Her wings connect to her back in four separate places, two paired; that broken-glass shimmer spidering across the skin nearest where they do, fading to nothing, to the ordinary and familiar texture of her body. Under his hand they twitch and flutter, firm with the scale required to fit a human body, but flexible, light, translucent. Shades of the stained glass she favoured all through this boat,
her hand wraps around the base of his cock and she murmurs, “Well, you don’t feel off-put,” very archly.
The light, exploratory touch is … distracting. Slowly learning this is different to the cacophony of sensations, early, that had mostly been pain, or the way hauling a heavy robe over her shoulders had a largely dulling effect, trapping her wings where mostly what she could feel has been herself. It’s different, allowing herself to expand into this space, and under his hands— the very purposeful way she touches him is almost an exercise in grounding. A point to focus on outside of herself as she is newly mapped.
It’s an effective redirect, immediately wrenching loose a hitch of breath, a strangled noise into her neck. “I’m definitely not not interested, if you must ask,” Stephen says, but there’s that thread of humour in it, just as warm, just as teasing. He runs his hand down that strip of bare skin between the wings (her wings, her, yes, they’re a part of her), following the dip of her spine and lower back and down, gauging a sense for the space they take up.
And if she wanted to regain some control over him and thus her environment, this is indubitably a good way to do it: Stephen’s head tips against Gwenaëlle’s, teeth grazing the skin of her neck, instantly lost in that familiar feeling of her hand around him. While he curls one arm low around her back — he knows she likes that feeling of being held, encircled — his free hand moves to mirror her, with the slide of his fingers between her legs.
“I’ve missed you,” he admits into her skin. “I know I never lost you. But, still—”
But, still. But even as she hasn’t been much further than his arm’s reach for weeks, she’s been remote in a way that he’s almost never known her to be— she’d been an almost aggressively open book from that first day, coming out swinging, loosing an arrow from the balcony adjoining what is now their bedroom. The small ways she’s held him, too, at a distance lately have been a gulf between them and it’s a physical relief to relax into him, to murmur,
“I know,” because she knows exactly what he’s talking about. Because she’s missed him, too, and saying so felt more selfish for being — her doing. (Sarrux’s doing. But no one responsible for that place is left to care; wouldn’t, if they were. And it feels like her responsibility, like things settled on her shoulders or beneath her shoulder-blades tend to.) “I know,” softer, a hitched breath where his fingers find her wetter than she’d realised, the slow build of heat between them winding taut inside her. The feel of his arm around her is different, her wings newly sensitive to the heat of his body and even where the lower set catches the scrape of the hair on his arm. They’re deceptive in their size, the length of about half her torso, seeming bigger when spread out but folding low; folded down, they rest just at the crest of her ass.
Everything feels heightened by the newness of touching this new part of her, by the raw sense of reconnection, and she leans back to chase his mouth with her own, one hand gripping the outside of his thigh and the other working the grip she has on his cock in a way that could reasonably be described as emphatically. The flutter of her wings over his arm is as strange as the way her hips shift to encourage his fingers inside her is familiar—
“I still need you,” she murmurs, and she means more than this, but: this, too.
“You still have me,” Stephen murmurs back, voice ragged with each quicker touch. He had beaten his hands bloody against the door to get back to her. Eventually blown the doors down. Ripped apart those mutated enemies with raw magic and fury; angrier than he’s ever been in Thedas, more outright terrified than he’s ever been in Thedas. They’d brought down the cavern that had done this to her.
But he had not rescued her. He’d been too late to stop this from happening to her.
And yet he’s still here. He’s here, mouth crashing against Gwenaëlle’s, thumb finding and circling her clit in that familiar cant of her hips. The wings remain a new variable; when he crooks his fingers a particular way, he finds that the wings flicker with movement, a shiver that starts in her spine and roils out to that dragonfly-buzzing. Reactive.
