FIC: Dewi Sant (1/1) R RPS
TITLE: Dewi Sant
AUTHOR: Laura Smith
PAIRING: Ioan Gruffudd/Matthew Rhys
RATING: R
SUMMARY: Cartref. Cardiff. Here. With you.
DISCLAIMER: Matthew Rhys and Ioan Gruffudd belong only to themselves. I don't claim them, I don't claim to know them and no harm is intended.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Written for the Getting Lucky! Challenge-A-Thon Thing!
It’s Saint David’s day, which makes it all the harder to be away from home even though there’s a decent faction of ex-pats living nearby. In some ways though, that makes it worse because they’re all in daffodils and leeks and speaking of cartref with such longing that he can’t face any of them, just needs to crawl onto the couch and drown himself in rugby and ale and takeaway.
“It’s like a bloody funeral in here.” Matthew doesn’t bother with knocking, hasn’t since Ioan was daft enough to give him a key. He walks over to the window and opens the blinds, letting sunlight wash over the untidy flat. “You’re aware it’s actually nigh on spring, yeah?”
“Thought I’d just have a lie in.”
“You thought you’d mope around the flat and wail and moan like some sort of operatic diva.” He leaves the lounge and goes into the kitchen, digging a beer out of the fridge. The good stuff’s in the back and, from the ruckus Matthew’s making, he well knows it.
“I’m not wailing or moaning. Was being rather quiet, I thought.”
“Yes, which is not your natural state, as we both know.” Matthew comes back out, and Ioan has to give him credit for bringing two and handing one over to Ioan. “There’s a party going on, you know. Food and drink and an even bigger TV than even your present over-compensation for your shortcomings.”
“Don’t have any shortcomings, wanker.” Ioan shifts so that Matthew can sit on the sofa if he’d like, moving his feet from the cushions to the coffee table. “I like it big because I’m so used to having big things.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Matthew’s mouth quirks in a smile.
“Is a compliment. Except, of course, when ‘m talking about your ego.” Ioan takes a sip of his ale and closes his eyes, holding the taste of it on his tongue. “So why’re you here ‘f there’s a party?”
“Because I knew you’d be here moping about.”
“Not moping.” Ioan kicks Matthew’s shin with his bare foot. “Just…relaxing.”
“You’re moping, you great ponce. You miss your Mum and Dad and, god help us, your siblings, and you’re moping, even though you’ve likely sent your Mum the largest bouquet of daffodils you could manage.”
“You don’t miss home?”
Matthew takes a long drink and shrugs, sucking on his bottom lip a bit. “Suppose. Sometimes. Miss the place, I guess. The smell and the sight. Los Angeles isn’t quite Cardiff, is it?”
“Sunny and warm and bright, you mean?” Ioan laughs a little and blinks at the city shimmering outside his window. “As opposed to cold and dank and damp.” He shakes his head. “Though that was more London, wasn’t it?”
“Some benefits to the cold though, you have to admit.”
Something in Matthew’s voice makes Ioan look up and actually look at him. “Yeah. A few.” He reaches over, running his fingers lightly over the back of Matthew’s hand. “You want to go to the party?”
Matthew turns his hand over, letting Ioan’s fingers graze his palm. He watches for a moment then closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. “Not really.”
Ioan watches Matthew intently as he draws his fingers higher, up to Matthew’s wrist. Matthew sinks his teeth into his lower lip. “Want to stay here? Watch rugby?”
He can feel Matthew’s pulse beneath his fingers, hard and thick, and he rubs it softly. “Old movies?”
Matthew’s eyes are still closed, and it always sends Ioan’s pulse racing to know he does this to Matthew, silences all those voices in Matthew’s head that yammer on and on about drive and ambition and things to do and be. Matthew’s driven in ways Ioan’s not - Ioan wants to be a movie star like Cary Grant or Gregory Peck and Matthew wants to be an actor like Jimmy Stewart or Clint Eastwood - and so he works far harder than anyone should. But times like this, he lets Ioan’s touch filter through all the mess and noise and just relaxes. Ioan can see it as Matthew’s lips part, as his tongue sneaks out to wet his lips.
“No.” It’s more a breath than an answer, and it sends shivers up Ioan’s spine. Matthew’s been here nearly two years now, and there’s been a balance shift between them. They keep a fine line drawn between friends and lovers, and lately they’ve shifted more toward friends than anything, light easy affection tied up in Xbox games on Tuesday nights and rugby matches whenever Matthew’s got down time. But this isn’t friendship, or isn’t just friendship.
Ioan shifts, pushing off the couch and onto his knees, leaning in to breathe against Matthew’s parted lips, to taste the air Matthew’s exhaling shakily. “Miss home, Matthew.”
