Title: singing skies
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Inspiration: the thrill of the atmosphere during a thunderstorm
Notes: So, a long time ago, I wrote Thunder Worship which is a cutesy, light, Klaine-kissing-in-the-rain fic. This is that fic with crack and steroids. I just hope it's not too heavy/purple. Enjoy! :]
There's the blush of life strung through the air, pulling on the late evening sky like laundry hung too heavy on the line. Electricity cleaving through clouds brings a shock to the blood of cloistered young men. A heady scent ripples the pools of illumination shining over texts of Russian revolutions and Mandlebrot's fractals. A storm is coming; clouds float bloated on the grey satin draped over Dalton's tallest towers. The air is thick with it, the atmosphere swelling from the moisture and musk.
Kurt Hummel is at his desk in his dorm, ignoring the text before him in favor of the siren song of watching the sky. He loves thunderstorms and this one seems making out to be his favorite kind, slow-building, stoking the clouds with long and low rumbles like a lion's warning roar. The lightning's flash is the fanfare to announce this noble phenomenon, heated air rushing to be used for thunder's voice. His patient worship of the outside scene is rewarded with the catharsis of this storm: the rain. There's no build-up, no mist to drizzle to rain to pounding clap of gallop over courtyard and sidewalk. Just the opening of the waiting clouds, the following sound of thunder like a contented recognition of the relieved liberation at last coming. A brief thought in his mind is lent toward wondering whether Blaine made it back inside from rushing to close his open car windows before the fall came.
Blaine Anderson takes the room with an arc of the door, exhaling on a shuddering note. Kurt glances up, quickly able to deduce that his boyfriend had been outside, caught in the release of the sky's swelling belly. Blaine's hair is tousled into knots, sopping curls spilling over his forehead and ears. Sweet, near-summer rain infused with the taste-sound of thunder rolls down the ridge of his collarbone, sluices over the curves of his nose, sparkles caught in the web of his eyelashes. His shirt is drenched through, the material bunching, clinging, folding over and gone entirely translucent. Kurt can see how it's pasted to his shoulders, chest, and, when Blaine turns to close the door behind him, back. He gives his hair a toss. Un-gelled from the nature and natural, it slops and falls heavily back into his face. "S'raining," he announces with no level of revelation before giving a full body shudder.
"It is," Kurt concurs, eyebrow raised. "You're dripping," is his reply. Both their eyes circle to the little pool gathering around Blaine's shoes, staining the thin Dalton carpeting a darker blue. "And shivering," Kurt adds, watching the vibrations spasm down Blaine's spine and over his shoulders. "You should get dry."
Blaine nods and with no preamble pulls the tee shirt from his body. The wet fabric adheres to his damp skin and stretches, made thin from rain. Struggling it over his head, Blaine eventually gets the article removed and flings it unceremoniously to the side. It hits the wall with a squelch but Kurt is rather distracted by the sight before him. Blaine's bare upper-body shimmers with left-over rain and hums with the energy of the thunder that crackles through the sky. His boyfriend, of course, is oblivious to this and goes about toeing out of his shoes and then pushing his pants down. In the preoccupation of soaking up the sight of the made-barely-there shirt over Blaine's chest, Kurt didn't give the pants any attention. They too had suffered weight from the water, slinging low on Blaine's hips and flooding the tops of his feet. They're off now and Blaine steps out of their circle, clad in just boxers gone damp from the outer clothing. He shivers again and Kurt can't tell if it's from the temperature, the vulnerability or his own gaze.
"What?" is Blaine's question as he surfs a hand through his curls, wringing them out a little between fingers at their ends.
Kurt doesn't answer in words but in actions, rising and moving to his boyfriend. Thunder calls its approval on his last step, nearly toe-to-toe with this boy. "Hi," he murmurs with a grin and reaches out, trailing fingertips over Blaine's damp sides. Blaine's breathing hitches and lightning arcs in the sky.
