Mer | fic writer | ao3: inquisimer | follows from @isseya-apologist
I welcome fanart and other derivative works based on mine! See my transformative work statement and exchange letter for more details.
pfp by @sun-marie
mobile banner by @chimeowrical | desktop banner by @airagitt
fanfic writer | antivan crow simp and last flight fanatic | community over content creation 💜 be kind. be earnest. do it scared.
I follow/like/send asks from my main blog @isseya-apologist!
find a guide to my tags (for blacklisting or dumpster diving) here
my works on ao3 | my works on tumblr
I welcome fanart & fanfic based on my OCs and stories! See this post for info about OC crossovers and the use of my OCs. I also take prompt requests (:
My askbox and DMs are always opens for questions, collabs, and art/fic trades!
fandom events
I organize a number of fandom events and spaces! Ask me if you're interested in any of them - community is what you make of it 💜
Dragon Age Drunk Writing Circle | @dadrunkwriting
Low-stakes, community focused weekly prompt writing on Tumblr! All are welcome and there are no barriers to entry. Check out our FAQ or send me a message to learn more!
Dragon Age Fan Events Compendium | @dragonagefanevents
A repository of Dragon Age fan events! If you're running an event or one is missing from our list, tag us in your post or submit it to our askbox to get it listed!
Dragon Age Annual | @dragonageannual
An unofficial charity calendar/zine featuring works from talented, volunteer Dragon Age fans - artists, writers, and more. 2027 production ongoing!
Avis Alternata: A Crow AU Zine | @avisalternata
A fan-created zine celebrating Antivan Crows via AUs! Creation period ongoing 💜
The Dragon Age Big Bang | @thedragonagebigbang
A longfic writing challenge - finish a 25k+ fic and an artist will create fanart inspired by your work. WRITER SIGN UPS & ARTIST INTEREST CHECK OPEN NOW | Join the Discord
Crow Contracts Exchange | @crowcontracts
A Dragon Age fanwork exchange focused on Antivan Crow characters!
2026 Collection | Join the Discord for 2027 news (:
The Joining: A Grey Warden Exchange | @thejoiningexchange
A Dragon Age fanwork exchange that celebrates Grey Warden characters!
2025 Collection | Join the Discord for 2026 news (:
Arlathan eXchange | @arlathanxchange
A Dragon Age fanwork exchange that celebrates Elvhen characters!
2026 Collection | Join the Discord for 2027 news (:
Dragon Age Polyshipping Exchange | @dapolyshipping
A Dragon Age fanwork exchange that celebrates healthy polyamory!
2025 Collection | Join the Discord for 2026 news (:
▸ about OC crossovers & the use of my OCs
▸ my OCs & world states
▸ AO3 series & collections
OC crossovers & the use of my OCs
I am always open to others creating fanfic, fanart, edits, moodboards, or other types of transformative fanworks featuring my OCs! This goes for anyone, even if we've never directly interacted.
You do not need to ask my permission before doing so, but please tag and/or credit me with a link when sharing your creation 💜 I am happy to talk beforehand/during if you want to, of course - I just won't be mad if it's a surprise (:
I am always open to art/fic or fic/fic trades, or Bang style collaborations where we draw/write something based on each other's work! Likewise, I am always open to OC crossovers and AUs. If you want to chat about smashing our OCs together, shoot me a DM (:
Check out my exchange letter for full OC profiles, things I like in fic and art, and other useful info!
I do NOT give permission for:
my work to be copied, remixed, translated, or re-posted in any fashion on sites where I have not chosen to do so myself. I post on tumblr, ao3, and bluesky as inquisimer
any part of my works to be fed into AI or machine learning tools under ANY circumstances. If I find out you have done this, I will block you on all platforms.
