Disclaimer: I don't own this, I'm not making money.

Father's chuckle rings in Alistair's head, as if he were standing at the opposite end of a canyon and not just an arm's length away. "Well, we are certainly glad to finally have you here, my dear."

Glad? Is that what Alistair must be? By Andraste Alistair does not know what he should be. Every free thought in his head is dancing with one that opposes it, leaving only dust where they collide.

Focus. Focus, man! Don't lose yourself and start making a face. Or sweat. Do. Not. Start. Sweating.

"That's right," Teyrna Rowan says. Her voice is a little less echo-y than Father's was. "Fergus is the only one of your children who's been to the capital before, isn't he?"

Teyrna Cousland's lips part to answer but Elissa chimes in quickly with, "And hopefully that won't count against us." Her joke is followed by a giggle and the corners of every mouth in the room tugging upward, even Anora's. Even his.

Her smile is still so infectious, just like when she held his face in her hands and...

No. No. Do not think about that. Not while you're standing in front of your family and the most important members of the court. Absolutely not.

"Elissa," her mother says as if to reprimand, though it falls a little flat for the hint of laughter in her voice.

"He presented himself as a fine young man, rest assured," Lady Gyllianne says. The curl of her mouth deepens. "And I see that you brought a touch of his jocularity back to court within you."

"That, I think, they will not be able to help but hold against us, Sister," Morrigan says, patting Elissa's arm in a feint of apology. The sorceress looks no less intimidating in a silk dress than she did with mana pouring from her fingertips. It's her carriage; the way her shoulders are held high and she looks as if she's staring through a body straight to the bone.

Perhaps imagining the bones of his that she crushed, Alistair believes when those citrine eyes glance his way. Only for a moment, a bare flicker of an instant, but in that flicker there is recognition and clear disdain. In all honesty, Morrigan's still-present scorn is what makes Alistair sure that he isn't going insane. Even his dreams couldn't think up something as sharp as her eyes.

Chuckling again, Father beckons the Cousland daughters up from their knees. "Good humor is always welcome in these halls, my ladies. Now, might I introduce my sons to you?"

"Of course, Your Majesty," Elissa says. Her eyes cut to Alistair and he has to fend off a shiver. "Though, I do believe it would be a reintroduction, seeing as we've already met."

His heart stops hard, enough so that Alistair expects to see the outline of it on his tunic should he look down.

Maker, no. She isn't going to bring that up here in front of everyone is she? In front of her parents and brother no less? Right?

What if she already told them though? What if the Teyrn and Teyrna know that the king's bastard had their daughter in the woods? Worse, what if they know how much of fumbling dunce he had been? By Andraste, he would rather the Teyrn cut his throat out than to have anyone know about how ungainly so much of the loss of his virginity was.

Teyrna Eleanor laughs while Alistair's heart is giving way. "Oh, I had forgotten that; you did bringyour boys to Highever once, didn't you? Though that was quite some time ago."

"I—I don't remember that." Alistair's voice finds itself though it's off-pitch practically to the point it wouldn't be recognized. No one seems to notice though, well aside from Elissa, with her eyes on him, he doubts anything about him is escaping her.

"You wouldn't," Father says. "You caught cold on the journey north. Past the first evening, you didn't see much of Castle Cousland outside of your quarters. Besides, you were only seven." He smiles at Elissa. "I'm surprised you remember, my dear. You weren't much older."

She grins back. "The polite thing to say, I'm sure, would be that a lady never forgets the first time that she meets a prince, let alone two and a king."

That makes Teyrn Cousland laugh. His eyes twinkle just like his daughter's do when he says, "But the honest thing that I know, is that my never-a-lady-in-her-life daughter has not forgotten the pink ruffled dress that her loving mother finagled her into for the occasion."

"She has not," Elissa agrees, tugging at her sleeve. Unlike her mother and sister, she wears no dress but a surcoat, shirt, breeches, and boots in shades sapphire blue and leaf green, the Cousland colors, as her father and brother do. Her surcoat is longer though, with embroidered edges, a fitted waist, and the cut of her collar is deeper. The shirt that she wears has fuller sleeves as well, and her boots come up over her knee. Practical, stylish, and still feminine without sacrificing mobility to layers of skirts.

