The way your toes might involuntarily curl, your leg might quiver and cramp, the way your fingers press hard enough to bruise: a reflexive spasm, muscles seizing with pleasure, as Stephen snaps his hips against hers in growing urgency but then the wings thrash and flail and whack him in the face and he’s spluttering, one arm rising to try to ward his face, jerking in surprise. That ramming movement simply makes them flutter more, buzzing,

and instead of the extremely enjoyable sight of the curve of Gwenaëlle’s spine and ass, now he just has a whole faceful of her wings unfolding to their full uncontrolled breadth, all glittering and green.

It throws off his entire rhythm, grinding to a halt still buried inside her, gasping “Jesus christ”, and trying to gently bat them out of the way without hurting her.