{i really wanna start rping again........}

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@the-emperor-moth
{i really wanna start rping again........}
Dear Roman: “Excusatio non petita, accusatio manifesta”, because in this moment, after the beautiful thing, saying “I’m not a homo” sounds like “I’m not a homo but with you, Peter, I would do an exception”.
Ah, these little adorable differences show vs book xD
Roman thoughts: “All day & all night, but…”
What Roman almost says: “And they call ME creepy”
What Roman was thinking: “Holy Mother of God: she’s the lost daughter of Carrie and Donnie Darko’s crazy old lady. If I weren’t such a tough guy, because I’m an ultra-tough guy, I would scream like a Victorian era lady”
GUYS
SAY IT WITH ME
DON’T TAG THE URL WITH THE HYPHENS
THERE IS A ZERO PERCENT CHANCE THEY’LL EVER SEE IT
And only the first five tags ever show up. So tagging more than 5 people means the 6th and any tag after won’t see it either.
^ This is just as important as knowing not to tag with hyphens. When you tag a large group of people, not everyone will see the post in their tag. Making a new post to tag them or dropping them an ask to let them know that they were tagged really helps. Otherwise, they probably won’t see it.
YOU KNOW WHAT NOBODY HAS WRITTEN YET IN THE HEMLOCK GROVE FANDOM???
ROMAN FEEDING ON PETER’S BLOOD. I MEAN HE’S A FUCKING VAMPIRE??? HELLO???
BAD FANDOM. BAD.
I EXPECTED MORE FROM YOU.
/i might write this but god help me my porn sucks
/cries
Well …
… if you really think about it …
… Peter’s a werewolf.
Wouldn’t Roman feeding on his blood turn him into a vampire werewolf?
Not if you have to be born with the vampire gene. <.< >.> ..but what do I know… *slips away into the unknown* xP
But you don’t have to be born with the werewolf gene - that’s what I mean. You’re born with it, or you’re bitten … or, in Christina’s case, you choose it. Roman drinking Peter’s blood would turn Roman into some insane vampire-werewolf thing. It’s a precarious situation. Peter, on the other hand, SHOULD be fine if he bit an upir while turned, since an upir is born, not made.
{imma throw in my two cents here. typically, vampires don't drink werewolf blood. it's tainted (since they aren't pure human), and tastes bad, and, depending on the type of vampire/werewolf, it could kill the vampire.
werewolf bites affect vampires differently. since they're already vampires, they would be hurt by a bite (possibly killed) but not turned. drinking a werewolf's blood won't make you a werewolf, so roman becoming a hybrid that way is very unlikely. usually hybrids are impossible, since vampires and werewolves are complete opposites and mixing the two would be like mating a lion with a bear.
i'm not very familiar with upir, however, and anything's possible in fanfiction so i suppose you could do what you want.}
“The more I try to understand the world, the more of a stranger it makes me feel.”
Moving when he did, inserting himself between the upir and the vargulf, blocking Roman’s path … Peter told himself it had been a smart move – it was the only thing that kept him from thinking he’d completely lost his mind.
Because standing there, in front of Christina, protecting her – he got to see, to witness, Roman’s fangs elongate and the shadows cross his face. Again, it made his blood run cold – because he knew, right then, that his old friend had become full-blown upir. Without a doubt.
He drew a deep breath, exhaling slowly, feeling his tension continue to well within him. Roman’s turn had happened without him, as he expected it would – but Peter had the feeling that this wasn’t the end. No, this most certainly was not the end – he could still feel it, deep within his soul. There was unfinished business.
How can you protect her? With everything she’s done? All the fucking people she’s killed?
“Because it’s my fault!”
The shout had been sudden but clear and it lingered on the air in the silence that followed … several beats, and he didn’t say anything … didn’t add anything just yet. Peter hadn’t realized it, but he was shaking, trembling from head to toe … stress, fear, the fact that the blood in his veins felt it had turned to ice. “She’s like this because of me,” he added, gasping for air as his heart pounded fiercely in his chest. “It’s my fault – her, the girls, Shelley, fucking all of it. If I hadn’t … if I’d never fucking come here, none of this would have happened. None of it!”
It wasn’t something most people thought about, not the sort of indepth analysis one would make upon just glancing at Peter’s life – but there it was, more than just the surface. The wolf was standing at the precipice of a psychological break … and perhaps he’d already fallen into the massive crack that had formed along the faultline.
