
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5522237.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Hemlock_Grove
  Relationship:
      Roman_Godfrey/Peter_Rumancek
  Character:
      Roman_Godfrey, Peter_Rumancek, Destiny_Rumancek
  Additional Tags:
      Canon-Typical_Violence, Implied/Referenced_Self-Harm, Yuletide_Treat,
      Oral_Sex
  Collections:
      Yuletide_2015
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-12-25 Words: 2085
****** One Little Bite (Makes a Man Like a Beast) ******
by recrudescence
Summary
     “Ugh,” Destiny groans. “Fuck upir.”
     “Yeah,” Peter says slowly. “About that.”
Notes
     Takes place during episode 7 of season 1 (aka the episode after Peter
     and Roman have their breakup).
“And then,” Peter says, gesturing expansively with a half-empty glass of Jack
Daniels, “after we find the dead body, the cops pull up and Roman won’t fucking
talk to them until I’m practically begging to suck his dick if he’ll just get
them the fuck off our backs.”
Destiny doesn’t look particularly concerned. “Well, clearly he did, right? I
mean, you’re here drinking me dry and not sitting in a holding cell.”
Peter feels a maniacal laugh building in the back of his throat. This is what
Roman fucking Godfrey does to him. “Oh, no. I’m not done. So Roman mouths off
to the cops and they take him away because he’s nice enough to tell them he’s
alone.”
“That does sound suspiciously nice,” Destiny agrees, studying her nails. “So?”
“So I had to walk over five miles home from the goddamn Godfrey steel mill
because I couldn’t take Roman’s car. Then at school I said I needed to get out
of here, make a fresh start somewhere else, and he got all pissed off about
it.”
“Ugh,” Destiny groans. “Fuck upir.”
“Yeah,” Peter says slowly. “About that.”
Somewhere between one sip of whiskey and the next, Destiny’s face falls. “Oh,
cuz. No way.”
“I know,” Peter mutters. “Fuck, believe me, I know.” Destiny doesn’t need to
hear his itemized list of reasons Roman Godfrey can go fuck himself right in
his coke-white ass, but she’s perceptive enough to get a pretty good picture of
it. Besides, everyone knows about Roman, with his poor little rich boy pockets
overflowing with ennui, so used to getting everything he wants by flashing a
little cash. They might not know just how devastating he can be with his
cocksucking lips and freakishly big Botticelli eyes, but Peter's at the point
where he wouldn’t wish that on anyone. “Anyway, for real, there’s some serious
shit going down in this town.”
“And that’s really not your problem. Tell your gadjo boyfriend to go ruin
someone else’s life.”
“He says we need to check out the White Tower.”
“Is that what he calls his dick? Seriously, cuz. Not your problem.”
Peter sinks even deeper into Destiny’s battered plaid armchair, swirling the
liquid in his glass. “No, you’re right. You’re totally right. It’s not my
fucking problem.”

===============================================================================


“You know this isn’t my problem, right?”
Framed in the, in Peter’s opinion, tacky as fuck front doorway the of the
Godfrey mansion, Roman laughs in his face. “Right. There’s a vargulf running
around killing people, but nah, this has nothing to do with you. You’re the
only person in this town who knows shit about werewolves, but I guess that’s no
big deal.”
There’s a half-healed cut on his cheek, razor-thin, and Peter doesn’t have to
guess where it came from.
“Jesus, let me fucking finish. This isn’t my fight, but I’m not going anywhere,
okay?”
“Great,” Roman has an unlit cigarette in his hand, twirling it through his long
fingers dizzyingly fast even by Peter’s lofty standards. “Thanks for sharing.
Maybe you shouldn’t have tried to walk away in the first place.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have abandoned me at the fucking steel mill with half of
Lisa Willoughby’s dead body, did you ever think of that?”
“Look, are you coming in or did you wanna whine at me like a little bitch?”
In all the mental scenarios Peter ran through as he trudged up the driveway, he
never actually anticipated being invited inside. Being completely ignored,
sure. Getting the door slammed in his face so hard he’d be walking around with
the impression of the door knocker on his forehead for weeks, sure. Roman doing
anything remotely hospitable isn’t something that normally crosses his mind to
begin with, let alone after they’ve had a blowout.
“Rumancek.” Roman snaps his fingers. “Either get the hell in here or get the
hell out.”
“Your mom’s not around, is she?”
One of Roman’s eyebrows does a slow, elegant arch up his forehead.
“Disappointed? It’s just me. Shelley’s at a doctor’s appointment for some new
experimental treatment and my mom’s probably fucking my uncle by now.”
“Your family,” Peter says, “is so goddamn fucked up.”
“I know.” Roman smiles like a serpent and holds open the door. “I’m just the
product of my circumstances.”
With a silent apology to Destiny, Peter follows him in.


