and leans down to kiss the werewolf. He knows that Peter doesn't mean it. Peter won't even wash. He enjoys smelling like his husband; he likes knowing that he's wearing Roman on his skin.
“Fuck, I love you,” Roman says, breaking their kiss when Peter starts to pant. “Even if you did let me sleep in all my clothes.”
“If you wanted to change you should have said so,” the Romani tells him with an unrepentant grin. “And, as nice as this is, you need to call your lawyer. See if he can meet with us this afternoon so that we can get out of Hemlock Grove as soon as possible.”
The werewolf had to say it but he still hates to see Roman's expression change, his open smile dimming as the world comes crashing in.
“We're in Hemlock Grove already?” the Upir asks, his eyes flicking around the room like Olivia Godfrey's ghost is going to walk right through the walls.
“I drove straight through,” Peter explains, hands stroking down his husband's back in an attempt to ease his tension. “The sooner we're done, the sooner we can leave. If we get back early enough, maybe we can take Anţă camping with the days that I have left.”
“Seriously, I fucking love you,” Roman says. He kisses the werewolf fiercely before throwing himself out of bed. For all that the Upir can take three hours to get ready in the morning, he moves quickly when he wants to; he's showered, dressed and on the phone in twenty minutes now.
While Roman deals with his lawyer, Peter goes out to get some breakfast and stops to pay for another night along the way. Even if everything goes perfectly, they're not checking out by noon. It's a short walk to the nearest restaurant and when he gets back, the Upir is just finishing up his conversation. Roman snarls something into his phone and then snaps it shut with a growl.
“What'd he say?” Peter asks, handing his husband a bagel.
“He'll meet us at eleven. Can you believe he wanted to wait 'til this afternoon? Kept trying to tell me that he had meetings until two,” Roman says indignantly, waving his bagel in the air. But he takes a bite when Peter nudges him pointedly. “I had to ask if I should take my business elsewhere – blah, blah, blah, until he caved. I wish I could just mind zap people through the phone.”
“That would be convenient,” Peter agrees laconically as he gives the Upir another bagel. Roman finished the first one in about five bites and he starts eating this one without prompting. Which is good. His husband is on edge enough without also being hungry, blood and food two separate cravings in his strange biology.
Thankfully Roman has settled slightly by eleven. Only Peter know that the smile he gives to his lawyer's receptionist is completely insincere.
“It's so good to finally meet you, Mr. Godfrey,” the lawyer gushes when they walk into the room. Mr. Crawford is on the far side of middle age and pudgy in all the wrong places; he's clearly gotten fat off other people's money through the years. But, in his defense, he doesn't blink at the werewolf's presence or try to make him leave. Although their marriage certificate is on file and Roman always introduces Peter as his husband, that hasn't stopped a score of bankers from giving the Romani shit before.
“I'm so glad that you could come back to Hemlock Grove so quickly,” Mr. Crawford continues. “If you sit down, I will walk you through all the paperwork.”
The first order of business is the disposal of Norman's body and the lawyer seems surprised when Roman says, “Just burn him. Burn him and stick him by my mother in that fancy crypt of ours. That's where he'd want to be.”
“And the funeral?” Mr. Crawford stammers.
“What funeral?” the Upir scoffs. “There's no one left to mourn him. Unless you actually made me come back here because you thought I'd weep and cry? Norman Godfrey died in spirit years ago and if he'd wanted to talk to me, I know he could have called. That bus probably ended the poor bastard's misery.”
The lawyer looks like he wants to argue but he's not stupid enough to try it and the rest of the paperwork goes quickly after that. Norman didn't leave a will, making Roman his heir by virtue of being the closest living relative, and the man didn't have much money for a Godfrey. Just a few bank accounts and his shares in the family company. The estate taxes will barely make a dent in Roman's fortune and the Upir trusts his bankers to manage things just fine. This won't change their lives.
And that's a good thing, Peter thinks, watching as his husband signs a dozen different papers. I like our life the way it is and I'd rather Anţă grow up in the real world than in some ivory tower with servants at her beck and call. Although, it's nice to know that we'll be able to send her to college if she wants.
No matter what happens Anţă will be taken care of since she's named in both their wills. He and Roman made their daughter a Rumancek once they finally stopped moving long enough to register her existence, a few thousand dollars getting her a birth certificate with his and Letha's names. That was Roman's idea; he didn't want to make Anţă be a Godfrey but he still wanted to give her a connection to her family. She can choose to strengthen that connection if she wants to, though Peter thinks their little girl will be much too sensible to bring that sort of trouble on herself.
There are only a few more papers now, some of which the werewolf has to sign as well. So he scrawls his signature on the last two pages before handing Mr. Crawford back his pen and for a moment Peter thinks that they might actually be done. Which, of course, if when the lawyer brings up Norman's house instead.
