All right. A word of warning first; I used the M rating for a reason. Also, this is maybe not your typical Cousland/Alistair fic. My fic Cousland is a rather bitter woman. The story -- or rather, a scene -- has no happy ending, so if you're in search of a feel-good fic, please avoid.

I haven't gotten banned for submitting my explicit ME2 fic, so here goes. I wrote this one a month or so ago, and originally posted it in a Dragon Age community. I thought I'd archive it here, as well.

Not how things went for me in the game, of course -- there, I stuck to Alistair like a vine :-)

Oh, and the title sucks. Or, I suck at titles. Your pick.

"Behind you, Elissa!"

Elissa Cousland spun around in her crouching position, buried her left-hand dagger hilt deep into a charging hurlock's stomach and sliced it's head clean off with her right-hand blade. Darkspawn blood spurted from the dead creature's neck, cascading over her. She kicked the twitching hurlock off her dagger and its body fell on the sodden ground with a heavy thud.

Still crouching, she was looking for more. There had to be more. She waited, blood pounding in her ears, darkspawn senses still screaming. But none came.

"Elissa, it's over!" she heard a familiar voice cry from behind her. "They're all dead."

She turned to look, her daggers still dripping blood in her hands. Leliana walked toward her, holding her bow in one hand while Wynne tried to keep up and examine an ugly gash in her right arm.

Elissa stood up, then, her head spinning. Breath still came in ragged wheezes from her lungs. The ground around her was littered with darkspawn corpses, run through, decapitated, missing limbs and faces... There was darkspawn blood in her mouth. She raised her daggers in front of her face. They were covered in black ichor, as was she. And not only from the darkspawn, either. A lot of the blood was her own.

Shaking all over, she tried to look for something clean to wipe her daggers with, but there was nothing. Just dead, sodden grass, pools of poison blood seeping into the earth, and corpses. Corpses, everywhere. Her eyes swam. So... many... corpses.

She could have been one of them.

She couldn't breathe. She pulled off her helmet, threw it away. But it didn't help.

Alistair approached them, tall and walking easily in his beautiful silverite chainmail. His sword was already sheathed and the shield was slung across his back, and he had his helmet under his arm. He was covered in blood spatters as well, but otherwise, he was the picture of calm. The handsome royal bastard.

"Elissa, are you all right? I saw you fall. I'm sorry, I couldn't get to those archers in time..."

Elissa rubbed her brow. Her head pounded. She spat, but the darkspawn blood in her mouth lingered. It tasted of filth. Of the Blight. Of... death.

She remembered falling... falling with arrows buried in her chest and side. Knowing it would be the end. But Wynne's revival spell had worked, and she had been on her feet again, screaming in pain and hate, driving her daggers into the backs of the genlocks who now surrounded the healer.

It had never happened to her before. She had been so careful. Always seek cover from ranged attacks, always carry an abundance of potions... Always fade from sight and let Alistair do his job when she was being attacked.

"Elissa?" Alistair sounded worried. Elissa realised she had spaced out again. She turned to look at him, wiped blood from her face, knew she was only making it worse. She didn't want to know what she looked like. Like a horror, probably.

How could he look so... collected?

He had never seen Alistair lose his calm. Never. Not even... That one night they had shared, now many days ago. She remembered his clean skin, his too gentle hands, so willing and yet so -- apprehensive. She was older than him, and experienced... And he knew it, and had barely had the courage to make love to her, even though it had been his own idea.

She closed her eyes. Red blotches swarmed behind her eyelids. The hollow feeling in her stomach didn't go away. And the taste in her mouth, Maker... How could these people look so... normal?

"Let's look for anything useful," she heard herself say. "Come with me, Alistair."

She walked away, not checking if he followed, because she knew he did. She was the Leader.

