The moment is more than a little surreal. The facts and the farce of it— that she has wings, that they have to figure out how to accommodate them, that he’s concerned with her comfort when she’s just hit him in the face and he’s still balls deep. It is so fucking absurd that she can’t, immediately, even come up with something halfway intelligible to say on it; she takes a breath that shivers through her, trying to steady before the borderline hysterical laughter that’s threatening from somewhere in the pit of her stomach escapes,

what is her life. Maker.

“You won’t hurt me touching them,” she says, confident of that specifically even if it is definitely, specifically possible to hurt her with them. “Can you—”

Gwenaëlle pulls a face, settles on: “Can you put your hand between them? Let me feel if that helps.”