“Just sell it,” Roman snaps, his patience fraying at the edges. “You must have people who do that sort of thing.”
“Of course we do,” Mr. Crawford admits. “But we much prefer that the owner look it over first. There may be family heirlooms that you wish to claim, particularly since your mother's mansion burned down so tragically.”
“Trust me. There was nothing in that place I really cared about.”
“Even so, you should not dismiss the idea out of hand. Once we sell, you will have no recourse to reclaim your property. And perhaps you'll decide that you would rather keep the house and move back to Hemlock Grove. Wouldn't it be more convenient to be near your company? My office can offer a variety of other services.”
“I would rather carve my heart out,” the Upir snarls, his eyes flashing dangerously. He can't seem to decide whether he'd prefer to rip out his lawyer's throat or punch him for his presumption but he subsides when Peter lays a hand on his right arm.
“Maybe we should take a look,” the werewolf says and his husband whirls on him.
“What?! Have you lost it?!”
“Not to move here,” Peter replies, rolling his eyes in the face of Roman's dramatic tendencies. “I'm not crazy. But Norman probably had a few of Letha's things.”
“And?” the Upir bites out. Ten years they've been together and he can still be so insecure. But only for a moment as the werewolf links their hands together, stroking his thumb over his husband's skin soothingly.
“And I thought that Anţă might like to have something of her mother's. That's all, you idiot,” Peter tells him. “I know this town makes you crazy and I get it, I really do. But you're going to pop a blood vessel if you don't chill out. Let's just take a look. We can see if we want anything and then blow out of Hemlock Grove for good.”
“Yeah, okay,” Roman says, the tension draining from his shoulders. He gives the werewolf a quick kiss before turning back to Mr. Crawford. “I'm still not moving back here so don't get your hopes up. But we will take a look at Norman's house if we can go right now.”
“I'm happy to say that I have the keys here, Misters Godfrey,” the lawyer answers. “Shall I drive you?”
“We'll meet you,” Peter tells him. He has no intention of being separated from their car when they still might need a speedy getaway. “I assume that Norman never moved?”
Indeed, he hadn't and the werewolf finds that driving to his house brings back all sorts of memories. Hemlock Grove has barely changed – the town is a picture frozen in time – and the Romani almost feels as though he's driving through the past again.
That corner is where some dumb jock tried to jump him. Over there is where he and Roman used to smoke when they were skipping and across the street is the diner where he and Letha went on their first date. This last memory is particularly bittersweet. At the time, Peter really thought he loved her. But Letha never knew the werewolf, not like Roman, and while he's still sorry that she died, he wouldn't trade what he has for anything.
So when Peter reaches Norman's house, he puts the car in park and climbs over the console to straddle his husband's lap. The Upir quirks an eyebrow, opening his mouth to ask Peter what he's doing and the werewolf takes advantage of the opportunity. The Romani seals their mouths together, kissing his husband with everything he has. Roman gets with the program quickly, his hands slipping underneath Peter's shirt. His husband pulls him closer and the pair makes out sloppily like they're teenagers again.
They only stop when the werewolf finally runs out of air, pulling back to rest his forehead against his husband's with a sigh.
“What was that for?” the Upir asks.
“I just wanted you to know that I really don't regret us,” Peter tells him. “Yeah, I cared about Letha but I love you more than anything. Hell, I married you even though you're not Romani. Letha could still be alive and Anţă not our daughter, but I would choose you anyway. Okay? So you can stop the worrying.”
“Shit, Peter. Yeah,” his husband murmurs, his whole face softening. “I'd choose you too. Every single time.”
They trade a few more lazy kisses until Mr. Crawford knocks on the windows, the lawyer's whole face red with embarrassment as he carefully looks away. Peter thinks about continuing just to fuck with his head a little but the werewolf isn't that much of an exhibitionist and they do have things to do.
“All right. Give us a minute,” he says instead, waving Crawford away so that he can climb out of the car. Roman slaps his ass on the way out and Peter snaps his teeth at his husband playfully. The Upir will pay for that later when they can bleed again.
However, the smile drops off both their faces once the lawyer lets them into Norman's house.
“Damn. This place is kind of creepy,” the Upir mutters in Peter's ear. He's standing right against the werewolf's back and Peter is glad of it. Because Roman is right. This house feels like a mausoleum, the air full of dust and ghosts. Indeed, the Romani flinches sharply when he walks around a corner and sees Olivia Godfrey staring down at him.
“Okay, that is just not right,” he growls even as Roman lets out a startled curse. It's not just one picture; there must be a hundred different photos of the evil bitch laid out like a shrine and Peter doesn't know how Norman ever managed to relax with that woman's image everywhere.
