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iedistis · 7 days ago

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THANK YOU SO MUCH OUGHHHHH I CANT!! 😭😭😭😭 This is so sweet and vulnerable and intimate i love them so much!!! I adore this from the bottom of my heart, youve brought them to text so beautifully, i feel so invigorated i could move mountains right now. YOU ARE GOING TO LIVE FOREVER!!! 🫵🫵 HAPPY VALENTINES DAY MWHA!!!

Part four of my appreciation project!

@iedistis A fic based on their wonderful art piece here. Thank you for feeding the fandom!

Morning light streamed through the windows, painting the half-empty bed in molten gold. Dawn—Emmrich's favourite hour. Nothing compared to the thrill of waking beside his beloved, both of them messy and vulnerable from sleep's blessed embrace. It was an intimacy beyond words, a fragile moment reserved for them alone. As she stirred from her slumber, he stood before the mirror, adjusting the collar of his shirt, waiting—always waiting—for her.

Filomena. His anchor. His everything.

With a slow stretch, she slipped from the bed and stepped in front of him, her movements graceful, her gown ruffled and revealing. Raven-black hair cascaded over her shoulder as she reached for his neck pin, her fingers deft from weeks of practice. This small act of service had become something sacred between them, a silent devotion he anticipated each morning.

He ignored his reflection, instead watching her hands—her beautiful, delicate hands—as she fastened the chains, ensuring the skull clasp sat perfectly against his throat. The act was tender, seductive, and yet, unbearably distant. How he longed to reach for her, to caress her cheek, to break the quiet cadence of her gestures and return the devotion she so freely gave.

But as always, the moment she finished, she stepped away. And as always, he let her go.

It wasn't just him. She did this with everyone.

When Lucanis worried over Spite fleeing in the night, Filomena kept the spirit entertained until morning. When Bellara struggled to tune the artefact, Filomena listened, offering insights long past her own exhaustion. When Harding and Davrin doubted themselves, she was the first to lift them up. When Taash needed help appealing to their mother, she stood at their side. When Neve sought guidance on blood magic, Filomena answered every question, no matter how time-consuming or difficult.

But the worst was the battlefield. She was reckless—always throwing herself in front of others, always making sure no one else bore the brunt of the attacks. She carried everything.

Everything.

And today, as she finished with his pin, Emmrich saw it. In her hands—moving just a little slower. In her eyes—just a little heavier.

"Darling," he said softly. "Are you all right?"

Filomena blinked, the brief pause betraying her feelings before she mustered a well-worn smile. "Of course."

Emmrich winced. As she turned away, he caught her hand—not forcefully, but with quiet insistence.

"Truly?" he pushed, his voice gentle, persuasive. "I don't mean to pry. You've just seemed... distracted lately."

Filomena hesitated before slipping her fingers from his grasp, her gaze flicking away. Truly, he asked. A truth she couldn't speak to anyone, not even to him.

Truly, the weight of their looming battle against Ghilan'nain pressed down on her like a vice. The closer they drew to that moment, the more she feared not just failure, but leading them all to ruin.

"I'm just a little tired," she lied, forcing another placid smile. "Too much activity the last few days. It's been hell on my elegant features." Emmrich frowned at the obvious deflection, but she shrugged it off. "I'm going to read for a bit. Why don't you head downstairs and I'll meet you later?"

Emmrich sighed, concern knitting his brow as she moved towards the fireplace, feigning contentment. He could sense her pain, her facade, he just couldn't discern the cause.

"Filomena..."

"I'm fine, Emmrich," she stressed as she lowered herself onto the carpet in front of the divan, crossing her legs beneath her. "I'm sure Manfred probably put some tea on. Why don't you go wish him a good morning? I'll join you when I finish this chapter."

Filomena flinched at the unexpected touch, her head tilting slightly. "What are you doing?"

Emmrich watched as she grabbed the book of poetry that rested on the cushion behind her, left there from the night before. As she flipped it open, her fingers stilled over the pages, uninterested and unmoving. Even as she stared at the words, she wasn't reading. He could tell.

She wanted space, but he followed anyway, settling down on the divan and caging her within the warmth of his presence. Then, without a word, he reached forward, sweeping her silken hair behind her back.

"Your hair," he said, his lips curving into a small, knowing smile. "You like it braided, don't you?"

She froze, startled by the offer. "Yes, but I can do it myself."

His hands rushed to her shoulders, grasping them firmly yet gently. "I know you can," he hushed. "But I'd like to, if you'll let me."

A rare flush bloomed across her cheeks. "Do you... know how?"

"Of course. I learned during my years as a mortician."

She nearly laughed, but the weight on her heart smothered it before it could form. Instead, she simply scoffed, her gaze sinking into the fire's glow. With a weary nod, she set the book in her lap, an air of resignation in her tone.

"If you really want to," she relented.

"Thank you, darling."

He started carefully, his fingers weaving her thick, luscious strands with flawless precision. The sensation—his fingertips grazing her scalp, the steady pull and twist—was unexpectedly soothing.