And they’ve already had to work around his limitations for a while, adjusting position and avoiding putting too much direct weight on his hands, but now there’s a faint thoughtful crease between his brow, working the problem and realising there’s a new consideration:
“This might be uncomfortable with you on your back,” he points out. He’d learned to carry his weight on his forearms when she wanted him above her and to fuck her into the mattress, and it had brought their bodies even closer— but now, if they did that, those delicate wings would be pinned beneath her, crushed.
But they’re adaptable; they’ll continue to find a way to make it work for both of them. He just wants to still be touching her.
It could not be more obvious from the way that the open mouthed gasp of her breath becomes a pout— she hadn’t considered that yet, and for a moment, her very real dismay is almost comical. The wheels turning as she tries to come up with a way that that isn’t problem — but there’s a difference, plainly, between the way she’s been binding them securely beneath her clothes and the prospect of crushing them beneath her body weight and his, and the
inevitable friction involved.
It’s hard to maintain petulant displeasure when he crooks his fingers like that and she can’t, breathing in deep in a way that seems to roll out through the shiver of her wings. Her thighs spread wider across his lap and she lets her frown go, her chin tipping up as she makes herself relax again, relax into this moment and not fuss over what was or won’t be.
“I could,” she starts, thinks, sighs— “I could roll over,” on her knees, or the both of them stretched on their sides; how much of the rest of her life is going to be finding somewhere for her limbs? probably all of it. Probably some of it, until that becomes natural and familiar, and she is a new person, again, again, again.
It’s a process. You remake yourself and are remade, over and over and over.
“All of the above,” Stephen says, warmly, his free hand tracing her jawline. A promise for the future. “We have time. We’ll try it all, eventually.”
But for right now— That practiced twist of her Gwenaëlle’s hand is simply too effective, they can’t be over before they’ve begun, so Stephen regretfully breaks contact and stills her movement in order to reach for the edges of his shirt and tug it off, throwing it somewhere in the room. Considering the options. On their sides feels like it could be intimate, languorous; a way to slowly ease awake on another morning, maybe, sprawled over each other with the languid press of him inside her,
but he’s a little hungrier than that, this particular morning. Their weeks apart stoking this starvation.
So he kisses her again, a decision taking shape. “Roll over,” he says (commands; he’s learned, too, that she likes it when he does that), and then there’s movement and readjustment in the bed. Gwenaëlle tipping back off his lap, the shimmy to kick his trousers further loose, his wet fingers against her hip, his cock hard and straining as he kneels behind her.
We have time is more soothing from a man who rewound it to buy her more than it might otherwise be — he’s a rifter, this war never ends, her ex-husband doesn’t even remember their relationship. How much fucking time do they have?
He says they do and she believes him.
She lets herself believe him, lets herself do that without unromantically picking it apart, just taking it as read and rolling over when he tells her to, her elbows and knees finding purchase in the bedding, the latter sliding apart as her hips rise, exhaling when she feels him against the back of her thigh. Her wings shift as she spreads them out, fluttering in her own peripheral vision in a way that hasn’t stopped being a little disorienting yet, and they flex in tandem with the way her cunt clenches around nothing, impatient.
The way her shoulders shift, he almost certainly knows what she’s doing before her hand is visible between her legs, a thing it had taken approximately thirty seconds the first time they’d ever done this to figure out he enjoys—
“We haven’t got to be anywhere today, right?” is probably not actually as true as she’d like it to be, but right now it feels impossible anything else could be as important.
“It’s a holiday,” Stephen says, and it is in fact the first holiday here he’s ever been able to savour, or had any reason whatsoever to care about the fact that work can wait and he doesn’t need to be anywhere and the infirmary can stay closed today. Come hell or high water.
“I’ll throw a fireball at anyone who fucking disturbs us—”
Compared to Gwenaëlle’s usual foul mouth, he doesn’t often curse to the same extent, which is how you know he means business.
