The shaking keeps going for a long moment; rattled trembling as she grunts around his fingers, whines low in her throat, aching and bracing up on her forearms. His fingers are heavy on her tongue, they taste like pond water and salt, like John. It hurts, and stays hurting, for a while. Feels like too much, feels too full, too everything. Her hands close into fists, sharp edges of rock digging into her ribs, her chest, her hips. The pain is more clarifying than the cold, keeps her present, stops her drifting off.

She sucks in a deep, deep breath through her nose. She pushes up onto her palms, back against his front, slipping, a little, brows furrowing, eyes wetwetwet. Her teeth graze his knuckles, breath fast, a little agitated. Experimentally, she drags her hips forward, pulling along the length of him, trembling with the effort, worse still with the effort to push back with no easy glide, no lube, so slick-easy slip, just water, just Johnjohnjohn.

She cranes her head, mouth closed around his fingers, tongue against the pads, his knuckles, drool slipping down, wetter than her ass feels, and she looks at him with those big blue eyes, wetter still, and it's fine, it's okay, she pulls forward, pushes back, clenching around him tight, and whines, needy, desperate, wounded.