Finally is the watchword, and he can’t do the math on how long it’s been for him either, not when there’s Gwenaëlle pulling him loose from his braies and lining up and sinking down onto his cock. That slow, slow settling of weight in his lap, the hot wet heat of her surrounding him. He’s sitting up, so they can still reach each other for a messy kiss: his mouth gasping against hers, his hands finding the meat of her hips, digging in to grind her down against him.

This, this is what he’d wanted for a while and hadn’t even known he’d wanted, having so meticulously packed this side of himself away; compartmentalised as irrelevant, immaterial to his life here in Thedas, unlikely to become an issue.

But it’s sparking to life again, now, now, with the experimental roll of Gwenaëlle’s hips as she fully takes him in. Stephen’s turn, now, for a ragged groan buried against her mouth, his fingers flexing against her skin, a forearm curving around her lower back as a mirror to where he’d braced against her before.

“Gwenaëlle—” he starts, a strangled murmur.

(He has instantly forgotten about the pain. There’s just the heat, the friction, the slowly rocking up into her, chasing her mouth as they start to move.)