"No one has," Morrigan says with a smirk that earns her a wrinkled nose from her sister. "Or the giant bow that went with it, twice the size of your head."

"I," Aeden chimes in, arms crossed and a wicked smirk upon his face that could compete with one of Zevran's, "recall best that same dress and bow covered in muck not ten minutes later because there was a very large frog in the garden pond that you had to have."

"Maker's Breath, do not bring that fiasco up," Teryna Cousland says with the abject weariness only a loving mother of four could convey. Her sharp eyes narrow upon the taller of her two daughters. Elissa's response is a unabashed smile. Seeing her cause lost, she shakes her head, moving forward to usher Morrigan over to Cailan and Anora for introductions. Alistair's stomach flips and knots itself as Elissa doesn't follow her mother and sister, opting instead to approach him. He almost wants to run but he's already trapped in her gaze. In all of that blue, there's nowhere else he could possibly go.

Father's hand finds his shoulder, though Alistair's head is so occupied with not drowning in her eyes, the touch barely registers. The same goes for his laughter.

"Lady Elissa, please allow me to introduce my son, Prince Alistair," Father says. He laughs again, clapping his palm affectionately against the back of Alistair's neck. "Or rather, reintroduce, isn't it?"

Her smile widens. Maker, her smile is still the most wonderful thing, so red against the pallor of her skin. Is it as soft as he remembers? It looks like it, softer even. And what about her tongue? It was so sweet and gentle, twining against his own, tasting him. Something in the pit of his belly starts to coil.

Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. For the love of Andraste, Father is right here!

His blood must be too confused on where to go, to flood his face or everything below his belt. That's all that saves him from cheeks the same shade of scarlet as Lady Gyllianne's gown when Elissa bows and says, "A pleasure to see you again, Your Highness." Her head is tilted up as she bends, and there is a glimmer in her eyes when she speaks.

The Maker or Andraste must take pity on him and grant him a small miracle, because he manages not only to keep himself from falling over but also to accept her hand. Fizzy rivulets, like the kind that might linger in the air after lightning has been cast only warmer, brighter, and far more intense, slide from her palm up his arm. Alistair has to fight off a shiver while coaxing his fingers to wrap around her lightning-kissed wrist.

Another miracle; his voice works. "The pleasure is mine, my lady." And he brings her knuckles to his lips.

She did not expect that gesture, though to be fair Alistair had not either. Some strange impulse has been fanned to life deep in his brain at the sight of her in the flesh, and he can't ignore it. He does not wish to either, not when he can see the faintest peachy color crawling up her neck and into her cheeks. He remembers how it had tasted, her blush, the delightful heat beneath his lips as he explored strong, elegant curve of her neck with his mouth.

He very nearly drops her hand as that coil in his belly tightens. He's not going to last the evening. Would Jenna mind terribly much if he faked the plague?

Of course she would, she'd stab him in his sleep. Or worse, rat him out. Maker, just think of Wynne knitting scarves...

"I'm sure you two will be closer than mabari pups in a basket by the time that the Progress is well underway," Father is saying. At the farthest edge of his periphery, Alistair sees him wink, oblivious to the tension pulsing before him.

Elissa grins and a new thing in Alistair's chest flips once or twenty times. "I know we will, Majesty."

"Well that makes an old man's heart light to hear." Father pats his shoulder one final time before offering Elissa his arm. She takes it, allowing him to lead her down the line to Anora and Cailan. She looks back as they go, azure eyes locked upon him and one corner of her mouth tilted in a smile that he's sure no one but him would notice.

That thing in his chest continues to flip while his lips and hand buzz with the static residue of her touch. Andraste preserve and guide, he does not think he will survive this dinner.

