fic: tactile memory (nsfw)
It occurs to me this actually applies here as well Cross-posted at knickerweasels , but not SIB since, yeah... no Alistair to speak of. Ahem. First time for that, too.
Title: Tactile Memory
Author: w0rdinista
Word Count: 614
Rating: M. FOR MATURE. AS IN NSFW. AS IN SMUT.
Characters: Anders/PC (this one's really, really vague: could be any female PC, actually...)
Pairing: Anders/PC...ish. You'll see what I mean.
Summary: Sometimes it truly doesn't matter who hands belong to.
The rain is pounding against the window, and her bed is empty, cold sheets against her warm body, and her skin hisses against the material as she shifts, restless despite her exhaustion. She has fought out nearly all of her physical urges; it builds up in her limbs, and she has to do something, lest she go mad. But not all urges are exorcised so simply, so openly. Some nights tension coils hot in her belly and radiates outward, making her blood pound hotter in her veins. Her skin feels too tight, too sensitive, and there is an ache deep, deep inside her that throbs downward, and when she shifts and presses her thighs together, she can feel how ready, how wet her body is.
But her bed remains empty.
She slides further beneath the blankets, savoring the way it feels against her skin, lifting and moving her hips as she lets her hands glide downward, fingertips teasing and tracing every curve.
But when her eyes close, the hands cease being hers.
He has touched her often enough - healing touches, but those still allow her to feel his hands on her skin, to burn the sensation into her memory so that she may call upon it when she wishes.
She breathes his name, as hands cup her breasts, deft, clever fingers teasing her nipples until she's aching, until she's whimpering. She imagines him over her, blond hair loose, that damnable, satisfied smirk on his lips as he watches her driven further and further to the edge. They're his hands on her waist, on her hip, sliding so very close to her curls and the slick warmth below, teasing her, coaxing her, all as he watches her.
And as fingertips slowly drag along her slick folds she gasps and twists, lips forming his name again - not too loudly, never too loudly, and in her mind's eye he smiles wickedly, plunging those talented fingers - to call them "magical" would be far too easy - into her, stroking and petting, teasing the wet, slick heat between her legs until she writhes beneath him, begging him to touch her, to take her, to make her scream. Her hips lift and push against those fingers, and despite the cold, empty bed, she breaks out in a sweat, limbs trembling as she inches closer to release.
She can almost see him slide down the length of her body, the tip of his tongue darting out to lick and tease her further along this spiral. But it's his mouth - a mouth made for innuendo - between her legs, it's the very thought of his mouth, those lips, that tongue that almost undoes her all at once. She should pull back, bring her head out of the thick fog of this fantasy, but she doesn't - she throws herself further in, her mind conjuring the feel of that little bit of beard growth scratching, tickling her thighs, her belly; the warmth of his mouth licking, his tongue stroking and tasting her until she trembled beneath him; his thumb finding that perfect spot - that one, Andraste help her - and stroking it until her hips lift and push until the fantasy nudges her just to breaking and her body rushes forward into blind, pulsing pleasure.
She does let out a throaty groan, saying his name over and over again in her mind as she comes, her mind a little clearer now as she settles back against the pillows, her earlier restlessness now a thing of the past.
Now, she can sleep.
And in the morning she will face him, and he will call her "Commander," and he will never know the pleasure he wrought in her bed.