Even Mr. Crawford seems thrown by the decor and he stammers awkwardly. “Ah, um, I promise I didn't know that this was here. No one has entered the premises since the late Mr. Godfrey died.”
“Good,” Roman growls before turning to his husband. “You go find Letha's room. I'll deal with this... thing and then see if Norman has any other weird shit around.”
“Yeah, babe. I'll be fine. I've got Mr. Crawford here to keep me company,” the Upir says and his grin is real this time. Knowing that his uncle/father was still obsessed with Olivia ten years later seems to have made him strangely cheerful. Maybe because it means their lack of contact can probably be blamed on the Upir's mother, the man too focused on the past to remember that he had a living son. Not because he simply didn't care about Roman anymore.
“All right. Just watch for vengeful ghosts,” Peter tells his husband, half joking and half serious. If ghosts do exist, this is the sort of place they'd be. But he goes and his feet still remember the way to Letha's bedroom even now.
The werewolf pushes the door open cautiously and when he walks inside, he's glad that his husband isn't there. This room is a shrine as well, everything preserved perfectly since the day that Letha died, and the sight would probably reopen the old wounds in Roman's heart.
Honestly, Peter isn't particularly comfortable himself. So he conducts his search quickly, grabbing Letha's diaries from the shelf and a few of the better photos to show Anţă later on. The Romani even finds a picture with all three of them together. Letha, Peter, and Roman look so young and happy in that photo and the werewolf may have to get it framed once they get home. The picture is a reminder that not all those days were bad.
The Romani stacks his prizes in a pile before taking one last look around the room.
“Bye, Letha,” Peter murmurs. “If there's a heaven after death, I hope you made it in.”
Then the werewolf leaves to find his husband, closing the door without looking back again. The Upir is sitting at the kitchen table with his own pile of papers, the expression on his face somewhere between disgusted and disturbed.
“What's all that?” Peter asks curiously, wondering what could make his husband look like that.
“Stuff that needs to be destroyed. Dear old Norman had some serious issues and a truly creepy obsession with my mom,” Roman tells Peter with a shiver before turning to his lawyer. “I want this place sold as soon as possible. And probably bleached as well. You can sell or donate the clothes and furniture; I really don't give a damn. But if you find anything private like this – letters, photos, that kind of thing – make sure that it's destroyed.”
“As you wish,” Mr. Crawford says agreeably, the command binding him for good. Any other secrets held within this house won't see the light and that's just how it should be; sometimes the past is better buried, dead, and gone.
So with one last signature, Norman's entire life is laid to rest. His possessions will be reduced to ones and zeroes in Roman's bank account, his body scorched to ashes and placed next to the pieces of Olivia that were scavenged from the family mansion after it burned down. The man never even met his granddaughter. Norman never knew he had one and that's a damn cold way to die.
“Fuck, I need a drink,” Peter mutters once they're back at their hotel.
“You too?” Roman asks, throwing an arm across his husband's shoulders. “Come on, then. I think I saw a liquor store a few blocks over that way. Let's get really drunk and leave tomorrow morning. It's not like we don't have the time.”
“Sounds good to me,” the werewolf says, waving at the Upir to lead the way. As much as he loves Anţă, having a daughter makes some things far more difficult – no more late nights drinking or lazy days in bed. Not the kind where you fuck for hours anyway. Parents have to save those for school trips and even then someone always seems to need them halfway through. So yeah, why not make good use of their hotel room while they have it? Sure this visit has been less painful than expected but the werewolf still has a lot of tension to unwind.
Oh yeah, we'll have some fun this afternoon, Peter thinks, watching the sway of Roman's hips as they walk into the liquor store. Although the werewolf gives the Upir a lot of shit about his taste in expensive trousers, all that fancy tailoring really does wonders for his ass.
“You grab the whiskey; I'll grab the vodka,” Roman tells the werewolf. “We might as well give my father a sendoff with the good stuff. He's paying for it now.”
The Romani shakes his head but does as ordered. He heads to the back of the store and to his surprise, he finds a very expensive bottle shoved on one corner shelf. Peter didn't even know they sold two hundred dollar whiskey in shitty stores like this. Although, judging from the amount of dust on the bottle, he supposes that they don't. This bottle is probably some sample that's been sitting there for years.
But Roman gives an impressed whistle when the werewolf meets him at the register. Even he hadn't expected such a find and his expression screams, “I am going to suck that whiskey off your cock.”
It's a very distracting expression and so neither of them is paying any attention to the cashier ringing up their purchases. Not until the man catches a good look at their faces and spits out scornfully, “Roman fucking Godfrey. I never thought I'd see the day. Did you finally run out of money and come crawling back to Hemlock Grove? We all assumed you'd run off to the Bahamas after murdering your mom.”
“I'm sorry. Do I know you?” the Upir asks, his voice gone dangerously flat.
