I wish you would write a fic where someone gets pegged doesn't even matter who
For I Wish You Would Write A Fic Where... - a delightful ask game where you send me summaries and I attempt to write something around them.
This is the part where I remind everyone I am Deeply Unpracticed at writing smut, but for you, dearest @bunnygoats, I will try!
Justice/Rhiannon Hawke, Justhanders (background), spirit sex, first time, bondage, pegging (obviously), overstimulation
This was meant to be PWP but then it turned into a bit of a Justice character study as well. Sorry you had to wait this long but I hope it was worth it... ;)
the common tongue of your loving me
There are many needs to attend to, Justice has discovered, when inhabiting a mortal body. Especially a body like Anders', so fragile, so long-neglected and abused by the privations of the Circle or the road or by Templar cruelty. It is, surprisingly, easier to manage with Rhiannon Hawke's once-unwelcome assistance - she is far more aware of the impacts of stress or hunger or exhaustion on the mortal form. But even with her help, the mortal form still provides unique distractions to a creature of spirit unused to its sensations.
Touch, for example, is a constant distraction. Spirits commingle to commune or to battle, sometimes, but they do not have the electric sensations of nerves to run messages of presence or pleasure or pain from the skin to the mind. When he and Anders first joined themselves, even the touch of fabric on his skin was a constant, nagging distraction - whether it was itchy wool or smooth, crisp linen, it was impossible to ignore. Sometimes, it still is.
If fabric is a distraction, the touch of Rhiannon Hawke - her careful, callused fingers, swift at plucking the strings of bows and lutes and hearts alike - is almost an agony, a fizzing shock of pleasure so intense it comes close to pain. He does not know how Anders can bear the weight of her arm around his shoulders or his waist, let alone her hand on his, her lips against the sensitive skin of his mouth.
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.
"Mine," she purrs against his ear, and it is so true, so perfect that he shudders and spills against her belly, and this- this is the sweetest thing the mortal world has given them, to be so entwined with her and Anders both.
(this is sha-brytols teehee) fellow justice enjoyer 🫵 may i ask what is the lore with him and your cousland
I recognise that URL! (and this one, don't worry, I knew it was you)
The lore between Elissa and Justice is VAST AND UNKNOWABLE
No that's not true, it's just... extensive. Elissa started life back in the heyday of DAO and DA2, sort of I think 2012ish. I had mained DAO as a F!Tabris and considered that my canon as I went into Awakening, but when I joined fandom through Deviant Art and Tumblr and LJ (in its death throes) there was a very pervasive corner of the fandom that were adamant that F!Cousland was THE canon origin, very similar vibes to some of the Solavellans, and went out of their way to look down on and shit talk other origins, ESPECIALLY F!Origins who romanced Alistair. Because only THEY could marry him, only THEY could become Queen, only THEY had the TRUE fairy tale ending. There were mods exclusively for F!Cousland use, all kinds of drama and elitism
Enter my Elissa
She started life as nothing more than a spoiled noble party girl who pouts too much and doesn't like being told no, drinks too much and has too much sex. Brought a lot of scandal on the family name, etc. Just a real smear on the Cousland legacy. But as I played her and started writing about her, I realised there was more to it than that, and she became a little more jagged around the edges. The alcohol and sex were coping mechanisms, addictions, ways to temper her mood when everything got too much for her. Anders and Justice were supposed to be a bad metaphor for bipolar, were they Jennifer? Well, what does it actually look like when someone struggles badly with mental illnesses in a world without any significant manner of mental health care? How does a noble family try to sweep an aggressive child under the rug, how do they hide her outbursts and her tears, how exhausted are they by years of nannys and tutors being driven away?
She was a perfect choice for a grey warden, and she hated every minute of it. She felt trapped by it, like a cage she couldn't get out of, and she HATED being told what to do. You think Alistair had a breakdown after Ostagar? Elissa straight up went non-verbal and did nothing but drink for days. A lot of the events of Origins were just sheer dumb luck, and Leliana and Alistair doing a lot of the talking on Elissa's behalf. She made Loghain a Warden, and Alistair retaliated as king by giving her Gwaren, knowing explicitly how much she'd hate being a ruler. She retaliated in turn by declaring Gwaren unfit for human habitation due to the Blight and gave it to the elves, founding a new elven kingdom in the process. He retaliated AGAIN by giving her Amarathine, and specifying it was for the Wardens so she couldn't worm out of it
And incredibly, I didn't set out to make Elissa fall in love with Justice. It just so turned out that having a suicidal, mentally ill young woman suddenly encounter a creature that saw beauty in everything and didn't judge her the way everyone else did and treated her with respect and kindness did something to her, and he started out with a case of hero worship as he does in game, seeing the Commander as a noble and virtuous paragon of goodness defending the land against darkness, and instead learned a great deal about the complexity of life by watching her struggle to live
I wrote about them here if you so fancy. With an apology that it's unfinished because I swore off DA fandom in 2015 due to the... everything, and I've only just started dipping my toes back in again. But it covers the events of Awakening all the way up to the end of the siege of the city and I think it's quite good if I do say so myself
10/10! ahh, good ol breeding kink. now i will say first off that i am one of "those" people that believes breeding can be a mindset and does not have to end in pregnancy. sorry i guess! i really dont think pregnancy is the point, i think wanting to get a bitch pregnant is the point. this is blatant erasure of pussy on pussy and dick in ass breeding smh.
anyway its a 10/10 for me because its aaaaall about the desperation. 99% of my kinks can be summed up to "is desperation involved in this" if yes, probably something im into even if its just an aspect of it. when youre so horny you turn into an animal THATS peak to me. being so desperate you lose all shame and common sense and your only instinct is to fuck THATS peak. GO BREEDING!