His hips rock, slicking his cock with her; his thighs pressed against hers, knees spread and wings spread, hands braced against her hips; before he slowly sinks himself into her and plunges in to the hilt, re-accustomising to the sensation, the hot heat and pressure, the small ragged noise that wrenches out of him, the wanting, before he eventually starts to move.
His fireball threat makes her laugh, a sound that becomes something else and breathier as he sinks inside her; she grips the bedding underneath and presses her forehead into her arm, half-aware of the way her wings flick and flutter in simultaneous response. Reactive, as noted, alike to the way her toes curl against the outside of his calves or the particular arch of her back. That shuddering shiver runs through every part of her as he rocks in and out of her,
“That feels,” a little unsteadily, “I can feel—”
Just this once, she may not be talking about his cock.
It’s sort of strange, like— the way it feels to have magic used close to her. Or those very particular, pricey enchanted toys she’d always sort of thought were a bit overrated, all things considered, but the way that they might be made to vibrate, her efforts to keep her wings spread and out of the way are complicated by the way she can feel herself reflexively … something. That more insectoid buzzing, where often she keeps herself still, or bound, or slow when she’s conscious of it.
Stephen hits just that right, perfect spot inside of her and she doesn’t mean to slap him in the face—
The way your toes might involuntarily curl, your leg might quiver and cramp, the way your fingers press hard enough to bruise: a reflexive spasm, muscles seizing with pleasure, as Stephen snaps his hips against hers in growing urgency but then the wings thrash and flail and whack him in the face and he’s spluttering, one arm rising to try to ward his face, jerking in surprise. That ramming movement simply makes them flutter more, buzzing,
and instead of the extremely enjoyable sight of the curve of Gwenaëlle’s spine and ass, now he just has a whole faceful of her wings unfolding to their full uncontrolled breadth, all glittering and green.
It throws off his entire rhythm, grinding to a halt still buried inside her, gasping “Jesus christ”, and trying to gently bat them out of the way without hurting her.
As unexpectedly lovely as Gwenaëlle-made-dragonfly might have turned out to be, it’s difficult to appreciate the beauty of nature when it’s smacking you repeatedly in the face. The bright early morning light catches just at the perfect angle to prism a rainbow, opalescent, through that gleaming wing in the same moment, adding an exciting element of half-blinding him to boot—
“Is— fucking hell, is, are you alright—?”
Wrangling that sentence together takes some real effort, levering herself up from where she’d sunk onto her elbows and making a concerted effort as he stills to do the same, flattening her wings to her back almost chastened, edgy little flickers at the outside like it’s some strain to keep them there. And— it is. It’s reflexes and muscles that she hasn’t really been learning to use, that haven’t existed for longer than the matter of weeks they’ve not been doing this, it’s trying to figure out what the sensations through her back are actually telling her at the same time as she’s tightening around him,
they’re not exactly the sensations she’s most focused on. She flattens her hands on the bed, lifting up enough to look back over her shoulder, catching her breath, arousal mingling with abashed embarrassment and some genuine concern.
Gwenaëlle levers herself up and twists and he inadvertently groans at the movement, almost slipping out of her. He has to stop and remember how to talk, when all he wants to do is move. This remains one of the only ways to shut him up; to finally turn his brain off, to drown out that never-ending perpetual ticking in the back of his head.
“I’m— fine, it’s fine, just, unexpected,” Stephen says, which is the truth. He runs his thumb along the edge of her hip, silent acknowledgment, reassurance; and then sees the wings quivering, the strain to keep them in place and out of the way.
He exhales, and says to her over her shoulder, “I want you to be comfortable.”
Not tense, not focused so wholly on controlling the wings that it distracts from her own pleasure —
The moment is more than a little surreal. The facts and the farce of it— that she has wings, that they have to figure out how to accommodate them, that he’s concerned with her comfort when she’s just hit him in the face and he’s still balls deep. It is so fucking absurd that she can’t, immediately, even come up with something halfway intelligible to say on it; she takes a breath that shivers through her, trying to steady before the borderline hysterical laughter that’s threatening from somewhere in the pit of her stomach escapes,
what is her life. Maker.
