A/N: Hi, guys, long time no see. I know most of my readers here come for Twilight, but Hemlock Grove and the basically canon Romancek have so completely owned me. If you don't watch it, you should. Bill Skarsgard is almost painful to look at, he's so beautiful. Anyway, enjoy!
Roman Godfrey is not a kind man. He's not a forgiving or gentle man. There are times when he struggles to remember that, despite being Upir, he still must keep up human pretenses and restrain from murdering everyone that crosses him. The years have not been great to him, nor his heart.
So, when he lets Peter Rumancek through his front door, he can't understand why. Peter had abandoned him, after all. Up and left without a word, nearly three years ago, during the hardest time of Roman's life. He'd left Roman all alone.
Roman doesn't tell himself it's because Peter's eyes, still the disconcerting blue-green, were so very tired and that Peter had looked downright ill. He won't let himself believe that he cares about the gypsy being underweight or how dirty his hair was. He can't, not after all this time. Roman had moved on, of course, from whatever he and Peter had had. Content in his solitary life, CEO of Godfrey Industries, beautiful home, steady diet (thanks to Pryce). No, he definitely didn't care anymore.
"You look like shit, Rumancek."
"Yeah, " Peter chuckles, following Roman into the main room. "Driving a day straight will do that to you. Nice digs," he finishes, still apparently a man of few words.
Roman ignores his fluttering heart at Peter's voice, because it doesn't mean anything. Just uncomfortable anxiousness at being so close to the werewolf.
"Want a beer?" It's what a hospitable host would ask. Merely those pretenses again, despite Peter's knowledge of Roman's true self.
"Uh, sure. I guess."
Grabbing two beers from the fridge, Roman steadies his breathing and takes very deliberate steps back to the couch where the gypsy sits, ignoring his shaking legs. He doesn't sit close, no, he can't. Not like he would've three years ago just to feel Peter's heat and catch his musky scent. Instead, he sits on the opposite end of the couch, and hands the beer over, careful not to touch the other man's fingers in the process. For no particular reason, of course.
"How's Lynda?" Someone he missed almost as much as… well, as much as he used to miss Peter. The mother Roman always wanted, rather than the evil leech he had.
Peter brushes his hair back from his face, scooting an inch closer to Roman as he clears his throat. "She's, uh, she's good. Still Lynda. Moved in with Destiny somewhere in fuckin' Montana."
"Heard it's nice over there," Roman says, fingering the label on his beer bottle, strictly out of boredom and certainly not to steady his trembling hands.
"Yeah, it's pretty."
Roman doesn't hate that the silence is awkward, even though it wouldn't have been three years ago. They used to go hours without talking, just listening to the other breathe and how their heart beats would sync up. No, Roman does not miss that.
"Roman, I-"
"What the hell are you doing here?"
The Upir desperately wanted to have some edge to his question, but it fails. Instead, his voice betrays him and comes out meek and shaky. The one time he wishes his natural arrogance hadn't disappeared.
Peter moves an inch closer. Roman realizes he's not breathing.
"I dreamt about you last night. I mean, I- shit, Roman, I'm still not fuckin' good at this shit." Peter sighs and looks down at his own bottle, tapping his nails against the neck and bouncing one leg. After a lifetime of quiet, he says, "I've dreamt of you every night for the last three years, but… but last night, you called me. I don't mean on the phone, I mean you called me. Screaming my name. And I… I couldn't get to you so I freaked but then- fuck, this shit isn't coming out right."
Roman realizes, too late, that Peter is closer. Close enough to feel his warmth and it makes the Upir shiver, makes him swallow hard and bite down on his lip. Peter sets his beer on the glass table and Roman does the same.
"Did you- I mean, do you dream of me? We…. we used to share dreams sometimes. Remember?"
Roman laughs harshly, he can't help it. Does he remember? It was impossible to forget. He doesn't want to tell the wolf that he's all Roman dreams of, every night, until Roman wakes up gasping and sweating and clutching at the invisible hole in his chest. That sometimes, he doesn't sleep for days simply so he can't dream of Peter's face.
He tells him anyway.
"Every night. I dream of you every night, but I didn't call you." Roman looks down at his shiny black shoes. "I've made sure not too."
Roman knows he could've commanded the wolf to come back. To come back and stay with him, love him, keep him forever. It's not like Peter could've resisted the Upir's demands. Roman didn't want that, though, because he didn't want Peter.
"Because you… you didn't want to, or…?" Peter isn't looking at him and he's not looking at Peter. Can't look at Peter, because then the gypsy might see the tremble in his lip and how tightly he's clutching his own leg.
