wreck me at sunset ; peter/lydia ; pg-13; vague warning for implicit dub-con. a/n: okay, okay, idek what I was doing with this, but here you go.
“Your hair reminds me of the leaves,” he says in a soft, deceiving voice that tingles down her spine. He leans on the windowsill, sticking his head in, and she sits it at the window in her nightgown, looking up at the early sunset and pretending he's not there.
His smile is slow and dripping and she hates him with a subtle sort of fervor that lives in the back of her throat and only comes out at the worst of times, when she stops being able to control it. He drags a finger up to play with one of her curls, and she wants to bat his hand away, but she doesn't.
Because she also wants to live.
“Your hair reminds me of how old you are. Receding much?” she says back, stiff and straight and with the bite that she reserves only for people who are tremendously stupid, even though he's not - rather, he's clever in a daunting way, a way that hurts her, because it makes her feel silly and small.
He laughs at that, like she is a child playing child's games, and he is only humoring her by allowing them. She wants to shove him out the window. She wishes he'd stop talking to her, that he'd just be silent and bring her flowers again.
But the flowers are out of season and it's nothing but dead leaves now.
Peter trails his fingers out of her hair and over to her face, grazing her cheek with the side of his hand. “I can be young again, if you want,” he says, leaning in, voice so soft, always so soft. “It's all a matter of perception, really.”
She can't bear his hands on her a moment more, so she stands abruptly, not wanting to retreat, or run away like a scared little girl, so she paces instead, walking the expanse of her bedroom back and forth as the evening chill creeps into her bones through her flimsy silk. She is cold and she is small, but she is not frightened of him.
“No, it's not,” she snaps, stopping to glance at herself in the mirror. He watches her with heavy eyes, and she doesn't know if she loves or hates that fact that she looks so perfect even when she feels such a mess.
“Isn't it, though?” He asks, leaning further in, head propped on his hand, limbs looking longer than they are in the late shadows, like some skeletal beast crawled up from the grave to haunt her.
“No,” she says again, because werewolves and lizard beasts and resurrection are all very well, but reality is still governed by rules. The days still run by the calendars, and they can track your brain activity with a tube to your head, and give you pills to make you stop seeing things that aren't there. The world runs in numbers and science, not in magic or wishes, because if it did, then she would be able to wish him away.
His smile grows as he finally finishes climbing in through the window, coming to stand behind her. She sees his reflection in the mirror and sometimes, when the light is just right, he looks like a corpse, and she can whisper to herself that he is buried, not here, not here, not here.
But she feels his breath against the shell of her ear and his hands draw goosebumps on her arms, and the fact is, he is here.
“You smell like autumn, Lydia,” he whispers into her hair.
She grits her teeth, and does what she needs to, because he is here and he's not going away any time soon. “You smell like death,” she says, sharp and proud, like he doesn't scare her an inch, and then swings around and grabs him by the face, kissing him before he can kiss her.
His lips are cold and he breathes a laugh against her, tugging at her with his clever fingers. He hadn't shut the window behind him, and when they fuck on her bedroom floor, the cool wind whistles in the background the whole time.
When she wakes in the morning, he's finally, thankfully gone.
“No,” she says again, because werewolves and lizard beasts and resurrection are all very well, but reality is still governed by rules. The days still run by the calendars, and they can track your brain activity with a tube to your head, and give you pills to make you stop seeing things that aren't there. The world runs in numbers and science, not in magic or wishes, because if it did, then she would be able to wish him away.
a/n: okay, okay, idek what I was doing with this, but here you go.
“Your hair reminds me of the leaves,” he says in a soft, deceiving voice that tingles down her spine. He leans on the windowsill, sticking his head in, and she sits it at the window in her nightgown, looking up at the early sunset and pretending he's not there.
His smile is slow and dripping and she hates him with a subtle sort of fervor that lives in the back of her throat and only comes out at the worst of times, when she stops being able to control it. He drags a finger up to play with one of her curls, and she wants to bat his hand away, but she doesn't.
Because she also wants to live.
“Your hair reminds me of how old you are. Receding much?” she says back, stiff and straight and with the bite that she reserves only for people who are tremendously stupid, even though he's not - rather, he's clever in a daunting way, a way that hurts her, because it makes her feel silly and small.
He laughs at that, like she is a child playing child's games, and he is only humoring her by allowing them. She wants to shove him out the window. She wishes he'd stop talking to her, that he'd just be silent and bring her flowers again.
But the flowers are out of season and it's nothing but dead leaves now.
Peter trails his fingers out of her hair and over to her face, grazing her cheek with the side of his hand. “I can be young again, if you want,” he says, leaning in, voice so soft, always so soft. “It's all a matter of perception, really.”
She can't bear his hands on her a moment more, so she stands abruptly, not wanting to retreat, or run away like a scared little girl, so she paces instead, walking the expanse of her bedroom back and forth as the evening chill creeps into her bones through her flimsy silk. She is cold and she is small, but she is not frightened of him.
“No, it's not,” she snaps, stopping to glance at herself in the mirror. He watches her with heavy eyes, and she doesn't know if she loves or hates that fact that she looks so perfect even when she feels such a mess.
“Isn't it, though?” He asks, leaning further in, head propped on his hand, limbs looking longer than they are in the late shadows, like some skeletal beast crawled up from the grave to haunt her.
“No,” she says again, because werewolves and lizard beasts and resurrection are all very well, but reality is still governed by rules. The days still run by the calendars, and they can track your brain activity with a tube to your head, and give you pills to make you stop seeing things that aren't there. The world runs in numbers and science, not in magic or wishes, because if it did, then she would be able to wish him away.
His smile grows as he finally finishes climbing in through the window, coming to stand behind her. She sees his reflection in the mirror and sometimes, when the light is just right, he looks like a corpse, and she can whisper to herself that he is buried, not here, not here, not here.
But she feels his breath against the shell of her ear and his hands draw goosebumps on her arms, and the fact is, he is here.
“You smell like autumn, Lydia,” he whispers into her hair.
She grits her teeth, and does what she needs to, because he is here and he's not going away any time soon. “You smell like death,” she says, sharp and proud, like he doesn't scare her an inch, and then swings around and grabs him by the face, kissing him before he can kiss her.
His lips are cold and he breathes a laugh against her, tugging at her with his clever fingers. He hadn't shut the window behind him, and when they fuck on her bedroom floor, the cool wind whistles in the background the whole time.
When she wakes in the morning, he's finally, thankfully gone.
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This is my favorite part:
“No,” she says again, because werewolves and lizard beasts and resurrection are all very well, but reality is still governed by rules. The days still run by the calendars, and they can track your brain activity with a tube to your head, and give you pills to make you stop seeing things that aren't there. The world runs in numbers and science, not in magic or wishes, because if it did, then she would be able to wish him away.
Oh thank you so much for filling my prompt!
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