Antarctica-or-bust (rata_toskr) wrote,

a sharp-edged fantasy

Title: a sharp-edged fantasy
Fandom: Hemlock Grove
Pairings: Peter/Roman
Ratings/Warnings: NSFW; somewhat dubious consent
Word Count: 3217
Disclaimer: If I owned it, Peter and Roman would make out.
Summary: When Peter returns to Hemlock Grove to ask for money, his bargain with Roman goes very differently.

“Please give me twenty-thousand. I'll pay you back somehow, no matter what it takes. But you're the only one I know who has that kind of cash on hand and I can't afford a lawyer for my mother otherwise,” Peter pleads. “I'll do anything, Roman. Anything you want.”

Roman should just throw the gypsy out. He's seen the way this bastard keeps his promises and whatever friendship may have bound them died when Letha did. It died when Peter ran.

But the Upir hesitates.

The other man's expression is igniting desires that Roman thought long buried. He'd spent so many hours wishing that Peter would look at him the way he looked at Letha, remembers aching for every friendly touch. The werewolf is still beautiful, wild-eyed and desperate, and maybe this can be his chance to fulfill a fantasy. His only chance since Roman knows that Peter would never warm his bed willingly; he knows that for a fact.

“Anything?” he asks, raising his eyebrow. “Anything at all?”

The gypsy pauses before he answers, smart enough to remember just what he's dealing with. But then he steels his shoulders visibly and nods.

“Anything you want,” Peter promises. His voice barely even trembles and the Upir has to admire loyalty like that. He'd let Olivia burn long before he ever made this sort of bargain, but that's just one more difference between their families.

“All right then, follow me,” Roman orders. “You'll get your twenty-thousand when I've been satisfied.”

He leads Peter to his bedroom without looking back, the soft pad of footsteps telling him that the werewolf is following. The Upir waves him inside and then locks the door behind them, feeling a malicious glee when the gypsy flinches at the sound.

“I want to see you naked,” Roman says as he leans back against the door and crosses his arms over his chest. The words echo loudly in his ears but he keeps his face blank when Peter spins around to look at him.

“You did say anything,” he reminds the gypsy and the other man lets his breath out with a sigh.

“Yeah, I guess I did,” Peter agrees and then starts taking off his clothes. He doesn't make a show of it, just strips efficiently, but Roman finds himself transfixed. All he can think about is watching the wolf tear free of that smooth skin. The Upir has jerked off to that memory more than he cares to admit; he's jerked off to the thought of Peter naked and he's already getting hard.

So he crowds the other man back against the bed, looming over him and stroking one hand across his tattoo. Peter shivers at the touch and Roman knows the gypsy is expecting to get fucked.

He could do it. The Upir could bend Peter over and just take everything he's ever wanted, thrust inside the werewolf's body the way he's dreamed about. But if this is his only chance, he doesn't want to waste it and that isn't what he craves in the dark pit of his soul.

“Fuck me,” Roman murmurs into Peter's ear. “If you want your money, fuck me like I'm Letha.

The words come out in a hiss of bitterness and the Upir fights back a wince. He didn't mean to say that; the sentence just slipped out. When Peter meets his eyes, Roman feels as though the other man can see inside his soul, looking beneath his Godfrey mask to the needy desperate thing that he's buried underneath.

This was a bad idea. The fucking gypsy doesn't need more leverage with which to break his heart and if Peter dares to offer sympathy, the Upir is going to throw him through a wall.

But the other man does not say anything. He just loops a hand around Roman's neck and pulls him down into a kiss. His lips are soft and tender, almost searching, and the Upir is helpless to resist. He melts into the kiss, clutching at the werewolf's shoulders like some damsel in distress. Peter takes his weight without complaint and licks into his mouth. Their tongues slide against each other as the gypsy pulls him closer, stroking across his teeth and swallowing his moans.

Peter's lips move against his, still soft but growing filthy with each stroke of skin on skin. The Upir deepens the kiss further, molding himself to the werewolf's body, but it's still not enough. He wants him even closer and a desperate whine rips from his throat.

