Fragile (mpreg, fluff, hemlock grove AU, romancek)
Lil AU drabble for @kyofetus, based off of her fantastic epic saga, “The Mask the Monsters Wear” (romancek, mpreg, porn, and gore - what else do you need in a story, really?)
Most of the time, my challenge to myself while writing is, “how gross/weak/vulnerable can I make this character? How fast can this thing go (in regards to emeto or what have you)?”. This time, it was...for fluff.
Just a sweet docile moment between our heroes, on a rainy afternoon, at Home 44. Peter needs to know that Roman can keep them safe.
It was a Tuesday, and it was raining. They could hear the droplets pelting down onto the roof with muted repetition, falling in streaks that trailed in sparkling rivulets down the glass windows of Roman’s transparent home. The entryway glass was a continuous waterfall, like the fancy fountain sculptures they put in every hospital lobby and corporate waiting room.
“When are you gonna get one?” Peter asked, watching the rain fall with dull resignation. He wriggled his bare toes, trying to get some feeling back into them. They were propped up on the coffee table, a throw pillow cushioning his heels, at Roman’s behest – the swelling was cumbersome today (not that Peter paid any particular attention, as everything was swollen and everything was cumbersome these days, he was a goddamn planet).
Roman came around the corner, holding a plate and following Peter’s gaze to the windowpanes. “I’d have to take out the six foot ficus, to make room. Pryce would weep.”
“I think he’d find it soothing,” Peter offered, rubbing at his left side, where he’d felt the kick.
Roman settled in beside him, holding the plate so Peter could see its contents – a golden brown grilled cheese sandwich, glistening with gooey perfection. “Made you this.”
Peter’s eyes widened as he took in this new and glorious spectacle. “Holy shit. That’s amazing.” He accepted the plate, one hand still rubbing at the sore spot on his abdomen. “You even took the plastic off the cheese. Bravo.”
“Fuck you.” But it was amiable, and together, they sat and watched the rain fall, enjoying the scenery and the quiet pattering of the storm. Peter chewed his sandwich contentedly and Roman listened with meditative scrutiny, his own hunger quelled from the bag of A negative he’d slurped down in the kitchen while grilling the cheese.
(if this were…if things were different, he might have brought the blood into the room with him so they could dine together. But Peter was still battling the nausea, even this far along, and would only be triggered by the sight and smell and sound of Roman drinking the blood).
“Shit,” hissed Peter, halfway through his lunch, and stopped eating to bring both hands over the swell of his belly.
Roman stared, instantly alert. “What is it? You okay?”
Peter sat for a moment, eyebrows furrowed in irritated concentration. “She’s kicking. Hard.”
The tight hunch of Roman’s shoulders relaxed, and relief wound a small smile across his face. “Can I feel it?” He asked, voice husky, hopeful. Rarely did Peter allow outside touches, but…today, he was in a good mood.
Peter shifted uncomfortably, glanced up at Roman through dark lashes, and wordlessly reached for Roman’s hand, guiding it to where he’d last felt the kicking.
“Just wait,” he advised, pressing Roman’s palm flush against the taut swell of his belly. “Give her a second. You’ll know it when it happens.”
And, sure enough, quick as lightning, Roman felt two hard little nudges against his palm, completely alien and breathtakingly awesome. His grin widened, brilliant and open and thrilled. “Holy fucking Christ,” he breathed. “That’s…she’s real. That’s our daughter in there.”
Peter, despite his grouchiness at being kicked, couldn’t stop the small smile spreading across his own face in response. He let Roman’s hand linger there a little longer, enjoying the closeness.
“What’s it like?” Roman asked, voice soft, eyes still wide with wonder as he pulled away. “Feeling her grow inside you. Being pregnant.”
Peter immediately scoffed, nearly choking on his next bite of grilled cheese, and looked over at Roman, incredulous amusement written all over his face. “I think you’ve been able to see for yourself these past few months. It’s no fucking picnic.”
“Well,” began Roman, “I didn’t mean…just…it’s gotta be incredible, you know.”
