Neal/Sara fic: "Chance of Rain"
virgo_79
hard PG-13 to a soft R.
Neal/Sara
General season 2 spoilers; nothing specific.
Warnings: pillow talk and a little healthy naughtiness
Neal, Sara, and a storm.
My first White Collar fic! Egads! Actually, the first piece of fic for any fandom that I’ve written in a very long while. Not sure how thoroughly the author-type muscles are stretched, but in any event, here it is. Inspired by the weather outside my window tonight.
White Collar and its marvelous characters are not mine; I just borrowed them for a bit.
CHANCE OF RAIN
They’re coming down from their peak as the storm reaches its own, and they shudder against each other, her weight settling down fully onto him, turning as one to watch the city sky light up through the open windows.
“God, look at that,” Sara breathes, her auburn hair a blood-dark spill across Neal’s chest and throat in the dark. Her eyes, though, are luminous, wide and thrilled as thunder reverberates through the air in the room and in their lungs. A sudden gust of startlingly cool air joins them in the bed and raises goosebumps on pale and paler skin. Neal’s grin is electric in the gloom, and Sara laughs, shivering, burrowing closer. He pulls her down to lie beside him, into the curve of his body, tangled in him and the sheet that ceased to fit the bed right about an hour or so ago. The duvet went MIA even before that. She snuggles in deep, her head tucked beneath his chin, and their hands bump as they both reach for her hair, her to get it out of his face, him to smooth it and play with its waves.
“Were you afraid of thunderstorms when you were little?” Neal asks, and is unsurprised when he feels her shake her head.
“Never. Not that I can remember, anyway. My father used to bundle us up - me and Jamie - in this old afghan, and we’d sit on our front porch swing and watch the lightning. He taught us the counting thing, to see how far away it was. Jamie would shriek when the thunder got really crazy loud, but she loved it.” A pause, filled with the sound of the rain hammering the loft, and Neal tightens his arms around her. “She loved it.”
Neal imagines it; two little copper heads on either side of a tall, smiling man, who, illogically and for reasons he doesn’t prod at, resembles Peter, learning to love the wild and terrifying.
“What about you?” she asks in turn.
It’s on the tip of his tongue to say no, to tell her that there were too many other things to be afraid of, but it’s an easily-curbed urge. “No. But remind me some time to tell you about the time I allegedly zip-lined down a cathedral wall in a lightning storm.”
She twists just enough to look over her shoulder at him with those tiger’s eyes, heavy-lidded and contemplative, considering whether or not to give chase, and then her lips quirk up. “Didn’t happen,” she rules, and settles back down.
“Says you.”
“Damn straight, says me.”
“Sara, you cannot fathom the rush of staring down two hundred feet of nine hundred-year-old stone and mortar with heaven hurling wrath down all around you while it’s so dark you can’t see the ground.”
The tiger rolls onto her stomach and eyes him again, resting her chin on his chest. The sky lights up, and the sight of him sprawled against his pillows, dark hair dampened and mussed into curls around his face, blue eyes laughing at her or himself or both of them - it makes her warm and wet.
“Let’s take this outside,” she says suddenly.
“Kicking my ass already, Repo? That didn’t take lo--”
She shuts him up with her mouth on his. He rises up with her, ‘til he’s sitting and she’s on her knees, straddling his thigh. “Outside,” she murmurs into his mouth. “In the rain.”
He bows his head and nuzzles her shoulder. “You sure you wanna tempt fate like that? Doing this? Under the wide open sky, in the middle of a violent storm, with a convicted felon?” He kisses his way across her collarbone. “Brave girl.”
“Brazen. Get up.”
They wrap themselves in the sheet and throw the doors to the terrace wide, inviting the storm inside, tripping over each other’s feet, and end up in the lee of the high terrace wall, the wind cut but the rain abundant, drenching them, soaking dark hair and bright as they rock together, faces upturned . The lightning comes so quickly that it would blind an onlooker, who might see pale skin, or might only see marble, but wouldn’t be able to discern form, and the thunder has gotten so loud it swallows their cries.
Neither will remember, in the morning, when or how they made it back to the bed, but they fall asleep smelling like summer rain and each other.
hard PG-13 to a soft R.