"Right."
"You were always a shit liar, Godfrey."
No, he wasn't, he was a spectacular liar, just not to Peter.
"Roman, fuckin' look at me."
The Upir clenches his eyes shut, takes a deep breath. Prays and hopes that he can hide the emotions that he certainly isn't feeling. He was never able to deny Peter anything, ever, and this request won't be the start. Except he's not expecting the wolf to be so close, or his heavy eyes to be focused on Roman's lips. He's not expecting to feel Peter's breath on his face or his hand on his thigh.
He did expect the pounding of his heart and hardening of his cock, because he was an easy fucking bastard that was terrible at lying to himself, as well.
So, he doesn't punch Peter's beautiful face when he kisses him. He doesn't pull away and rush the other man out the door so he can fall to pieces in private. Instead, he kisses him back and, Goddamn it, it's everything Roman definitely didn't want. The gypsy is tentative, gently pushing his tongue into Roman's mouth as though he can't tell that the Upir is dying inside, imploding from the feel and taste that he's craved… hasn't craved, for so long.
Peter pulls back and rests his forehead against Roman's, breathing just a bit heavy and making Roman feel dizzy. Blood is pounding through his ears and he's scared to open his eyes because then it could be a dream. He could be in his office, asleep at his desk, and dreaming of things he doesn't want. But then Peter speaks, and his voice is too husky and his hands are too warm on Roman's thigh and neck for it to be a dream.
"Shee-it..." Peter breathes, the phrase that three years ago, Roman would've echoed with a laugh, but now he can't, because that stupid word makes his chest ache and bones feel brittle.
The Upir still can't open his eyes, scared that tears will leak down his face or that Peter will see how broken he his now. He's not the same person the gypsy abandoned, and no amount of denial can hide the decimated shell he's become at this moment.
But Peter is kissing him again so he doesn't have to worry about such things, he just kisses back and tries so hard not to break skin when he grabs the wolf's neck with both hands. He doesn't moan against Peter's tongue and he definitely doesn't whimper when the other man pulls him closer.
Roman knows, this is what Hell feels like, because something as pure as Heaven could never feel this good.
This time, Roman pulls away because he can't breathe. He can't think. Everything is blurry and he's so hard, it's painful. His chest aches and he wants... just wants. The Upir realizes his mistake a moment too late because Peter's lips are on his throat now, the vibrations of the wolf's groans against his skin. Tomorrow, he knows there will be a mark where Peter's teeth are now and, holy fuck, he can't stop the sounds that pour from him at the thought.
Suddenly, Peter pulls back, all but gasping for air as he covers his mouth with his hand, and Roman will not fall apart yet, not where the gypsy can see. Instinctively, Roman wraps his hands around his stomach, hoping that will stop his pieces from scattering all over the floor and Peter's ugly brown boots.
"That's, uh..." Peter clears the gravelly tone from his voice. "That wasn't what I meant to do. I mean, not... Like, not right then."
Roman thinks Peter's short laugh sounds nervous, and how ridiculous is that? What the hell does he have to be nervous for? Did he expect Roman to say no? Push him away and out the door and from his sad, lonely, desolate life again? The wolf had to know that Roman would stop the world, open the skies, and his stupid, fragile heart for Peter.
So, Roman takes a deep breath and finally, actually looks at Peter. Really looks at him, and the pain in his chest becomes so bright, so hot and painful that he has to bite down a gasp.
The gypsy is still stunning, of course, hasn't aged a day since the last time he was here. His lips are slick wet and swollen, and his eyes don't look dead anymore, like they did. Peter is even smiling, if only slightly, and that's just... Everything and not at all what Roman wants to see. How can he smile when Roman is dying beside him?
"Girls must've dried up at home. Driving all this fucking way for an easy piece, you must be truly desperate."
Peter cringes and Roman thinks he couldn't possibly feel worse for the words that just left his mouth, all bitter and sharp. But they feel good too because the wolf deserves to hurt, like Roman does. Deserves to have his chest opened and his heart scalded out and his useless body left behind to keep up the daily motions.
"Roman, that's not how it is and you know it. Don't be an idiot."
"What, you need money, then? Because I know you're not here to see me. All that shit about dreams but you managed to hold off for three fucking years. So, what?"
Peter looks pissed off now and Roman couldn't be happier and more devastated about it. He misses the smile.
"No, you piece of shit, I don't want your money. Christ, you're still such an asshole." Peter scrubs his hands over his face, and somehow doesn't notice that the Upir is struggling not to scream.
"I'm the asshole?"