OCs and world states
world state: nothing but my aching soul | OC info
Ariya Tabris: fic · oc tag · zevwarden, zev/tabris/lucanis
Siobhan Hawke: fic · oc tag · sebhawke, hawke/loghain
Andrew Trevelyan: oc tag · inquisitor/cassandra, oc & oc
Acacia Trevelyan: fic · oc tag · cullevelyan, barris/oc, oc x oc
“Do it scared” “do it alone” are all great tips, but my biggest takeaway from therapy is do it messy. This is especially true if you’re getting out of a burnout, which I experience often. Literally just do it messy. You don’t need to pick the perfect trail to walk, the perfect playlist to listen to, whatever the fuck it is. You don’t need to have a meticulous to do list and wake up at the exact time you planned and drink the exact amount of water you planned to drink. Like the biggest thing for people like me to remember is sometimes it’s okay to do it messy. Put on a random yt workout and just get it done in sweats. Do 5 minutes of a daunting task and go from there. Sometimes just getting up is a win during intense burnouts or depressive funks. Literally just do it messy.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Relationship: Viago de Riva/Rook
Characters: Viago de Riva, Rook (Dragon Age), Giovanna de Riva, Original Trans Character(s), Original Female Character(s)
Additional Tags: Partially Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Antivan Crows Being Antivan Crows (Dragon Age), Angst, Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Falling In Love, Reunion Sex, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex
Summary: The shifting tides of Giovanna de Riva's relationship with Viago de Riva told in three parts, after a harsh separation. Rook returns to Antiva and sees Viago for the first time in over a year; Giovanna saves Treviso from a dragon attack; and Giovanna seeks comfort from Viago after the fall of Weisshaupt. Interspersed with codex entries and notes.
Available on AO3 here
adding the tag list for visibility-- thank you so much, everyone!
Painting has been a life-long hobby for RedRune, and years later she's so happy to do it as a full-time job. She's an old-timer who discovered Dragon Age way back in 2011. Being part of DAA and celebrating her love for this franchise feels truly magical.
Pineflower Art's best friend got them into Dragon Age and the rabbit hole they've fallen into because of it has been one hell of a creative outburst! They've fallen in love with Thedas and are excited to explore its beauty.
Happy DADWC Friday!! For Calien de Riva, how about "What would a nightmare tailored to their worst fears look like?" from the Put Your Rook Through the Horrors" list? :D
(@inquisimer )
hi hiii, thank you both for the prompt!!!! ive been a little stuck on this one but. through the power of unexpectred drinks after work, here we go!
@dadrunkwriting | 228 words | calien de riva & nightmares | set sometime during vg
It’s dark. Something rough scrapes his eyelids when he blinks, but the space remains obscured.
Blindfolded, then. He’s worked with worse.
His hands are bound. The thick rope digs into too tender skin. He instinctively wiggles a finger, calling for a flame, a spark to burn through his bonds.
Nothing happens. He can sense no Fade, either. The world is dull and dark around him.
He tries to move. No use – he’s on his knees, cold stone floor scraping his bare knees. Calien wills his body to move, but its sluggish and weak. As if his strength, his hard earned training was stripped away.
There are poisons for that effect. He should be immune to most. Now, he can’t seem to recall what even landed him in such a spot.
A cold dread begins to settle. Calien should be better than this. He is better. He knows. But he’s helpless, a bird trashing against a cage. Useless as the child he used to be, before, before, before…
Footsteps break his heightening panic. A familiar rhythm, sharp clicking of the silverite walking stick and boots to match. Not the featherlight shuffle of a rescue, nor the whisper of a blade behind his back.
His Talon will be judge, jury and executioner.
[add divider later]
Calien de Riva wakes in a cold sweat with the Dread Wolf’s dagger clutched tightly in his hand.
Happy DA Friday! How about "The righteous stand before the darkness and the Maker shall guide their hand." from the Chant of Light prompts for Cassandra and/or Cullen!
Thank you!! For @dadrunkwriting
Pairing: Cassandra & Cullen
Rating: T (mention of child death)
Summary: Cullen and Cassandra discuss the aftermath of Meredith's rage and the Chantry's destruction. Cullen swears fealty.
~~~
"Did you plan for this?"
Cassandra scoffs — her wine glass dangles from lazy fingertips, dregs still staining the bowl. She tries to drain it and gets only drops on her tongue. "You give me too much credit. I could not foresee such a disaster."
"That's the point of you Seekers, isn't it?" Cullen grumbles. He's shuffling behind her, then makes a sound like he's kicked something. His soft grunt is evidence that it hurt. "Could have used you years ago."
"I agree," she sighs. "But I am here now."
She refills her glass, emptying the bottle before Cullen gets to it — he glowers at her, then slumps on the bench beside her. They stare together out the window, through its missing panes, over Hightown and the pile of smoking rubble at its heart - the Chantry, now a ruin. Far away, a woman's voice rises from what was a low, guttural cry into a wail.
"Ah," Cassandra sighs. "I wonder whose body she's found."
