When the Lightning Finds us

By Wandelstorm

🌩️ This is fiction — but only in setting. It’s not a fantasy. It’s what I now crave instead. Not pregnancy. Not peace. But to be met in my full, untamed storm. This is a wish written as if it has already happened./br>/br> A thunderstorm is rolling in, and the air is thick with that wild electricity, like the world’s holding its breath.
You’re at the edge of a vast, wild Dutch heath, soaked earth beneath your feet, the kind of land that stretches out in purples and browns under a bruised sky. Wind lashes at your clothes. Low, knotted trees and tall grass bent under the weight of the coming rain. And then it breaks.

Rain pours in thick sheets, cold, immediate, drenching. You don’t move, you don't run, you let it hit you, face, skin, chest, spine. There’s no one else here, no shelter. Just you, the sky, and something ancient rising in your chest. You scream into the wind, not from fear, but because you are too alive to contain it.

And then, him.

Not a man you know, not someone from your life, not someone who needs context. He’s wild like you. Eyes deep like the ocean that don’t ask questions, don't try to understand.

Clothes cling, skin burns with cold and heat at once. The storm above, the storm between. It's not conversation, it's recognition, it's older than words. It's the knowing that when you crash, he will not try to stop it, he will crash with you.
The heather crushes beneath you both, lightning splits the sky, there is no before, no after, nothing exists except raw, pure presence. The air is charged with something primal; not just the storm, but the space between you. Something untamable; something that has always been part of you. The storm doesn't ask for control, it demands surrender.

He’s there, just as wild, just as untethered. He doesn’t look at you like he’s trying to understand you. You move in sync like forces, the storm between you builds, his hands are rough, not gentle; they don't need to be, you are not fragile you are feral.

There is no hesitation. No space for thought. Each movement cracks you open. But there’s no fear — only freedom. That sacred, final surrender, to the storm, to him. The storm pulls you both deeper into its fury, thunder crashes, lightning opens the sky. You feel it not above, but through you. A crackling inside your blood. A breaking. A becoming. Your heart pounds in rhythm with the thunder. You don’t fight it, you don’t want to.

He doesn't contain you, he doesn't direct it, he lets go too. His breath matches yours, urgent, raw. Every part of you is soaked, trembling. You don’t care. The storm takes you both. It folds you into its current. There is no language now. No doubt. No past. Only presence and pulse and need; and when release comes, when the sky splits and your body follows, it is not a climax. It is a reckoning. You are more alive than you’ve ever been.

Wild. Free. Uncontained. You belong here. Under this fierce sky. Skin burning with desire and cold. Heart racing. Time stops. You shatter open. Not to fall apart, but to be remade.

The storm rages on. But inside you, something has stilled. Not quiet. Not peace. But clarity. You are trembling in the aftershock; drenched, spent, awake. And in that silence, the only sound left is your breath and the slow, primal rhythm of your own heart.

The wind whips around you. Rain stings your skin, but it wakes something ancient in you. The storm isn't done. It surges again; deeper now, older, like something from before you had a name. His hands find you again. Possessive. Certain. The ache in your bones says yes before you can speak. You are torn open again, but this time, it’s not surrender. It’s claiming.

Every inch of you is alive, breathing with the earth beneath, with him beside you, with the wildness around you. There’s no logic, only instinct. Only need. His hands move with a hunger that mirrors the storm. There is no between. You are not two people anymore, the storm has swept you into one current. Each movement feels like it might break you apart. But there is no fear. Only freedom. Total, sacred freedom. The kind you’ve always craved.

And then, lightning.

You feel it in every fiber. Every crackle of electricity. You are claimed. And the primal force take you, you don’t contain it, you don’t name it, you become it. The world disappears. The moan of the storm. The press of skin. The unrelenting wildness. There is no holding back. You give in fully, not just to him, but to the part of yourself that has always waited for this. The part that never asked to be tamed.

The final release comes like a wave breaking against cliffs. You are unmade again. And in the shatter, in the storm, you are real. And this time, you don’t return to who you were.

You stay.

You stay wild.

You are not surviving the storm.

You are the storm.