It could not be more obvious from the way that the open mouthed gasp of her breath becomes a pout— she hadn’t considered that yet, and for a moment, her very real dismay is almost comical. The wheels turning as she tries to come up with a way that that isn’t problem — but there’s a difference, plainly, between the way she’s been binding them securely beneath her clothes and the prospect of crushing them beneath her body weight and his, and the

inevitable friction involved.

It’s hard to maintain petulant displeasure when he crooks his fingers like that and she can’t, breathing in deep in a way that seems to roll out through the shiver of her wings. Her thighs spread wider across his lap and she lets her frown go, her chin tipping up as she makes herself relax again, relax into this moment and not fuss over what was or won’t be.

“I could,” she starts, thinks, sighs— “I could roll over,” on her knees, or the both of them stretched on their sides; how much of the rest of her life is going to be finding somewhere for her limbs? probably all of it. Probably some of it, until that becomes natural and familiar, and she is a new person, again, again, again.