He feels his heart trembling, pounding against his ribcage as strong as a battering ram hitting a studded door. His will totters the first time she asks for something he has never, perhaps once or twice , conceived.
“I’ll- I’ll think about it,” his tongue stumbles with his teeth, like feet against an unexpected rung, “I never… never…”. In his mind he is sure there is absolutely no difference at this moment between his face and a ripen tomato of Denerim’s markets.
She smiles, that ravishing smile obliterating any sign of coherent thought or comeback, and he babbles, until Pupo comes in his rescue, nuzzling the side of his master demanding her attention.
The Maker bless that mabari!
He is petrified, terrified, the world twisting on itself around him. Alistair has never feel so vulnerable, not even when Eamon abandoned him, the scar still present with an unfathomable fear of loneliness that his best jokes fail to hide. Because he wants her, oh how he wants her, his whole body a string too tight just about to break if he holds her again. His gauntleted hands move by themselves, disregarding the caution of his brain, and there, he almost brushes her armor, but she is gone and the scent of the smoke now mixes with wisps of lavender and lily, flowing through his nostrils until he feels lightheaded. He grits his teeth so hard his jaw complains by the pressure.
A coward. That’s what he is.
Inside his tent, his closed eyes wander around the sketch of her body, the little pieces his mind put together through images of battles and time shared at camp, empty spaces filled courtesy of his eagerness. And he is touching her, reveling in her softness, the plump surface of her breasts molding to his hands. He represses a moan, his manhood already filling his trousers in the most indecorous and uncomfortable way. Just by the thought of her.
He steadies his breathing, trying to control his reaction just in case Sten decides he needs to enter the tent. She wants him, Maker, she wants him! What kind of masochist is he? He could have her, to love her, to adore her, and instead he chooses to squander his time idly daydreaming. He tosses his fears out of a cliff, iron will resolving his uncertainty could go and die at the tip of the darkspawn’s swords. He’ll tell her. Next time his lips caught hers, he’ll tell her.
But the time passes, and she doesn’t ask again. She hasn’t even kissed him again.
There is an unpleasant taste in his mouth when Zevran dances around her, his antivan grace captivating and alluring making his heart ache as his eyes grasp her lips smiling for the assassin, her auburn curls glimmering like liquid copper under the dim light of the fire, her jade eyes twinkling like stars in a face so fair.
Maker, she is beautiful...
And he ducks his head, averting his eyes from them, because what is he but a tenderfoot failed templar who can’t even tell the woman he loves, well, that he loves her ?
That he wants her.
You irredimible fool!
“You certainly can outbeat yourself in stupidity, just when I thought you were smarter than I thought.” Morrigan is speaking to him, but her attention lays on the flames, her face almost covered by her night cloak.
“I’m not in the mood, witch. Don’t you have toads to kill, children to terrify?”
A sardonic laugh greets his words, as her hands wrap her blanket tightly around her.
“I wouldn't have to go far. I’ve seen where your eyes linger, Alistair.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.” She wasn’t lying. Now he is terrified and embarrassed.
“Of course you do, unless you also fail at comprehension as you failed at your religious instruction.”
“I didn’t fail, I was recruited!” His voice rise over the chattering and there is a second of silence when everybody turns to look at him. Everybody but Selune he can’t help notice with a tinge of pain.
“We already had that conversation and I remember you lost. Anyway-”
“I didn’t lose. Nobody can win against you, that’s different.”
“Anyway,” she turns to face him, “there is just one thing I don’t understand.”
“Just one thing?” and now is his turn to chuckle.
“What happened between you and our most egregious leader? I don’t see you both fraternizing in front of us anymore, much to my relief I’d have to say.”
The laugh dies in his throat, pain flooding and numbing his reactions, a surly mask coating it on his face.
“That’s not your business.”
“It is when I see she is hurt.” She has diverted her face from him to where Selune is squatting, alone now, fumbling through her backpack. Morrigan’s voice has a mellow tone he has never heard before, one that blunts the sharp edges of their usual exchange.
The realization hits him so hard he is now gaping at her, before blundering, “Why do you care?”
“Because she is my friend and that’s all you need to know.”
Maybe he has received way too many blows to the head in their adventure, because that’s the only reason he finds for why his mouth is unloading his burdens on Morrigan’s lap. Morrigan.
“So what are you waiting for? Nothings stops you now.” He catches the annoyance shaking her voice while his hands tug strands of his hair in desperation.
“Because it’s not that simple!” His eyes wander around camp, making a halt in Zevran’s lithe figure playing with Pupo.
Morrigan’s eyes follow the trajectory, beckoned by his interest and hums. “Yes it is.”
“What do you know about emotions and feelings if we go to that? You’ve spent half your life despising them.” He doesn’t want to be too brunt, not when for a chance she has spent three quarters of the conversation not comparing him to a toadstool.
“And the other half studying them.” She bites back almost instantly. “Listen Alistair, she loves you and you love her, I barely see the difficulty.”
His brows rise, and his eyes spark vying in brightness with the coals in the fire. “She loves me?”
And this time Morrigan lets out a genuine laugh, quivering until her cloak falls down.
“And just when I thought the times of you contemplating your navel were over, here we are.” She stands, looking down at him, tears of laughter resting on her lashes. “Go there, you imbecile and fix this.” She turns in her heels and leaves him. Baffled. Completely mystified.
Now. Do it now.
He crosses the camp in three big strides, until he is in front of her. Slowly, she lifts her gaze from the ground, placing the attention of her big doe-like eyes on him.
Breath. Relax and breath. You got this.
He stares at her, not a noise comes from his mouth, and she furrows her brow. “So?”