“Incredibly nauseating,” replied Peter, dryly. “Incredibly irritating, incredibly inconvenient…I have to fight not to piss myself every time I sneeze, or move, or blink, you know.”
Roman, to his credit, did look somewhat ashamed. “Look, I’m…I know it hasn’t been fun, to say the least. I know it’s been fucked up. I know you’re hurting and sick. I just wondered…when she kicks, when you feel her move inside you, those little, flutters…you gotta feel something like wonder, right? I mean…that’s our daughter. Growing. Living.”
Peter followed Roman’s gesture at his stomach, cocking an eyebrow, but did not reprimand him. Instead, he sighed and put down his sandwich, so that he might give Roman his full attention.
“The first time I felt it,” he began, “…her…I did get kind of excited. Despite everything, despite living in Pryce’s fucked up lab, having those…things hunting you down…it was like this, instinct.” He licked his lips, avoiding eye contact, gazing distantly ahead. “I felt her moving inside me, and I just knew…no matter what was happening out here, that I had to keep her safe. And that I had to stay by your side, because I-”
Tears threatened; a sudden wave of emotion threatened to choke him. Roman’s eyes widened. Peter continued, clearing his throat. “Because I wouldn’t want anyone else by mine.”
Roman sat, stunned into heart-rending silence. Peter breathed a shaky chuckle, groaning lightly and turning away to wipe at his eyes. “Fuck. I’m getting all hor-”
Full, soft lips met his; Peter’s eyes closed, and he kissed Roman back for a slow minute, letting Roman’s long, cold thumb brush lightly over his cheekbone, wiping away the single falling tear.
“I like when you talk about your feelings,” Roman whispered against Peter’s lips, softly, one finger tilting his chin up so that their mouths might meet once more. “And I love you. You have to know that. I’d never let anyone – anything – hurt you, ever again.”
And, as their mouths met again, sealing the finality of that promise, Peter closed his eyes and allowed himself to feel safe in Roman’s presence, exhaling a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding until now. He gave himself fully to Roman, as Roman had given part of himself to Peter. The fruit of that union kicked, once more, and Roman slipped a hand to spread wide over the hard swell of Peter’s stomach.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, nudging his nose against Peter’s. “Both of you.”
for @kyofetus, who requested the drabble prompt “kraken spiced rum” and painfully hungover Peter and/or Roman. “Make it HORRIFYING” I believe was the direct quote.
Roman Godfrey eased one crusty eye open and immediately wished he hadn’t.
The room spun dizzily, and his head pounded like a fucking hammer on a nail. Thump, thump, thump, in time with his heartbeat fluttering skirtskirtskirt at every pulse point, too fast, dehydrated and weak with low blood sugar. He was hungover as a motherfucker, no doubt about that. His stomach flipped queasily as he opened both eyes (like hell he was falling back asleep now) and protested even further as he pushed himself upright with a low groan, blinking hazily in an attempt to gain recognition of his surroundings.
Peter’s living room….huh. Oh-kay then.
The trailer was scattered with cups and chip bags and fast food wrappers (they must’ve hit every fucking joint in town before coming back here, Jesus Christ there was like five restaurants’ worth) and on the coffee table, sitting in a puddle of what could only be considered filth, was Peter’s bong. Mistress Matilda the Sightseer, he thought she was named, in honor of some dead beloved aunt or some shit.
Ugh, God….he wished he was dead. Bile burned in the back of his throat, fucking acid reflux, and he stifled a foul-tasting burp, scrubbing a hand over his face and looking around for Peter. No other sleeping bodies nearby, hirsute or otherwise. Roman got his answer from a horrible-sounding retch echoing from the bathroom down the hall, and his own stomach turned violently at the clamor. Pushing himself all the way to his feet, he clapped a hand over his own mouth and sprinted (well, stumbled, really, stubbing his toe and not giving a single fuck about it) into the kitchen, doubling over the sink and heaving wretchedly, stomach acid and….fucking Christ, was that tequila?—spraying out of his mouth and nose and all over the dirty dishes waiting patiently for a wash. Looks like they got one.