He was numb from the very core, breaths ragged and rapid as he whispered to himself, closing his eyes for only a second, “I can’t … I can’t …”
Okay. I won’t hurt her.
He huffed like the angry, paranoid wolf that he was, suspecting Roman of having another agenda – because, yes, he knew about that gift, and was often wary of the upir’s gift … it was the reason why he avoided eye contact right then … because he had a feeling, if he looked, then Roman would ‘persuade’ him to put the glass away … but no, instead, as though to illustrate his point, he pressed the shard a little harder to his throat, nicking the skin and allowing a small trickle of blood to stain the clear glass and his fingertips.
“I mean it,” he insisted through clenched teeth.
Peter had nothing … nothing left to lose but his own life. He’d let this girl eat his face – he wasn’t afraid to cut his own throat. If that was his only bargaining chip against Roman, then he was ready to play.
Put that down.
He squeezed it a little tighter between his fingers, lips pressing together hard as he exhaled rapidly through his nostrils … and then … suddenly jerked the glass down and away from his throat, gaze locked on the floor for a beat, then lifting his arm to his side, holding it for another two before simply opening his hand and letting the shard fall to the floor with a light clink.
Again, he was still and silent for several beats – several simple beats of an erratic heart – before he finally managed a whisper.
“Thanks.”
Peter was tired, and it showed as he moved toward Christina in the corner, “Sorry about the mess,” he added in a mutter to the upir before he lowered himself slowly to sit next to the girl, pressing his back to the wall. “I’ll … clean it up … later …” he murmured, turning his attention to Christina. “Are you okay? Do you need me to look at those … or …” he was referring to all the cuts she had received from the shattered glass.
His fault.
Peter thought he was responsible for Christina's murders.
Roman stared at Peter's face, and he wanted to laugh, torn between rage and a hysterical incredulity. Was it possible for someone to be so self-centred, so self-absorbed that they could think themselves responsible for everything that happened- good or bad? He felt his lips curl, resentment making every bone in his body hum painfully. Roman knew that it wasn't Peter's fault, that Christina did this to herself. She had potential from the start, and walking along the line of sanity, all she needed was a little push to go over- except there was no push, because she jumped of her own volition. It was nobody's fault but hers, and Roman wanted to tell Peter. Roman wanted to, but Peter didn't deserve the comfort of truth.
Registering the sharp movent at Peter's neck, Roman's heart stilled for a moment before he realised that the hand had moved away, and not into soft skin, severing his jugular and releasing the hot blood that beat beneath. The image played in his mind as the glass fell to the floor: the slide of the shard against skin, the gush of red painting Peter's hands and neck as it poured down. Roman licked his lips, almost tasting iron on his tongue before he realised what he was doing.
He held himself together outwardly, the only sign of his discomfort being the bobbing of his Adam's apple as he swallowed. The heat that flowed through him disgusted him, and he stood trembling, not willing to give in to his hunger. Flicking his eyes from Peter to Christina and back, he slowly moved closer to where they were sitting. Glass crunched underfoot, and he kicked most of it away as casually as he could.
His high was fading quickly, but he still felt twitchy and anxious, and he itched for another hit to get him away from what was going on. He wanted to run, far from Peter, far from the source of all his pain, but he couldn't. Peter was like the cocaine in his veins: dangerous and intoxicating, and Roman could never have enough. He stood awkwardly for a moment, just observing the seated pair.
Christina was a mess, her skin smeared with remnants of food and blood. She looked wild, unstable, and Roman could smell something on her- a mutated scent of death, its sweetness soured by her reawakening. The blood that would have normally aroused his hunger sickened him, and he swallowed hard, his face crinkling unconciously. Her eyes held an emptiness that could've rivaled his mother's, were she still alive. It angered him, for some reason, to look at her, so he shifted his gaze to Peter. The other boy's eyes still refused to meet his, and Roman couldn't determine whether the sting in his heart was caused by anger or sadness. He decided he didn't care. Staring down at him, as though he could compel Peter to look, Roman spoke.
"So, what next?"
Requested by ivanmccormick
Ganesha! <3
“You probably have to get home.” “Okay.” “Don’t?” “What? “Have to go home.”