Cullen sniffs. "We searched the wreckage. We pulled all the bodies for the pyre."
Cassandra feels, rather than sees, her gaze turn glassy and unfocused. She drinks deeply from her glass. "Small bodies are easy to miss."
"Damn it all, Seeker." He scrubs a gloved hand over the back of his neck, smearing soot and sweat that have settled on his skin. "We should be down there, helping them."
"We have, to exhaustion. Allow others to take up the burden and rest, else you make yourself useless."
Cullen slams his fist on his thigh, the dull thud bringing them both back to reality.
"I am already useless," he hisses through clenched teeth. "You didn't see. You didn't see how she turned us against each other. How she manipulated the ranks, how her... fear made her create monsters from the people we should have protected. That damn blade twisted her, and I didn't —"
He jumps when she lays a hand on his shoulder. His bloodshot eyes, sunken with exhaustion, meet hers with surprise that fades into something akin to shame.
"You stood against Meredith at the end," Cassandra hums.
He shakes his head. "Too little, too late. I should have seen sooner."
"But stand you did."
She sets aside her glass, noting how his eyes follow it — all of her movements he has tracked closely, as if waiting for what she deems a fitting punishment for his sins. Cassandra wonders how Meredith dealt consequences to her Templars, and whether Cullen experienced them first hand.
"The Templar Order has failed in its duty," she sighs, "but there are many in the Order within whom Andraste's flame still burns bright. I believe you are one of them."
Cullen Rutherford splutters, protesting wordlessly, a hand out as if to physically stop her next words. She ignores him, and instead unfolds herself from the bench and stands — he tries to stand, but she keeps him down with one hand on his shoulder, then the other as she positions herself before him. He stares up at her, eyes wide with equal parts awe and fear — a gaze she has grown familiar with, and one she wishes never to see again on a Templar's face.
"The righteous stand before the darkness and the Maker shall guide their hand," she tells him. "Your hand was guided against Meredith that night, when it was most crucial. Without your aid, the Champion would have fallen. I come not to reward or punish you, Cullen Rutherford, but to ask for your aid in turn."
His mouth snaps shut, only for him to stammer, "Me? Why —"
"Most Holy has called for an Inquisition reborn," Cassandra says, swiftly so she does not lose her words. "I am her Right Hand, sworn to carry her words to the faithful. She requests your blade, if you will give it."
Cullen stares up at her, his eyes somehow more sunken, more weary. His face draws downwards, the lines deepening around his nose and mouth in a grimace.
"I swear," quoth the Knight Captain, "my blade, should the Divine have need."
I'm so excited to finally share this fic I wrote for the @me-envenena-viago viarook zine!! It fought me a lot in the beginning, but really came together, and I'm so proud of the final piece 💜
Download the zine here to check out all the other incredible fics and art created for the project!
viago x adavera thorne · t · 6554 words · cw: poisoning, implied/referenced character death
An escape, an assassination attempt, and the aftermath.
addt'l tags: canon-typical violence, post-canon, established relationship, hurt/comfort, angst and feels, wound care, antivan crow politics, protective viago, minor zevran/tabris
His jaw works around the hesitation and grief clinging in his throat. He holds his composure like a breath underwater, tight and demanding but necessary, even as it stagnates and strains for release.
“There are Crows in attendance tonight for no other reason than to put themselves between me and any threat on my life,” he finally says. Carefully, as though measuring the weight of each word before giving it voice. “It did not have to be you. And while I do not suffer any delusions about the difference between myself and those you have lost, I cannot help but wonder if that is the reason. Because they matter more to you than—”
His voice catches.
More than living. More than me.
The refutation that sprang immediately to Addie’s tongue crumbles into dust. This is not— they are not—
Fragile. As this truth he gives her is. It would not survive the jagged edges they dig into each other. In her chest, Addie’s heart keeps pace with a hummingbird’s wings and she burns and shivers and it has nothing to do with the poison or antidote still lingering in her veins.
“You are—” she reaches for the right word, shuffles through a few lesser options, “—so stupid.”
@mxssful asked me for smut this @dadrunkwriting friday, and we've been pondering an AU where Marisol is not a Crow, but comes looking for her sibling, finds them in house de riva, and gets tangled up with Viago and Rosa (moss' OC) that way.