#

Alistair survives dinner. Mostly because Elissa is seated at the other end of the table where he can scarcely see her and because talk at the table centers upon the Grand Progress and upcoming wedding broken only a brief but very educational lecture on the superiority of Dwarven architecture, thanks to Mairyn. In the buzz of it all, he's allowed to become invisible again. Which is for the best because as his astonishment fades, anger starts bubbling. By the time that dessert has arrived there's a fist in his chest, red-hot, crushing, and turning the taste of the apple tart that he picks at to ashes. He excuses himself before the dinner's formal end with the flimsy excuse of being tired. No one bats an eyelash at him, even Father or Lady Gyllianne; he's allowed to go without a word of protest or any further attention. Well, save for the blue eyes he feels on his back as he goes, but Alistair tries to ignore them, to ignore her.

That's futile.

She knew. She knew exactly who he was and didn't say a word.

In the sanctuary of his rooms, Alistair fumes. He'd like to go at some of the training dummies in the practice yard, but if his lie makes that impossible. In his tower he has trapped himself, so he'll have to be content with pacing and punching pillows. He goes at the latter until his arms are sore and the air is struggling to stay in his burning lungs.

Fool. Always a fool. He should have known that this fantasy could not be real. Elissa had known he was a prince. She'd taken him to her bed for the crown that would mercifully never be his but somehow still managed crush him.

He feels raw, exposed, like cracked tooth. He feels like he's six again, noticing for the first time how the nobility look on their "motherless" prince. He feels used. Maker, he might cry.

Collapsing in the window seat by his desk, Alistair scrubs a hand across his face. It does very little to alleviate the stinging of his eyes or the stuffiness of his nose.

One moment. That was all he really wanted. One moment where his blood didn't dictate anything. One moment where he was happy.

The knocks at the door go unnoticed by Alistair in his fit of melancholia, as does the creak of hinges when his visitor gets tired of knocking. In fact, Cailan goes entirely undetected until he's two feet away and tossing one of Alistair's already battered pillows at him.

Surprise almost sends Alistair toppling from his perch. It also nearly sends him flying at his brother with curled fists and thirst to bust something on that stupid smug face.

By Andraste, this is under his skin.

"What?" he demands, settling for hurling the pillow back at his brother.

Cailan catches it easily—not that Alistair had been really trying—though by the look that flits across his face, one would think it was a brick that he caught. Alistair is far too preoccupied with his own messy feelings to mind his brother's however, even with the knowing tug in his gut telling him that that the flash of hurt is genuine.

A moment passes in which Cailan simply stares, his hazel eyes, the one and only thing his Antivan mother passed on to him in way of appearance, are oddly still. Contemplative or careful Cailan is not, and never will be but Alistair can see him struggling with the attempt. If he weren't intent on moping, he just might be touched

"You left early," he offers after several long moments.

Alistair blinks up at him. "Come again?"

"You left early," Cailan says again. He shifts, as if those words are uncomfortable for him, uncrossing then re-crossing his arms over his chest. He looks away as Alistair continues to stare blankly at him. "You never dodge out of a dinner. No matter how boring it is."

Shrugging, Alistair looks down at the front of his sleep-shirt. "Like I said, I'm tired. Today's been…long." And disappointing. And painful. And so, so, so disappointing.

Looking a little more himself—which is to say oblivious—Cailan sighs and drops down into Alistair's desk chair. "Maker, you're telling me." He ruffles his own hair and turns a lopsided grin up to him. "All morning I sat through a ceremony with the Rivaini Ambassador and some seer she brought over to bless the upcoming nuptials as a gift." His brother's nose wrinkles. "She ran an egg over my forehead and Anora's then cooked it up over a candle with some weird spices. We had to eat it. For a 'fruitful union'."

Alistair's misery dwindles just a bit. "An egg?"

"An egg," Cailan confirms with a chuckle. "It was a weird one too. All speckled and green and shite. Anora hid it pretty well, but I could tell she was about five seconds away from spitting it out and slapping Ambassador Jasmina in the face the entire time. Or vomiting it up in her lap."

He laughs, in spite of the ache in his ribs and not even wanting to. It's a wonderful thing to picture, ever-composed Anora having to eat a "fruitful" egg, candle-cooked by an gnarled old woman covered in tattoos and half of her body's weight in garish jewelry.