Matthew nods. His eyes are still closed, but his breathing changes with Ioan so close, with Ioan sliding a hand slowly along his collarbone. “I’m home.” It’s a whisper of a sentence and even spoken in English, it sounds like cartref to Ioan, so he kisses him, mouth moving warm and slow over Matthew’s. Matthew moves his hand, threading his fingers with Ioan’s, so their pounding pulses are together. Matthew’s free hand slides up Ioan’s side, his fingers warm against Ioan’s back.
Ioan moves closer, straddling Matthew’s lap and sliding his hand from Matthew’s collarbone to his neck, his thumb resting against the frantic pulse. He can feel Matthew’s arousal pressed against him and he digs his knees into Matthew’s thighs. Matthew groans low and breaks the kiss, moving his mouth down to Ioan’s jaw and neck, sucking lightly on the skin there. Ioan matches his groan and thrusts down, pressing his own insistent erection against Matthew’s.
Matthew’s hand bunches Ioan’s shirt and tugs on it, so Ioan pulls back reluctantly to strip it off. He reaches for Matthew’s shirt before his own even hits the floor and Matthew catches his hands by the wrists, bringing them up and planting faint kisses just above his fingers. Ioan bites his lower lip, head falling back as Matthew guides their hands to the side and leans in, scraping his teeth over Ioan’s collarbone.
“G-God, Matthew.”
Matthew moves back up to Ioan’s neck, teeth and tongue wreaking havoc on his senses. Ioan can’t help thrusting down against him, wanting all their clothes out of his way. He reaches for Matthew’s shirt again, managing to tug it free of his jeans and pull it up, exposing Matthew’s warm stomach to his hands so his fingers can splay over the skin.
There’s a soft groan that pours like liquid down Ioan’s spine, making his shiver. Matthew takes advantage of the mindless moment, guiding Ioan down onto the couch, settling over him. Ioan’s aching for more, but he doesn’t want to spoil the moment. Matthew tugging his shirt over his head and settling against him pushes the other thoughts to the back of his mind, keeping Ioan firmly in the here and now as there’s skin against skin and the hard press of Matthew’s erection against his.
“Oh, boyo,” Matthew whispers against Ioan’s mouth. “Missed you.”
There’s a smart arse comment on Ioan’s lips - that he’s been here all along, that they see each other all the time - but it dies on his lips at the sight of Matthew’s blue eyes, darker than the first fall of night when the sky is somewhere between black and blue, the color poets wax on about endlessly. “Missed you too.” He doesn’t realizes he’s spoken in Welsh until he hears the words, something about Matthew evoking it, the words as natural as the weight of Matthew’s body against his.
“C’mon.” Matthew pulls away and stands, the bulge of his prick obvious in his jeans. Ioan thinks about sitting up and taking Matthew in his mouth, swallowing him down until Matthew’s knees shake and he has to grab Ioan’s hair or the back of the sofa to stay standing, but Ioan wants, so he stands and steals another kiss, biting and thieving what Matthew would give willingly.
The bedroom is too far all of a sudden, even though it’s just down the hall, and they start laughing, racing and stumbling toward it, like boys again, fighting with snowballs on the school yard or chasing each other through the halls of the church or tumbling into bed after the long walk home from the pub. There’s tugging and teasing and pressing against walls and, by the time they reach the bed, Ioan’s sides hurt from laughing and his cock hurts from wanting and he can’t get undressed fast enough.
They fall together the way things fall apart for most people, without even noticing. Pieces fit together with small sighs and shuddering breaths and the slick slide of fingers and tongues and pricks until they’re above and beneath and inside and gasping for breath. Matthew likes to fuck him hard, and Ioan likes to wrap his legs around him and take him deeper and they end up sweaty and messy and half exhausted from taunting each other, demanding more and getting it until they can’t make words, only noises that aren’t English and aren’t Welsh, but they understand them all the same.
Matthew slumps against Ioan, all sticky sweat and come, still buried inside him. Ioan can’t quite unlock his ankles from each other, so he stays wrapped around Matthew, heels resting between Matthew’s calves. “’m glad you’re here, you know.” Ioan manages finally, not sure he’s said the words aloud until Matthew lifts up just a bit and looks at him.
“Should hope so.” He grins, and Ioan knows he’s deliberately misunderstanding him. Matthew does it often, just to take the piss out of Ioan, which is, if he’s honest, the basis of their relationship. After a moment, Matthew pushes an errant curl off Ioan’s forehead, the damp strands clinging to his fingers. “Lucky to be here.”
“Well, you’re a good actor. Eventually someone had to hire you.” Ioan smiles back.
“Not the here I mean, boyo.” He kisses Ioan softly, lying back against his shoulder, letting his breath warm Ioan’s cooling skin. His voice is muffled and rough as Ioan reaches up, stroking Matthew’s short hair. “Wanker.”