The cashier does seem slightly familiar to Peter, but that doesn't really mean much. This guy could be any one of the asshole jocks from high school and the Romani met a lot. It's not like the werewolf bothered to learn the name of every douche-bag spitting insults and he's kind of happy to see that their cashier has run to fat.
“Sam Moore. From home room. You sat in front of me,” the guy tells Roman. He seems offended by the lack of recognition, his face twisting viciously when the Upir shrugs.
“Doesn't ring a bell.”
“You always did think you were better than the rest of us. You and your gypsy scum,” Sam sneers, waving his hand at Peter. “I can't believe you've kept him this long. Even fags have standards, don't they? He can't be that great in bed.”
The werewolf should probably be offended. But he's heard a lot worse and he's too amused to really care. This dickwad that he barely knew in high school has clearly spent the last decade obsessing over his husband's love life and he just as clearly has no idea of the danger that he's in.
“Or maybe this filthy gypsy was the only fuck that you could get. Is that it? You always pretended to be so high and mighty – you and your freak sister – but we all knew the truth. Your whole family was messed up through and through,” the idiot continues, closer to getting his throat ripped out with every scornful word. “Tell me, Godfrey. What does he charge you? A nickel a day?”
“Why the interest, Samuel?” Roman asks with a bark of laughter. “Are you looking for a gypsy of your own?”
The cashier flushes red and the Upir's smile takes on a crueler edge. “Yeah, that's what I thought. I'm afraid this gypsy has higher standards than you could ever satisfy. Tell me, babe. What have you cost me through the years?”
“I don't know, sweetheart. How about half of everything you own?”
“What are you talking about?” Sam blusters, looking back and forth between the pair until Peter rolls his eyes.
“I'm not a whore, you stupid fuck. I'm his husband,” the werewolf explains flatly. “And no self-respecting Romani would ever touch a bigoted piece of crap like you.”
The other man gapes at him; the thought of anyone marrying a gypsy breaking something in his brain. He stands frozen until Roman finally leans forward and hisses, “I think you owe my husband an apology. Paying for this whiskey and our vodka would be a damn good start. Or do I need to show you exactly how my dear mother died?”
Sam shrinks beneath the Upir's gaze, finally seeming to realize that he's been poking a tiger with a stick.
“Of course. It's on the house,” the cashier mutters, watching Roman warily.
However, the Upir is all smiles as Peter picks up their alcohol. The werewolf walks toward the door and heads outside, but Roman pauses on the threshold and looks back into the store.
“Don't be such an asshole,” the Upir orders before slipping out the door to join his husband and Peter can see Sam nod jerkily.
“Do you really think that's gonna work?” he asks with some amusement.
“Damned if I know,” Roman tells him. “But it was worth a shot.”
The pair makes it to the sidewalk before glancing at each other and completely losing it, the werewolf leaning on his husband as he busts out laughing helplessly.
“What the fuck was that?” Peter gasps between his chuckles. “Just... What. The. Fuck?”
“Did you see his face?” Roman cackles. “That poor bastard probably got one glimpse of your ass back in high school and has been dreaming of his own gypsy ever since. I'd bet you twenty bucks that he jerks off to our Yearbook every night.”
“Uugh,” the Romani groans, trying to shake that image from his head. “I think you've got my ass confused with that filthy mouth of yours.”
He shoves his husband playfully and then takes off down the sidewalk with Roman on his heels. The Upir catches up to him just outside of their hotel room, wrapping an arm around his waist and swinging him around. Roman nips at Peter's neck and the werewolf bites his husband's jaw in retaliation, only his quick reflexes saving the whiskey from disaster when Roman lets the bottle go.
He bites again and then suddenly they're kissing, the Romani's back pressed against the door. The Upir's thigh slides between his legs as the kiss deepens and Peter needs to ride his husband's cock right fucking now.
The werewolf fumbles for the door key, finally shoving Roman back just long enough to get them both inside. Then he kicks the door shut and fists a hand in the Upir's shirt to drag him down again. Peter slides off his shoes and socks without ever losing Roman's mouth, his husband's hands yanking at his belt frantically.
He growls when the Upir strokes his cock, pushing into the touch as his own hands roam over Roman's chest. The werewolf manages three buttons before he gets impatient and just rips his husband's shirt off. But his own shirt doesn't come off that easily.
“Damn it,” Peter growls in frustration, not wanting to let go of Roman but wanting skin on skin.
“Just leave it on,” the Upir tells him and it's hard to argue when he strokes Peter's dick again. Roman has somehow managed to open the whiskey bottle without looking and he pulls back to take a swig, their next kiss flavored sharp with alcohol. The werewolf sucks the whiskey off his tongue, the burn only adding to the heat beneath his skin. So he steals the bottle from Roman, taking a drink of his own as he pushes the Upir down onto the bed.