“All right. I really don’t know how to say this,” he awaits, maybe some divine inspiration will struck him. Apparently I don’t have the Maker’s help in this. Huh. Figures. “Err… no. I suppose not. I just thought… we are together at the camp? Maybe we could… talk?”
He sees she doesn’t understand, a pucker between her brows.
“No! I mean yes, I mean.... I’m a little nervous, sure.” He glares at his gloved hands, fidgeting and causing little metal clinks. “Not that this is anything bad or frightening or, well… yes.” His lurching speech has her gaping at him in disbelief, and he can’t blame her.
Tell her the truth! And he hangs onto that advice.
“Oh, how do I say this? You’d think it would be easier, but every time I’m around you I feel as if my head is about to explode. I-I can’t think straight.” He shuts his eyes, almost pleading, trying to convey her the intensity of his feelings, striking every word with a gest of his hands.
“Oh? Thanks a lot.” Her retort intends to be severe, he knows, but a slight curve at the corner of her mouth tells him otherwise.
“I don’t mean it like that!” And he covers his face with his hand, until he lets out a sigh. Boldly, he grabs her hands, preparing to jump. “Here’s the thing. Being near you, makes me crazy, but I can’t imagine being without you. Never.”
He sees her gawking at him and for a moment he dreads the worst, until finally a smile breaks on her face.
“Come, let’s talk somewhere else.”
She pulls him inside her tent, and as soon as the last fraction of him is in it, she crashes his mouth with hers, already undoing his restrains. It takes him half a second to wrap his brain around the reality of the softness of her plump lips on his, the taste of her saliva flooding his mouth. His now free hands travel over her, peeling layers of unneeded steel from between them and in a heartbeat there is just skin against skin. Flushed, and hot and sweaty.
His tongue works his way pass the threshold of her lips, his fingers pressing on the flesh of her waist, and he feels his own hardness nudging against her thigh dripping his own precome on her. The thought makes the colors flush to his face. He burrows the last strands of his shyness in the crook of her neck, nibbling the surface until he is drunk from her aroma.
“Oh Maker, how I love you....” He pants in her ear, his hands roaming freely over her body, all of him drowning into her emerald eyes, now blurred by desire.
“I thought- I thought-” She has her hands weaved in his hair, writhing and raking his collarbone with her teeth, breath over his skin, “I thought you didn’t want me.”
“What?” He splits from her for a second, just to flush himself against her again, tightening his embrace around her. “No! I just wanted it to be perfect.”
He lays her down on the rollbed, his mouth trailing down as he follows the valley of her breasts, stopping at the nub at the peak of one of her mounds. His tongue darts out, flickering and gently stroking her nipple, hot mouth sucking, almost devouring her.
All this time afraid to fail. To make a fool of himself. But this, this feels natural. He wants to taste her, to feel her, make her his with every caress.
He gasps when the tip of his length brushes her entrance, half scared, half magnetized.
“Why did it take you so long?” Her question is broken with moans and whimpers, reassuring him that at least reading romanzi rosa was time well spent.
He doesn't want to stop, and deep down he doesn't want to answer that question. But she is here now, with him, and those are his fingers making her arch, his mouth coaxing indecent sounds from her throat.
“I thought you wanted Zevran.” Even his antivan name sounds like an aphrodisiac.
She places her palms on his bare chest, and piercing his eyes with hers, purrs. “It has always been you, Ali .”
He hears his own name pouring out from her lips, like in a reverie, so caught up in it that he almost skips her next words.
“ I want you to be my first.”
His mind goes blank. Suddenly there is not just one nervous heart in the tent, but two.
Un unforeseen pride fills him, his blood boiling at the thought of it. His. His, his, his . But the terror of hurting her creeps up his spine instantly, storming his expression.
“I don't want to hurt you my love.”
“It’s fine.” A tersely answer she quickly closes kissing him again.
And there is no more time for doubts. No more time for hesitation, as his hand travels south, between her thighs, parting her legs, the other one supporting his weight off her. He flinches the moment she lifts her hips, bucking them at the small of his back, pulling him to her.
He kisses her one last time.
“Are you ready?”
He pushes himself inside her, inch by inch and Oh Maker, it's like nothing he has experienced before. He stops halfway through, when she cries out, concern written in the wrinkles around his eyes, her breath sharp and ragged.
She encourages him to continue, a soft palm on his cheek and he sheathes himself completely inside her, a grunt emerging from his throat.
He can't think. He feels engulfed by her, surrounded in a velvet space, hot, wet and tight. He pulls back, a stammered move he quickly corrects, thrusting gently. He uses his bottom lip as a distractor, chewing on it. The pleasure is almost excruciating and he just wants to sink forever in her. She is meeting his hips rolling hers, her cries intertwined with moans, as he keeps pounding as best as he can, the pressure of his release skyrocketing inside him. He lunges forward, teasing her nipples, mouth closed around one, his left hand instinctively moving to roll the other one between his fingers.
He is about to break, and just when he is almost spent she quivers in his arms, her center gripping him like there's no tomorrow.
He can't take it.
Violent streams of his seed floods her now, staining her blankets and thighs. And he falls. Blissfully defeated.
He holds her tight, pulling a blanket over their bodies, kissing the crown of her head. She rests on her chest, dreamy eyes under long lashes.
“I love you Alistair.”
And he knows he is not alone anymore. As she falls asleep protected in his arms he promises himself there will be no Blight to cut in between them, because they belong to each other. The beginning and the end of their lives is written in that moment.
“I love you, Selune, my Moon.” He whispers quietly as he drifts away.