===============================================================================


Roman’s room is palatial. Peter could probably fit his family’s entire trailer
inside. Roman drapes himself across the bed in a graceful sprawl like he’s
probably done every day of his life.
“So. What do we do now, kiss and make up?” He quirks a wry smile and puckers
his lips in a way that makes Peter’s breath tangle in his lungs.
“It’s been a boring day, might as well,” he says as casually as he can, then
practically cannonballs into Roman’s bed just for the hell of it.
Roman lets out a squawk, which makes Peter grin smugly up at him. “Come on, how
do you not do that when you’ve got a bed the size of a small country?”
Roman’s color is high in both cheeks, one smooth and unmarred, one bisected by
that delicate cut. His hair is a little damp and drying loosely around his
face, not slicked into submission the way it usually is. Peter’s fingers itch
to push it back and test the softness of it. Upir or not, Roman is a delicate
creature with a lifetime’s practice schooling himself into hardness, from his
imperious stare to his clothes creased to knifelike perfection. But underneath
it all, there’s that perpetually pouting mouth and a body begging to be played
with. And it’s been ages since Peter fooled around with another guy.
“Not gonna lie,” Roman murmurs, “I’ve been wondering if you howl like a wolf
when you shoot your load.”
That’s a lot more forward than Peter was expecting, but he can roll with it.
“Seriously? Because that’s one mystery we can definitely solve with a little
teamwork. Then maybe we can get back to the vargulf.”
Roman snorts. “You think you’re so fucking smooth, don’t you? Yeah, get over
here and give me an education.”
The second Peter moves, Roman pins him, mouth-first.


===============================================================================


He’s gradual.
Peter can’t decide if this is a surprise or not. Rich kids are supposed to be
greedy, cramming every last luxury into themselves with the ease of lifelong
hedonists, and Roman’s got a reputation for burning through girls like dime
store prayer candles. On the other hand, Roman’s also the kind of guy who’s
used to calling the shots and getting his way. Besides, they are on his turf
here, which means he’s comfortable stretching things out as long as he likes.
And for the past several minutes, Roman’s been stretching Peter’s patience to
the breaking point one kiss at a time. His mouth is just as soft as it looks
and Peter’s probably going to have an aneurysm if he doesn’t get to find out
what it feels like on his dick.
By now, Roman’s let Peter bury his hands in his hair, hissing at the skim of
nails against his scalp, and he’s let him undo his shirt buttons until the
halves of it are hanging freely. But he’s taken his sweet time just rucking up
Roman’s thermal, spending an age just stroking his stomach, letting his thumb
smooth along the trail of hair below his navel, then back against the grain.
“Fuck,” Peter yelps when Roman’s touch finally roams high enough to rub against
his nipples, then low enough to undo the button of his jeans. “Just a
suggestion? If you’re gonna have a moment of gay panic, I’d appreciate it if
you’d at least let me get my pants off first.”
“You know,” Roman says, rolling the words around in his mouth like he’s
savoring a mouthful of particularly potent smoke, “you’re really not that hairy
for someone who can turn into a fucking wolf.”
“Yeah, I’m a walking paradox.”
“Mmm.” Roman gives him a knowing look from beneath hooded eyelids. “Have you
ever fucked anyone who knows what you are?”
“None of your fucking business,” Peter says, arching his hips up with a slow,
luxurious sigh. “Bet you’d love to be the first, huh? We can play that game if
you want.”