“You won’t hurt me touching them,” she says, confident of that specifically even if it is definitely, specifically possible to hurt her with them. “Can you—”
Gwenaëlle pulls a face, settles on: “Can you put your hand between them? Let me feel if that helps.”
Letting that laugh escape wouldn’t have been the worst thing; he already knows that feeling Gwenaëlle laugh from inside her is one of his favourite, ridiculous, utterly unplanned sensations of all time, but at the moment they’re working very hard on solving a very important puzzle together and probably need to focus on it —
God, their lives.
And in terms of science, experimentation, seeing what works and what doesn’t, they could do far worse. And so Stephen gamely obliges; like pulling her hair, that anchoring touch and now subtle sensors in the wings being able to tell how far away he is, where his arm is placed. He splays his hand in that strip between the wings, palm pressing down on Gwenaëlle’s spine (another place where she was injured and wasn’t, no scar to mark the memory of Granitefell), weight on vertebrae, and he starts to move once more.
“How’s that,” and his voice is raw; on his knees behind her, pulling out only to rock back in again, accompanied by that slick slide.
That he isn’t actually asking her about the way he’s moving doesn’t mean that isn’t, first, what he gets a response to; her knuckles whiten where she’s gripping the mussed bedding under them and the mewling sound she makes is best described as something that well might offend her to have repeated back. She definitely doesn’t sound like that, she’d laugh then, fuck off,
and her wings flutter but they don’t rise. He can feel the flex of muscle under his hand, the way they shift, where they connect; she feels that pressure as a guide, less tense but more aware. Easier to relax into and underneath, the irresistible snaps of her wings like flicked fabric out past her shoulders and not where he’s going to catch a slap (again).
“I wouldn’t,” why does she have to have a smart mouth in bed, what’s wrong with just saying yes, good, “describe fucking you anything like— as mildly as — comfortable— for the record,”
dropping her shoulder to find the angle she wants, her fingers brush against him where she touches herself,
That smart mouth of Gwenaëlle’s is one of the things he loves best about her, the perpetual tart humour, the way she has purposefully moulded it to communicativeness, the way he can hear very loudly what does in fact work for her, whenever he rolls his hips and hits the right spot again. That keening noise that makes everything in him tighten. That sardonic compliment, and she can hear Stephen laugh behind her, fond,
“Good,” breathless, starting to lose the thread a little in those murmured words, “alright, Gwenaëlle, that’s good,”
and they finally figured out how to make it work, landing on the particular configuration of limbs and position that everything’s safely out of the way, and he’s not distracted by the ache in his hands and she’s thinking less of the wings. So in the end it’s just heat and pressure and friction and pleasure, driving himself into her again and again and her fingers sliding against herself and against his cock until they’re both starting to teeter on that peak.
How many times have they made each other fall apart like this, working each other over in bed like this, and even changed he’s never tired of her, ever —
in that: it feels a little bit like a miracle. It’s a relief to find that being with him still feels like this — that she still feels like herself, that figuring out how to fit together is (still) a solvable problem. It’s a lot of things, and it’s also just: that tell-tale tightness in her belly and her thighs, the arch of her back, beads of sweat between her breasts and under his hand. It’s: gasping because she didn’t realise she was holding her breath, twisting her fingers in the bedding, burying her face in her arms and concentrating on not immediately slumping to the bedding while he still needs her hips where they are.
He’s already said it, and it hasn’t been news to her, but it still feels as if it merits— “I missed you,” ragged where she hasn’t caught her breath, in no hurry to do so.
They have so many mornings spread out in front of them, but this one is going to stay with her for a while— a good morning.
