That he isn’t actually asking her about the way he’s moving doesn’t mean that isn’t, first, what he gets a response to; her knuckles whiten where she’s gripping the mussed bedding under them and the mewling sound she makes is best described as something that well might offend her to have repeated back. She definitely doesn’t sound like that, she’d laugh then, fuck off,

and her wings flutter but they don’t rise. He can feel the flex of muscle under his hand, the way they shift, where they connect; she feels that pressure as a guide, less tense but more aware. Easier to relax into and underneath, the irresistible snaps of her wings like flicked fabric out past her shoulders and not where he’s going to catch a slap (again).

“I wouldn’t,” why does she have to have a smart mouth in bed, what’s wrong with just saying yes, good, “describe fucking you anything like— as mildly as — comfortable— for the record,”

dropping her shoulder to find the angle she wants, her fingers brush against him where she touches herself,

“but that is working for me, ouais—”