Morning After Syndrome is the sequel to Painted Lady (my most popular Skyrim fic) and features some adult themes. It is not a stand-alone, and should not be read until you've read Painted Lady.

To say that waking in an unfamiliar bed with a warm body twined about yours is disorienting would be an understatement. It isn't that she doesn't remember the night before, though perhaps it might be easier if she could have forgotten. It is that she remembers it too vividly. She can recall the exact feeling of his hands upon her skin, the gentleness of his touch, the softness of his every caress. She cannot forget the sensations his hands evoked, the craving he created and stoked until it threatened to consume her, the need he soothed and satisfied with his body. She remembers her own brazen behavior with far too much detail, but the courage that drove her to stand bare before him has deserted her, and now she is petrified.

She remembers the look in his eyes. The look she couldn't face last night. The look that made her wonder what he was thinking when he gazed at her. It brought to mind dangerous words that she could not begin to deal with last night. Words that she is still not ready to face. She cannot put words to their relationship now.

Not that it is a relationship.

That's putting too much meaning behind it. They were simply two consenting adults who satisfied their needs with each other. There was nothing deeper then, and is nothing deeper now. No, it was about need, nothing else. It meant nothing.

That last thought makes her ache, but she can't face that, either. She's not ready for this. Not ready for the realities of morning. It's not that she wants to undo it, but she wishes she hadn't rushed headlong, that she had spoken first, because words seem hollow now. There are words for what they did, but they don't seem adequate, and she can't quite bring herself to think about her feelings, about what it meant instead of what they did.

Instead she turns her gaze to the man beside her. The man who has wrapped himself around her and is holding her tight. His arm drapes across her middle, his skin waming hers where they touch. It's comfortable, and she wants to stay there, but she can't stay. She needs to leave, because she can't face this. Can't face him and the reality of what happened. Of what what it might have meant to her, or what it might not have meant to him. Any thoughts she might have entertained about slipping away before he wakes vanish when she sees his face.

Sleep has smoothed his features, taken away some of the hardness of battle and age. He looks so much younger, softer, and more vulnerable that it steals her breath. Argis has always been strong, and unchanging. Nearly ageless, though she knows he is older than her. But as she gazes upon his face, she wonders if he is as old as she had thought, or if it is just the wear of a hard life. Her hand cups his cheek, and he stirs, sleepy eyes blinking open, a small smile curving his lips.

"Katla," he murmurs. And then his mouth is on hers as he steals a good-morning kiss. As he moves, she recognizes a hardness pressing into her hip, but it's not demanding, and this moment isn't about that. She doesn't know what it's about, but it's not that.

She doesn't know what this is, but he seems so happy to see her that it makes her ache. She wishes she could trust that his happiness was about some deeper feelings, and not about their actions. That it stems from an emotional satisfaction rather than physical contentment. She tries to muster a smile, and when she can't, his face falls. He pulls back, away from her as if she burned him. Anguish distorts his features, and she's forced to look away, because she can't face any of this.

"Right." He says after a moment. And then he's gone, and she's naked in his bed, confusion and frustration making tears burn behind her eyes.

But she will not cry for him. For this. For what it might have been, but wasn't. For what was, and cannot be again. It doesn't amount to anything, and she cannot cry for nothing.