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Of Flavours Old and New

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 “Alistair- please…”

His lips leave hers with a wet plop as he leans back, mint lingering on his palate. The string of kisses they’ve been sharing has left him short of breath.  For the first time in a small eternity he looks at her.

Elissa is flushed, her mouth hanging open, lids half closed. Sat back on her heels, her torso is arched up, almost shoving her chest at him. She’s asking for something. Alistair hesitates.

He’s not sure whether it’s the enthusiasm of their successful Brecilian Forest mission, the pleasant summer weather, or perhaps the few drinks that were had. They’ve sat in their tent like this many times- kissing, hugging, stroking through fabric. Tonight is different. A different energy burns between them- a curiosity, a hunger radiating from their lips, their touch.

“Please,” she whimpers again. Grasping his hands, she places them on her collarbones, right above-

And that’s when he catches on. She wants him to open her shirt.

Alistair almost chokes on the lump suddenly clogging his throat. He speaks- except the sounds he produces resemble their Dwarven companion’s ale-fuelled monologues rather than whatever he wants to say (not that he even knows). At least, not all the blood has drained from his crotch to feed the blush now burning on his cheeks.

Elissa’s chuckle is betrayed by the shy crease of her brow as she takes the initiative, unbuttoning herself for him. Alistair’s eyes follow her fingers’ motions as they bare freckled ivory skin, thin white scars and what he has to assume is…

Her band. An audible swallow.

The shirt slides off her shoulders and Elissa takes his wrists, placing them above the cotton tie. He jumps at the contact, but she holds his hands in place. Her chest is warm, rising and falling in the same staccato as his. Bashful uncertainty flickers in her eyes, a reminder that this, too, is her first time baring herself to a man. And it’s him she chose.  The pride swelling in his chest eases the anxious flutter enough for a shaky downward brush of his fingers.

His eyebrows rise. “May I?” he asks, only it comes out as an inarticulate, downright frightening grunt. The nervous notes in Elissa’s melodic laugh are unmistakable. Her own flush deepens as she reaches behind herself. Alistair’s heartbeat pounds up to his ears, and chewed yet sharp nails dig into sweaty palms.

“You can look now.” When did he close his eyes?

Alistair’s lids lift, his vision focuses, and there she is.

The flush has spread from her face to below her shoulders, past the outline of her breastbone that’s framed by-

A blink, and he swoons a little because any remaining blood in his head is indeed vacating for his nethers now.

… framed by two not-quite globes. Somewhere between round and oval, plump yet pert, the size of large orange or a small melon, of that same alluring alabaster he could admire all day. And then there are her- another heavy swallow- nipples. A darker shade of rose, they’re perfectly round and adorned by an intriguing flat nub in their middle.

Alistair recalls all sorts of accounts of women’s chests. Bawdy tales of proud conquests, lewd superlatives and self-congratulatory laughter, whether from his Templar comrades of old or the elf’s stories he so earnestly tries to ignore. None of these, however, could have prepared him for this moment- for her utter, pure beauty.

Were his hands shaking before, they’re jumping now. His first touch is a delicate glide of hesitant digits down the centre, tracing the two shapes. He watches as his thumbs and index fingers each cup an underside. Only when a shuddering breath leaves him does he realise he was holding it. She’s warm, incredibly soft, and full of life. He feels her heartbeat, even hears it- or is that his own?

Alistair’s eyes seek Elissa’s, and she nods once more.

Quivering fingertips settle on her right peak. It’s thicker, rougher than the surrounding skin but still silky. Except not anymore, for it puckers under his touch. Suddenly the central nub is thick, pointing upwards and wreathed by all these tiny, fleshy pebbles. Elissa gasps, making him pull back, only for his wrist to be gripped and returned at once.

Alistair frowns. Did she like that?

Concluding she must have, he allows himself a small smile and a little more confidence. Hands slide up, tightening buds tickling his palms as they rise further into his touch. Elissa’s eyes fall shut and Alistair groans. His fingers curl into a squeeze, and his grin widens a fraction with each of her little sighs as he fondles and kneads. Broad thumbs circle over ever-stiffer nipples, drawing the dearest little mewls from her. He varies his caresses, pressing harder here, tugging a little more there, guided by her voice and breath. Watches how the flesh moulds in his hands, how the shapes change, notices his own hips rocking back and forth. Then fingers fasten around the back of his neck, and he winces at the sting of blunt nails.

