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
( ... )
“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 ( ... )
Reply
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!
Reply
Leave a comment