Title/Prompt: Petrichor | Sex
Rating/Warnings: Explicit
Word count: 2121
Summary: A Halloween storm doesn't always bring an atmosphere of fear with it.
Notes: HA, I am so terrible at posting my fics here. This was written for mkrobinson for trickortreatex. It uses the prompt 'sex' from my table because honestly this is just porn without plot. I apologise for nothing!
Set in some vague point in the future years after canon.
Charlie stands at his apartment window and watches the storm front rolling in. Thunder rumbles overhead, dark clouds building and climbing, adding weight to the air and anticipation to the afternoon. The heaviness of the sky makes the yellow and orange foliage look acidic.
The first proper crack of thunder makes the windows rattle, and the lights dim for a moment before they flick back to full strength. Charlie leaves the window and rummages in the kitchen drawer for candles and matches.
The rain blows in like a silver curtain, chasing itself up the street, the sidewalks frothing with the sudden force of it. It's like someone has upturned a bucket. Charlie watches it in amazement, and when the thunder cracks again he realizes that maybe Mary Anne has seen the storm coming and at any moment he'll get a call from her to say she'll have to wait it out.
He looks at the phone, daring it to ring and hoping it won't.
It takes him a minute to register someone is knocking at the door — the noise of the rain outside has drowned everything else out. It hammers on rooftops and into the street, water spilling over the gutters and roaring into stormwater drains.
"Charlie?" Mary Anne calls.
He opens the door, selfishly relieved — this thing between them now is new, and thrilling, and he desperately wants her here with him for the night — but his satisfaction is swiftly replaced with guilt as he sees her shivering and dripping on the carpet in the hall.
"Hi," she says, and she smiles at him even as her teeth chatter. "May I borrow a towel please?"
"Oh my god," he says, momentarily hypnotized by the amount of water running from her dark hair. Her dress clings to her and she hasn't got a coat — the afternoon has been warm and still.
He pulls her in and grabs a towel from the basket of clean laundry he's left sitting on the table since that morning.
She starts to dry her hair, but the puddle of water around her feet indicates a towel simply won't be enough.
"Let me find you something else to wear," Charlie says, the recital of a million cheesy lines from dumb books and movies suddenly right on the tip of his tongue.
Let's get you out of those wet clothes.
"I almost made it," she says, lifting her voice a little so he can hear her from where he's desperately rummaging through his closet. "I was only two blocks away when it hit."
She smiles at him when he comes back, dry clothes in his arms. "I'm not sure you'll get many trick or treaters this evening."
"I guess not," he says, though there's a part of him which is significantly relieved at the idea of an uninterrupted evening alone with her.
He takes the towel and she takes the clothes, and when he rubs at her hair she laughs and leans her head against him for a moment, her dark eyes looking up at him. "I'll be back in a minute," she says.
His throat is dry. "Okay."
She shuts herself in the bathroom, and Charlie goes back to the window and watches the streets moving silver with the force of the rain. The sky bears down, dark and heavy, and thunder crashes again, louder this time, closer — he can feel it in the floors and the walls.
Mary Anne reappears wearing his old SHS sweatshirt. Her legs and feet are bare and her hair is damp and curling around her shoulders.
He smiles at her. "Trick or treat?"
"Treat," she requests.
He kisses her — she smells like rain and floral shampoo, and her cheek is cool under the warmth of his palm. "Hi," he says softly, feeling some of the rapid adrenaline of her arrival drain away. There's a slow stirring of desire and anticipation flaring inside him now.
"Hi," she says. Her fingertips fleet over the back of the hand he's holding to her face. "I'm cold," she whispers.
The same dumb lines from the same dumb movies Charlie's not even sure he's ever seen all come back into his head.
Let me warm you up.
He doesn't say anything, just kisses her again, cautious and slow, his heart steady and strong in his chest. The novelty of kissing Mary Anne Spier hasn't worn off yet — it still feels a little illicit and risky, like this has more potential for failure than any of his other relationships. The fall will be from a greater height.
She slides her arms around his shoulders and stands on her toes, and his arms fall to her waist, pulling her closer. Outside, lightning flashes like a white sheet behind the clouds, and the thunder cracks and trembles angrily.
"Warmer?" Charlie asks. His hand flattens over the small of her back, holding her close.
She kisses him again, her fingers moving up into his hair, fingernails grazing gently, and he tries to resist shivering with delight. He backs her towards the couch and she falls along its length and pulls him on top of her, legs parting to hug his hips.
"Still cold," she murmurs, and he nuzzles kisses against her pale throat, hands roaming up under the sweatshirt to trace his fingertips over her bare skin.
She shivers beneath him, but he doesn't think it's from the cold now. "Warmer now?" he asks again, his thumb grazing beneath the soft curve of her breast.
"Getting there," she says.
He laughs and kisses her neck again, satisfaction and ego growing as she tilts her head back and hums a soft noise.
This is still close enough to the first time to feel like the first time — there's a dangerous flutter of performance anxiety in the back of his mind; a quivering jumble of paranoia and second thoughts, but Mary Anne tips her hips beneath him and grinds against him in a way that makes his mind go white for a second.