"Wait, how did you keep a straight face if Anora was barely hanging on?" Alistair demands. Anora is a natural politician what's more, she is a Mac Tir; they can put on a stiff upper lip through anything, even a banquet with Orlesian dignitaries. Or at least they can with Teyrna Rowan looking onward with arms crossed and gray eyes sharp.

His brother snorts. "Is that a joke? I've eaten much worse things than some foul, blessed-egg nonsense."

"Like what?"

"Like your trail cooking."

Alistair laughs again and Cailan joins him and for just a second he forgets the misery saturating his insides. It strikes him that this used to be their everyday, at a time when Cailan could scarcely be found out of Alistair's company. They were always laughing, even when angry, and they told each other everything. They used to be brothers, real ones, and this ghost of Used-To-Be sends a whole new wave of sadness washing over Alistair after the Way-Things-Are-Now catches up.

The silence that falls between he and his brother prickles, like rashvine on bare skin. Alistair looks from the knees of his sleeping trousers to Cailan then back to his knees. Similarly, Cailan seeps with disquiet. Alistair can see his tongue wriggling behind his lips and teeth, digging for a very simple sentence "What's wrong?" But every time, he hits bedrock just short of the mark.

The best he can muster after several long and uncomfortable moments is, "So..."

Alistair could help his brother; prod him in the right direction. Something in Cailan has been drowning for quite some time so perhaps this is much of a cry for help as it is concern for him. Alistair could reach out and perhaps that would solve both of their problems.

But right now, Alistair does not want to solve, he wants to sulk. Helping Cailan to help him is more than he can give this evening.

"Cailan, I really am tired," he says and it isn't a lie.

Something that might be hurt snaps in his brother's eyes but it's covered in an instant, giving Alistair just enough room to doubt that it was ever there at all. Cailan nods and stands.

"Right. Right." He smiles as he rises and Alistair honestly cannot tell if it is a mask for relief or disappointment. It's also impossible for Alistair to tell which of those things (or somehow both) is filling he himself up right now.

Cailan lingers for a moment or two after he's on his feet, fingers curling and uncurling, like he wants to reach out and touch Alistair's arm or ruffle his hair. Neither of which he has done in years. Or at least it feels like years.

"You, uh, you rest well, then," his brother says with an awkward nod which Alistair returns (probably even more awkwardly), then he turns and he's marching out like a fire is nipping his heels.

Guilt gnaws at Alistair, tiny teeth on his already overburdened mind, accompanied by whispers about a little more effort wouldn't have been amiss. He swats them away and abandons the window to flop onto the middle of his bed. Maybe if he stares at the ceiling long enough, he can trick himself into sleep.

There are about five seconds of quiet, Alistair has pillowed his arms behind his head and has begun to count the grooves along the wood and stone above the headboard, before knocking once again breaks the silence. He notices this time of course, and contemplates ducking beneath his blankets. By the insistent rapping, he would hazard to guess that Cailan's come back. Or it's Zevran. Or Lyna.

All of his friends are such pushy people.

Up he gets, if only to avoid the possibility that if it's Lyna, she'll barge in and then jump on him out of spite for him ignoring her. Those bony knees have been in his gut and ribs one too many times already and Alistair is hardly in the mood to relive the experience.

"All right, all right, I'm coming!" he calls pushing himself up from his coverlet. Padding through the short entry hall, Alistair prays that it isn't Cailan, coming back with some harebrained scheme to cheer him up. A life-long coldshoulder might very well be preferable to any plan his brother hatches, and that isn't his foul mood speaking. Not completely anyway.

"What is—" the terse greeting peters off into an empty hallway. He blinks, pushing the door wider as he steps out into the foyer that links his quarters to Royal Wing. The hall is bare save for the usual statues, drapes, and plants. For a split second he thinks it might be a prank, but the only one who would do such a thing would be Zevran and since the air isn't thick with the scent of Antivan leather (where, how, or why Zevran gets a cologne like that is beyond comprehension), Alistair is certain that he's not going have an Elf on his back any time soon.

