[though there'd barely been any intentionality at all, in getting to this tree in the first place, there'd been even less when he'd followed the motion of her hand. maybe he'd only meant it as a test — but when the noise she makes fills his a world that's felt empty and the heat of her is almost enough to make him forget what it feels like to touch death, whatever he'd originally meant doesn't matter.
there isn't much that does at the moment, aside from this.
his own want is still there, thrumming, but it's secondary. it's ambient, background, something he can shift away from as she finds his mouth again and he parts his lips to taste her, as he finds a rhythm to create friction against hers — and as he adds a second finger, curling them both.
her desperation is something he can feel, taste, smell; if he can turn that into release, then he will have accomplished something worthwhile, for once.
no subject
there isn't much that does at the moment, aside from this.
his own want is still there, thrumming, but it's secondary. it's ambient, background, something he can shift away from as she finds his mouth again and he parts his lips to taste her, as he finds a rhythm to create friction against hers — and as he adds a second finger, curling them both.
her desperation is something he can feel, taste, smell; if he can turn that into release, then he will have accomplished something worthwhile, for once.
(he needs that, after so much has slipped away.)]