Length/Rating: ~800 / PG-13-ish? Maybe?
Summary: A spring storm wakes Darren in the early morning hours.
The clock on the nightstand ticks past 3:04am as Darren’s eyes flutter and then open. The ceiling is dark above him. Outside, thunder rumbles off in the distance, low and deep in the night, soothing. A pause and then near silence. Darren’s lips part. A pale burst of lightning flashes, illuminating the bedroom in white despite the curtains. He blinks slowly, and his eyes almost stay closed. He takes a slow breath, wavers on the edge of sleep. A sharp crack of thunder draws him back.
It’s a warm, spring night – too warm and they’ve left the windows open to get a bit of air. He’s been meaning to get air conditioning installed in the bedroom, but he’s just hasn’t gotten around to it. Usually his bedroom catches the breeze and is perfectly cool despite, but that night the air is heavy and still. Oppressive. Pressing Darren down into the damp sheets. The comforter is in a pile on the floor, thrown aside unneeded. So are their clothes.
Darren lies there, listening to the rain lashing against the windows and the pattering of it off of the leaves of the trees. He loves the sound of it, of the world turning whether or not he’s participating. And beneath it all, the steady breath of Chris still asleep next to him. Darren feels the warmth of his body radiating across the bed.
Chris is sprawled on his belly, splayed out and loose-limbed, head turned towards Darren. A flash of lightning highlights Chris’ relaxed features for the briefest of moments, throwing the valleys and planes of his face into sharp relief, before the room drops back to near darkness. The storm had been brewing when they’d gone to bed, the humidity rising and rising, leaving everything clammy and too warm in its wake. But the tension finally breaks, snaps, and a cooler breeze slides across Darren’s still overheated flesh. The backs of his knees are sticky and so are his elbows. His hair feels plastered down to his scalp.
Darren thinks he can feel it, the power of the storm thrumming through his body, tingling under his skin, throbbing in his bones. He wants Chris to feel it too, needs to make him feel it.
He rolls towards Chris, covering his loose, pliant body with his own. Chris doesn’t make a sound. He sleeps hard, when he can finally find rest. Darren tucks his nose into the sticky sweet curve of Chris’ neck and inhales. He smells of sweat and long faded cologne and the sharp tang of the garlic from dinner. Darren pulls back slightly, noses sleepily through the thick, damp hair at the back of Chris’ head. He presses light kisses to the bare skin of Chris’ neck and back. He drags his lips across naked shoulders, tasting freckles. Chris breathes in slow and seems to sink deeper in their bed.
Darren’s heavy and fuzzy with sleep. And so is Chris, just barely waking to his touch. Darren can feel it in the subtle shifting of his muscles, in the deeper draw of his breath. The world all around is the sound of the rain and the thunder, the shifting of sheets, and the languid heat of Chris underneath him, slow moving as a June storm.
“S’thunder?” Chris’ voice is thick and muffled, pitched low.
“Yeah.” Darren digs his teeth gently into Chris’ shoulder blade.
Chris hmmms softly. His legs are hairy and the rasp of it as their bodies slide together makes a shiver race down Darren’s spine. Chris’ back is smooth and solid against Darren’s chest, growing slick with sweat as Darren’s hips thrust slow against Chris’ ass.
“Early.” Darren sucks a kiss against the base of Chris’ neck and Chris stretches, spreads wider beneath him. “Late. Dunno.”
Darren nudges with his knees and Chris’ thighs part. He doesn’t have to ask, doesn’t have to say anything. He can feel the consent opening beneath him.
There’s a bottle in the nightstand and Chris sighs and arches as Darren’s fingers ease inside. Darren loves it like this. Slow and uncomplicated. Quiet. Just their two bodies and nothing more. With Chris rolling and opening underneath him, body lax and giving, unresisting. No room between them for useless, struggling words.
The storm thunders directly overhead and Chris gasps into the damp pillow, body tensing and relaxing, as Darren finally fucks in deep.
Darren reaches up blindly, finds Chris’ hands clenching in the sheets, and links their fingers together. He can’t keep his eyes open, is barely moving. Everything is heat and sweat and the salt of Chris’ skin as Darren pants against his back. Their bodies move, unhurried and easy to the rhythm of the storm, the heavy ebb and flow of it. The heat rises as the storm rages on into the morning.