AUTHOR: Laura Smith
PAIRING: Ioan Gruffudd/Matthew Rhys
RATING: R
SUMMARY: Cartref. Cardiff. Here. With you.
DISCLAIMER: Matthew Rhys and Ioan Gruffudd belong only to themselves. I don't claim them, I don't claim to know them and no harm is intended.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Written for the Getting Lucky! Challenge-A-Thon Thing!
It’s Saint David’s day, which makes it all the harder to be away from home even though there’s a decent faction of ex-pats living nearby. In some ways though, that makes it worse because they’re all in daffodils and leeks and speaking of cartref with such longing that he can’t face any of them, just needs to crawl onto the couch and drown himself in rugby and ale and takeaway.
“It’s like a bloody funeral in here.” Matthew doesn’t bother with knocking, hasn’t since Ioan was daft enough to give him a key. He walks over to the window and opens the blinds, letting sunlight wash over the untidy flat. “You’re aware it’s actually nigh on spring, yeah?”
“Thought I’d just have a lie in.”
“You thought you’d mope around the flat and wail and moan like some sort of operatic diva.” He leaves the lounge and goes into the kitchen, digging a beer out of the fridge. The good stuff’s in the back and, from the ruckus Matthew’s making, he well knows it.
“I’m not wailing or moaning. Was being rather quiet, I thought.”
“Yes, which is not your natural state, as we both know.” Matthew comes back out, and Ioan has to give him credit for bringing two and handing one over to Ioan. “There’s a party going on, you know. Food and drink and an even bigger TV than even your present over-compensation for your shortcomings.”
“Don’t have any shortcomings, wanker.” Ioan shifts so that Matthew can sit on the sofa if he’d like, moving his feet from the cushions to the coffee table. “I like it big because I’m so used to having big things.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Matthew’s mouth quirks in a smile.
“Is a compliment. Except, of course, when ‘m talking about your ego.” Ioan takes a sip of his ale and closes his eyes, holding the taste of it on his tongue. “So why’re you here ‘f there’s a party?”
“Because I knew you’d be here moping about.”
“Not moping.” Ioan kicks Matthew’s shin with his bare foot. “Just…relaxing.”
“You’re moping, you great ponce. You miss your Mum and Dad and, god help us, your siblings, and you’re moping, even though you’ve likely sent your Mum the largest bouquet of daffodils you could manage.”
“You don’t miss home?”
Matthew takes a long drink and shrugs, sucking on his bottom lip a bit. “Suppose. Sometimes. Miss the place, I guess. The smell and the sight. Los Angeles isn’t quite Cardiff, is it?”
“Sunny and warm and bright, you mean?” Ioan laughs a little and blinks at the city shimmering outside his window. “As opposed to cold and dank and damp.” He shakes his head. “Though that was more London, wasn’t it?”
“Some benefits to the cold though, you have to admit.”
Something in Matthew’s voice makes Ioan look up and actually look at him. “Yeah. A few.” He reaches over, running his fingers lightly over the back of Matthew’s hand. “You want to go to the party?”
Matthew turns his hand over, letting Ioan’s fingers graze his palm. He watches for a moment then closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. “Not really.”
Ioan watches Matthew intently as he draws his fingers higher, up to Matthew’s wrist. Matthew sinks his teeth into his lower lip. “Want to stay here? Watch rugby?”
He can feel Matthew’s pulse beneath his fingers, hard and thick, and he rubs it softly. “Old movies?”
Matthew’s eyes are still closed, and it always sends Ioan’s pulse racing to know he does this to Matthew, silences all those voices in Matthew’s head that yammer on and on about drive and ambition and things to do and be. Matthew’s driven in ways Ioan’s not - Ioan wants to be a movie star like Cary Grant or Gregory Peck and Matthew wants to be an actor like Jimmy Stewart or Clint Eastwood - and so he works far harder than anyone should. But times like this, he lets Ioan’s touch filter through all the mess and noise and just relaxes. Ioan can see it as Matthew’s lips part, as his tongue sneaks out to wet his lips.
“No.” It’s more a breath than an answer, and it sends shivers up Ioan’s spine. Matthew’s been here nearly two years now, and there’s been a balance shift between them. They keep a fine line drawn between friends and lovers, and lately they’ve shifted more toward friends than anything, light easy affection tied up in Xbox games on Tuesday nights and rugby matches whenever Matthew’s got down time. But this isn’t friendship, or isn’t just friendship.
Ioan shifts, pushing off the couch and onto his knees, leaning in to breathe against Matthew’s parted lips, to taste the air Matthew’s exhaling shakily. “Miss home, Matthew.”
