“You still have me,” Stephen murmurs back, voice ragged with each quicker touch. He had beaten his hands bloody against the door to get back to her. Eventually blown the doors down. Ripped apart those mutated enemies with raw magic and fury; angrier than he’s ever been in Thedas, more outright terrified than he’s ever been in Thedas. They’d brought down the cavern that had done this to her.

But he had not rescued her. He’d been too late to stop this from happening to her.

And yet he’s still here. He’s here, mouth crashing against Gwenaëlle’s, thumb finding and circling her clit in that familiar cant of her hips. The wings remain a new variable; when he crooks his fingers a particular way, he finds that the wings flicker with movement, a shiver that starts in her spine and roils out to that dragonfly-buzzing. Reactive.

And they’ve already had to work around his limitations for a while, adjusting position and avoiding putting too much direct weight on his hands, but now there’s a faint thoughtful crease between his brow, working the problem and realising there’s a new consideration:

“This might be uncomfortable with you on your back,” he points out. He’d learned to carry his weight on his forearms when she wanted him above her and to fuck her into the mattress, and it had brought their bodies even closer— but now, if they did that, those delicate wings would be pinned beneath her, crushed.

But they’re adaptable; they’ll continue to find a way to make it work for both of them. He just wants to still be touching her.