He releases a slow breath against the hollow of her throat, grazing his teeth over her collarbone and sucking a gentle red mark into her skin. "You wanna go to the bedroom?" he asks.
Her hips move against him again, slow and deliberate. "Okay."
He slides his hands beneath her and lifts her easily, her legs still wrapped around his waist. He lowers her onto his bed carefully, made that morning with freshly-laundered sheets because he had been hopeful and all of his nerves had been buzzing beneath his skin, demanding the distraction of chores.
Lightning flashes again, and Mary Anne turns her face to look out the window briefly, the rain still pouring from the sky, the thunder rattling the windows and the loose change on Charlie's nightstand.
He kisses the exposed length of her throat and she turns back to him, hands sliding under his t-shirt. He moves away from her and pulls it off, tossing it to the floor. The room is warm, the tense atmosphere of the air outside somehow seeping in so sweat prickles on his skin and his fingers tremble with pent-up energy he's longing to release.
He fumbles with the zipper on his jeans and kicks them in a tangle to the floor beside his t-shirt. Mary Anne's breath is heavy and when he touches between her legs she's wet and slick. She makes another noise in the back of her throat and her next breath rushes from her. She buries her face against his neck and he slides his fingers into her and rolls his thumb over her clit so she trembles and curls her body closer to him.
She lifts the sweatshirt off herself, her hair still damp and in disarray, her eyes wide and dark, lips flushed with the attention of Charlie's mouth. When he curls his fingers and strokes her, a lazy tease of what's to come, she arches and closes her eyes, arms stretching up above her head, giving herself over to it.
He watches the flush of blood rise in her cheeks, listens to her breath catch, twines the fingers of his free hand into hers and pins her hands above her head.
"Oh," she breathes, "oh god," and she tenses and trembles through the rest of it silently, biting her lip and turning her head to the side, eyes still closed. Her breath rushes from her and she shivers and goes loose, her hands no longer pushing up into his, body sinking into the mattress.
"Good?" he asks, his body desperately impatient, his blood fever-hot beneath his skin.
She hums a satisfied noise and turns back to him to kiss him. The thunder cracks across the sky outside.
He pulls a box of condoms from the nightstand at the same time he kicks his boxers to the floor. Mary Anne's hand skims down his side, fingers playing over the firm flesh above his ribs.
"Come here," he requests, and he sits back against the pillows and rolls the condom on as she positions herself above him, still a little shy about being in his line of sight, even when he can see a love bite from a few days prior sitting just under her breast.
He kisses the mark gently, and guides her with his hands on her hips, helping her ease onto him until her hips are flush with his, her knees either side of him, her arms around his shoulders.
"Good," he breathes, and the movement is slow at first, unsure, unsteady, and his hands are still on her hips and she's still shy until they get the angle right and then the heat flares inside her again and she shivers with it.
"Are you going to come again?" he asks, trying desperately to hold back if she is, if he can bring her to a second one before it'll all be over, but she shakes her head.
"No, but it's good," she whispers, tipping her head forward so she's closer to him, her voice low. "Don't stop."
The relief is met with another crack of thunder outside, and the light spilling in from the living room blinks once and goes out. The rain pours from the sky, lightning flashes and splits the clouds. Charlie gives himself over to all of it and clutches Mary Anne closer to him, his hands pulling her hips closer, his body driving harder into hers until finally he comes, a rush of breath and delirious exhalations against her shoulder.
They lie together in a tangle, the sheet half-heartedly pulled across them, their breath slowing and growing quiet. Mary Anne curls into his side and puts her arm across his chest.
Charlie doesn't sleep for long, but when he wakes, the absence of rain is almost startling. The storm hasn't yet completely passed — the clouds are still low and dark, thunder still rolls menacingly in the distance. But the rain has stopped, and now the sound of water is only that of the rush to get away. Gurgling and pouring through the storm drains in the street, and dripping from the eaves and the bright leaves still clinging to their branches.
Charlie moves gently out of Mary Anne's embrace and pulls his boxers back on. He goes to the window and tugs the sash up a couple of inches. Cool air pours into the room, along with the heavy scent of damp earth and steaming blacktop.
He stretches out beside Mary Anne again and wonders if the sound of thunder, if the smell of rain, will forever bring him back to this moment in time, with her head on his shoulder and her fingertips playing patterns on his skin.
"What's the word," he asks, "that means the smell of rain?"
"Petrichor," she murmurs, her body loose and warm against him.
He kisses the top of her head. "This is why you're the Sunday crossword champion."
She laughs and looks up at him. "Tomorrow is Sunday. Will we do the crossword together?"
"That's so adorable I want to be sick," he says. Then, "I don't think I'll be much help."
"Practice makes perfect."
He pulls her close and kisses her again, slow and deep, and when he urges towards her she rolls and pulls him with her.
"Don't say it," she warns him softly, and he gives a low laugh, fingers gliding over her thigh to seek between her legs again.
"But you set it up so well."
"Don't say it," she says, her smile warm against his cheek, and she jolts and tips her head back when he touches her.
"Practice makes perfect," he whispers in her ear, and she laughs again, and arches her body beneath him.