Neal/Sara
General season 2 spoilers; nothing specific.
Warnings: pillow talk and a little healthy naughtiness
Neal, Sara, and a storm.
My first White Collar fic! Egads! Actually, the first piece of fic for any fandom that I’ve written in a very long while. Not sure how thoroughly the author-type muscles are stretched, but in any event, here it is. Inspired by the weather outside my window tonight.
White Collar and its marvelous characters are not mine; I just borrowed them for a bit.
CHANCE OF RAIN
They’re coming down from their peak as the storm reaches its own, and they shudder against each other, her weight settling down fully onto him, turning as one to watch the city sky light up through the open windows.
“God, look at that,” Sara breathes, her auburn hair a blood-dark spill across Neal’s chest and throat in the dark. Her eyes, though, are luminous, wide and thrilled as thunder reverberates through the air in the room and in their lungs. A sudden gust of startlingly cool air joins them in the bed and raises goosebumps on pale and paler skin. Neal’s grin is electric in the gloom, and Sara laughs, shivering, burrowing closer. He pulls her down to lie beside him, into the curve of his body, tangled in him and the sheet that ceased to fit the bed right about an hour or so ago. The duvet went MIA even before that. She snuggles in deep, her head tucked beneath his chin, and their hands bump as they both reach for her hair, her to get it out of his face, him to smooth it and play with its waves.
“Were you afraid of thunderstorms when you were little?” Neal asks, and is unsurprised when he feels her shake her head.
“Never. Not that I can remember, anyway. My father used to bundle us up - me and Jamie - in this old afghan, and we’d sit on our front porch swing and watch the lightning. He taught us the counting thing, to see how far away it was. Jamie would shriek when the thunder got really crazy loud, but she loved it.” A pause, filled with the sound of the rain hammering the loft, and Neal tightens his arms around her. “She loved it.”
Neal imagines it; two little copper heads on either side of a tall, smiling man, who, illogically and for reasons he doesn’t prod at, resembles Peter, learning to love the wild and terrifying.
“What about you?” she asks in turn.
It’s on the tip of his tongue to say no, to tell her that there were too many other things to be afraid of, but it’s an easily-curbed urge. “No. But remind me some time to tell you about the time I allegedly zip-lined down a cathedral wall in a lightning storm.”
She twists just enough to look over her shoulder at him with those tiger’s eyes, heavy-lidded and contemplative, considering whether or not to give chase, and then her lips quirk up. “Didn’t happen,” she rules, and settles back down.
“Says you.”
“Damn straight, says me.”
“Sara, you cannot fathom the rush of staring down two hundred feet of nine hundred-year-old stone and mortar with heaven hurling wrath down all around you while it’s so dark you can’t see the ground.”
The tiger rolls onto her stomach and eyes him again, resting her chin on his chest. The sky lights up, and the sight of him sprawled against his pillows, dark hair dampened and mussed into curls around his face, blue eyes laughing at her or himself or both of them - it makes her warm and wet.
“Let’s take this outside,” she says suddenly.
“Kicking my ass already, Repo? That didn’t take lo--”
She shuts him up with her mouth on his. He rises up with her, ‘til he’s sitting and she’s on her knees, straddling his thigh. “Outside,” she murmurs into his mouth. “In the rain.”
He bows his head and nuzzles her shoulder. “You sure you wanna tempt fate like that? Doing this? Under the wide open sky, in the middle of a violent storm, with a convicted felon?” He kisses his way across her collarbone. “Brave girl.”
“Brazen. Get up.”
They wrap themselves in the sheet and throw the doors to the terrace wide, inviting the storm inside, tripping over each other’s feet, and end up in the lee of the high terrace wall, the wind cut but the rain abundant, drenching them, soaking dark hair and bright as they rock together, faces upturned . The lightning comes so quickly that it would blind an onlooker, who might see pale skin, or might only see marble, but wouldn’t be able to discern form, and the thunder has gotten so loud it swallows their cries.
Neither will remember, in the morning, when or how they made it back to the bed, but they fall asleep smelling like summer rain and each other.