“Gonna ride your dick so hard,” Peter says, yanking down his husband's pants. Then he kicks off his own jeans and straddles his husband before giving the Upir another whiskey-flavored kiss. The werewolf isn't sure whether two hundred dollar alcohol actually tastes much better than the cheap stuff but it burns down his throat like fire and the world is already a little hazy round the edges.
“Fuck, where'd you put the lube?” Roman groans, his cock sliding along the crack of Peter's ass. But the werewolf just shakes his head in reply.
“Don't need it.”
“Yes, we do. No way am I taking you dr-”
“Want you to talk me open,” the Romani says, shoving a hand over his husband's mouth to cut off his protest. “Talk to me. Order me around with that silver fucking tongue. I want you to make me take it. Tell me that I need it until you just slide in easily.”
“Jesus, Peter,” the Upir exclaims as he surges upright. He kisses the werewolf hungrily, biting his lip until it bleeds and drinking every drop. “All right, love. You want me to order you around? I'll do exactly that. Don't drop that bottle now.”
The werewolf doesn't know how this feels to other people, but for him, it's a lot like being drunk. He could throw Roman's power off if he really wanted to; ignore the siren call that's singing through his veins. But he doesn't; he lets the honey gold of the Upir's voice carry him away.
“Can you feel my fingers, Peter? Feel them teasing at your entrance,” Roman says and the werewolf fucking can. He pushes back with a loud moan and feels resistance even as his husband's hands stay locked around his waist. “I'm pushing them inside you now. Pressing in to the first knuckle. So you need to stretch for me.”
There's nothing there, not really, but the werewolf's body gives. He writhes on phantom fingers as the Upir strokes and teases, working him open with nothing but the power of his voice. Roman plays Peter like a fiddle, putting his body through its paces. His husband knows exactly how to turn the werewolf into a panting mess. The Upir doesn't have to ask; he just hits the Romani's sweet spots one by one and somehow that it even hotter as his husband breaks him down.
Because Roman really knows him. He knows that the werewolf likes to be prepped a little roughly but have his dick stroked gently. He knows that scratching Peter's back makes him groan and twisting his fingers just right can set him to begging shamelessly.
“Please, please, fuck, please fuck me,” the werewolf pleads as he takes another drink of whiskey. “Please, Roman. Fuck me now.”
“How badly do you want it?” the Upir purrs, hands stroking over Peter's thighs. “Maybe I'll just keep you begging unless you tell me what you need.”
“Your cock, babe. I need your cock. I need it in me,” Peter babbles helplessly. “Want to feel it. Wanna ride you. Need you to fuck me hard. Just shove it in there. I can take it. Wanna give you everything.”
“Fuck, Peter. You do. Just, fuck,” Roman curses. He yanks the werewolf down onto his dick, fingers digging bruises into his husband's hips. That first breach burns – even the Upir's voice can't make him slick – but Peter doesn't fight it. He likes the edge to sharpen every burst of pleasure, the rush of whiskey down his throat matching the heat of Roman's cock fucking into him.
Every inch slides in a little easier, pre-cum slicking up the way, and Peter's last resistance gives when the Upir growls, “Just let me in.”
The werewolf lets out a gasp as he's suddenly flush with Roman's lap, his husband's length buried to the hilt. The Upir is pressing right against his prostate and Peter balances on a knife's edge of coming just from this. But before he can, Roman wraps his fingers around the base of Peter's dick.
“Don't come,” his husband commands. Don't come until I tell you.”
The Romani can feel the words sink into his skin and he whines as his release is suddenly just out of reach. Peter will do as ordered; he has to unless he throws the Upir's power off completely and he's enjoying himself too much for that.
“Fuck me, you bastard,” the werewolf growls instead.
“Fuck yourself,” Roman counters, the order trailing off into a moan as Peter starts to do just that.
He rolls his hips, rising up on his knees and then slamming back down hard. Every stroke seems to drive his husband's cock even deeper, the head dragging across his prostate and driving him insane. Peter's own dick aches, red and throbbing with the need to come right now. But the werewolf can't stop. He doesn't want to stop. He wants the Upir so far inside him that they never separate.
“Look at you,” his husband murmurs. “You fucking love it. You love having my dick stuffed up inside you, love getting ridden hard and raw. You're such a cock slut, aren't you? God, you're perfect.”
Roman's words wash over Peter, his head spinning from sex and power and a lot of alcohol. The werewolf has almost emptied the whole bottle now, alternating swallows with pours into his husband's mouth.
“Please let me come,” the Romani begs, sex drunk and aching with it. He leans down and kisses the Upir filthily even as his hips keep working, fucking himself ceaselessly on his husband's dick. “Please, babe. I need it. I'll do anything. You can fuck me dry, bleed me dry. Just let me come with your cock inside of me.”