Sighing, Peter drops his hands to his lap and looks straight at Roman, all tired eyes and slumped shoulders, and Roman wants so badly to go back five minutes ago when they were kissing and not talking.
"No, you're not," Peter says, putting his hand on Roman's shoulder. "I'm the asshole and I'm sorry." The gypsy pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights one, inhaling deeply before sighing, "I didn't mean to leave you. I mean, I didn't realize I was leaving you, too. I just needed to be away from everything that could remind me of Letha-"
"Don't say her fucking name," Roman snaps, anger rising at the mention of the cousin who's memory brings so much sadness and jealousy that he can't decide if he misses her or not.
"Roman..." Peter stubs the barely smoked cigarette into the ashtray beside him and sighs.
Roman decides then, that before Peter leaves again -because he will, he's a gypsy, after all- that he's going to make this devastation worthwhile. He knows he'll die when Peter is gone again, he won't survive it another time, so he's going to make the most of his slow death.
He kisses Peter this time, all tongue and teeth, and wraps his hand in the gypsy's too-long hair. With one swift motion and a groan, Peter pulls Roman into his lap, and it's awkward because he's so much taller than the wolf but it's perfect because it's Peter.
Roman discovers that the only thing better than kissing Peter is when Peter flexes his hips into Roman's. It makes stars appear and tidal waves crash and the burning in Roman's chest flare up again. Nothing should feel this right.
And it shouldn't be this easy for Peter.
"You ever fucked any guys, gypsy?" Roman asks callously between kisses, slipping his hand between them to grip Peter's hard -God, so very fucking hard- cock through his jeans. "I have. Lots of guys. All with brown hair or blue eyes or olive skin..."
Roman is utterly fascinated to see Peter throw his head back, neck muscles straining as he covers the Upir's hand on his cock, pushing down harder and thrusting his hips up quicker and oh, fuck, Roman. For the first time since the gypsy arrived, Roman feels hungry, looking at the veins bulging in Peter's neck and he can't stop himself from wondering what wolf blood tastes like.
Desperately needing a distraction, he climbs from Peter's lap and stands up, ignoring the other man's groans of protest. He doesn't speak as he walks to his bedroom, knowing the wolf will follow.
Arrogance, it's all he has now. Roman may be unable to lie to Peter, but he can certainly pretend that his heart isn't shattering and that his hands aren't trembling.
"You sure about this, Rumancek?" Roman asks casually when Peter crosses the threshold to his bedroom, unbuttoning his blue dress shirt and unbuckling his slacks. Silently pleading that the wolf won't turn around and walk out.
"No," Peter breathes, watching Roman with wide eyes and shaking hands as he removes his own t-shirt.
For just a moment, Roman can feel his mask slipping when he looks at Peter unclothed. Feel his breathing pick up and his heart nearly explode. He doesn't ask about the three new scars on Peter's chest, or the burn on his shoulder. He doesn't have to ask about the new tattoo on the wolf's ribs, a scorpion, because he already knows.
Instead, he waits for the other man to climb on his bed, takes a deep breath, slips his mask back into place and prays he can get through this without losing it.
"Done this a lot, have you?" Peter asks, back resting against the headboard and gripping his leg, but Roman notes the hitch in his voice. The inflection in his words.
"More times than I can remember," Roman remarks, slowly crawling to straddle Peter's thighs. "Coke'll fuckin' do that."
The Upir doesn't ask Peter why he looks like he's been slapped by Roman's words. He's far too busy mapping out and committing every inch of the wolf's body to memory. He can remember the first time he saw Peter nude, that night he watched the boy change to beast, but this time it's different because Roman is touching him. Feel the other man's heartbeat under his palm and see the twitch of his hard cock.
"So, tell me, gypsy, what do you want?"
Peter's hands are shaking as he clutches Roman's hips, arching his back slightly. "I want you to stop fuckin' calling me that and kiss me again."
So, Roman does. Slow and sweet are not on his agenda, though he'd always imagined intimacy with Peter. He wanted to take his time, enjoy making the wolf desperate and shaky, but Roman knows that he can't keep up his charade of callousness for long, so he goes all in, instead.
Teeth and tongue against lips and fingers wrapped around Peter's cock, he memorizes every deep rumble that leaves Peter's chest.
"I didn't... Fuck, I should've realized. Should've known..." Peter says breathlessly between kisses, canting his hips into Roman's hand and dragging his nails down the Upir's back.
Roman is tempted to ask the other man to complete his thought, but Peter's pulse point tastes so good on Roman's tongue. Devouring the wolf is all Roman wants in the world.