“Oh God—” Roman groaned, his lamentation trailing off into another gurgling retch, hair falling into his face and torso spasming as his now-empty stomach continued to convulse helplessly. “Fucking dishes!”
A sudden commotion made him whirl as much as he currently could, snot and drool and tears dripping from every facial orifice, to see Peter bracing himself against the entryway, looking like eight kinds of horrible reincarnated necromanced shit warmed over. His cat shrieked and went skittering across the threshold, knocking over a stack of magazines in its furious furry wake.
“….tell me…you emptied that sink first….” Peter mumbled, just focusing on his breathing, barely able to process the nightmare taking place before his eyes. In retrospect, he thought this might be somewhat how Roman felt the first time he’d watched him Turn.
“….I’ll lend Lynda my Amex,” Roman croaked in reply, chest heaving, spitting into the ruined sink. “Crate and Barrel does home delivery. They have…Corningware.”
Peter merely closed his eyes in response (not like they were really open to begin with, fuck, his head was killing him, how was he even alive right now, Turning sucked less than this) and turned to stagger toward one of the dining room (hah) chairs, collapsing heavily and lowering his head into his cradling arms.
Roman joined him shortly after, rinsing the sink as best as he could and throwing a hand towel over the remains. He considered leaving a note for Lynda that said “sorry – R” but he couldn’t find any pens or Post-Its and decided it was pretty self-explanatory anyway.
“Ugh….Jesus Christ…” he groaned, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “The fuck did we do last night?”
From his arm-nest, it sounded like Peter mumbled “what DIDN’T we do last night”, but Roman wasn’t entirely sure. Sounded close enough, though.
Roman supported his chin with his hands and let his eyes wander, scanning the room for further evidence (not that he was entirely sure he wanted to find out at this point). Last night’s revelry must have been pretty fucking epic, judging by their current combined hangovers.
“…Kraken spiced rum?” he read aloud the label of the near-empty fifth sitting beside him on the table.
Peter uttered a wrenching gag, torso convulsing over the table, and lifted his head blearily to glare at Roman with all the strength he could muster. “…do not…mention that name again.”
It was uttered with enough force that Roman actually listened, and he himself resolved to stick to Mary Jane when partying with his new friend, the gypsy werewolf who lived in a trailer down by the river, because apparently some fucked-up shit happened when they drank together.
Lynda admonished Peter for partying with the local Upir boy, but punctuated her chastising lecture with a hug and a hair smoothing, sending him off to bed with a medicinal joint and a motherly smile. She also ordered a brand new set of Corningware ceramic dishes with a real credit card for the first time ever, received the shipment six days later, and had them all blessed with Nicolai’s watchful grace, lest this new set receive any unpredicted and unfortunate showers.
ornery rain (hemlock grove, mpreg, romancek, sick!Peter)
For @kyofetus, drabble based off of her FANTASTIC Hemlock Grove mpreg, The Mask the Monsters Wear. Featuring morning sickness!Peter and concerned!Roman. Also, lyrics to “Orange Crush” by R.E.M. = not mine. No copyright infringement intended.
Rain spattered the windshield in merciless torrents, the wipers barely keeping up with the onslaught. The van’s headlights cut twin beams through the melee, but rising fog reduced visibility to dangerously low levels. Roman gripped the steering wheel tighter and set his jaw. He wasn’t used to having to focus this much on driving safely – hell, safety had never been a primary concern of his as a fledgling motorist – but his conscience, what good it was worth, had consistently reminded him that he was carrying precious cargo through this storm.
Said precious cargo was currently dozing fitfully in the back, curled up on his blanket nest in naught but boxers and a grey T-shirt. Peter had not acclimated well to pregnancy (but then again, by design, he was never intended to). Exhaustion beyond normal biological levels had lent him the blissful and necessary escape from the nausea, and he retreated gratefully whenever the opportunity arose. The trash can bungee corded to the van’s interior panel was there for him when he woke. Roman wished it didn’t have to be this way (he supposed Peter wished as well).