The Upir gives a wordless growl, wrapping an arm around Peter's waist and flipping them over. He pins the werewolf to the mattress and starts thrusting rapidly. Peter meets him stroke for stroke, heels digging into Roman's back to urge him on.
The werewolf tosses his head and keens when his husband's cock slams into his prostate, his own dick leaving streaks of pre-cum across the Upir's skin. Roman's face is twisted into a feral snarl, his eyes black with hunger and desire, and Peter loves to see him lose control. So he claws at his husband's back, hard enough to leave four bloody furrows, and Roman finally snaps.
He sinks his teeth into the werewolf's shoulder, ripping through skin and muscle until he's bleeding freely. The Upir swallows it all, tongue worrying the wound even as he slams into Peter one more time. Roman's hips stutter and Peter moans loudly as he fills the werewolf's ass.
Then the Upir raises his head, scarlet-stained lips murmuring, “Wanna see you come right now.”
There's no power in the words but it's enough. Peter howls as Roman's control shatters and sets him free again. He lunges off the bed and latches onto his husband's neck, marking the Upir with his teeth even as he paints their stomachs with his cum. They're locked together, blood and flesh and body, and there's exactly nowhere that Peter would rather be. Except maybe running under a swollen moon with his family next to him.
The werewolf and the Upir lie there for a few minutes, trading slow kisses as they come down from their high.
“Fuck, Peter,” Roman groans eventually, pulling out of his husband and flopping at his side. “You're a kinky bastard sometimes. Is there any whiskey left?”
“Eh, you know you love it,” Peter replies as he hands the bottle over. “When we get home, I'll tie you down and rim you 'til you scream.”
“Promises, promises. I'm holding you to that one,” his husband tells him. The Upir finishes off the whiskey before looking down at his stomach with a frown. “I'm not nearly drunk enough to lie here covered in your spunk. Where'd the vodka go?”
That bottle is on the table where he left it and Peter is eventually convinced to go get it by his husband's pleading eyes. He brings the vodka over to the bed and they finish the bottle quickly, both of them quite tipsy by the time it's done.
However, the werewolf isn't too drunk to finger Roman open in the shower and then fuck him good and slow. The pair makes each other bleed again, letting the blood drip freely just because they can before washing all the evidence away. The water has gone lukewarm when they finish and Peter is actually impressed that it lasted that long in a cheap motel like this.
“Damn, I'm starving,” the werewolf mutters, tossing his towel back in the bathroom once he's dried his hair. Roman has already laid back down again and Peter kicks his husband's ankle when he doesn't say anything.
“Hey, I'm going to buy some food. You hungry?”
“Just bring me something bloody,” the Upir tells him, snuggling into his pillow.
“Yeah, I'll go kill a deer right now,” Peter snorts before getting distracted by the view. Roman hadn't bothered to put on anything but his boxers and the werewolf feels a curl of satisfaction at the scratches and bite marks trailing down his husband's back. The Upir is damn pretty even when he's an ass.
A damn fine ass, the Romani thinks before a rumble from his stomach reminds him that he should be getting on with it.
“Hamburgers it is,” Peter tells his husband, “I'll get yours super rare.”
He grabs his wallet and his key, shoving them in his pocket and throwing on a shirt on his way to the door. The werewolf pulls it open and then jerks to a halt. “What are you doing here?!”
Johann Pryce is standing on their doorstep and the Romani feels a growl rising in his throat. Everything about the doctor raises Peter's hackles and even Roman's sudden presence at his back can't make him relax.
“I see that you've been having fun,” Pryce says as he looks them over. “Although, I must say I am surprised to find you still together. All my research says that werewolves and Upirs are natural enemies. The interaction of your physiology must be quite interesting.”
“Well, you can just keep wondering about it,” Roman snarls, his hands curling into fists. “You're not studying either of us and I'd suggest you leave right now.”
“I can't do that. Not when I've finally tracked you down,” the doctor tells him calmly. “You shouldn't have made yourself so difficult to find.”
“Yeah, that was intentional, you creepy bastard,” Peter spits out. The wolf wants to kill Pryce and if his husband doesn't calm down, the Romani probably will. Protecting his family overrides all other instincts and anyone who upsets the Upir is counted as a threat.
But Roman must realize how close the werewolf is to changing right there in the doorway because he makes a conscious effort to relax, one hand wrapping around Peter's arm to keep him still.
“Seriously, what do you want?” the Upir asks. “You've got about thirty seconds to state your case before I let him go.”
“I want to give you a present,” Pryce explains, a statement that says nothing. “One that I promise you'll be happy to collect.”
“And why should we believe you?” the werewolf growls, still on the edge of trying to take the doctor out.