Maybe ruling out insanity shouldn't have happened so soon… Yet another wonderful item to add to today's growing list of pleasant surprises.

It's time for bed, he decides as he marches back into his bedroom. Whether tiredness is really seeping into his bones or not. There are still tonics somewhere in the desk that Wynne left for him when had caught a bad cold some months ago and sleep was difficult; if he downs one of those he'll be out in a quick minute. No fuss, no dreams of Elissa or—

"So we should probably talk."

Alistair doesn't screech with surprise when he comes back into his bedroom and upon shutting the door, finds the object of his dismay standing by his desk. Everything considered, he would say that that's impressive. Less impressive and very overshadowing however, is the fact that he bites down on his cheek, and backpedals so hard and fast that he slams into the bed stand and wall. The wall is of course fine, and so is the bed stand, aside from a few odds and ends toppling off. His shoulder though, smarts, but not as much as his cheek from where he bit down on impact. Chunks of flesh aren't exactly torn out between his teeth, but by Andraste does it hurt.

"Dammit!" he growls, clamping a hand over his mouth. From her place by his armchair, Elissa has winced, lips parting in a sympathetic "O". He returns her sympathy with a glare. That ire either doesn't register with her or does not bother her.

"Maker, I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't mean to startle you. Shit."

Alistair almost falls over. "You didn't mean to startle me?!" He tries to contain his voice, both for privacy's sake as well as his cheek. "Really? Really?!"

That makes her flinch. "I'm sorry," she says again.

A part of Alistair whispers that Elissa is being genuine. Trouble is he can't tell if that part is his common sense or the want that shoots through him like ache when he meets her ever-blue eyes. He balls his fists then crosses his arms in an attempt to shield himself from their power.

The second unpleasant silence of the evening spreads through the room. All of the knots in Alistair's stomach tangle up with one another until they've formed a ball that pushes up against the fist in his chest. He feels shaky, almost sick, and does not trust his voice.

The one and only consolation that he has is that she doesn't look any more at ease. Elissa's hands are clasped together at her waist, fingers rubbing together anxiously.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you who I really was," she says after what feels like an eternity. "That wasn't right of me." She shifts, shoulders squaring and chin going up in defiance though her eyes do not harden. "But I also think it's more than fair to point out that you didn't exactly give me the full truth either."

Guilt spikes in with the tumult of his emotions. His bad mood had recalled everything but that fact. "That's—I—I didn't know you were you! It's completely different!"

"It's a little different," she corrects crossing her arms as well.

"A little?" he demands. "It's unfair is what it is. You knew exactly who I was from the start! Why didn't you tell me who you really were?!"

Alistair doesn't know what he loathes more, the fact that Elissa is isn't at all flustered or the clarity and logic of her response. "For the same reason that I assumed you didn't bring up your birthright; I like being seen as myself and not an accessory to my family's name. And…" Her confident composure finally shakes. She licks her lips, breaking her gaze from his just for a moment to stare down at her hands and chafe the knuckles of her right hand with her thumb. Over the spot that he kissed, no less.

His heart needs to stop missing its beats. Seriously, it's becoming a concern.

It ignores that order, stuttering again when her eyes return to his. They're ablaze like Lyrium caught against the summer sky. "And I didn't want you to stop looking at me the way that you did. I didn't want you to stop wanting me as much as I want you."

A half-second passes in which a protest begins scuttling over his tongue. One to proclaim that her fears were unfounded and unfair. Alistair swallows it back though when he tastes it for the lie that it is. Had he known that she were nobility, he would have run from that clearing the second he could stand, maybe even in spite of cracked ribs. He certainly wouldn't have kissed her much less lain with her.

After that realization smacks him, the next one takes its turn. Want. Not wanted. He blinks as he looks at her searching her face because he has surely misunderstood. His search comes up empty-handed on what it set to find but discovers something much, much better.

Elissa stares back steady and earnest, every muscle in her body leaning toward him despite him being across the room, quivering, quaking, and wanting. He blinks and sees that he hasn't been alone in these last few weeks with dreams and idle thoughts always running back to that warm afternoon in the forest.