Matthew nods. His eyes are still closed, but his breathing changes with Ioan so close, with Ioan sliding a hand slowly along his collarbone. “I’m home.” It’s a whisper of a sentence and even spoken in English, it sounds like cartref to Ioan, so he kisses him, mouth moving warm and slow over Matthew’s. Matthew moves his hand, threading his fingers with Ioan’s, so their pounding pulses are together. Matthew’s free hand slides up Ioan’s side, his fingers warm against Ioan’s back.
Ioan moves closer, straddling Matthew’s lap and sliding his hand from Matthew’s collarbone to his neck, his thumb resting against the frantic pulse. He can feel Matthew’s arousal pressed against him and he digs his knees into Matthew’s thighs. Matthew groans low and breaks the kiss, moving his mouth down to Ioan’s jaw and neck, sucking lightly on the skin there. Ioan matches his groan and thrusts down, pressing his own insistent erection against Matthew’s.
Matthew’s hand bunches Ioan’s shirt and tugs on it, so Ioan pulls back reluctantly to strip it off. He reaches for Matthew’s shirt before his own even hits the floor and Matthew catches his hands by the wrists, bringing them up and planting faint kisses just above his fingers. Ioan bites his lower lip, head falling back as Matthew guides their hands to the side and leans in, scraping his teeth over Ioan’s collarbone.
“G-God, Matthew.”
Matthew moves back up to Ioan’s neck, teeth and tongue wreaking havoc on his senses. Ioan can’t help thrusting down against him, wanting all their clothes out of his way. He reaches for Matthew’s shirt again, managing to tug it free of his jeans and pull it up, exposing Matthew’s warm stomach to his hands so his fingers can splay over the skin.
There’s a soft groan that pours like liquid down Ioan’s spine, making his shiver. Matthew takes advantage of the mindless moment, guiding Ioan down onto the couch, settling over him. Ioan’s aching for more, but he doesn’t want to spoil the moment. Matthew tugging his shirt over his head and settling against him pushes the other thoughts to the back of his mind, keeping Ioan firmly in the here and now as there’s skin against skin and the hard press of Matthew’s erection against his.
“Oh, boyo,” Matthew whispers against Ioan’s mouth. “Missed you.”
There’s a smart arse comment on Ioan’s lips - that he’s been here all along, that they see each other all the time - but it dies on his lips at the sight of Matthew’s blue eyes, darker than the first fall of night when the sky is somewhere between black and blue, the color poets wax on about endlessly. “Missed you too.” He doesn’t realizes he’s spoken in Welsh until he hears the words, something about Matthew evoking it, the words as natural as the weight of Matthew’s body against his.
“C’mon.” Matthew pulls away and stands, the bulge of his prick obvious in his jeans. Ioan thinks about sitting up and taking Matthew in his mouth, swallowing him down until Matthew’s knees shake and he has to grab Ioan’s hair or the back of the sofa to stay standing, but Ioan wants, so he stands and steals another kiss, biting and thieving what Matthew would give willingly.
The bedroom is too far all of a sudden, even though it’s just down the hall, and they start laughing, racing and stumbling toward it, like boys again, fighting with snowballs on the school yard or chasing each other through the halls of the church or tumbling into bed after the long walk home from the pub. There’s tugging and teasing and pressing against walls and, by the time they reach the bed, Ioan’s sides hurt from laughing and his cock hurts from wanting and he can’t get undressed fast enough.
They fall together the way things fall apart for most people, without even noticing. Pieces fit together with small sighs and shuddering breaths and the slick slide of fingers and tongues and pricks until they’re above and beneath and inside and gasping for breath. Matthew likes to fuck him hard, and Ioan likes to wrap his legs around him and take him deeper and they end up sweaty and messy and half exhausted from taunting each other, demanding more and getting it until they can’t make words, only noises that aren’t English and aren’t Welsh, but they understand them all the same.
Matthew slumps against Ioan, all sticky sweat and come, still buried inside him. Ioan can’t quite unlock his ankles from each other, so he stays wrapped around Matthew, heels resting between Matthew’s calves. “’m glad you’re here, you know.” Ioan manages finally, not sure he’s said the words aloud until Matthew lifts up just a bit and looks at him.
“Should hope so.” He grins, and Ioan knows he’s deliberately misunderstanding him. Matthew does it often, just to take the piss out of Ioan, which is, if he’s honest, the basis of their relationship. After a moment, Matthew pushes an errant curl off Ioan’s forehead, the damp strands clinging to his fingers. “Lucky to be here.”
“Well, you’re a good actor. Eventually someone had to hire you.” Ioan smiles back.
“Not the here I mean, boyo.” He kisses Ioan softly, lying back against his shoulder, letting his breath warm Ioan’s cooling skin. His voice is muffled and rough as Ioan reaches up, stroking Matthew’s short hair. “Wanker.”