“Ssh, I've got you,” the gypsy promises. He soothes Roman with hands and voice, his hungry mouth trailing kisses against the Upir's jaw.

“I'm gonna make you feel so good,” Peter murmurs as he starts to unbutton Roman's shirt. The words are heated, thick with desire, and the Upir groans when the werewolf's cock slides against his thigh.

That's not for him, not really. The other man is thinking of Letha or about some whore he fucked while he was gone. But it's easy to forget the truth when Peter's mouth fastens onto his pulse point, tongue lathing across his skin until Roman's knees are shaking and the gypsy's hands are the only thing keeping him upright.

The werewolf is scorching hot, his fingers likes brands as he strips off the Upir's shirt and presses them together chest to chest. He rolls his hips forward, grinding Roman's cock against his stomach until his legs give out.

But Peter catches him. He lays the Upir down onto the bed and kisses him again, stealing the whimpers from his mouth. Roman can't remember ever feeling this undone by simple pleasure; he's hardly a virgin after all. Yet he feels helpless to take control, helpless to do anything with Peter touching him.

It's too much. He's wanted this for too long and the reality is so much better than all his fantasies. Because Roman never imagined the werewolf's absolute concentration, the way his focus feels like a physical caress. He never thought that Peter would kiss down the Upir's body with every evidence of pleasure, licking and sucking everywhere that he can reach. When his mouth finds Roman's nipple, a sharp stab of desire sends him arching from the bed. He clutches at the sheets, fighting back the pleading words that want to leave his lips.

Peter continues south, removing Roman's jeans and boxers to release his throbbing cock. The werewolf tosses his clothes aside and then gives him a once-over, those dark eyes lingering on his dick possessively. That glance almost makes the Upir think that Peter actually wants this. The other man is hard, thick and wet with pre-cum, and Roman's mouth aches to swallow him.

“You'd better have lube,” the gypsy growls.

Instead of answering, the Upir waves toward his bedside table. Peter leans across the bed and yanks the drawer out roughly, completely unselfconscious despite his nakedness.

“Good boy,” the gypsy murmurs as he pulls out the well-worn tube and Roman is caught by surprise when his dick just throbs. He throws his head back on a moan, his fingers twisting in the sheets so tightly that he's surprised they haven't torn.

“Please,” Roman begs. “God, Peter, please just fuck me.”

It would be embarrassing if he didn't want so badly. But he's rewarded with a throaty chuckle and Peter's weight settling down between his thighs.

“Don't worry, babe. I promised. I'm gonna take good care of you,” the werewolf tells him and Roman's retort turns into a groan when a hand wraps around his cock. Peter strokes him once, twice, just enough to get him close before he goes to slick his fingers. He's doing this on purpose, he has to be, but when the Upir glares at him through slitted eyes, the other man just smirks. The werewolf looks completely comfortable sprawled out upon his bed, his smirk widening before he leans down and swallows Roman to the hilt. No hesitation, no sign of a gag reflex, just one long smooth swallow that has him cursing wildly.

“Jesus, fuck!” the Upir shouts, his hips thrusting forward until Peter pins him down. The other man holds him in place with one arm as he starts to bob his head, tongue teasing at the head of Roman's cock. The motion is easy - practiced - and he feels a surge of jealousy.

How many people has the werewolf been whoring himself out to? How many men has he sucked off for the promise of quick cash? Roman wants to kill them. He wants to shred those men to pieces for daring to touch what should be his.

But then Peter sucks again, throat constricting around his length, and a surge of pleasure washes the Upir's jealousy away. He's reduced to gasping nonsense as he buries his fingers in the werewolf's hair. Peter doesn't seem to mind the tug, just takes him even deeper, and the slight scrape of teeth sends Roman over the edge.

He comes with a cry, his hips jerking against Peter's hold as his mind whites out with bliss. The Upir barely even registers the soft click of a bottle before rough fingers tease across his hole. The other man isn't gentle as he stretches Roman open, but he doesn't think that he could take gentleness right now. Their friendship was built on insults not sweet nothings and tenderness is not what the Upir craves; his groans simply get louder with every hint of pain.