===============================================================================


Peter never in a million years thought his day would involve easing his cock
between Roman’s swollen pink lips, guiding him to take in a little more with
each thrust until there are tears running down his face. It turns out the poor
little rich boy with a mouth made for cock hasn’t ever done this before, but
Roman loves a challenge and Peter knows he can take it. Even with his eyes
streaming, he doesn’t pull off once, just gamely takes everything Peter gives
him.
By the time Peter works a hand down the front of Roman’s thousand-dollar
slacks, Roman is practically hyperventilating. When Peter closes a fist around
the hot, hard length of him he can't help groaning through his teeth at the
heat and the strangled wail Roman utters. “Christ, you’re wet.”
Roman somehow swears without letting Peter’s dick slip out of his mouth, which
is something Peter will be impressed with once he’s back in his right mind.
He's rutting like an animal, humping shamelessly into Peter's hand, and Peter
can feel himself grinning, wide and feral.
“Jesus, you’re such a fucking slut,” he murmurs, soft and almost crooning. “I
bet you could slide your dick right up my ass and we wouldn’t even need lube.
Look at this.” He stops pumping Roman’s cock and lifts his hand between them so
Roman can get a good long look at the way his fingers are glistening. "I bet
you taste incredible."
It's an exaggeration for the sake of the moment, since swallowing bodily fluids
is never what Peter would call incredible, but then, he's not the upir here. He
plays it up for all he's worth, though--slides his fingers into his mouth and
groans around them, taking in the taste of Roman Godfrey like he's being paid
to do it.
By now, Roman has eased back enough to start curiously licking over the head of
his cock with a hot tongue that is not, Peter has discovered, actually forked.
Roman seems to delight in prodding at his slit with the wicked tip of it, then
humming with pleasure whenever Peter moans.
And yeah, he moans a lot; he’s always been loud and it’s not like there’s any
room in his brain left to worry about self-consciousness now. He’s already
gripping a fistful of Roman’s hair with one hand and jerking him off as best he
can with the other. Peter’s an excellent multitasker, but this is an especially
trying situation. And that’s not even taking into account the fact that he’s
having a small heart attack every five seconds because there’s an upir sucking
his cock and if Roman fucking bites him then Peter is going to give him a piece
of his mind and probably cry. Literally tearing out of his own body on a
monthly basis doesn’t mean he’s prepared for this.
He doesn’t howl when he finally comes with Roman’s mouth snug and hot around
him, but it’s a very near thing.


===============================================================================


Afterward, Roman is still sprawled across his bed, but this time he’s not
wearing anything but a scowl. But, in Peter’s expert opinion, it’s a friendlier
scowl than usual. “The fuck are you staring at?”
“Nothing. Just...close your fucking mouth, man.”
“I kind of need it to breathe, man.”
“Yeah, well, you breathe like a whore.” And really, that’s putting it mildly.
Roman’s mouth is so indecent it defies reality.
“I guess you probably hang out with whores a lot more than I do.”
Peter hits him with one of the five thousand pillows scattered around them. “I
can’t fucking believe I’m sticking around to battle a rogue werewolf with you.”
"I can't either." Even Roman's snort is somehow aristocratic. "You really suck
at it."
"Do you really want to start shit now that I know how to shut you up?"
"I don't know," Roman says slowly, giving a stretch and smirking when Peter's
eyes obligingly track the sinuous movement of his body. "I think it's your turn
to teach by example."
This definitely, definitely is not the direction Peter saw his day going, but
he's not going to kick up a fuss about it now. He's just not going to tell
Destiny either.
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