The music of her laughing breaks his pale, hollowed, prematurely-aged face. Breaks it into a grin. Which, for a moment, makes him look… the same age as her. …Maybe he actually is.
He presses forward, running his hands inside her clothing as before, warming them both. Following her every motion and sound of agreement, of encouragement, for each further step, finding her favored areas, undoing the fastenings she'd just done back up, moving in to her, slipping inside once again.
The branch, low-hanging before lightning struck, is now split not enough to break but to bend. It flexes compliantly and pleasingly with them. He braces one hand against it, using it to keep himself from stumbling as well as accentuating their rhythm. His other arm stays strongly— protectively… lovingly; around her waist; keeping her secure and balanced too; keeping them joined together every inch—heart, plexus, sacral, root.
Their movement, the wind, the tree, rocks them, thrillingly… but it's not the vaulting, echoing planet-revolution of before. Having been spent once already, he's not concerned (if he even could) with coming again. Being so freshly stimulated and sensitized will probably make shorter work of it for her too. That's not the point. It needn't always be about transcendence or loss of self or cosmic release. The warming, the body-spreading resonance, the golden pleasure, were there, and were delicious, but this time there was also… playfulness. Laughter. Enjoying one another's participation and good-sportingness, enjoying their abandon and frivolity in the face of all their past losses and burdens, playing as at a shared game or an inside joke. There was even gratification to be had in ridiculousness. The flexing of the tree branch is pleasurable as hell, but it's awkward and ludicrous and hilarious.Dammit we're making a point! Don't be thrown but get back on the horse. Are we really doing this on a tree…?
At one point he nearly loses his balance, swipes uselessly in the wrong direction, has his hand collide with a lighter spray of twigs, and sends a billow of snow off their leaves into both of their faces. They pause in their movements to start laughing. Which vibrates through both of them, muscle and flesh, and makes them gasp with sensation and set to once again.
When he feels, from muscle and heartbreat and breath, that they're getting close, he wraps his arms again around her waist to lift her back off the branch. Straining upward to keep himself inside her, holding her tight against and around him; he turns them both to put her back flush against the tree trunk, pressing into her with all his body. So they can stop paying any mind to keeping their balance, just let themselves impel with abandon. In sequence and synchrony in turns. Until they finish.
For him, it's not the burst of pleasure so much as hitting a threshold, overstimulation past endurance, and he draws back, gladly wincing, and breathless. But it seems, thankfully, to coincide with hers.
And this time, as he fights for breath, and sinks down to rest, and lean against the tree, putting himself against her, drawing her against him… he stays smiling. Peaceful.
She hasn't been with anyone else. He's abjectly devoted to her for letting him share this with her. There isn't any sense of power imbalance, not even in the name of teacher/learner. (As if she needed training to undo him fully.) But this is something he'd decided he hadn't done for her properly and wanted to amend. She deserves to know it doesn't have to always turn into emotional collapse. It can be… lighthearted. Fun.
He can stand to learn a lot more about that, too.
And he's relieved and grateful to confront what had threatened to be a lasting dread. And learn that it's true for him too. That he would not be at the past's mercy every time. That he can be, indeed, safe. For her and for himself.
He turns his face to kiss her temple before letting his head fall back against the tree, with a breath of laughter. And chooses to speak. To say something light. "…Thank you for going along with that."
They were there, they were warm, they were well spent. He felt glad of her, he felt love for her, he felt grateful they were alive together. And this time the feelings weren't going to be driven off.
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He presses forward, running his hands inside her clothing as before, warming them both. Following her every motion and sound of agreement, of encouragement, for each further step, finding her favored areas, undoing the fastenings she'd just done back up, moving in to her, slipping inside once again.
The branch, low-hanging before lightning struck, is now split not enough to break but to bend. It flexes compliantly and pleasingly with them. He braces one hand against it, using it to keep himself from stumbling as well as accentuating their rhythm. His other arm stays strongly— protectively… lovingly; around her waist; keeping her secure and balanced too; keeping them joined together every inch—heart, plexus, sacral, root.
Their movement, the wind, the tree, rocks them, thrillingly… but it's not the vaulting, echoing planet-revolution of before. Having been spent once already, he's not concerned (if he even could) with coming again. Being so freshly stimulated and sensitized will probably make shorter work of it for her too. That's not the point. It needn't always be about transcendence or loss of self or cosmic release. The warming, the body-spreading resonance, the golden pleasure, were there, and were delicious, but this time there was also… playfulness. Laughter. Enjoying one another's participation and good-sportingness, enjoying their abandon and frivolity in the face of all their past losses and burdens, playing as at a shared game or an inside joke. There was even gratification to be had in ridiculousness. The flexing of the tree branch is pleasurable as hell, but it's awkward and ludicrous and hilarious. Dammit we're making a point! Don't be thrown but get back on the horse. Are we really doing this on a tree…?
At one point he nearly loses his balance, swipes uselessly in the wrong direction, has his hand collide with a lighter spray of twigs, and sends a billow of snow off their leaves into both of their faces. They pause in their movements to start laughing. Which vibrates through both of them, muscle and flesh, and makes them gasp with sensation and set to once again.
When he feels, from muscle and heartbreat and breath, that they're getting close, he wraps his arms again around her waist to lift her back off the branch. Straining upward to keep himself inside her, holding her tight against and around him; he turns them both to put her back flush against the tree trunk, pressing into her with all his body. So they can stop paying any mind to keeping their balance, just let themselves impel with abandon. In sequence and synchrony in turns. Until they finish.
For him, it's not the burst of pleasure so much as hitting a threshold, overstimulation past endurance, and he draws back, gladly wincing, and breathless. But it seems, thankfully, to coincide with hers.
And this time, as he fights for breath, and sinks down to rest, and lean against the tree, putting himself against her, drawing her against him… he stays smiling. Peaceful.
She hasn't been with anyone else. He's abjectly devoted to her for letting him share this with her. There isn't any sense of power imbalance, not even in the name of teacher/learner. (As if she needed training to undo him fully.) But this is something he'd decided he hadn't done for her properly and wanted to amend. She deserves to know it doesn't have to always turn into emotional collapse. It can be… lighthearted. Fun.
He can stand to learn a lot more about that, too.
And he's relieved and grateful to confront what had threatened to be a lasting dread. And learn that it's true for him too. That he would not be at the past's mercy every time. That he can be, indeed, safe. For her and for himself.
He turns his face to kiss her temple before letting his head fall back against the tree, with a breath of laughter. And chooses to speak. To say something light. "…Thank you for going along with that."
They were there, they were warm, they were well spent. He felt glad of her, he felt love for her, he felt grateful they were alive together. And this time the feelings weren't going to be driven off.