They meet at the room's center, toe-to-toe, but not touching even though every fiber of Alistair is screaming to do so. The knots in his stomach have dissipated and the weight in his chest morphed; his breath still comes heavy because he the air itself has changed, thickened with this thing between them. He can feel the heat of her skin in spite of the space and layers of clothing that separate them.

He swallows hard as he looks up at her perfect face. Maker, he does love that she's taller than he is. "We are going to have to talk all of this through," he says. His hands burn to take the swell of her hips, to caress up the curve of her waist and mold against her bottom, bringing her front flush with his.

She swallows too; he watches, torn between bob of her throat and the way that she's licking her lips again. "We will. Later."

"Later," he agrees.

That's all either of them need. Forward they both surge, he tips his chin, she tilts her head, and they seal themselves together. Hot mouths and eager hands find purchase and roam.

It isn't like the first time. That had been discovery, exploration. Now there is memory. Nights and days spent dreaming of the sounds that Elissa made when he touched her in a certain way or a certain place have permanently etched themselves in Alistair's brain. He lets those recollections take point and they heed her lead.

Their clothes are gone by the time that they've reached his bed, tossed in a frenzy about the room. She changed her clothes before coming to him, her formal dinner attire was replaced by a thin linen shirt, boots, and loose breeches. The new ensemble does not include smallclothes.

He just wants to touch her, to bring every single inch of her flush to him until the warmth of her skin seeps forever into him. It's impossible to stop kissing her, any part he can reach, mouth, cheek, chin, jaw, neck; each inch tastes sweeter than he remembers. His hands are just as restless, running up the silky, muscled planes of her back, cupping her bottom, trailing up her sides to caress her breasts. She is content to let him do this for some time, humming appreciatively in the back of her throat as he reacquaints himself.

Funny, how he's spent so long fantasizing about their time together in the forest but now that he has her with him he has no idea how to progress. Alistair could probably be content with standing by his bed all night simply holding and kissing and nothing else. He definitely wants to have a night like soon, perhaps many, if he's being honest with himself, but right now he's full to bursting with desire; he just doesn't know what direction to run with it. That's why he's here with Elissa however, she does know what path should be taken, and her steps are careful but confident.

She catches his mouth when it comes back to hers and holds it there for a long, breath-robbing kiss that makes Alistair cling to her once it's over. He feels her smile against his jaw as she trails her lips across it then down his throat. She sucks on the stubbled line of his Adam's apple, nibbling then soothing with her tongue. The same treatment is given to his collarbones and his left nipple as she works her way down. Only when his arms are empty and she's on her knees, does it occur to Alistair what she intends.

She looks up at him through lowered lashes with a smile that would probably make Desire Demons wary. It's as arousing as it is intimidating and Alistair enjoys the somewhat helpless feeling that comes with the latter far more than he should probably admit, even to himself.

He would never have thought to ask her for that. Never. It's too tawdry and vile, a centerpiece in all of the unsavory stories his brother's (former) guard liked to tell about women.

"You—you don't have to." His kneejerk, timid response to what she offers sounds pathetic to his own ears.

Elissa does not make him feel pathetic though. Her hands have framed the V of his hips and her thumbs rub circles into it. Her smile melts to something more gentle and sincere and she presses a kiss against his naval.

"I know I don't have to, Alistair," she tells him. "I want to."

"Why?"

"Because I like you," she says so matter-of-factly that he could punch himself in the face. "And because I think you'd enjoy it and," back creeps that Desire Demon smile, "I want to know what you taste like."

He's lightheaded again, all of his blood trying to divide itself between his face and his cock. "I—Oh. Oh, all right then."

"All right then," she mimics before leaning back in and flicking her tongue against the head. Alistair gasps at the sensation, hips jerking. Elissa swats his hip. A mock glare is thrown up at him. "Hey, be still. I'll let you know when you can move."

He nods, already shaking. "Yeah. Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about," she assures him. She pats his hipbone. "Tugging my hair is fine, by the way, I like it. But don't pull."

