Clouds thunder behind the hills, and he sighs and leans back against his strong-armed lover, safe and wild. He closes his eyes and pulls the arms firmer around himself.
"It's like the Prairies," is whispered into his hair, tickling. "You can see storms coming forever."
"Mmm," he hums, turning his head to mouth at the neck at his eye level, locking their hands together over his chest. He feels the land thrum through the rock they're sitting on.
The skystorm colored water rocks below them. "Should we go in the tent to wait it out?" His lover is too bright, too quick for this. He doesn't belong in any form, in his goldblue or his scent of leather or his soft skin.
He holds him closer.
"Not yet," he breathes into the neck he's kissing. "I like it out here."
His lover laughs under his skin. "Whatever you say, darlin'." He pulls his hands free so he can pull him onto his lap, facing him and his quicksilver grin. The sky behind him rolls dark, heavy with water and something older than the hillside they're marking.
He needs to feel it on his skin.
The wind whips through heather as he locks his ankles behind his leatherclad lover's back and hooks his arms behind his neck. He breathes in the wind, pine strong and ocean, and leans down to steal a kiss. His lover holds him in, keeps him close, wraps him up, yet he only feels his surroundings. Gales rush uneven, tear at their clothes and shriek across the loch waves. He breaks away from the kiss and tilts back, eyes closed, gasping in with all senses wide as the words of the encroaching storm hit him, pulling at his bones.
He feels young again.
"Hey, hey England, you okay?" his lover asks, holding his hips close to him, keeping him from falling back. He lets his head fall to hit his breastbone, then looks up at his lover with a feral grin. The blue eyes light up equally a flash before he surges forward to attack his mouth, in back swirl, biting with every lightning strike, both moaning with the thunder.
He works hands under layers to stroke at skin, it shivers under him. His lover's hands trace up his spine, touch electric. A raindrop falls on the back of his neck, seeps in softly. His pulse races, and he pulls away with a wet sound.
His lover looks up past their windtorn hair. "It'll rain any second now. We should go in the tent so we don't get sick."
He chuckles, pulling his hands up to cup at his lover's chin. He tilts his head in his hold and lets his eyes ask the question. He rubs his cheek against his lover's, letting his eyes slip closed and his nose brush the temple, mouth hanging open at his ear."I want you to fuck me," he breathes after the thunder.
Stuttering breath. His lover swallows. "Now?" he asks. The raindrops scatter into the grasses around them, and he hears horses dance. He rolls his hips in time with the gallop, and his lover has no choice but to respond. Air is shoved into his open mouth, and he needs this like the earth needs the sun.
He places his open mouth around his lover's shoulder, teeth resting sharp but not sinking. It's a taste of old soft leather and oil. He backs up, makes a face, and strips the taste off his lover's body, letting it fall behind him. His lover helps him, then peels off his jacket and molds him to his chest and presses their mouths together. This is what he wants, he moans in realization.
With his orders, his lover wastes no time in unbuckling his clothes and bunching them down just enough, feeling up frantically as he pants into his skin. His lover doesn't feel the rain dripping around them, but he does. He pulls off his shirt to feel it more, feel it burn his years away like butter, feel it melt into his own earth for a few moments and it's a drizzle, he can feel it'll be a torrent. His lover bends to suck at his neck, and he tilts his open mouth up to drink it in. His lover doesn't notice.
Suddenly his lover is gone, and he whips his head down to see him bending back, reaching for the discarded taste of leather, digging in the fabric.
"What are you doing?" His voice is wind raw.
His lover struggles to smile at him from his prone position, still rustling in his leather. "I ain't fucking you dry, England," he states, finding what he's looking for and sitting back up with a grunt. He holds a bottle and a small square package. His lover holds him softly, resting his head on top of his head and looking up. "Rains gettin' harder."
He holds frozen under his lover. He still feels the magic of the rainwater fizzing on and in and under his skin, he wants it to burn, he doesn't want tender, he wants it like it used to be. He thinks he wants to bleed.
While his thoughts sift through his wants and needs, he distracts his lover by trailing spread eagle fingers up under his shirt, quick dry synthetic fabric that doesn't belong in an ages old magicstorm on the aging moors. His lover hums in a purr and arches into his touch, letting him trace out thoughts into his muscles. He pulls it off eventually and drops it to the side, catching his lover's hands as they fall back down and kissing along his chest, his shoulders. Rain flows in trickles through faint blonde chest hairs, and he licks it up. Diluted ancient power.
He moves up to his lover's mouth as he pulls the bottle and the packet from the hands, almost throwing them away, but his lover catches his wrist and breaks away. "Arthur." He looks up at his lover through hazy eyes and rain-clutched eyelashes. "I am not fucking you dry."
They hold the stare for a minute, but his lover is a winter's sky – blue ice cold and clear. He gives up the bottle, drops the square, then reaches for his lover's pants, wrenching them open and groping him mercilessly. His lover curses and fights to keep up with the renewed pace, not waiting after he squeezes the gel out in fear of it washing away, and he arches back as the first finger is shoved in. He scrabbles blindly for his lover's other hand and takes the bottle from him, leans forward and bites at his lover's neck as he pulls him out, slicking him up forcefully as the harsh breath is a chant of curses into his hair, stinging their cheeks when it's not matted down.
His lover adds another finger as the rain beats straight down, lightning flashing between the clouds towering above them and turning the moor into a mudslide around them and the loch into a rattling ocean. Neither notice.
He's not cold, he realizes as he uncrosses stiff legs from where they'd been gripped around his lover's waist. He's wet and he's half-naked, but all he feels is the storm draining into his pores and his lover beneath him, and he can't care anymore if he's ready or not. He folds his legs on either side of his lover and shifts up and down, and it burns like hell and he hisses and he's where he should be, where it just feels right. It's more than his lover, and rocks forward with the freshwater tide; he loses himself in the recollection of what he used to be.
Below him, his lover gasps out, the hand that had been jerked out of him holding on to his hip while the other tangles in his hair, dripping wet as his momentum catches his lover and pulls him along, he can't slow down if he wants to. Raindrops tell his lover of the land's age, and it breaks him to learn. He holds him close and rolls up.
He makes his gentle lover come rough in him, grinding in circles, down forward up back, his thoughts in dead languages as the storm picks up into a whirlwind around them. There are no more years to wash away; he's as young as he can remember, and it feels glorious.
Thunder claps as he screams to it in cacophony, eyes clenched shut and still.
They slide down from their high as the storm rolls and tumbles down the valley, heading east to beat on the windowpanes of the everyday. He slumps forward into his lover's shoulder, clasping him and breathing him in. He's rain washed clean. The wind eddies swirl in the heather and mud around them, twisting towards the direction of the departing cloudbank.
It's only when they're gone that his lover breaks the silence with a breathless laugh. "What was that, England?" he asks, sitting back to look at him. He just slides from resting on his shoulder to his heartbeat, sighing tiredly as he feels what he'd shed in the storm crawl back up to nestle in every bit of him.
"You'll understand when you're older," he breathes out. Retreating thunder growls its agreement.
{A/N: This is what happens when I get in a porn writing mood and listen to Celtic Music Radio. Mainly the band Doghouse Roses, from whom the title of this fic came from.}