And that concludes our lunch hour rock block, the radio announced tinnily. Bringing you a nonstop block of commercial-free rock for your lunch break, HardRock WXUR. Weather report! Heavy rains and flood warnings still in effect –
“Shee-it, really?” Roman muttered, squinting through a haze of stoplight hues reflecting off the wet pavement. He slowed the van to a stop, wipers still keeping up their frenzied rhythm. There were a few cars ahead of him, and it was a busy intersection. He took a moment to look behind him and check on Peter. “Hey, you okay back there?”
Peter had dully risen from his slumber, hair a mess and face a worse mess. He groaned in response, scrubbing a ring-laden hand over his face. His expression was the perfect picture of early-morning miserable. “God…” he moaned, and reached for the trash can.
“Jesus,” Roman grimaced, watching through the rearview as Peter buried his face in the can, straining to bring up a few mouthfuls of bile on an empty stomach.
The car behind him honked, jerking his attention forward. The light had turned green when he wasn’t paying attention. He accelerated, glaring out the side mirror at the headlights behind him. “Fucking asshole,” he swore, and began searching for an opening in traffic so he could park this monstrosity.
“Roman,” gasped Peter, panting over the trash can. “Pull over. Please.”
“I’m fucking trying,” Roman shot back, eyes darting frantically between the rearview and passenger side mirrors, trying to merge into the turning lane. “Just hang on, okay?”
He was able to pull off into a Walgreens after narrowly missing the bumper of the Fiat in his blind spot. The Fiat blared his horn, shouting some choice words at Roman out the window, which Roman tactfully ignored in favor of tending to Peter.
“Here,” He announced, throwing the shifter in Park and turning fully around. “Hey. You gonna make it back there?”
Peter breathed heavily, trying to catch his breath in the aftermath of his exertions. His skin shone with a light sheen of sweat, cheeks flushed and tears streaking clean trails down his face. “Fucking…nngh…fucking hate you. Hate you for turning me into this.”
“Hey,” Roman repeated, this time with an edge and a narrowed glare. “I’m sorry. All right? Neither of us could have predicted this would happen. I’m fucking sorry.”
There was a tense silence that stretched between them, unmoving, as Peter struggled to regain his bearings and Roman sat wordlessly in the driver’s seat, watching the wipers streak back and forth across the wet windshield. The radio softly droned some nineties grunge for ambience. Finally, he spoke. “You want me to get you anything? Since we’re here, and all.”
Peter considered this offer, spitting and straightening up. He still clutched the trash can with one hand, using the other to push his sweaty hair off his face. There was a lot of things he wanted, and several he was sure he needed, although a formulated list was not precisely coming to mind. “Push Pop,” he finally declared. “The orange kind. If they have ‘em.”
Roman had to turn fully at that one, expression mildly incredulous. “Push Pop,” he repeated.
Peter nodded, and his glance was actually shy beneath dark fringe and heavy brows. “Yeah.” Then, as an afterthought (and a testament to how shitty was currently feeling), he added, “Please.”
The inside of the store was brightly lit, a fluorescent hell reminiscent of the White Tower. Roman wondered vaguely if the surroundings wouldn’t trigger some kind of PTSD episode as he perused the aisles, walking past diapers and formula and tampons, shooting a glare in the direction of the condoms and pregnancy tests (lotta fuckin good those would do ‘em now) and internally rejoicing when he found the meager grocery section in the back of the store. The coolers were stocked with juice and milk and frozen pizzas, and he wondered idly if he should pick up a gallon of milk (for calcium? Vitamin D? He supposed Peter could use some of that).
At last, he came upon his treasure – the last cooler was filled with assorted pints of ice cream. And, on the bottom rack, a box of orange Push Pops, just like the kind he used to see other neighborhood children sucking on during summer days, when the ice cream truck would make its circuitous jingling route through the streets.
(Olivia had never allowed Roman or Shelley to run outside and play with the other children, and certainly not to condescend themselves as to beg for treats from the local peddler, instead keeping them sheltered within the confines of drawn drapes and air conditioning, sending the personal shopper out into the summer heat for top-shelf ice cream without bright colors or cartoon characters on the labels).