She’s urging him to do something else. But-

Any speculations are ended by an abrupt flash of pain when she pulls him by the hair, his surprised cry muffled as his face slams right into her breasts. For a moment he’s choked by warm cushiness, uncertain what to do. But then his senses are invaded by this smell, this scent that’s skin, cleanliness and woman all at once. It speaks to him, to something deep in his tummy, his loins.
 
He lets that scent lead him as he presses a feather-light kiss atop her left breast, his brow twitching in surprise- she’s even softer on his mouth. But that tight little peak beckons, draws him in.

Alistair looks up, watches Elissa gasp when his tongue darts out. Then his vision blackens as eyes his close and he succumbs to the flavour and sensation of her.

The taut tip sits rough against his tongue, tasting salty and sweet and like more. He decides to close his lips around it, evoking a hum. Instinct rather than contemplation makes him suck. Slender digits wind into his hair and Elissa moans for him. Her voice rings deeper, throatier, sending a bolt of desire straight to where his trousers are all but strangling his length now.
 
Emboldened, he pulls her closer to half-sit on his knee then grabs hold of her other breast. His touch weighs more assertive, hands eager to complement his mouth. Fingers, lips, teeth knead, nibble, caress. Holding on tight, he sighs into her, loses himself in her as he licks and sucks away. He moans too, enthralled by the sloppy noises, her heat and taste as he feasts himself into abandon.

When her nipple slips from his mouth as he turns to the other side he realises he’s a bit light-headed. Doubt strikes him once more. Can this be right? A loving act of nurturing, twisted into something so lascivious? Is it not wrong, not shameful for him to feel this sense of familiarity, of belonging?

But even at the height of passion Elissa reads him. He looks up at eyes blown wide with want, barely a remainder of green in them. Cheeks pink with flush, eyebrows pinched in lustful concentration. And a smile as warm and inviting and forgiving as the motherly bosom he never had. Combing his tousled hair with tender fingers, she hums, whispers it’s all right.

And so lets go. Of uncertainty, of misplaced shame, letting his instinct and this absolute craving take over. Creamy flesh spills from between his fingers as he grips harder, his tongue lapping, mouth opening wider to take in more, all of her. Her breasts lie tauter in his hands now, heavy and ripe, and he’s grunting, mumbling into them. (Did he just speak to her bosom?) Greed now directs each of his sounds, every one of his motions, and he already knows he’ll never get enough of this.
 
Elissa is rutting against him now, grinding her pelvis into his knee more erratically with each tug of his lips. Before Alistair can begin to wonder what’s happening, her body shows him. Her back arches, she clutches his hair and shudders, trembles in his arms like he’s never seen before. A sound leaves her lips that’s all kinds of enchanting- a drawn-out, breathless ah, feminine and ethereal. But it’s what follows, that whispered little Alistair, that does it. His hips press forward one last time, and then it’s stars, tingles and a sticky hot rush in his pants. And sweet, sweet bliss. Alistair should be embarrassed. But when he comes to there’s only giddy contentment claiming him scalp to toe. Thankful for the handkerchief in his pocket, he gives himself a haphazard clean. It’ll have to do for now as more important matters require his attention.

Elissa has slumped off his lap, no doubt looking every bit as sheepishly happy as he. Affection swells in his chest as he reaches out to stroke her cheek, and he smiles when she leans into his palm. Their lips touch in a kiss less innocent but all the more sincere- sated yet hungry for more. Alistair wishes he could prolong this moment, sit here with her until they grow old and wrinkly- Darkspawn, Loghain, the nation be damned. Things float through his mind, linger on his tongue, but she’s not giving him a chance to say them.
 
Impish mischief flashes in her eyes before she turns to rummage in her pack. Alistair gawks, dumbfounded, as she lies on her back, those heavenly breasts pointing towards the tent’s roof.

“Because you’ve been such a good boy.” Her sultry whisper rouses his manly parts from their yet-young slumber as she places a small cube of cheddar atop each of her peaks. Alistair’s eyes widen.

Within a blink he’s munching a tangy mouthful of cheesy goodness, humming in appreciation of his favourite treat. Although it’s certainly got competition now. He almost chokes on a quick swallow before claiming a gulp of breast with a beastly growl. Her giggle rings endearing, enticing, worth hearing another hundred times.
 
That night Alistair and Elissa finish two full wedges of Frisky Fereldan.