“I have no wish to hurt you or Roman. You leave me alone to do my research; why would I want to ruin that?” the doctor asks. “A new CEO might ask questions that I don't want to answer and even Olivia kept bothering me with impossible demands. You did me a great favor when you killed her. Consider this a repayment of that debt if it makes you more comfortable.”
“Give us a minute,” Roman orders, pulling Peter back inside and closing the door again.
“I don't like this,” the werewolf says, crossing his arms over his chest. He's not sure how his husband became the more reasonable person in this conversation when that's usually his position, but he's not going to give in without a fight. “I don't trust him.”
“Neither do I. But he does have a point,” the Upir replies. “With us in Minnesota, Pryce can do whatever he wants in the White Tower and he was never actually malicious without my mother driving him. Crazy, yes, but that doesn't make him evil. Just a mad scientist. Besides, aren't you at least a little curious?”
“No,” Peter tells his husband firmly. Although, in truth, the Romani can't help wondering what kind of present Dr. Pryce could have to give an Upir. A pot of blood? The cure? Every idea sounds weirder than the last.
But even if the man is telling the truth, Peter still doesn't want to go back to the White Tower. That's where Letha died. Where the werewolf went from hope to despair in an instant and grief almost made him abandon Roman. If any part of Hemlock Grove is truly filled with demons, it's that fucking tower and Peter doesn't realize that he's shaking until Roman takes him in his arms.
“Hey, Peter. It's all right,” the Upir murmurs into the werewolf's hair. “I know that place holds bad memories for both of us, but I won't let him hurt you. I promise. I'd rip his heart out first. But I feel like we need to go there. Whatever he has must be important and I have to take the chance.”
“Yeah, okay,” Peter sighs eventually. Gut instinct has rarely steered them wrong and if Roman feels like they should do this, then the Upir is probably right. “But if you die, I'll kick your ass. I am not explaining to Anţă why you're never coming back.”
“You won't have to,” his husband swears. “We go in and get his gift and then we go home again. So try not to kill him if you can manage it.”
“I make no promises,” Peter mutters. But the werewolf tries to get himself under control while Roman puts some clothes on and he feels almost normal by the time they walk outside again. Pryce is still standing patiently by the door, his expression barely twitching when the Romani growls, “If this is a trap, you won't live to gloat.”
“That won't be an issue,” the doctor tells him placidly. “Now, I assume you'd rather drive yourselves so please join me at the White Tower. I will be waiting there to let you in.”
Pryce turns around and walks to his car, Peter doing the same somewhat reluctantly. He may have agreed to do this but he still doesn't like it and the tower looms much larger than it should. The werewolf doesn't know if he would have managed to walk through the door if not for Roman's presence; as much as he hates this place, Peter would never let his husband go alone.
And yet, once inside, the White Tower doesn't seem nearly as frightening as in his memories. Sure the building is still a little sinister but the demons of the past are just that – past. The Romani isn't a frightened teenager any longer and what happened here should have no power over him.
However, Peter still takes Roman's hand when it's offered and the two of them follow Dr. Pryce through the lobby hand in hand. He leads them to the stairs rather than the elevator, rightly assuming that being trapped in a small space with an Upir and a werewolf would be dangerous to his health. So it's a good ten minutes and five keycards before Pryce waves them into an apartment close to the top floor. It's clearly an apartment rather than a laboratory but Peter only has a second to wonder what they're doing here.
Because a delighted voice shouts, “Roman!” and a blond woman hurtles into his husband's arms. Although the Upir catches her automatically – Anţă tends to do the same – his face shows the same confusion that the werewolf feels right now.
For one split second the Romani thinks the blond is Letha, but a second glance proves that isn't true. And yet... there's still something familiar about her; something in her scent makes him think of fireflies.
“Shelley? Is that you?” Roman asks even as Peter's thoughts stutter in realization. The Upir's tone is equal parts hope and disbelief. “How is that possible?”
“Johann did it. He made me a new body so I wouldn't have to hide,” Shelley tells her brother with a grin and that smile puts the last of the werewolf's doubts to rest. That smile is the Shelley from his memories. “This is what I would have looked like if I'd never died.”
“Well, you're beautiful. You were always beautiful to me,” the Upir replies, pulling his long lost sister into another hug. He's afraid that she'll disappear if he lets her go again.
Peter leaves the Godfrey siblings to their reunion. Although he's overjoyed to see Shelley, overjoyed for both of them, the Romani has some questions for Dr. Johann Pryce. He still doesn't trust the other man or his seeming miracle.
“So... you made her a body, just like that?” the werewolf asks, sidling up to the doctor. “For that matter, how did you even find Shelley? Roman and I looked but the trail was cold by then.”
