Fandom Soup

Prompts:

Day 1: Upbringing Day 2: Arrival Day 3: Phylactery Day 4: Templar Day 5: Friends Day 6: Enemies Day 7: Lovers Day 8: Joy Day 9: Sorrow Day 10: Blood Magic Day 11: Lyrium Day 12: Wish Day 13: Escape Day 14: Free Space

Intimacy is, in this context, a challenge - he can no longer deny that he wants her, to touch her, to please her, to allow himself to become lost in the searing pleasure-pain of her skin against his, but again, there is the difficulty of the limitations of his nature brushing up against the limitations of the form it now takes. From Anders' memories, he has access to a wealth of information on the mechanics of such interactions - from Karl and his other brief liaisons in the Circle and among the Wardens, from his time at the Pearl in Denerim, and yes, from his couplings with Rhiannon he's experienced from the back of their mind, where sensation is dulled and distanced to become comprehensible, categorizable.

From the distance between them, he can see how it ought to work - the push and pull of desire, the give and take of mingled pleasure and pain, and finally, the climax - the closest mortal flesh can come to experiencing the wholeness of similar spirits entwined, aside from what he shares with Anders in those perfect moments when they are one in thought and purpose. He wants that closeness, or the best approximation he can have, with Rhiannon Hawke, her burning bravery, her mercy that tempers his wrath. The problem, then, is in the realisation of this desire - he cannot take the second-hand information Anders' memories provide and imagine how to put them into practice.

Fortunately, here too, Rhiannon is aware of - and more than willing to compensate for - the vulnerabilities of his natures, and she is more than willing to come up with creative mitigations. Now, for instance, the sheets of her bed are the perfect cool, crisp linen to balance the warmth of the summer night, and the ropes that bind him to it are butter-soft, luxurious silk, firm enough to anchor him but neither constricting nor painful, allowing most of his attention to fall where he wills it - on Rhiannon Hawke, the creamy expanse of her bare skin scattered with freckles and scars, lined with delicate blue veins that shimmer in reflection of his own, the fall of her dark hair just barely covering her breasts in a way that part of him longs to brush aside- but he cannot. That is the point of the ropes, after all - to allow him to become accustomed to her touch on his skin without the pressure of becoming overwhelmed by it, by her presence.

And of course, as her fingers trace a slow, deliberate line from the hollow between his collarbones, across his heart, the planes of his chest, the trail of sensitive hairs along his stomach, his hips jerk upward without any input from his will, seeking further stimulation from the pressure of her hands, her body, most of all from the glass cock that shimmers between her thighs.

His first sounds emerge as a wordless, plaintive growl, and her lips curve into a wicked, delicious smile.

"Words, sweetheart," she reminds him, and immediately makes her request nigh-impossible to fulfil by brushing her fingers against the root of his own cock. He shudders, twitches, already close to overstimulated merely by one touch of her hand. He cannot imagine how undone he will feel, by the time she is finished with him.

"Please, Rhiannon," he manages, voice hoarse with desire. "I want- I need..."

"What do you need?" she prompts, when his voice trails off, when words become meaningless in the face of what she has wrought in him.

"I need you," he says, when she lifts her hand enough to force words from his lips. "I need you to take me."

"I will," she says, reaching up to brush his cheek, and even there, he almost wants to keen from the feel of her fingers against his skin, their heat, their realness - she is the realest thing in the world to him in this moment. "Just be patient."

He almost does not hear the last word as her oil-slick fingers slide into him - he gasps, bucks against them, the world narrows to the stretch of her fingers inside him - and then she moves them, slow and deliberate and careful, too careful, and the noise he lets out his not entirely human.

She pauses, and he rocks against her, desperate for her to resume.

"Too much?" she says, and her cheeks are flushed with want, her eyes burning like blue flames, but still, even in her own desire, she is merciful, she is mercy itself-

"More," he says- he begs, really. It is already too much. It will never be enough. He will never have enough of her.

She does not tease him further this time - she quickens the pace of her fingers until he is achingly hard, near-shaking with desire, and the world turns near white when she adds a third finger and pins his shaking hips in place with her free hand. She slows again, then, perhaps realising before he does how close to the edge he is, her movements slow and languorous until he has adjusted to the sensation of fullness that is both too-much and nowhere near enough.

"I need..." He does not know the words for what he needs, for all that Anders, at the back of his mind, is more than willing to provide the vocabulary: take me, fuck me, use me. None of those terms quite fit what he desires - to feel her inside of them, to feel- to be as closely entwined with her as he is with Anders.

She does not force the words from him this time - she understands, as always, what his body needs, and is more than willing to provide it. There is a whine as her fingers slide out of him, and she soothes him: "Sh, you've been so good, I've got what you need," as she slides into him, her hands lifting his hips the perfect pressure, the counterpart to the stretch, the burn, the fullness so perfect it's almost unbearable as her hips come flush against his.

He could stay like this for an eternity, he thinks, as his eyes slowly refocus, at her mercy, no purpose to chase beyond her will and his body's needy pleasure. Then she begins to move within him, and there is no space within them for thought, for reason, for anything but her. Anders' pleasure, a soft and distant echo, feeds into his own, magnifies it, until there is no space between them, only yes and more and her. Only ever her, the flush of her skin, the pressure of her hands, the curve of her stomach, the slow, steady rhythm of her hips as she fucks into him.

"So good," she murmurs, "so good for me."

He shakes his head, incoherent with wanton lust, with desire that has made demons of stronger spirits than his.

"Not good," he murmurs, and his voice emerges as a low, wrecked growl. "Just- yours."

That breaks something in her, the last thread of restraint that keeps her gentle, careful with him.. She rolls his hips up to meet hers as she presses her body over his, skin against sweat-slicked skin mouth against his mouth, hands knotted in his hair, and she is the world to him now - her breath the only sound, the taste of her on his tongue, the sweet pressure of her inside him, as all-consuming as Anders, as the body they share.