It’s coming and coming back to each other, it’s those last few thrusts before his orgasm topples after her. He pulls out and collapses to the mattress, lying on his side to face Gwenaëlle and simply look at her, taking her in, adoring, memorising and re-memorising the angle of her cheek and turn of her mouth and glint of her eyes. Their legs are entwined, a knee against hers, another complicated sticky tangle of limbs and ensuring he’s out-of-the-way. Lying together afterwards, pleasantly warm and pliant; the sunlight’s still dappling through the houseboat windows, fracturing through her wings.
Stephen leans in and kisses her shoulder, lingering and content to linger. It’s a holiday. Maybe they’ll wind up together again later; maybe she’ll start trying to tinker through the puzzle-box and he’ll settle his mouth between her legs to cheekily distract her from it. It’s simply nice; to feel more like themselves again, and to know that things both have changed and haven’t changed.
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portalling) wrote2022-04-02 01:17 pm
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when it’s been nsfw for a minute,
her hand wraps around the base of his cock and she murmurs, “Well, you don’t feel off-put,” very archly.
The light, exploratory touch is … distracting. Slowly learning this is different to the cacophony of sensations, early, that had mostly been pain, or the way hauling a heavy robe over her shoulders had a largely dulling effect, trapping her wings where mostly what she could feel has been herself. It’s different, allowing herself to expand into this space, and under his hands— the very purposeful way she touches him is almost an exercise in grounding. A point to focus on outside of herself as she is newly mapped.
no subject
And if she wanted to regain some control over him and thus her environment, this is indubitably a good way to do it: Stephen’s head tips against Gwenaëlle’s, teeth grazing the skin of her neck, instantly lost in that familiar feeling of her hand around him. While he curls one arm low around her back — he knows she likes that feeling of being held, encircled — his free hand moves to mirror her, with the slide of his fingers between her legs.
“I’ve missed you,” he admits into her skin. “I know I never lost you. But, still—”
no subject
“I know,” because she knows exactly what he’s talking about. Because she’s missed him, too, and saying so felt more selfish for being — her doing. (Sarrux’s doing. But no one responsible for that place is left to care; wouldn’t, if they were. And it feels like her responsibility, like things settled on her shoulders or beneath her shoulder-blades tend to.) “I know,” softer, a hitched breath where his fingers find her wetter than she’d realised, the slow build of heat between them winding taut inside her. The feel of his arm around her is different, her wings newly sensitive to the heat of his body and even where the lower set catches the scrape of the hair on his arm. They’re deceptive in their size, the length of about half her torso, seeming bigger when spread out but folding low; folded down, they rest just at the crest of her ass.
Everything feels heightened by the newness of touching this new part of her, by the raw sense of reconnection, and she leans back to chase his mouth with her own, one hand gripping the outside of his thigh and the other working the grip she has on his cock in a way that could reasonably be described as emphatically. The flutter of her wings over his arm is as strange as the way her hips shift to encourage his fingers inside her is familiar—
“I still need you,” she murmurs, and she means more than this, but: this, too.
no subject
But he had not rescued her. He’d been too late to stop this from happening to her.
And yet he’s still here. He’s here, mouth crashing against Gwenaëlle’s, thumb finding and circling her clit in that familiar cant of her hips. The wings remain a new variable; when he crooks his fingers a particular way, he finds that the wings flicker with movement, a shiver that starts in her spine and roils out to that dragonfly-buzzing. Reactive.
And they’ve already had to work around his limitations for a while, adjusting position and avoiding putting too much direct weight on his hands, but now there’s a faint thoughtful crease between his brow, working the problem and realising there’s a new consideration:
“This might be uncomfortable with you on your back,” he points out. He’d learned to carry his weight on his forearms when she wanted him above her and to fuck her into the mattress, and it had brought their bodies even closer— but now, if they did that, those delicate wings would be pinned beneath her, crushed.
But they’re adaptable; they’ll continue to find a way to make it work for both of them. He just wants to still be touching her.
no subject
inevitable friction involved.
It’s hard to maintain petulant displeasure when he crooks his fingers like that and she can’t, breathing in deep in a way that seems to roll out through the shiver of her wings. Her thighs spread wider across his lap and she lets her frown go, her chin tipping up as she makes herself relax again, relax into this moment and not fuss over what was or won’t be.