It changes their dynamic in honestly a really fun way, so here's a little bit of smut, jumping ahead past all of the tension and biting to when they're just soft and good together 🥺💜
viago x rook x rook · 1059 words · cw: explicit sexual content · divider by wishforhome
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. When she came to Salle she was running, and then she was looking— but not for this, she never thought it would be like this—
“Rosa—“ she giggles, laughter punched out of her lungs as her lover slides her hands up the back of her thighs, lifting her onto the desk and scattering some amount of paperwork in the process.
“Rosa,” Viago says, with significantly more disapproval. But something catches in his eyes, and he does not pull away as Rosa spreads her open between them, sinking to her knees with an oh-so-innocent look in her eyes.
“Yes?” Rosa answers both of them, doe eyes made sharp with eyeliner and fingers indenting the soft skin of Marisol’s thigh. “Any objections?”
Laughter escapes Marisol again, breathy little wisps as she curls her fingers around the fine wood grain of Viago’s desk. She tips her head back, the tops of her curls just brushing against his shoulder. From this angle, she’s treated to the sharp line of his jaw, working against something in his throat, something that might be an order, or a reprimand, or a request.
She stretches the length of her neck and brushes her lips over the sensitive skin just behind his jaw, and is rewarded with the flare of his nostrils, the stutter of his pulse.
“I didn’t think so.” And it is not a good idea, to let Rosa get so smug, unchecked. But she presses her smirk to the inside of Mari’s thigh, and brings her tongue through the slick of her cunt, and all at once it seems like the only good idea is to let this happen, exactly as it is.
Marisol keens, presses her hips forward— or makes to, and finds instead Viago’s fingers curling where the tails of her stolen shirt slip against her skin. He holds her firm against the desk, some kind of false indifference in the way he watches Rosa between her legs.
“We have a bedroom,” Viago informs them. “Several, in fact.”
“None of which— ah—“ Rosa frames Marisol’s cunt with two fingers, spreading her open, vulnerable to the devastating scrape of teeth against her clit. “None of which have a desk.”
“Because they are bedrooms. Not offices.”
“I don’t think that’s—“ Rosa curls her fingers inside Marisol and her retort loses its way in a whine. Callouses drag inside of her and a spark presses into her sensitive flesh and her breath stalls and she—
“Fuck,” she hisses, hips straining against Viago’s grip once more. She feels Rosa’s smile against her cunt and holds a thousand curses on her tongue that dissipate when it purses into a kiss against her clit.
“You’re so mean to me,” she complains, unmade by her own breath, which stutters and begs and yearns even as she bares her teeth. Viago’s fingers flex against her hips and he dips his head to press a kiss against her collarbone, the juncture of her neck, the line of her jaw.
“We could be meaner,” he murmurs, and it is as much a promise as it is a threat, just as the shiver that sneaks down Marisol’s spine is as much invitation as refutation. His teeth find the shell of her ear— already flushed, and twitching— and worry it with all the finesse of a man who knows exactly what he is doing to her.
“That’s not— fair—“
“Fair is hardly any fun.” Rosa’s smirk is as loud as her fingers, working lazily through the obscene slick between Marisol’s legs. “And we always take care of you, don’t we?”
(It was not supposed to be like this— she was meant to cut and run, to leave the trappings of attachment in the ashes of her wake, to stream away from all of this like a comet burning through the sky.)
Rosa’s fingers slide just so; Marisol loses her grip on the desk, reaching for something, anything, and she lands in Viago’s curls, gone loose from his careful styling by the day’s wear. Her fingers tangle at the base of his neck, an anchor that vibrates pleasure from his throat through his teeth to the tender flesh of her ear.
(It was not supposed to be like this— but it is, it is, it is—)
“Vi.” Rosa slides a hand up over Mari’s stomach, tracing cheeky swirls of her own slick where her muscles flex, and beg, and plead. “Give me—“
She steals his hand and drags it down alongside hers, pressing his fingers into the slick mess she’s made of Marisol. And something curls in Mari’s throat, something thick and terrible and needy, and she tips her head back, only for Viago to catch his fingers in her curls and tilt it back down.
“Look at yourself,” he murmurs, “Go on, look at how good we’re making you feel.”