Alistair didn't even realize that his hands were in her hair. When had that happened? He almost jerks them away out of sheer surprise. But then Elissa's tongue is swiping over the head of his cock again and he has to ground himself somehow. He does remember not to pull.

He already knew that her mouth was something wonderful, the first time that she had smiled at him, Alistair had known that. But this…This he could not have imagined, not even in all of the filthiest thoughts he's ever allowed himself (which, from what he's gathered just by this, are incredibly not filthy in an almost sad way in fact). Her tongue teases and tastes him, swirls across the head, pressing at a space that makes him see stars and swear. A hand cups his sac, squeezing and it hurts but it hurts in the kind of way that's wonderful and he all but sobs with pleasure.

How long this goes on, he cannot say. It feels like it could be an eternity and that would be fine, but Alistair is a realist when it comes to his stamina. The burning coil in his gut heats quickly and he knows it won't be long before it bursts and this round is over.

Elissa doesn't need to be reminded of this. She pulls her mouth away with a delectably wet "pop!" and looks up. Alistair wonders if it's strange that he wants to kiss her now more than he ever has before, with her lips slick, wet, and a little swollen from being wrapped about his cock.

"When I dig my nails in, you can thrust." That's all the warning he has before she's engulfing him again, pulling him to her until her nose is brushing the curls at the root. He has to let go of her hair then, both because he's too afraid he might yank and because he has to have something sturdier to keep himself upright. That one motion has slammed electricity into the veins of his lower half and he can feel every muscle quaking, in particular his knees. Her shoulders are there, smooth, lovely and so very strong, so Alistair grasps them and he finds a mountain's worth of solidness beneath.

It's like being wrapped in slick velveteen. Tight and hot and unbearably fantastic. It's a very good thing that her iron-jointed hands have bracketed his hips, Alistair can feel the muscle beneath spasming with the need to move as the coil in his belly tightens to the point of pain. Elissa helps him keep himself still and he feels her adjusting, the muscles in her throat flutter to accommodate his girth and he almost sobs as her tongue swirls over him.

Her nails aren't very sharp, but he still feels their edge when they sink into the flesh of his backside. Permission given, he hesitates even through the blistering need to move. He looks down at Elissa, again feeling so useless but he doesn't see even a trace of irritation in her brilliant eyes. She understands, as always, and grasps his hips a little more tightly before pulling back then sliding forward. She guides him gently into a rhythm and he is all too happy to take her direction.

He does not last long at all, he knew he wouldn't, but that doesn't make him feel any better about it. A few precious moments of bliss end with the explosion of heat just below his gut. He tries to pull back because he can't see anyone wanting to do that but again, Elissa surprises him, holding his erratic, bucking hips fast in her capable hands as ecstasy surges through his veins. He feels like he has died as she hums around him, pulsing down her throat and it was an incredible way to go.

His head is swimming once his climax has released him. Half-keeled over, all that has kept him from the floor is Elissa. She grins up at him, licking her lips when he slides from between them. His seed trickles from the corner of her mouth and Maker take it all, if the sight of her lapping it away doesn't make him wish he could be hard again.

The question of whether or not he tasted good has half formed at the back of his throat when she's standing urging him onto the bed. He complies because really how can he do anything else against her, even when he isn't sapped from release? He sprawls, or rather falls, inelegantly back against his coverlet. She follows, hovering above on hands and knees, as if to survey with those big, beguiling eyes. Alistair does not want to be surveyed, he wants to feel and to felt in return. With the little coherent strength he has left, he leans up just enough to capture her mouth. Elissa is still for a moment, as if she might recoil but instead comes closer.

The trace of himself that he samples on her tongue isn't what he was expecting. Alistair knows under any other circumstances he would be repulsed this, but the idea of his taste mingling with hers, permeating each kiss it's...enticing. He wants her to taste like him, wants their flavors to be mingled just like he wants her, and he wants to drink that until his tongue can't make out any other flavor.

"I'm bitter," he says once they've parted to breathe.