As Roman slips down to lie between the wolf's legs, mouth dangerously close to his cock, Peter grips the headboard with one hand and Roman's hair in the other. "Roman, I don't know if I'll last -if... If you want to fuck me, I mean, then maybe you shouldn't... you know..."
Roman thinks Peter squirming and stuttering is the sexiest thing he's ever seen. "Rather you'd be doing the fucking, actually," Roman says pointedly, swiping his tongue over the tip of the wolf's cock, eyes fluttering closed at the decadent taste.
"Okay, uh... I won't last twenty seconds if you keep looking at me like that... Christ, Roman," Peter groans as the Upir sucks the head of the wolf's cock into his mouth.
Roman won't admit that his heart could explode at the thought of Peter being that worked up. Won't admit that his cock hurts every time he thrusts into the silk sheets. Just sucks harder for a moment before pulling off with a pop.
"Well, you sure know how to sweet talk a guy, Rumancek."
"Hey," Peter says softly, gently tugging on Roman's hair until the Upir looks up at him. "My name, Roman. Fuckin' use it."
For a long moment, looking into Peter's eyes, Roman nearly does. He nearly says the three words he's wanted to say for years and ask the wolf why he put him through so much heart ache. Almost says his name, out loud, over and over and over again, reverently and desperately, just to taste it on his tongue.
Instead, he grips the base of the gypsy's cock and slides his lips down over it.
This isn't something Roman could've imagined. It's far too overwhelming for his mind to conjure up. Completely lost, he takes Peter deeper, using his throat and tongue and the slightest bit of teeth, moaning so fucking loudly when he tastes the wolf's pre-come for the first time, bitter and so fucking perfect. The gypsy is all but writhing, grasping Roman's hair and flexing his hips.
"Fucking hell... This is... You're so... Fuck, Roman, you were made to suck cock, huh?" Peter rambles breathlessly, before clenching his eyes shut tightly as his cock twitches in the Upir's mouth. Quickly, he forces Roman's head back, chest heaving as he says, "I can't, I'll... You have to stop. Too much."
Roman realizes this is it. For a moment, as Peter pulls him up to kiss him, he wonders whether or not he can get through this. It's all he's wanted for so long, but things are different now, and Peter isn't his best friend anymore who grants Roman with secret smiles and stupid jokes. Peter is the man that tore him apart and left the pieces behind.
"I want you," Peter whispers against the Upir's lips, and Roman knows he'll never hear anything more devastatingly beautiful than those words leaving his wolf's lips. They could shatter the universe, stop time and destroy Roman, all at once.
The Upir can't stop himself from saying, "I've always wanted you," before swallowing Peter's loud moan with his lips.
Roman knows he should grab lube from the bedside table, maybe even a condom, but it's not like he and Peter are normal, human men, and he wants the pain. Wants the reminder for just a few hours after Peter leaves -because he will- before his body heals the marks the gypsy has given him.
With a pounding heart, Roman licks his palm and grips Peter's cock, stroking it twice before pressing it to his hole. He won't cry out, refuses to, as the gypsy's cock stretches him painfully, because that would be too close to a physical manifestation of what his soul feels like.
"Roman," Peter gasps through gritted teeth, digging his nails into the Upir's hips. "I'm gonna fuckin' hurt you, you crazy son of a... God damn it, so tight..."
All Roman can do is close his eyes and focus on the pain, resting his head on Peter's shoulder as he slides down slowly. It's horrible and perfect and so very right, enhanced when Peter wraps his arm tight around Roman's waist and cards his other hand through his hair.
Peter is whispering in Roman's ear, words in Romani that the Upir doesn't understand but, judging by the wolf's tone, sound filthy and downright decadent. When Roman is fully seated, Peter growls and presses his lips to Roman's throat.
"Don't move. I'll come."
Roman has to groan then, mouth to Peter's shoulder, because knowing he's making the wolf feel good is better than anything he's ever felt. Patiently, agonizingly, the Upir waits, breathing through the burn until it's just enough to make his cock even harder.
He grazes Peter's ear and murmurs, "Can I move now?"
The gypsy shudders hard and claws into Roman's back. "Not if you keep fuckin' talking."
Despite his half-joking words, Peter grips the Upir's hips and slowly lifts him just a bit, grunting deeply when Roman bottoms out again.
They're both drenched in sweat, two bodies slowly and steadily rocking together, one heart shattering to nothingness. Roman knows this moment, this exact moment, will be the death of him. It will be what finally ruins him, and he hates the gypsy for it. Roman Godfrey should be the most powerful man in the universe, yet he feels completely powerless, wrapped his wolf's arms.