She gasps, reaching— with her hands, her hips, her heart, with anything at her disposal, for for them, for this, for— for—
“You’re going to come for us, si?” Viago splays his free hand against her core, pressing down so he can feel his fingers, and Rosa’s, working an uneven dance inside her cunt, dragging callouses against leather against slick, driving her up and up and up and—
“Of course she is,” Rosa scrapes her teeth against the soft skin of Marisol’s thigh, looks up at her through lashes, smug and knowing. “Of course she is, because she’s good—“
Pleasure rips through Marisol like a parachute, pulled. Up her spine and around her throat and leaking out around their fingers. She whines, low and long, arcs her back into their touch and curls her nails into the skin at Viago’s neck.
“There she is.” Rosa presses cruel kisses to her cunt, her clit, flushed and twitching. “So good.”
Viago slides his fingers out of Marisol, but keeps the grip on the back of her head, so she watches as he drags them across Rosa’s lips, sees the shine of herself smudged against lipstick, groans low in her throat as he presses leather against her teeth, her tongue, back into her throat.
“Fuck,” Marisol sighs. “We should—“
“We should,” Viago agrees, and gives her a little shove so that she slides off the desk, paperwork fluttering as she falls, warm and loose and laughing, against Rosa. “In a bed.”
without fail, nothing hurts me in the datv prologue like the fact that if you support varric's plan, he says "take care of the team for me" while looking at you, but if you challenge him, he's already turned away 😭😭😭
calling my lover "mine" but not in the way that my toothbrush or notebook are mine, mine in the way my neighborhood is mine, and also everybody else's, "mine" like mine to tend to, mine to care for, mine to love. "mine" not like possession but devotion.
encore:for sender to initiate consensual sex the moment they're alone with receiver after receiver intentionally spent the last hour teasing sender in public where they could not react.
FOR YOU MER (in combo with @givemeunicorns :D) I HOPE YOU FEED WELL UPON THIS SMUT
@dadrunkwriting
Lenore Wildermin/Viago de Riva | explicit sexual content | ~1.1k
Authors note: No bodices, corsets or other items of evening wear were harmed in the making of this fic.
----
Viago knew it would be rude to leave the box before the performance was finished. Viago knew that leaving before the cast took their bows would be considered a slight. Viago knew he paid a damn fortune for the prime box of the Salle Opera House. Viago knew he was an important patron of the opera house. Viago knew a talon had to keep up good appearances. Viago knew all of this all too well.
And yet, Viago also knew that the way that his wife's hand had been meandering along his leg was driving him to utter ruin.
He clenched his jaw as Lenore's hand drifted to the inside of his thigh. He squeezed his eyes shut, digging his elbow into the arm of the chair and attempting to cover the way his teeth were sinking into his lip. His cock was half hard, but Lenore paid it no mind.
He wasn't sure if he was glad for that or not.
On the one hand, if she could just brush her hand against him…
She was wearing silk white evening gloves that let her fingers slip easily against the tabby wool of his trousers with the same grace as a swan on a still lake. The two fabrics (three, he supposed, if one counted the silk lining) separating his skin from hers should have dulled the senses. It did not. It made every ghost of a touch so very, very much more.
If only she could just brush her hand against him…
On the other hand, all those reasons about being patron of the opera house.
Jaw still gritted so that he was worried he might crack a tooth he glanced a look at Lenore. She seemed entranced with the performance, not even having noticed that her gown had slipped slightly to reveal a pale shoulder and the tiny mole just above her breast that he loved most to kiss.
By the Maker, how much longer did this damn opera have to go. He listened, trying to catch a note above the pounding of his heart. This was the last aria, he realised, thanking the Maker. He'd just have to get through that and then the finale and the bows and then he would drag Lenore back into the
As it turned out he had gotten his arias mixed up.
Which was why he was practically picking Lenore up and dragging her away from their seats, flinging closed the curtain that sheltered the entrance room from the exterior of the box. She let out a squeak of alarm as he lifted her up to sit on some expensive and historical side table.
"Viago!" She protested.
"What?" He asked, pressing frantic kisses to the underside of her jaw, "you tease me for hours and now you're going to ask me what I'm doing?"
"Viago, watch- the beading, it will snag!"
"I'll buy you another dress with ten times the beads, I'll buy you an entire closet filled with them."
"Viago!" The tone of her voice made him pull back, dropping the skirts he had just been pulling up, though he continued to suckle a bruise into the crook of her neck.
"This dress was expensive, liefje," she chided, fingers combing through his hair, tilting her head back to give him better access to her neck.