“I could,” she starts, thinks, sighs— “I could roll over,” on her knees, or the both of them stretched on their sides; how much of the rest of her life is going to be finding somewhere for her limbs? probably all of it. Probably some of it, until that becomes natural and familiar, and she is a new person, again, again, again.
no subject
“All of the above,” Stephen says, warmly, his free hand tracing her jawline. A promise for the future. “We have time. We’ll try it all, eventually.”
But for right now— That practiced twist of her Gwenaëlle’s hand is simply too effective, they can’t be over before they’ve begun, so Stephen regretfully breaks contact and stills her movement in order to reach for the edges of his shirt and tug it off, throwing it somewhere in the room. Considering the options. On their sides feels like it could be intimate, languorous; a way to slowly ease awake on another morning, maybe, sprawled over each other with the languid press of him inside her,
but he’s a little hungrier than that, this particular morning. Their weeks apart stoking this starvation.
So he kisses her again, a decision taking shape. “Roll over,” he says (commands; he’s learned, too, that she likes it when he does that), and then there’s movement and readjustment in the bed. Gwenaëlle tipping back off his lap, the shimmy to kick his trousers further loose, his wet fingers against her hip, his cock hard and straining as he kneels behind her.
no subject
He says they do and she believes him.
She lets herself believe him, lets herself do that without unromantically picking it apart, just taking it as read and rolling over when he tells her to, her elbows and knees finding purchase in the bedding, the latter sliding apart as her hips rise, exhaling when she feels him against the back of her thigh. Her wings shift as she spreads them out, fluttering in her own peripheral vision in a way that hasn’t stopped being a little disorienting yet, and they flex in tandem with the way her cunt clenches around nothing, impatient.
The way her shoulders shift, he almost certainly knows what she’s doing before her hand is visible between her legs, a thing it had taken approximately thirty seconds the first time they’d ever done this to figure out he enjoys—
“We haven’t got to be anywhere today, right?” is probably not actually as true as she’d like it to be, but right now it feels impossible anything else could be as important.
no subject
“I’ll throw a fireball at anyone who fucking disturbs us—”
Compared to Gwenaëlle’s usual foul mouth, he doesn’t often curse to the same extent, which is how you know he means business.
His hips rock, slicking his cock with her; his thighs pressed against hers, knees spread and wings spread, hands braced against her hips; before he slowly sinks himself into her and plunges in to the hilt, re-accustomising to the sensation, the hot heat and pressure, the small ragged noise that wrenches out of him, the wanting, before he eventually starts to move.
no subject
“That feels,” a little unsteadily, “I can feel—”
Just this once, she may not be talking about his cock.
It’s sort of strange, like— the way it feels to have magic used close to her. Or those very particular, pricey enchanted toys she’d always sort of thought were a bit overrated, all things considered, but the way that they might be made to vibrate, her efforts to keep her wings spread and out of the way are complicated by the way she can feel herself reflexively … something. That more insectoid buzzing, where often she keeps herself still, or bound, or slow when she’s conscious of it.
Stephen hits just that right, perfect spot inside of her and she doesn’t mean to slap him in the face—
no subject
and instead of the extremely enjoyable sight of the curve of Gwenaëlle’s spine and ass, now he just has a whole faceful of her wings unfolding to their full uncontrolled breadth, all glittering and green.
It throws off his entire rhythm, grinding to a halt still buried inside her, gasping “Jesus christ”, and trying to gently bat them out of the way without hurting her.
no subject
“Is— fucking hell, is, are you alright—?”
