[fic] caerdydd { coch [peter/emyr. 600 words. pg-13.]
.lliwiau'r enfys (coch)
[peter/emyr. pg-13. 600 words.]
notes; four red-related drabbles from various points in their relationship.
warnings; mentions of peter's depression.
summary; we sit together under the duvet, sharing bodyheat and sandwiches.
Peter is chatting up the woman behind the bar. She is tall and thin with scarlet lips that gleam in the smoky light. I lean back too far on my stool, flail, and the front-legs come clanging down. The barmaid shoots me a filthy look and Peter turns to me and winks.
"Whatever am I going to do with you, Emyr?" he asks, pushing me upright. He slides away my glass of …something colourful, rolling his eyes at the slice of lemon and the floating umbrella. I slump onto the counter.
"How many fingers am I holding up?"
I wish I had my glasses.
"Four?"
"…Close enough."
Hot saliva floods my mouth and I leg it to the toilets. My hair is pulled back from my face and fingernails scrape my scalp as my throat burns.
"Shush, Ems," says Peter, his lips beside my ear.
Peter is on my bed when I get out of the shower. He's holding a punnet of fat, overly ripe raspberries, sinfully dark. He places them on my pillow.
"What are you up to?" I ask as I towel dry my hair.
He shrugs, his gaze flickering over my still-damp body. I slip on my jeans, grimacing as they stick to my wet skin.
I take a raspberry and, perching on the edge of my bed, bite into it. It's too warm and fit to bursting; juice dribbles across my lips and down my chin like blood.
Peter laughs at me. I grin back, and then he looks deadly serious as he traces the sticky path with a pale fingertip before withdrawing to the doorway. I peer at Peter from underneath my fringe, feeling off-kilter. He retreats to the kitchen in silence.
Peter is sitting crossed legged on the bed smoking a cigarette. The rain pounds against the window--so heavy it sounds like hail--flashes of lightning lighting up what the candles fail to. I hate power-cuts.
We sit together under the duvet, sharing body heat and sandwiches, crumbs of cheese and bread covering the mattress and the duvet and all of Peter's chest. He brushes them away. His mouth has been stained by the room-temperature wine we've been sharing. Smudged crimson, like lipstick from the girls he kisses.
Several flashes of lightning later, and the room spins and somehow I'm still holding the wine in one hand whilst Peter is straddling me. He takes the bottle from me and drinks, beautiful in the candlelight. The kiss that follows is sweet and heady, hands and tongue everywhere. The rain sluices against the window pane.
"Do you trust me?" he whispers. I nod, let him make love to me and it burns like the flashes in the sky.
Peter is out on the balcony. The depression, the crack-beneath-the-surface, the whatever-it-is has began to smother the spark behind his eyes. He looks up at me, naked, shaking, and I pull him to me. His hair is full of sweat and he smells salty, like he's spent the afternoon walking by the bay. His gaze is fixed on the bruise by my eye, the reddened flesh aching as he presses against me, from thighs to chest.
I cradle Peter's head whilst he mumbles things against my neck about love. The madness is so apparent, so obvious and painfully clear that I'm scared it'll pierce me, pierce me and consume me and perhaps we'd ignite together, smoulder then spark out.
We tangle together and I am reminded of hair being pulled back from my face in toilets, of raspberries and cheese crumbs and making love.
I try not to cry.
[peter/emyr. pg-13. 600 words.]
notes; four red-related drabbles from various points in their relationship.
warnings; mentions of peter's depression.
summary; we sit together under the duvet, sharing bodyheat and sandwiches.
Peter is chatting up the woman behind the bar. She is tall and thin with scarlet lips that gleam in the smoky light. I lean back too far on my stool, flail, and the front-legs come clanging down. The barmaid shoots me a filthy look and Peter turns to me and winks.
"Whatever am I going to do with you, Emyr?" he asks, pushing me upright. He slides away my glass of …something colourful, rolling his eyes at the slice of lemon and the floating umbrella. I slump onto the counter.
"How many fingers am I holding up?"
I wish I had my glasses.
"Four?"
"…Close enough."
Hot saliva floods my mouth and I leg it to the toilets. My hair is pulled back from my face and fingernails scrape my scalp as my throat burns.
"Shush, Ems," says Peter, his lips beside my ear.
Peter is on my bed when I get out of the shower. He's holding a punnet of fat, overly ripe raspberries, sinfully dark. He places them on my pillow.
"What are you up to?" I ask as I towel dry my hair.
He shrugs, his gaze flickering over my still-damp body. I slip on my jeans, grimacing as they stick to my wet skin.
I take a raspberry and, perching on the edge of my bed, bite into it. It's too warm and fit to bursting; juice dribbles across my lips and down my chin like blood.
Peter laughs at me. I grin back, and then he looks deadly serious as he traces the sticky path with a pale fingertip before withdrawing to the doorway. I peer at Peter from underneath my fringe, feeling off-kilter. He retreats to the kitchen in silence.
Peter is sitting crossed legged on the bed smoking a cigarette. The rain pounds against the window--so heavy it sounds like hail--flashes of lightning lighting up what the candles fail to. I hate power-cuts.
We sit together under the duvet, sharing body heat and sandwiches, crumbs of cheese and bread covering the mattress and the duvet and all of Peter's chest. He brushes them away. His mouth has been stained by the room-temperature wine we've been sharing. Smudged crimson, like lipstick from the girls he kisses.
Several flashes of lightning later, and the room spins and somehow I'm still holding the wine in one hand whilst Peter is straddling me. He takes the bottle from me and drinks, beautiful in the candlelight. The kiss that follows is sweet and heady, hands and tongue everywhere. The rain sluices against the window pane.
"Do you trust me?" he whispers. I nod, let him make love to me and it burns like the flashes in the sky.
Peter is out on the balcony. The depression, the crack-beneath-the-surface, the whatever-it-is has began to smother the spark behind his eyes. He looks up at me, naked, shaking, and I pull him to me. His hair is full of sweat and he smells salty, like he's spent the afternoon walking by the bay. His gaze is fixed on the bruise by my eye, the reddened flesh aching as he presses against me, from thighs to chest.
I cradle Peter's head whilst he mumbles things against my neck about love. The madness is so apparent, so obvious and painfully clear that I'm scared it'll pierce me, pierce me and consume me and perhaps we'd ignite together, smoulder then spark out.
We tangle together and I am reminded of hair being pulled back from my face in toilets, of raspberries and cheese crumbs and making love.
I try not to cry.