Viago wanted to cry out at her protestation- at the thought of being made to wait just one single more second. But he was Fifth Talon, and surely his long career as a Crow had prepared him for something nearly as torturous as this.
And yet… he knew Lenore's opinions of wastefulness, they had talked often of how such things would stay knotted up in her belly. She had grown up with little and hated anything going to useless ruin.
It was this reason why he kept his breathing steady as he stepped back, offering her his hand as she hopped down from the sidetable. It was why he watched her every move as she undid the clasps of the belt which kept the otherwise loose overdress cinched. It was why he only watched as she draped the belt over the back of the chair, slender fingers ensuring it would not slip from where she had placed it.
It was why he only watched as she slipped each sleeve of the sapphire blue overgown off a shoulder, letting it fall and pool at her feet on the plush purple carpet. And it was why he just watched as she stepped over the fallen fabric with a tiny wobble on her heeled shoes, bending down to pick it up and drape it next to the belt.
It was for Lenore that he stumbled backwards until his back was against the wall, head tilting back and exposing the column of his throat as he watched her work the buttons of the underdress open in the middle of the gilded room. It was for her that he waited until the silk underdress too had been carefully folded and placed on the seat of the chair. And it was for his beautiful wife that he waited in flushed agony as chiffon and corset followed suit, until she stepped back up to him, dressed in nothing save for her stockings, shoes and gloves.
It was for love of her that then, only then, did he surge forwards, scooping her up into his arms. With one hand around her waist to steady her against him, the other dipped into her core, relishing the hitching gasp it drew from her. He spun them round, pressing her to the wall, rushing to get the ties of his trousers undone only as much as was needed to free his cock.
He pressed his lips to hers, swallowing her gasp as he entered her, toying with her clitoris between thumb and index finger. She was hot and wet and she clenched so tight around him that he spilled on the second stroke, before he was even fully sheathed within her. Her buried his moan in the plush skin of her cleavage, though even then, he knew if there was anybody still left in the next box over, they were likely to have heard him as he came.
AN: liefje translates as 'little dear' in Dutc- uhhh I mean Nevarran, and the dress was inspired by this fashion plate from the V&A's collection (yes I am that much of a history nerd)
@mxssful asked me for smut this @dadrunkwriting friday, and we've been pondering an AU where Marisol is not a Crow, but comes looking for her sibling, finds them in house de riva, and gets tangled up with Viago and Rosa (moss' OC) that way.
It changes their dynamic in honestly a really fun way, so here's a little bit of smut, jumping ahead past all of the tension and biting to when they're just soft and good together 🥺💜
viago x rook x rook · 1059 words · cw: explicit sexual content · divider by wishforhome
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. When she came to Salle she was running, and then she was looking— but not for this, she never thought it would be like this—
“Rosa—“ she giggles, laughter punched out of her lungs as her lover slides her hands up the back of her thighs, lifting her onto the desk and scattering some amount of paperwork in the process.
“Rosa,” Viago says, with significantly more disapproval. But something catches in his eyes, and he does not pull away as Rosa spreads her open between them, sinking to her knees with an oh-so-innocent look in her eyes.
“Yes?” Rosa answers both of them, doe eyes made sharp with eyeliner and fingers indenting the soft skin of Marisol’s thigh. “Any objections?”
Laughter escapes Marisol again, breathy little wisps as she curls her fingers around the fine wood grain of Viago’s desk. She tips her head back, the tops of her curls just brushing against his shoulder. From this angle, she’s treated to the sharp line of his jaw, working against something in his throat, something that might be an order, or a reprimand, or a request.
She stretches the length of her neck and brushes her lips over the sensitive skin just behind his jaw, and is rewarded with the flare of his nostrils, the stutter of his pulse.
“I didn’t think so.” And it is not a good idea, to let Rosa get so smug, unchecked. But she presses her smirk to the inside of Mari’s thigh, and brings her tongue through the slick of her cunt, and all at once it seems like the only good idea is to let this happen, exactly as it is.
Marisol keens, presses her hips forward— or makes to, and finds instead Viago’s fingers curling where the tails of her stolen shirt slip against her skin. He holds her firm against the desk, some kind of false indifference in the way he watches Rosa between her legs.
“We have a bedroom,” Viago informs them. “Several, in fact.”
“None of which— ah—“ Rosa frames Marisol’s cunt with two fingers, spreading her open, vulnerable to the devastating scrape of teeth against her clit. “None of which have a desk.”