That's not entirely true, of course. He could have Peter do anything he wanted with one moment of eye contact. It's so very tempting, too, as the wolf licks and bites at his throat, to make Peter stay like this forever.
But Roman won't. Because.
Peter inches his way flat onto his back, thrusting up into Roman a bit quicker and moaning. The Upir sits up straight, taking Peter to the hilt and finally, finally crying out. In pleasure, in pain, in devastation. Roman can't help but grab his cock, stroking harshly a few times to ease the pressure in his stomach.
"You're fuckin' beautiful," the gypsy breathes, eyes hooded but bright as he skims his fingertips down Roman's chest, leaving goosebumps behind.
Roman doesn't ask if he's more beautiful than Letha was, if he feels better or if Peter will cry over him like the wolf had over her. He doesn't think he could bear the answer that is almost assuredly a 'no.' How could Peter have left if he was?
Roman picks up the pace and, fuck, none of those others could come close to half of how this feels. It's Peter, his glorious, heartbreaking wolf, inside him and all around him, and the Upir knows he'll be undone far too soon. He moves faster still.
"Christ, the look on your face... Makes me want to be in your spot," Peter grins, thumbing the head of Roman's cock until it leaks. "Maybe next time?"
And just like that, all of Roman's charade comes crashing down around him. He's so fucking angry, and hurt, that he wants to grab the gypsy by the throat. Nothing, in all of his life, has ever brought on such a sharp, bright pain, and he's sick with it.
"There won't be a next time, though, right?" Roman snaps, bouncing harder and digging his nails into Peter's chest, looking directly into the wolf's eyes. "A gypsy is a gypsy is a gypsy and all that. You'll fucking leave again when you're done with me because that's what you do, you fucking run. God, I fucking hate you."
I love you. So much. Still.
"Roman, please..."
Peter pulls the Upir down, sliding his hands up Roman's back and gripping him tightly, meeting each thrust with perfect pace. Roman buries his face in the other man's neck, if only to hide the pointless tears he can feel welling up in his eyes.
Despite his heart, Peter's blood calls to him then. Only the thinnest patch of skin separates Roman's teeth and the wolf's blood, and the Upir can't stop himself from dragging his tongue over Peter's pulse point, all but growling at the feeling of it fluttering on his tongue.
"Oh, fuck," Roman grunts, forcing his head away from the wolf's throat. He can't think of the taste, the smell, the velvet feeling of it rolling down his throat...
Peter, still fucking Roman forcefully, his hands clutching at the Upir's hips again, whispers raggedly, "Do it, Roman. I won't break."
With strength he didn't know was possible, Roman manages to ignore the gypsy's offering -fucking permission for Roman's greatest weakest, the bastard- and sits up, wrapping his hand around Peter's throat as he looks down at him.
"I won't, and fuck you for assuming, Rumancek." Roman is too winded for the words to have the bite he wanted, but the tightening of his hand around Peter's neck is enough, he hopes. "That's the only part of me you don't already have."
Peter is moving even faster now, grunting with each thrust, and Roman won't even blink for fear of missing his wolf's expressions. The Upir knows he'll be sore, but that just makes his cock even harder, and his heart disintegrate a bit more.
Roman needs the other man's pleasure, needs it more than air or blood, so he does what the gypsy asked so long ago. With his hands now braced on the wolf's chest, he rolls his hips hard and whispers, "Please, Peter..."
The name feels like venom and the purest coke he's ever consumed on his tongue.
Immediately, Peter clenches his eyes shut and arches hard, cock twitching inside Roman as he groans, "I love you, too."
All Roman can do is watch as the gypsy finishes, pretends he didn't hear the words that fell from the other man's mouth in the heat of the moment. Self preservation, even if only for a short time, because he knows his world will crumble once Peter is out the door.
Roman doesn't come, and he wonders if it's to punish himself or the gypsy. He's not even aching for it, but he doesn't find that odd. This was never about getting off, for Roman, at least.
Though, he knows for Peter, it was. Partially, maybe, but definitely a factor. Roman thinks the gypsy felt guilty, and he feels disgusted with himself for helping the other man absolve the pain. Disgusted and ecstatic, because Roman knows that the way Peter looked up at him, in awe and pleasure, will be the greatest thing he'll live to see.
So, Roman doesn't knock out the wolf's teeth or scream for him to leave. Doesn't call him a piece of shit or ask why the gypsy ruined him. He calmly asks him to go, sitting on the side of the bed with his back to the only person he wants to see, and ignores his bleeding soul and Peter's stuttering, half-hearted protest.
Because Roman Godfrey is a kind man, to Peter.