There... those old Tevinter ruins... She turned toward them, barely knowing herself what she intended. Pausing only momentarily, she wiped her daggers in a clean patch of grass and sheathed them. Blood was already starting to dry into her armor and skin. It would be one hell of a job to get it all off, later.

"Elissa? I don't think we left any corpses here," he said when they had reached the ruins.

"Just come. I have something to show you." She barely heard herself from the humming in her head.

She turned around a corner. There, a shaded spot behind bushes, between some overhanging trees and a crumbling wall. It would have to do.

"What is it?" he asked.

She grabbed him by the grey tabard over his chainmail and pushed him against the ruined wall, her mind reeling. The shield across his back clanged against the stones in a mocking echo of what it sounded like when he swung it into an enemy in battle. The helmet fell from under his arm.

"Elissa..?"

She kissed him, them. It was not gentle, like their kisses before. She felt him try to say something and pushed her tongue between his teeth to silence him, not caring that she also pushed darkspawn blood into his mouth. Her hands grabbed the red-blonde hair, pulled, so hard it must hurt.

He made to push her away, but she shoved his hands back and crushed her body against him, unsatisfying as it was through the layers of metal and leather and thick cloth.

She broke the kiss, just a breath's worth. A thread of spittle still connected their mouths. "Fuck me," she said.

"Elissa, I don't --" he began, but she silenced him again with her mouth. Her hands now worked feverishly on the buckles of her blood-soaked leathers. There was no way she would get them open fast enough.

He turned his face aside. Rejection?

"Treat that as an order," she gasped, her mouth against his ear. "You are good at taking orders, aren't you?"

Alistair shuddered.

She wrapped one leg around his thigh, rubbed against him. Through the armor, she couldn't even tell if he was responding. Maybe he was not? Always the nice little chantry boy, no? And all the while her mind roiled and burned and the world seethed around her, and she couldn't get rid of the ugly feeling of death waiting to take her back if she so much as slipped. Come on, you big baby... Zevran would do it in a heartbeat. But she couldn't say it aloud. It would have worked on someone else. Not him.

Then, something... His hand on her waist. She saw his eyes narrow, a blush on his cheek. He was still poised between attack and escape, but something else was already gathering beneath his skin.

"Yes," she whispered. "You want to, don't you? Show the Leader what you can do."

His chainmail chimed and hissed like a living thing when he moved. And now it was she who was being pushed against the unyielding stone, her sheathed weapons clattering against it. "You... crazy... bitch," he whispered, heaving with breath and anger, still emanating battle heat.

In his shadow, Elissa smiled.

Her hands worked on the last buckle and now, thank the Maker – her armor was hanging open. She grabbed his right hand, pulled his gauntlet off. Not letting his eyes leave hers, she guided his hand between her legs.

She was wet like a fountain and his calloused fingers slipped easily into her cunt. A cry escaped her lips, and she closed her eyes, pushed her head back against the stone. She worked herself shamelessly against him, not even trying to teach him how to do it, just pushing him where she wanted, against and into her.

It seemed to take only seconds before she was coming. She arched her back, her face twisted in what was more pain than pleasure. His gauntleted left hand clamped on her mouth to stifle her cries.

"Maker..."

She shuddered for a few times more, rode it until it was over. Then she relaxed against the wall and cracked her eyes open. And she saw that she had him. There was no mistaking the lust on his face, now. His fingers were still inside her and he made no attempt to pull away.

She pushed his hand from her mouth. "Now. Fuck me, Warden," she whispered.

When he kissed her, it was no longer gentle or chaste. It hurt. He pushed his tongue against hers and moaned into her mouth, hands working on his chainmail greaves and breeches.

She reached between them, pushed aside mail and linen and leather and found him. He made a desperate, pleading sound, buried his head against her neck. "Yes," she whispered and stroked the length of his cock. He was ready, so ready he was leaking over her fingers. She braced herself against the wall, wrapped her leg around him. "Do it."