“Because they are bedrooms. Not offices.”
“I don’t think that’s—“ Rosa curls her fingers inside Marisol and her retort loses its way in a whine. Callouses drag inside of her and a spark presses into her sensitive flesh and her breath stalls and she—
“Fuck,” she hisses, hips straining against Viago’s grip once more. She feels Rosa’s smile against her cunt and holds a thousand curses on her tongue that dissipate when it purses into a kiss against her clit.
“You’re so mean to me,” she complains, unmade by her own breath, which stutters and begs and yearns even as she bares her teeth. Viago’s fingers flex against her hips and he dips his head to press a kiss against her collarbone, the juncture of her neck, the line of her jaw.
“We could be meaner,” he murmurs, and it is as much a promise as it is a threat, just as the shiver that sneaks down Marisol’s spine is as much invitation as refutation. His teeth find the shell of her ear— already flushed, and twitching— and worry it with all the finesse of a man who knows exactly what he is doing to her.
“That’s not— fair—“
“Fair is hardly any fun.” Rosa’s smirk is as loud as her fingers, working lazily through the obscene slick between Marisol’s legs. “And we always take care of you, don’t we?”
(It was not supposed to be like this— she was meant to cut and run, to leave the trappings of attachment in the ashes of her wake, to stream away from all of this like a comet burning through the sky.)
Rosa’s fingers slide just so; Marisol loses her grip on the desk, reaching for something, anything, and she lands in Viago’s curls, gone loose from his careful styling by the day’s wear. Her fingers tangle at the base of his neck, an anchor that vibrates pleasure from his throat through his teeth to the tender flesh of her ear.
(It was not supposed to be like this— but it is, it is, it is—)
“Vi.” Rosa slides a hand up over Mari’s stomach, tracing cheeky swirls of her own slick where her muscles flex, and beg, and plead. “Give me—“
She steals his hand and drags it down alongside hers, pressing his fingers into the slick mess she’s made of Marisol. And something curls in Mari’s throat, something thick and terrible and needy, and she tips her head back, only for Viago to catch his fingers in her curls and tilt it back down.
“Look at yourself,” he murmurs, “Go on, look at how good we’re making you feel.”
She gasps, reaching— with her hands, her hips, her heart, with anything at her disposal, for for them, for this, for— for—
“You’re going to come for us, si?” Viago splays his free hand against her core, pressing down so he can feel his fingers, and Rosa’s, working an uneven dance inside her cunt, dragging callouses against leather against slick, driving her up and up and up and—
“Of course she is,” Rosa scrapes her teeth against the soft skin of Marisol’s thigh, looks up at her through lashes, smug and knowing. “Of course she is, because she’s good—“
Pleasure rips through Marisol like a parachute, pulled. Up her spine and around her throat and leaking out around their fingers. She whines, low and long, arcs her back into their touch and curls her nails into the skin at Viago’s neck.
“There she is.” Rosa presses cruel kisses to her cunt, her clit, flushed and twitching. “So good.”
Viago slides his fingers out of Marisol, but keeps the grip on the back of her head, so she watches as he drags them across Rosa’s lips, sees the shine of herself smudged against lipstick, groans low in her throat as he presses leather against her teeth, her tongue, back into her throat.
“Fuck,” Marisol sighs. “We should—“
“We should,” Viago agrees, and gives her a little shove so that she slides off the desk, paperwork fluttering as she falls, warm and loose and laughing, against Rosa. “In a bed.”
[held.] sender intertwines their fingers with receivers while having sex.
Thank you for the prompt Merrr!!! ENJOY :D
@dadrunkwriting
Suggestive content/foreplay | ~1.1k
They are in Viago's villa in Salle, large windows facing the sea open to let a slight breeze in. The evening so far has been a lovely one, an expensive dinner with an even more expensive vintage, and since then a slow migration from drawing room to bedroom. It was been all slow and tender kisses, hands wandering over chests and hips, Viago's shirt discarded in some hallway, Lenore's skirts hiked up to reveal the green ribbon garters at the top of her stockings.
Viago's mouth is on hers, tongue running against her own, while his hands slide further and further and further up with slowness that is simultaneously terrifying and utterly agonising. He is barely a span away from his goal when she breaks away from the kiss.
"I… I haven't really done this before Viago," she says, turning her face to the side so she does not have to look at him.
"Sex?" He asks, kissing down the line of her jaw.