Roman had also, demonstrating a brief flash of rational thought, picked up a pack of toothbrushes, a three-pack of toothpaste, more toilet paper, and a pack of disposable wet wipes, as well as a six-pack of orange Gatorade (he had, in fact, learned from personal hangover experience that electrolytes were something that generally needed to be replenished once lost).
He hurried through the parking lot, shoulders hunched futilely against the torrential downpour.
“Shee-it!” He greeted, ducking into the van and depositing the packages in the passenger seat. He turned to see Peter sitting up, hair slicked back and wearing a different T-shirt. “The fuck, did you actually stick your head outside?”
Peter just looked at him, eyes dull. “Yes, Roman. I did.”
“You really think that’s smart? In your…condition, and all-”
“Roman,” interrupted Peter, holding up a slim-fingered hand. “I am not some delicate fucking flower. Definitely not a goddamn woman, so stop treating me like one.”
Roman frowned, blinking away raindrops that clung to his lashes. “The hell do you mean? Looking out for your health, that’s treating you like a woman? Degrading you?”
Peter closed his eyes, inhaling wearily. He rubbed his face with both hands, holding them there for a moment. “I’m fine. Just…I need a shower. We’ve been cooped up in here too long.” He plopped his hands into his lap with an exasperated sigh, one that ended in a soft groan, face going pale. “Fucking nauseous. I’m tired as shit. I’m sore all over. I can’t eat anything I usually do and I crave shit I never thought I would. I dunno how women do this every day. Millions of them. Since the beginning of evolutionary history, just fucking….fucking and having babies.”
Roman stared. “For someone who doesn’t wanna be compared to a woman even though he’s technically pregnant, he just did a great job comparing himself to one.”
Peter glared. “Fuck you.”
“Be nice,” Roman retorted, reaching into one of the bags and unearthing his prize – the brightly colored, slightly damp box of Push Pops. “Got your frozen phallic-shaped treats, you fucker.”
That seemed to erase some of the weariness from around Peter’s eyes, and a fresh glimmer of hope shone from within the recesses of his exhausted soul. “You’re a good man, Godfrey.”
“Just trying to seal my place in Heaven,” Roman replied, holding a palm over his heart and handing over the box. “One magnanimous act of selflessness at a time.”
“Gonna take a lot more than producing some frozen orange vague dongs to do that,” Peter muttered, unwrapping his treat. “Mmm…Jesus. Been years since I had one of these.”
Roman let him eat in peace, secretly satisfied that he was at last ingesting something. He turned the heat up a couple clicks, aiming the vents toward the back (stupid fucker insisted on showering in the rain like a…well, a traveling gypsy, he supposed, and then wondered if it was racist to think so, then resolved to ask Peter himself if it was, later).
His train of thought was interrupted by a sudden moan from the back. He twisted around in time to see Peter lurch for the trash can, convulse with a gagging cough, and then bring up a mouthful of orange slurry with a shuddering moan.
“Aw, man,” Roman winced. “You were doing so well, too.”
“God,” Peter gasped, leaning back with his eyes still closed. A fresh dampness shone over his face, and Roman noticed (not for the first time) how pronounced his cheekbones had become.
“Thought you were craving those?” Roman pressed, furrowing his brow and gesturing toward the box of Push Pops.
“Take ‘em,” Peter ground out, abruptly shoving the box toward Roman. “Ugh, please. Don’t even wanna look at them.”
Roman did so, fingers carefully closing around the box and removing it from Peter’s vicinity. He wisely chose not to comment on this current turn of events, chalking it up to girly hormones. He vaguely remembered Letha exhibiting the same behavior early on in her pregnancy – she’d begged Roman to take her out for pizza (ooh, with extra olives and banana peppers!), lauding how delicious it was going to be, and once they’d stepped foot inside the Italian restaurant, the smell had hit her, and she’d promptly gagged and whirled straight back for the exit, leaving Roman confused and slightly irritated, wondering selfishly where his life had gone wrong.
“You should try and drink something,” he said instead, unhooking one of the Gatorade bottles from its plastic lacing and offering it to him. “Replenish your electrolytes.”