His gauntleted left hand grabbed her thigh and he pulled her hips forward and up. There was no hesitation in him, this time, none of the uncertainty she had half despaired of, half savored during their last and so far only night together. He pushed her hand from his cock, kneed her legs farther apart and crouched a little to find a better angle, not caring that his armor was chafing painfully against her. Oh yes. All chivalry and sympathy, her young ex-templar, but beneath the surface he was just like all the men she'd ever known, and took to their tricks like a cute mabari cub takes to killing, once the opportunity presents itself.

She laughed when he entered her. Her laughter held no joy; it was a grim, hoarse sound of possession.

"You... witch," he rasped and started to thrust. She twined her fingers in his hair, pulled his face to hers as if to kiss him, but bit his lip instead, hard enough to leave a mark. He shuddered and moaned. Even through the leather greaves, his fingers were leaving bruises on her. Maker, he was big and strong. Like a young ox, pounding her into the stone wall, crushing her with the weight of his body and the silver armor -- sweat dripping from the tip of his beautiful royal nose, eyes glazed over with all-too-familiar male lust, and that full young mouth that tasted of light and hope -- and all the while she oozed the taint into him, still covered in darkspawn blood, the disgusting ichor sticking into her face, her hands, her soul.

It did not take long before he gave a hoarse cry and strained against her. He called her name, almost sobbing, pushing into her a last few times. And she was on the verge as well, so close... She reached between them, felt him buried inside, his semen trickling out of her, and she only had to touch herself to make her world shatter again. She bucked against him and drew blood from her lip with her teeth in an attempt not to scream.

For a long time they just stood where they were, catching their breath. She leaned back against the ruin and he leaned against her, the full weight of his armored body bearing down on her.

"Oh, Maker..." he groaned into her hair. She felt him stroke her thigh and sides, then her blood-stained face. "Elissa..."

She breathed. She smiled. It was over. She was not going to die, at least not that day. But when he bent his head to kiss her, there was something final in that kiss, a sadness she couldn't translate into words.

A few minutes later they emerged from the bushes, and this time it was Elissa who seemed composed and calm, and Alistair not. Wynne was busy packing her healing supplies into her bag, but Leliana watched the two of them as they approached. She noted Alistair's discomfort and bruised lip, and gave Elissa a knowing look. But thankfully, she said nothing.

* * *

That night at the camp, he was silent and thoughtful, and wouldn't look at her.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked when they were left alone for a moment at the fire.

"Not particularly," he said. "But I suppose we should."

"It bothers you, what happened," she said.

"Yes." He ran his fingers through his hair. "I can't help thinking... Had it been Zevran there, and not me... You would have done the same thing with him. You would have made him fuck you there against that Maker forsaken wall."

She wouldn't disgrace either of them by trying to lie. "Yes. I probably would have."

He covered his eyes with his hand. She saw his beautiful, strong jawline tighten. "I can't get that image out of my head."

She said nothing. After a moment, he spoke instead.

"I don't think we should do it again."

"Dont' worry. I don't fly off the handle like that very often."

"No, that's not what I meant. What I meant was, we shouldn't do it again. At all. This isn't... this is not what I want. I thought you knew what I feel for you, Elissa. And now -- I just don't know who you are any more. At all. And it makes me feel like a complete idiot, thinking that I... that we... That I thought there was something more, between us."

A familiar, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, then. She knew that feeling, oh Maker, she knew it well. Her gut turned and she felt her supper wanting to get back up.

From the look on his handsome young face she knew she could have argued. Just give him what he wants – sweet nothings. She knew she was good at that. There was revulsion in his eyes, but also love. He loved her. He had said as much. If she only gave it a chance...

But what for? It would only get worse from there. She knew how these things worked for her.

She swallowed her rising nausea, and smiled sweetly.

"I see," she heard herself say. "Well, you were wrong. Why would I ever want more from someone like you? I need a man, not a sniveling baby."

And not looking back, she walked away.