“I have my resources,” Pryce replies. “And that body is the culmination of a lifetime's research. I made a perfect human. A girl who was grown instead of born. Shelley Godfrey is perfection, the quintessential unicorn.”
“And was this body grown without a brain or did you carve out someone else so that Shelley could go in?” Peter asks flatly. If Destiny has taught him anything, it's that miracles always have a price and when the doctor twitches slightly, he knows that he was right.
“I made a choice,” the man says finally.
“Just like you decided not to tell us about Shelley for ten whole years. We may have been off the grid in the beginning but I know Roman still checked his email every week and his lawyer could have passed a message on.”
“Shelley didn't want to be a burden on her brother. She asked me to wait until the transformation was completely stable and she'd created her own life. She's quite a popular writer now under several pseudonyms,” Pryce tells the werewolf. “I admit she wanted to look for you herself, but I couldn't let her do that when she's never left the tower and I was sure that you'd return if Norman Godfrey died.”
That sentence has all kinds of disturbing implications and Peter has heard enough. Whatever brief hint of altruism made Pryce help Roman's sister, the doctor isn't a nice person and the werewolf doesn't want him anywhere near his family.
“She's leaving with us if she wants to,” Peter informs the doctor flatly. “Don't expect her back again.”
Pryce looks like he wants to argue, but the Romani silences him with a glare before walking up behind his husband and asking, “You coming with us, firefly?”
“Peter!” Shelley exclaims and now it’s the werewolf turn to catch her in his arms. “It’s so good to see you. But, are you sure? I don’t want to impose.”
“Of course we're sure,” her brother replies. “We would have brought you with us from the beginning if we’d known where you were. Seriously, Shels, I’ve been worried sick about you. I’m so glad that you’re all right.”
“Come on, I’ll help you pack,” the werewolf says. He takes Shelley's arm and nudges her toward the door, catching Roman's eye when the Upir starts to follow. Peter jerks his head toward Pryce and his husband gets his meaning, Roman's expression hardening as he starts toward the doctor instead. The werewolf doesn't stay to watch – while he enjoys seeing the Upir use his powers, Shelley doesn't need to watch her brother's mask come down. She's always thought the best of people and she wouldn't understand why Roman is ordering Pryce to stay away.
So Peter distracts Shelley with questions about what she's done for the last decade as she decides what books and clothing she should take. The younger Godfrey has far more of the former than the latter, which makes sense considering that she's a famous author now.
Indeed, Shelley lights up as she talks about her recent novel and it's good to see her happy even though she still hasn't seen all that much of the world.
We'll make sure she has the chance now, Peter thinks, watching Shelley fondly. His husband's sister deserves to travel as much as her heart desires. Maybe they'll go to Europe; the werewolf's mother has been talking about visiting the old country and he'd like to show Anţă where the Rumancek line began. Hell, Peter would like to see it. He hasn't been back there since he was seven and Lynda managed to scrape together plane tickets to see her brother wed.
Speaking of weddings, the noise that Shelley makes when she finally notices his ring is close to supersonic, her voice hitting a pitch that the wolf would hear quite clear.
“You married Roman, didn't you? I knew you were forever,” she says, nearly strangling Peter with another hug. “From the beginning, I could tell.”
“Well, you were right,” Peter tells her with a chuckle. “Though I think you might be lying since I had no clue myself. If you'd told me ten years ago that I was going to be married to your brother, I would have asked what you were smoking and if you could get me some. But I love him. I really do. We keep each other stable and I can't imagine living my life without him now.”
“Good. My brother needs to be taken care of,” Shelley replies before she returns to packing. It doesn't take her long to finish and she's just putting the last couple of books into her suitcase when Roman sticks his head around the door.
“You guys ready?” the Upir asks. “Pryce and I have finished here.”
“Yeah, we're done,” Peter tells his husband as he climbs to his feet. Shelley only has three bags – one for each of them – and the werewolf hands the larger suitcase to Roman on his way out the door. But Peter has only taken a few steps before he realizes that Shelley hasn't followed. When he looks back, his sister-in-law is hesitating on the threshold and the Romani feels a burst of sympathy. Shelley wants to leave, he doesn't doubt that, but she's lived here for a decade; it's no wonder that she's torn.
“It's all right, firefly,” Peter says with a gentle smile. “I promise you, you'll love it. There's a whole wide world out there.”
The werewolf holds out his hand and waits patiently for Shelley. This has to be her decision or she might regret it later; the first step is always the hardest after all. But Shelley only hesitates a moment longer before rushing forward. She grabs the Romani's hand and grips it tightly, taking courage from his touch.
“I'm ready,” Shelley murmurs, clearly nervous but excited to leave this place behind. So Peter squeezes her hand once and then turns back to his husband.
“Come on, Roman. Let's go home.”