[The leaves' best is not very good, all things considered; before long, they're somewhat askew, their attempt to cover him sad and dissheveled. Certainly he doesn't help the situation by rocking up into her each time she presses down]

[His hands scratch gently with his fingernails, ruffling the feathers; the vine exploring her chest seems to have found a nipple, and now that it has it stays where it is, shifting back and forth, restless]