Wrangling that sentence together takes some real effort, levering herself up from where she’d sunk onto her elbows and making a concerted effort as he stills to do the same, flattening her wings to her back almost chastened, edgy little flickers at the outside like it’s some strain to keep them there. And— it is. It’s reflexes and muscles that she hasn’t really been learning to use, that haven’t existed for longer than the matter of weeks they’ve not been doing this, it’s trying to figure out what the sensations through her back are actually telling her at the same time as she’s tightening around him,
they’re not exactly the sensations she’s most focused on. She flattens her hands on the bed, lifting up enough to look back over her shoulder, catching her breath, arousal mingling with abashed embarrassment and some genuine concern.
no subject
“I’m— fine, it’s fine, just, unexpected,” Stephen says, which is the truth. He runs his thumb along the edge of her hip, silent acknowledgment, reassurance; and then sees the wings quivering, the strain to keep them in place and out of the way.
He exhales, and says to her over her shoulder, “I want you to be comfortable.”
Not tense, not focused so wholly on controlling the wings that it distracts from her own pleasure —
no subject
what is her life. Maker.
“You won’t hurt me touching them,” she says, confident of that specifically even if it is definitely, specifically possible to hurt her with them. “Can you—”
Gwenaëlle pulls a face, settles on: “Can you put your hand between them? Let me feel if that helps.”
no subject
God, their lives.
And in terms of science, experimentation, seeing what works and what doesn’t, they could do far worse. And so Stephen gamely obliges; like pulling her hair, that anchoring touch and now subtle sensors in the wings being able to tell how far away he is, where his arm is placed. He splays his hand in that strip between the wings, palm pressing down on Gwenaëlle’s spine (another place where she was injured and wasn’t, no scar to mark the memory of Granitefell), weight on vertebrae, and he starts to move once more.
“How’s that,” and his voice is raw; on his knees behind her, pulling out only to rock back in again, accompanied by that slick slide.
no subject
and her wings flutter but they don’t rise. He can feel the flex of muscle under his hand, the way they shift, where they connect; she feels that pressure as a guide, less tense but more aware. Easier to relax into and underneath, the irresistible snaps of her wings like flicked fabric out past her shoulders and not where he’s going to catch a slap (again).
“I wouldn’t,” why does she have to have a smart mouth in bed, what’s wrong with just saying yes, good, “describe fucking you anything like— as mildly as — comfortable— for the record,”
dropping her shoulder to find the angle she wants, her fingers brush against him where she touches herself,
“but that is working for me, ouais—”
no subject
“Good,” breathless, starting to lose the thread a little in those murmured words, “alright, Gwenaëlle, that’s good,”
and they finally figured out how to make it work, landing on the particular configuration of limbs and position that everything’s safely out of the way, and he’s not distracted by the ache in his hands and she’s thinking less of the wings. So in the end it’s just heat and pressure and friction and pleasure, driving himself into her again and again and her fingers sliding against herself and against his cock until they’re both starting to teeter on that peak.
How many times have they made each other fall apart like this, working each other over in bed like this, and even changed he’s never tired of her, ever —
no subject
in that: it feels a little bit like a miracle. It’s a relief to find that being with him still feels like this — that she still feels like herself, that figuring out how to fit together is (still) a solvable problem. It’s a lot of things, and it’s also just: that tell-tale tightness in her belly and her thighs, the arch of her back, beads of sweat between her breasts and under his hand. It’s: gasping because she didn’t realise she was holding her breath, twisting her fingers in the bedding, burying her face in her arms and concentrating on not immediately slumping to the bedding while he still needs her hips where they are.
He’s already said it, and it hasn’t been news to her, but it still feels as if it merits— “I missed you,” ragged where she hasn’t caught her breath, in no hurry to do so.
They have so many mornings spread out in front of them, but this one is going to stay with her for a while— a good morning.
🎀
Stephen leans in and kisses her shoulder, lingering and content to linger. It’s a holiday. Maybe they’ll wind up together again later; maybe she’ll start trying to tinker through the puzzle-box and he’ll settle his mouth between her legs to cheekily distract her from it. It’s simply nice; to feel more like themselves again, and to know that things both have changed and haven’t changed.
It’s a good morning. They’ve got time.