Peter looked up at him with unconcealed disdain. “Replenish yours,” he groaned. “Let’s just go. We’ve sat too long already. Everybody’s watching.”
This had gone on for too long. Roman went into serious mother hen mode, unbuckling his seatbelt and clambering all ten feet of his lanky limbs over the console and into the back, resolve set and Gatorade in tow, ignoring Peter’s murmurs of protest at the sudden action.
“Dude, just drive-”
“Scooch,” he commanded, settling in beside Peter and twisting open the bottle. “Here. Drink.”
Peter opened his mouth to protest, then seemed to decide that, despite the obnoxious delivery, the message Roman was sending was actually one that should be heralded with importance. He’d been throwing up more often than he’d been drinking (and certainly more often than eating). This morning sickness shit was not a fucking joke, not a subject of giggles, and Roman was (unfortunately) right – he did need to replenish his electrolytes.
So, steeling his own resolve (and willing his stomach to cooperate), Peter accepted the Gatorade, unscrewing the cap and taking a tentative swig.
“Ugh,” he grimaced, the sweet and mildly salty flavor overpowering to his queasy innards. “Fuck…”
“It’s okay,” Roman reassured him, tone soft. “Just give it a second. See if it stays down.”
They waited in companionable anxious silence, the only sounds being the rain pattering down on the roof of the van, and, in the background, R.E.M. playing softly on the radio.
Follow me, don’t follow me
I’ve got my spine, I’ve got my orange crush
Collar me, don’t collar me
“Oh, fuck,” Peter ground out, and this time, Roman was ready with the trash can, holding it under Peter’s chin as the Gatorade came back up with a straining liquid heave.
I’ve got my spine, I’ve got my orange crush
We are agents of the free
I’ve had my fun and now it’s time to
“Jesus,” Roman murmured, rubbing gentle circles on Peter’s back, noting how easily he felt the ridges of his spine beneath the thin fabric of his damp T-shirt. “It’s okay. ‘s okay.”
“…ss-sorry,” Peter shivered, spitting into the can, hunching over reflexively as another dry heave gripped him. “Tried-”
Serve your conscience (over me)
Overseas (Not over me)
Coming in fast, over me
“Dude, not your fault,” Roman consoled him, keeping his hand steady. “Hormones got you all fucked up. We’ll just have to see if Pryce has any ideas.”
Peter uttered a low moan, trying to steady his breathing. “Ideas on using me for scientific study? Or for the title of his next thesis, also based on me?”
“Sometimes, women – sorry, but it’s true – sometimes, they have to get hospitalized for, y’know, morning sickness. They get super dehydrated and have to be hooked up to IVs.”
This was not a prospect that seemed enticing, and that reluctance lent Peter strength. “I’ll be fine,” he muttered thickly, spitting again and straightening up with some effort. “It fucking sucks, but I can handle it. We’re not there yet.”
Roman lowered his hand from Peter’s back, but continued to watch him warily. “You can barely keep down fluids. Your fucking organs are fused. Maybe this has something to do with that.”
“Or something to do with the mutant fetus gestating in my fucking colon,” Peter responded. “This shit, it’s…normal, as normal can be for our situation.” He sat back with a sigh, resting a hand over his stomach and closing his eyes once more. His head spun dizzily, and he silently willed it to go away, fucking prayed not to show any more weakness in front of Roman, lest he get hauled to the nearest emergency room. “Let’s just drive, Roman. We gotta find her.”
Roman nodded, at last, eyes wide and serious. “Yeah. You’re right. Pryce’s team picked up some coordinates. ‘s where we were headed when you last passed out.”
Peter flung a hand up, gesticulating vaguely. “Well, let’s go. Time’s a-fuckin’ wastin’.”
The neon glow of the Walgreens faded away in the gloom, washed from the rearview by the never-ending rain.
What if we did an online slumber party where we all "met up" at a certain time (I.e. got online and checked in) and spent a few hours watching a show and sending each other prompts and it ended with each of us writing a drabble and posting it???
@cabbagespoon @kyofetus @stuffndthangsndwhump @little-known-secret and anyone else, feel free to join?!!