I usually like the companions fandom dislikes and dislike the companions fandom likes, lmao. This isn't even on purpose, it just usually shakes out that way! My sense of taste seems to run counterintuitive to the general opinion most of the time
(Sten, Loghain, pre-Inquisition Cullen, Vivienne, post-Inquisition Solas all come to mind)
Even when our tastes do match up (Varric, the Veilguard lads), I find that most people are doing it so wrong I'm just like Did You Even Play This Game
Thank you for the ask! This game's particularly fun for Cara! (Already answered: 🌼, 🪷) Lots of angst ahead and copious Dragon Age 2 references, but hopefully you expected at least one of those, coming from me. Also, sorry these turned out WAY longer than expected!
🌾 If there was a demon trying to trap/take over Rook, what kind would be the most successful? What would break their hold?
Nothing scares Cara quite like a rage demon. It makes sense, at least from the outside - she doesn't like fire, and what is a rage demon if not twelve feet of burning horror? It's only natural that for a moment, when one appears, she freezes, or flinches back.
She can never tell her friends the truth of why rage demons scare her so much, not when she's the first to play the cheerful optimist about Spite, or any other spirit they happen to meet. Rage demons scare her because, when one draws near, she can feel the song of it in her veins, the temptation - aren't you tired of playing nice, of trying to get through to people you could easily slaughter? Aren't you tired of false smiles and diplomacy? Don't you want to become what you truly are?
She is Justice's daughter, but Vengeance's too, and they will never let her forget how close Vengeance is to Wrath. Every time one comes close, they are a little too much like her father to bear. A little too much like her.
No, she reminds herself, reminds them. I'm my mother's daughter too. They gave me rage, and magic, but she gave me a choice.
🥀 What figure from Rook’s personal past would be added to the regret prison?
She thinks the falling will be the worst of it - the long, dark descent full of the screams of the people she's failed. The people she's chosen to fail. She's wrong, of course.
When she hits the ground, Kirkwall is burning (Kirkwall is always burning) and her mother drags her through the crowded streets by one wrist. Her other hand clasps tight to Orana's, and though the elven girl has practically helped raise her, she feels like the elder of the two of them now, because Orana's hand is shaking in hers, because she can hear her breath coming in rough sobs as she runs, stumbles, pushes herself upright.
She knows what happens next - she always knows what happens next - but she clings on regardless, even as Orana's finger's slip sweat-slicked through her own, even as she disappears into the crowd with a scream that Cara answers.
This time, she could pull out of her mother's grip and run, run to her friend, find out what happened to her, save her, maybe. She doesn't. She never did. Selfishness. Your besetting sin from the start.
💐 What is the relationship Rook has with their faction mentor? What was the moment they sent Rook away like?
Cara slouches into Isabela's study feeling like the world's sulkiest teenager, despite being twenty-one and having, to date, an excellent career with the Lords of Fortune.
Isabela, of course, quirks a brow at her and nods for her to sit. Her boots are propped up on her desk, casually, but her smile doesn't reach her eyes, and her mouth is tight-lipped. This is how Cara knows she's really fucked up this time.
"Maker, you look like your father when you scowl like that," she sighs, looking Cara over. "The healers treat you well?"
"I'm fine," she mutters. "I was only mildly poisoned."
"If you'd done the handover like we planned, you wouldn't have been poisoned at all." She opens her mouth to protest, and Isabela holds up a hand: "And don't even think about trying to 'Aunt Iz' your way out of this one, Rook. You caused a diplomatic incident!"
"And where do you think I learned that from?" she mutters. Isabela cuffs her across the ear.
"I learned that lesson the hard way so you didn't have to, brat." She sits back in her chair, an uncharacteristic furrow between her brows. Seriousness has never sat well on Isabela's features - it's why she's Cara's favourite aunt. "I'm sending you to work with Varric."
"What?"
"He'll keep an eye on you," she says, ignoring her, "and hopefully you'll keep each other out of trouble."
"Out of trouble," she scoffs, "he's looking for the Dread Wolf!"
"He's been looking ten damn years," Isabela retorts. "He's not going to find him just because he has you."
Cara folds her arms. "I don't need a babysitter."
"Could've fooled me." Isabela leans forward and tugs on one of her braids like she's six and demanding presents before saying hello. "You'll be fine. Just keep not-finding old gods, and you'll be back before you know it."
