Work Text:
It is extremely unusual for Tarzan’s hands to slip while he’s on the move. Really, the last time that happened it was because he’d grabbed a snake instead of a vine, and who can blame him for being a bit surprised? But he’s showing off for Jane – he likes showing off for Jane, because it makes her eyes go big and she looks adorable – and one hand slips and he grabs for the vine and there’s a very, very confusing moment, and then he is standing, rather precariously, on a wide limb, with the vine tangled in a Gordian knot around his hands, and Jane is giggling.
He gives her his best wide-eyed look and hopes she’ll come untangle him before someone else shows up – Terk, say, which would be horrible, she’d tease him for the next ten years – and Jane lands on the branch beside him, still giggling, and looks him over, and then she gets a rather disturbing look in her eyes and stops giggling.
“Jane?” he says, and she puts a finger to his lips and smiles.
And then she takes her clothes off. This is easier since she stopped wearing that silly bustle and bonnet and corset; now it’s just a matter of untying here and shimmying there, and she’s naked and beautiful in front of him, and Tarzan stares, blankly, torn between arousal and bemusement.
When she kisses him, breasts pressed warm and soft against his chest, he decides that arousal is the way to go, and kisses back, tugging at the vines in a vain hope of getting his hands free so he can touch her; but she is touching him, small calloused hands brushing over chest and sides and legs and then up under his loincloth, and he realizes he is making soft noises deep in his throat.
She pulls the loincloth away and strokes him gently, and he trembles and wraps his hands around the entangling vine and relaxes, giving himself over to whatever his beloved wants to do.
What Jane wants to do, apparently, is bite gently at his upstretched arms and nip her way down his chest and lick and mouth at his aching arousal until he whimpers, hips thrusting helplessly at the air. And then, evidently, she wants to swarm up his body – he pulls harder at the vines, supporting both their weights now – and wrap her legs around his hips and slowly, carefully, sink down onto him. At this point his legs give out for a moment and he has to scramble to regain his balance, but once he does she starts to move, just a little, rocking against him, and kisses him over and over again, and he kisses back and tries to thrust and wonders if he’ll ever be able to look at a vine – or, for that matter, a tree branch – or, for that matter, Jane - the same way again.
When he comes, it is glorious and terrifying, because he dares not let go of the vine or slip off of the branch, but Jane is there, sliding down to stand on her own two feet and reaching up to untangle the vine with careful, clever fingers, and as soon as he is free he picks her up and pins her against the tree and kneels to lick between her legs, tasting himself and her arousal, nuzzling and licking and sucking until she shudders and comes beneath his mouth, biting her own hand so as not to scream.
Then they have to figure out where their clothes went.