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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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.