Elissa chuckles, rubbing her nose to his. "Mmm, no. You're sweet." Alistair would blush from the compliment but fortuitously, she's already turned him pink and sweaty all over. "Here," she maneuvers them both onto their sides. Her fingers take his wrist, guiding it between her legs. "Give me a hand."

He would laugh had orgasm not reduced his facilities so. As it is, his humor is still trying to catch up and that takes a back seat to Elissa's needs.

She's wet. So wet. Just like the first time he touched her there. He looks down between them and finds the flesh pink, swollen, and glistening with its trim of neat black curls. He's sorely tempted to taste her, to do for her what she just did for him. He isn't brave enough though, not yet, not without at least a little more idea of how to make it as fantastic for her as it was for him. One day, he promises himself, he's going to have his face buried between Elissa's thighs and make her shriek if it's the last thing that he does.

Okay, so maybe his thoughts are filthy. Or maybe she has that effect of making them filthy. Either way, he brushes his knuckles to the hot seam of her cunt and enjoys the little sigh that she puffs against his ear.

He goes slow, not so much to tease but because he's remembering and he wants to give her the best that he can. He parts her slowly, soaking in her heat and getting a feeling again for the shape of her sex. Caressing the walls, circling the tunnel that he remembers fitting him with such perfection, and pressing the little nub at the top that makes her shake and keen.

They shift as he dips two fingers in. Elissa moans, slipping a leg up over his hip, her whole body curving into the touch. Alistair goes back to mapping her skin with his mouth. He licks the sweat the pools in the dip of her collarbone and the valley between her breasts, kissing and sucking at the swell of each. Her arms wind about is neck, with one hand curling into the hairs at his nape, encouraging him with breathy whines and kisses to his crown.

She is molten in his hand, and he almost wonders how neither of them have turned to ash from it. He pushes deeper, angling his wrist in the exact way that he recalls her directing him to back in the forest, searching for that special spot. He knows he's found it both by the pulse that intensifies under his fingertips and the strangled cry that Elissa muffles into his hair. Alistair adores that noise, needs to hear it again more than he needs to breathe.

He curls his fingers against the spot then spreads them, thumb rubbing slow circles around her clitoris as he does. Again, she cries, a strangled, wanton sound so full of need he can feel it choking her. Smaller, even needier noises come and she grips him harder as she ruts into his palm. He follows this tattoo over and over and over again, enjoying the ever tightening clench and tremble of her muscles around him until the pressure becomes too much and she falls apart.

It's a beautiful thing, to watch Elissa come undone. Ebony hair flies as she throws back her head and bites her lower lip, doing all that she can not to rattle the castle down with her scream. Her pale skin is pearlescent with a flush and the veneer of sweat. Best of all she clings to him, shuddering, vulnerable, and sated, looking at him with glazed blue eyes that hold only his reflection.

Alistair withdraws his fingers, rubbing the small of her back when she whimpers and twitches from the loss. He brings his hand up, it glistens with her juices, and he can't resist a taste. It's not what he expected, but then he's not actually sure just what is that he did expect, but at the same time it's familiar because it is her, and whatever it is that makes up the flavor of Elissa, well, he hasn't been able to shake the want of it yet.

She watches his experiment with curiously raised eyebrow and a small smile. "Do I taste good?" she asks.

"Very," he says and she giggles, cupping his jaw and urging his mouth to hers. This kiss is better than the last; the taste of him is still on her tongue and hers is fresh on his. They stir together and Alistair wants to drown.

"We still have a lot to talk about," he reminds her once lack of air forces their lips apart. His eyes are already fluttering shut and Elissa's gentle carding of his hair does nothing to stave away the heaviness suddenly gnawing at his bones. He tightens his arms around her.

"I know," she says. Her lips brush his brow as she speaks. He can hear sleep leeching into her voice. "And we will. In the morning."

Alistair smooths a hand over the leg she still has slung over his. Andraste, if he could live wrapped up in her like this. "I'm holding you to that," he murmurs against her breast, her heartbeat pulsing steadily against his jaw.

He can feel her smile. "Good. I do like being held." And so he does.