In a dorm room far from the masses huddled over assignments, Blaine Anderson and Kurt Hummel are moving slow. The breaking storm has layered a sense of something ethereal over them, spinning every touch and sensation to maximum. Kurt can feel every ridge of Blaine's fingerprints as he coasts a hand down his now-bare chest. The skin chilled from the rain sets fire to Kurt's, making it sing with unsung promises and stutter with whispered hopes. His head is tipped back at what should be an uncomfortable angle, but his scope of sensation has narrowed to only that which Blaine's chilled hands runs down, Blaine's careful lips press over. He's breathing shallow and feathery, gossamer breaths that barely stir the thick air around them and can't compete with the full-bodied trembling that is the thunder.
The evening is quiet between them and anything but. They exchange no demands or requests except for hitched breathing and stumbling fingertips and shaking muscles urging toward each other. Blaine drops half-phrases from his lips, worshiping benedictions of beauty and litanies of love over Kurt's jaw where he's mouthing hotly. Mapping down his neck and chest, pausing to bring the nipples to peaks. Winding a lazy line down his chest and stopping again to lick broad strokes over the crest of a hipbone. Warming fingers inch at soft material, slowly tugging the briefs lower.
And then Blaine's mouth has settled over Kurt and it's all slow-cooking heat and a winding pressure building low in Kurt's stomach. Kurt's making all sorts of whining, helpless noises, feet kneading at the bed beneath them in hopes to gain some sort of purchase there for the sensation fingering hard through his body. Blaine's hair is still wet and when Kurt pitches up on his elbows to watch, he's caught memorized by the steady trail of a single raindrop tracing down over Blaine's cheek and to the notch of his jaw. Kurt's thoughts swerve unintelligibly to wanting to tongue over the line of misplaced rain, backtrack its course then follow it down again to suck bruises' blooms over that soft niche between jaw and neck.
Sudden lightning gives a glow through the small room, setting the one lit lamp on fire for a split second, making both boys jerk from the surprise of it. Their world grows and expands and they are both reminded of things other than skin and tongue and lips and prayers and blasphemies. Until Kurt slips a hand through Blaine's damp curls and his fingers urge circles over his scalp. Until he's got Blaine pulled up and their bodies latched into one another and moving. One of Blaine's hands is soothing over and over at Kurt's collarbone where a fresh hickey is blossoming as their movements grow frantic, hips knocking together.
There's a distant crush of thunder that ebbs and stretches through the sky. It peaks just as Kurt and Blaine set a real rhythm together and Kurt loses all thought not related to Blaine's mouth and Blaine's hips and Blaine's tongue in his mouth and Blaine's eyes looking over him, half-lidded and fully-blushed and cheeks sloppy with blotches of color. That look and another cymbaling of sky-shout sends the air buzzing and the coil dug low in Kurt's abdomen electrifies and he shatters, liquefies, flattens. He breathes out Blaine's name on a ragged push of air as his fingers clench in Blaine's hair before faltering and falling loose. He shakes and shakes and shakes and settles on through mississippis of a lightning and thunder's pass, on through Blaine's own falling and call of Kurt's name.
They both lie there a moment, together and soft, basking in the sounds of each other's breaths and rain falling steadily outside. Blaine lines kisses up over his jaw, chest and neck. There are microscopic shudders running through Kurt's every nerve, every atom and he feels like he could either fall entirely apart or compress into an implosion. Lightning flashes the window alive a moment, the veins of rain clinging to the glass mirror the slant of the electricity.
Their lips finally meet and it's slow and gentle and almost a question but more of an answer. Blaine's fingers are brushing at his cheeks and the tips are just meeting his hair. Their noses graze and Kurt keeps his eyes open because he has to, to make sure that he's really kissing this beautiful boy, with lashes that prick restlessly over the plateau of his flushed cheeks.
They kiss and tease and tickle and laugh in breathless, airy gasps and trade I love yous and clear blue meets warm hazel and they touch. They both pretend to pay no heed to the drying sticky spread over their bellies, too fuzzy to move and too drunk to find inspiration toward sharpening. Blaine rests his head on Kurt's shoulder and Kurt bundles him close, nosing into the nearly-dry curls. "Hey," Blaine intones softly, eyes at middle distances, "it's stopped rained."
Kurt could glance to the window and affirm what Blaine has said but he's rather comfortable where he is. He just hums instead, a vaguely affirmative noise, brings Blaine closer and revels.
AN: Thanks for reading! Please let me know how you liked it! :]