“Fuck, the way you sound,” the gypsy mutters, shoving his fingers deeper. Roman thinks there's three of them now, twisting and spreading as his body slowly gives. He's never actually done this but it's Peter; he'd let the werewolf slit his throat if he really wanted to.

“Please, I need to feel you,” the Upir begs, the words a breathy moan.

“All right, yeah, okay,” Peter answers and he sounds completely wrecked. When Roman glances down, the other man is flushed and panting, his eyes gone black with hunger and the Upir feels a surge of pride wash over him. Peter may not love him but perhaps he truly wants him and right now that is enough. Roman will burn this night into his memory, keep it sharp and close to warm him when the gypsy leaves again.

So he lets himself forget that Peter is not here willingly. He lets himself reach out, dragging the werewolf into another searing kiss as he gives himself to fantasy. Roman holds him close, doing his best to meld them into one.

He bites at the other man's mouth, swallowing a hiss of discomfort when Peter finally pulls his fingers free. Then the werewolf's cock is pressing against his entrance and the Upir can only feel.

Roman groans as the gypsy spears him open, gasping for breath and unable to find his equilibrium. Not when Peter's fucking deep in one long slide, peppering his face with kisses and whispering in his ear. The werewolf calls him beautiful. He calls the Upir gorgeous, calls him perfect, punctuating each lie with a sharp thrust. Peter holds onto Roman's hips and grinds his cock in deeper, grip so tight it's bound to bruise.

“Come on you gypsy bastard, let me have it,” the Upir snarls, clutching at the werewolf's back. If he only gets to have this once, he wants the ache to linger. He wants the pain to remind him of the pleasure afterward.

But perversely, Peter gentles. The louder Roman curses, the softer Peter gets, rough strokes smoothing to a slow roll of his hips. He seems to push in further every time, cracking the Upir open on a wave of ecstasy. The werewolf is watching him, cradling Roman's face between his hands. Peter is looking at him like he knows every secret longing that the Upir tries to hide.

“I've got you. It's all right. Just relax and feel it, Roman,” the gypsy murmurs and hearing his name on Peter's lips is more than he can take. It wasn't supposed to feel this real. Peter wasn't supposed to touch him like he cared.

“Don't look at me like that,” the Upir protests. But Peter's smile only grows more adoring and that expression will be the death of him. To have it and then lose it will break him utterly.

So he clutches at the werewolf, burying his face in Peter's neck so he doesn't have to see. Roman breathes in the scent of him, earthy and masculine, and wraps his legs around that lean back. He clenches tight on the other man's next thrust, using the spike of pleasure to lock his heart away. Roman grinds his dick against Peter's stomach, nails digging into his skin, and when he can't stop a desperate whimper, the gypsy's patience finally breaks.

Peter pins him to the mattress with a growl and then gives him exactly what he's been asking for. He slams into Roman, each thrust rattling the headboard and making his toes curl. Stars burst behind his eyes when the werewolf strokes across his prostate, pleasure and hunger chasing each other through his veins.

The only thing that he can hear is Peter's pounding heartbeat but for once, the sound doesn't make him want to kill. The Upir simply wants to feel that life inside of him. Roman is surrounded by the werewolf, drowning in his scent, and he's barely holding on. It feels so good: the stretch, the slide, the sparks across his nerves as the gypsy drives them both towards bliss relentlessly.

Roman isn't in control. For once, he has surrendered and the sensation is as freeing as he always thought it'd be. The Upir thinks he might be crying, grief and joy a maelstrom in his chest. Despite the roughness, this doesn't feel like fucking. It feels like love instead.

Peter thrusts once more, his teeth sinking into Roman's shoulder and the sting of pain seems wired directly to his brain. Pleasure surges through him and he shudders around the werewolf's cock as he finally comes again. The gypsy gives a few more strokes, biting hard enough for blood as he follows Roman over and paints warmth inside of him.