"Am I hurting you?" he asked, the thought unbearable.

"No. It's—" Nice. "No, you're not hurting me."

The room went silent, save for the occasional pop of burning wood and the rhythmic glide of his hands.

"I know something's wrong," he said after a while. Filomena tensed, but he squeezed his legs tighter around her arms, his body her sanctuary. "You can talk to me about anything. You know that, yes?"

She didn't respond, her heart clenching.

"Darling, please."

The sincerity in his voice, the way he begged—it shattered her defenses. She swallowed hard, her gaze fixed on the hearth, the flames dancing with the freedom she yearned for.

For a long moment, she said nothing, until her voice emerged, low and abnormally diffident.

"I hate that I was put in charge."

Emmrich didn't react. He only listened, working her hair with patience.

"I didn't earn this," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Varric left me in charge, and everyone just... follows. Not because I deserve it, but because they think they have to. 'If we don't fight the gods, who will?' So they joined at my request, never once questioning my reasons or qualifications." Her hands tightened over the book in her lap. "But I wasn't trained for this, Emmrich. I worry that—"

She cut herself off, unwilling to confess the worst of it.

She worried about making a fatal mistake.

She worried about leading him, Harding, Davrin—all of them—to their deaths.

"Well," she exhaled, ready to dismiss it, "I just worry sometimes. It's not worth discussing."

In her mind, she'd shared enough. She may have been Emmrich's partner, but she was his leader as well. He wasn't there to alleviate her doubts and insecurities. She turned a page, acting as though the conversation never occurred.

"I see," Emmrich hummed, tying off the braid with a black ribbon.

He sounded... relieved?

"That," he said, bending down, his breath a balm against her ear, "is absolute nonsense."

"What?"

Before she could turn, his lips brushed the side of her neck. Filomena stiffened, her breath hitching, but Emmrich persisted, shamelessly revelling in her scent. In her fleeting astonishment. He kissed lower, skimming her sensitive skin, his voice an affectionate murmur.

"No one follows you out of obligation, my love." Another kiss. "They follow you because you're capable." Another. "Because you're brilliant." Another. "Because you care."

His kisses trailed lower—sucking, nibbling—then back up, his moustache tickling her jaw.

"Emmrich..." Filomena shuddered.

He smiled against her, pressing another sensual kiss to her neck before gently turning her to face him. Their eyes met, and for a moment there was nothing but quiet understanding between them.

Then, his lips met hers, strong yet humble, aching with devotion. He cradled her chin, holding her comfortably, possessively. Filomena tried to resist, but she moaned, the book slipping from her grasp as she surrendered to her desires.

With a swift motion, she turned on her knees and fisted his shirt, pulling him closer, needing him—and he answered with equal intensity, his fingers tracing the line of her wrist, his body bending despite the protest of his age. He endured it. For her, he would endure anything, so long as it meant he could taste and console her. She opened up so rarely—always giving, never taking. Always putting herself in harm's way. Always suffering in silence.

Today, he wouldn't allow it.

The sound of their coupling echoed through the room, the wet, harmonious sups like a melody, crude and sophisticated all at once. If not for the incessant calling of the world outside, helpless and waiting, they could have stayed that way forever.

As the sun crawled higher in the sky, however, eventually he had to pull away, leaving her breathless but sated.

"Varric was right to entrust his legacy to you," he said, his voice velvet as he brushed his thumb along her reddened cheek. "Whether you see it or not, we trust you. Not because we have to, but because you've earned it. Every second of everyday, you earn it."

Filomena sighed, averting her gaze. "And if I mess up?"

"You won't," he smiled, urging her to look at him, to see how much he believed in her. "We choose to follow you, my darling. We all know the risks, and we know you'll do right by us. No matter what happens."

"Emmrich..." Her voice trembled, a whimper escaping as his warm, hazel eyes rattled her walls, if only for a moment.

For the first time in weeks, the tightness in her chest seemed to loosen.

"You're more than our leader, you're our friend. And to me..." He pressed a final, lingering kiss to her forehead. "To me you're—you're—"

"I know, Emmrich. You don't need to say it."

And she didn't want him to say it. Not yet. Not aloud. She wasn't ready—not for those three words that would make everything undeniably real.

"Darling, it's all right to rely on us every once in a while. That's the whole point of a team. Being in charge doesn't mean you have to do everything alone. We're here for you, just as you're here for us. I'm here for you."

"Come here," he said, pulling her up and wrapping her in his arms.

Filomena withdrew into her thoughts, wrestling with the concept. Her entire life, she had been alone. She'd always had to adapt, to prove her worth, or risk being abandoned. But as she stared up at Emmrich, feeling the warmth of his love and adoration, a timid smile spread across her face.

Filomena gasped, melting into the embrace, her hands gripping his shirt. Maybe—just this once—she'd let herself lean on someone else.

#LOOK AT MY BEAUTIFUL PRINCESS WHO HATES HER JOB AND LOVES HER PARTNER #Im living between these lines forever #😭😭😭😭😭#c: filomena ingellvar #emmrook #emmrich volkarin

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