"Well- I mean- what do you count as um… sex?"
He pauses at that and his brow raises for a moment and then that damnable smirk breaks out onto his face. He even licks his lips. "Well you see, when two people love each other very much-"
She bats at him, "I know that much, Viago. I'm an anatomist for the Maker's sake." Lenore blushes bright red and hides her face in her hands. Oh Maker, this was a mistake, she thinks. That is until Viago leans forwards, beard tickling her cheek as he whispers in her ear. Because when he does that Lenore can hardly think at all.
"You sound so unsure though, would you like a demonstration, perhaps?"
No, no, its best to get this over and done with so Viago can prepare for what she can only presume will be the worst sex of his life. "No, Viago, just. Stop. Wait," he obeys her instantly, which for reasons she does not have time to examine, sends a new wave of heat between her legs. "I've only been with one person, a woman, and um…"
"That does still counts you know."
"No, I know it does! Just. Um. Well. We didn't get very far. And it was only one time and-" She hates the way the words soud the moment they leave her mouth; her worries juvenile, not that of a 34 year old woman.
Viago looks at her seriously though (or, well, more serious than usual). "What are you worried about?" He asks the question so directly it cuts through her worrying in a way only he has ever managed.
"I don't want it to be bad for you…"
"That's not all, Lenore, I can tell. Come now, tesoro, I won't not laugh or tease."
"Should I make you sign a contract?"
A twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips and a mirthful lilt to his gaze. "I can get the contract lawyer in here if you want, but I do warn you, it might ruin the mood for he is nearly 90 years old and not much to look at."
"Ah well, some other time then."
"Is a Talon's word good enough for now then?"
Lenore can't think of any other clever diversions, save just running away, and despite it all she doesn't want to leave Viago's side. She has never seen the man so… undressed before; never had so much skin waiting to be touched.
"Will it hurt?" She asks, "when you…" she glances down at the direction of his crotch which she realises is extremely tight to the extent that she wonders if it is hurting him right now. "When you…" she takes shelter in familiarity, which in her case is the science of anatomy. "When the phallus enters the, um, canal. So to speak."
To his credit, Viago's mask barely slips. All he shows is a brief raise of the eyebrows and a subtle tilt of the head before he schools himself back to neutrality. "We don't have to go that far. Not if you don't want to."
"But- I want this to be good for you! I don't want you to have to have terrible sex with me because I'm- oh by the Maker's damned void." She's hiding her face in her hands again, even though she thought she was long past the 'if I can't see you, you can't see me' phase of her life.
"Oh tesoro," he whispers against her skin, "I do not think there is any universe where this could be bad for me. In fact, I am worried that if anything you will go to Teia tomorrow and she will find out how I spilled without a single touch from you, and my reputation will be ruined forever."
"You promised you wouldn't tease."
He laughs, and the sound is strained in his throat, "Lenore, believe me when I say I am in no way joking or teasing." He took her hand in his own, guiding it down to his crotch. He doesn't press her hand flush against him, and as much as he can, does not grind against her palm or seek anything more than she is willing to give.
Lenore runs her fingers along the firm press of his cock against his britches. She is tentative at first, unsure of what she is doing and doesn't press too hard. And perhaps this is worse (in the best way) for him, because by the second pass he is unable to contain himself, groaning and half collapsing against her, forehead flush in the crook where shoulder meets her neck.
"Perhaps," he manages to get out in a strangled voice, "if that would assuage your fears as to the likelihood of my enjoyment? I would prefer to leave this encounter with my pride at least a little intact, rather than coming in my smalls like a randy teen?"
She still feels uncertain, but the sight of him so utterly undone from such a simple touch from her… Her entire body feels flush, ready to vibrate out of her skin. She moves with slow purpose, laying back on the bed, fingers going to the ties of her skirts.
Viago takes a few breaths to regain himself, let his muscles stop trembling with the cessation of Lenore's touch. But it is only a few breaths and then he is crawling atop her. He takes her hands in his own, stilling her work on her clothing. "If you will allow me?" He whispers.
She nods mutely, distracted by the way a single curl has fallen in his face. It is enough to make the always immaculate Fifth Talon look positively debauched. With his still gloved left hand he pulls up her blouse to expose the soft plane of her stomach which he kisses like a pilgrim to Andraste's statue. The other pins her own hand to the mattress, fingers intertwined.