They collapse down to the bed together, both panting heavily, and the Upir never wants to move again. He's going to ache tomorrow; his ass and his shoulder are already burning now. But it's the pain of well-used muscles and he traces his finger across the bite mark almost reverentially.

“Sorry, did I hurt you?” Peter asks, his face apologetic.

“No, I like it,” Roman tells him honestly. He's rewarded with a sweet smile and a fleeting kiss upon his cheek. The Upir hisses when the other man pulls out, cum dripping from his entrance in a way that's not so comfortable. But Peter goes to get a wash cloth and then wipes him clean with tender hands. Roman is half asleep by the time he finishes and reaching out for Peter is the easiest thing he's ever done.

“Stay,” he murmurs quietly, curling himself around the gypsy.

And this time, Peter does. He nuzzles into Roman's arms like he never plans to leave and the Upir drops off easily.


Waking up is like taking an ice pick to the chest. Because the light of day is a harsh reminder that last night wasn't real.

Peter is still sleeping, tucked beneath his chin. He looks so innocent, no sign of the creature that lives beneath his skin.

Roman wants to kiss him awake. He wants to see the gypsy smile in the sunshine and lay him out across the bed. But the Upir can't. Peter isn't here for him; he's here to save his mother. The werewolf slept with him for twenty thousand dollars, nothing more, and watching him pull away would rip his heart to shreds.

To be honest, Roman has not been sure he had one in the past. But he can feel it now, a fragile flutter there beneath his ribs. The organ beats for Peter, always has, and losing the other man again would crush him utterly.

So the Upir leaves him first.

He slides out of bed to take a shower, knowing from experience that the gypsy sleeps like the dead. Roman scrubs himself off quickly, not allowing himself to linger on the bruises Peter left. Once the Upir finally feels clean – as clean as possible – he dries off and gets dressed, rebuilding his mask one piece of clothing at a time.

It's Roman Godfrey, not just Roman, who unlocks his safe and counts out twenty grand, glad for the paranoia that means he has the cash on hand. He puts it on the bedside table and then shakes the mattress roughly, not trusting himself to touch the werewolf's naked skin.

“Mmmm? What is it?” Peter mumbles after about thirty seconds, rubbing at his eyes. He pushes himself upright, the sheet sliding down his body and it takes every ounce of the Upir's self-control not to slide in next to him.

But Roman doesn't show it; he keeps his voice level as he says, “Your money is on the table. Twenty-thousand, right?”

“What?” is the reply. Peter looks confused and a little hurt, but what else did he expect? He's the one who came here looking for a handout after all.

“Take your fee and leave,” he orders, refusing to feel guilty.

“What?” Peter says again. “But I thought…. Roman, I-”

“Get out!” the Upir shouts before he pulls himself together. “You need that money for your mother, don't you? Take it before I change my mind and then leave my goddamned house!”

“I…. Okay, Roman. If that's what you really want,” Peter sighs and he shouldn't be so angry that the gypsy is doing what he said. But he is. Roman stalks downstairs and waits by the front door, needing to be there when the werewolf finally goes.

Peter follows five minutes later, padding softly down the stairs with his hands in his coat pockets. He doesn't look happy even though he has his money and Roman thinks bitterly, Well that makes two of us.

He's expecting the gypsy to run away – after all, that's what he does when he's uncomfortable. But he pauses by the door.

“Roman, I…. I'm coming back,” Peter tells him quietly.

“Sure. Just like last time.” the Upir scoffs.

“I know. I'm sorry,” the werewolf answers. “But I mean it. I'm really coming back this time.”

Before Roman can say anything else, Peter leans forward and kisses him, so sweet and tender that it takes his breath away. Then the other man slips out the door while the Upir is still gaping, leaving only the lingering taste of some rare spice and the aches he woke up with. It should feel like goodbye and yet… that kiss felt like a promise.

The fragile light inside his chest dares to hope that Peter means it. Roman dares to hope that his heart won't break this time.


Tags: fic, hemlock grove, mid-series, nsfw, peter/roman, poignant
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