#Rook Ingellvar | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

heylittleriotact · 2 days ago

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𝐢 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟓

𝐄𝐦𝐦𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐱 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐌𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐅𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐀𝐔

𝐀 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐞𝐛𝐚𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬. 𝐒𝐥𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭.

A very special thank you to my wife @emmg - this chapter (in all of its absurdity) could not have come to fruition without her. I don't want to spoil it, but the notes at the end will make everything clear.

Read below or on ao3

Like any mid-sized music venue of repute in a city like Nevarra, the Night-Owl was located in a basement at the bottom of a narrow stairwell that served as the only means of egress from the place, effectively making the dark windowless room a fire-trap.

Was Emmrich disquieted by that knowledge? Yes: the idea of being trapped underground, shoulder to shoulder with hundreds of other likewise trapped people - slowly suffocating, overheating, crushing - in the event of an emergency was a literal nightmare for him.

Was he going to do what he’d done since his late teens when he started attending such places and simply drink away any apprehension that might ruin his night? Certainly: it was nearly Wintersend after all: no better time to cut loose and indulge, right?

Rook seemed to be of a similar mind, because as soon as the door-girl plucked the cash from Emmrich’s fingers for cover and branded them with a stamp on the inside of their wrists, she beelined for the bar, half-dragging him through the packed space that smelled of flat beer, pot, body odour, and the nebulous but unmistakable aroma that was unique to fog machines.

The bar wasn’t well-lit, but from what he could see from the glow of the three televisions behind the bar and the dim pot-lights set into the black ceiling tiles, he and Rook were exceptionally overdressed in their cocktail attire: punks, skids, skins, creeps, and weirdos milled about. Some leaned against the bar, slugging back tall-cans of PBR and talking loudly over the music being played over the sound system. Some lurked in front of the stage waiting for the band to start.

“I’m very sorry, ma’am - I’m afraid you don’t meet the dress code for the evening and you’ll have to leave: this is a classy place.”

Emmrich‘s hand had settled on Rook’s waist, and he reflexively held on a little tighter at the sound of the stern but apologetic voice.

Rook turned in his arm and grinned broadly at the sight of the handsome and broadly built man in front of her who tossed his long wavy black hair, grinning cheekily. He held a pint glass filled with something hazy, and wore a purple and green plaid button down over a t-shirt that had ‘MOGWAI’ printed across the chest.

“Yeah, I’ll leave - if you can manage to get me back up the stairs, asshole” Rook snarked back.

“Done it before,” her friend shrugged. “And you were dead weight too - that was the Fireball and tequila night.” He wagged a finger at her, his voice familiar to Emmrich - a familiar late-night accompaniment to many a midnight embalming.

“On the topic of the dead—” his head shifted and he looked at Emmrich. “You’re ‘The Guy’ aren’t you? Emmrich, right?” His eyebrows raised and lowered twice, and he held out his hand. “Leon Delgado - best known around town as Leon the Loon on B-96.9’s late night show: Mom always said I had a face for radio, so I like to think I’m making her proud.” His grin widened.

Ah of course - this was the infamous Leon: Rook had shared many a tale of misadventure featuring her old roommate. He hosted a late night radio show during the week spotlighting local alternative artists - of course he’d be here.

Rook had pulled out of his grasp and was standing on the brass bar rail, making her a few inches taller so she could lean in for the pretty bartender with a pixie cut to hear her.

“What do you want?” She hollered over her shoulder at him.

“I’ll have what you’re having, darling!”

“Three jägers and two PBRs, please!”

Oh it was going to be that sort of night, then - Emmrich could already feel his head throbbing in advance of the hangover that was in his near future.

He returned his attention to Leon. “A pleasure to meet you, Leon - I’ve heard so much about you!”

“And you still want to date her?!” Leon threw his head back and laughed loudly. “Just fucking with you, man - but if you’re ever looking for an embarrassing story about Rook, I lived with her for two years: I could write a book!”

“So could I, but about you! Do you want this shot or not? Keep talking and I’ll do ‘em both!” Rook reached into her jacket for her wallet and Emmrich put his hand over hers.

“I’ll buy, darling,” he said, quietly enough so that only she could hear him.

“Don’t be silly,” she retorted, eyes reflecting the dim bar lighting prettily. “You can get the next round.”

If he had it his way, Rook wouldn’t pay for a single thing out of her pocket ever again, but he understood that letting her do things - small kindnesses like a round of drinks - meant something to her.

“Of course, dear.”

Smiling, she counted out the cash for the drinks and handed it to the bartender, pocketing some of the change and dumping the rest in the tip jar before sliding down from the rail, her heels clicking against the hard concrete.

“We just found out our funeral home has been bought out by a pair of raging sociopaths and will be run by a dumbass whose spine has the structural integrity of overcooked spaghetti!” She told Leon, picking up a shot and handing it to him, then handing one to Emmrich before she picked up her own. “Sooo... fucking cheers!”

She cozied back against Emmrich and lifted her shot glass.

“Fucking yikes, bud!” Leon concurred, and all three touched their glasses together before tipping them back.

Oh it was bad. It was foul. It was concentrated evil.

It tasted like cough syrup and regret - how it left his throat feeling sticky was a marvel: the enigmatic trait of a concoction that could have only be dreamt up and made reality by a sadistic madman.

The cloying, herbal taste of the jäger dragged Emmrich instantly back to the hazy, sloppy nights of younger years, and a wave of nausea belted him square in the gut: a fist with a message tattooed on brutal knuckles that said ‘you are too old for this, old man.’

The cheap beer that he chased it with did little to take the edge off: foaming and bubbling all the way down to his stomach where it mingled with the jäger and made the acute nausea even worse.

Perhaps he’d vomit right here at the bar, ruining Rook’s costly new shoes - and any chances he had of making their relationship last beyond the night.

He swallowed the mouthful of saliva that had ominously flooded his mouth and forced his constitution to heel: he could do this - ‘rally’ as the youth called it these days.

Rook stood on her toes to see the front of the room where a very done-up woman in her mid-thirties with bouffant, fire-engine red hair was currently setting up on stage along with a fellow with an impressively vertical flattop, and another fellow wearing a black shirt with red roses embroidered on the chest. All three of them were smartly dressed, and positively covered with tattoos.

“We missed The Buttfuckers, hey?” She asked, leaning towards Leon.

“By about ten minutes, yeah.”

“The band setting up is The Swamp Neck Romantics - Cherry, the lead singer, is the friend I mentioned,” she explained to Emmrich, her index finger poking at the tab on the can of beer in her hand. “I don’t come out to shows as much as I used to, but I always try to see her play when I can.”

Emmrich watched the fairly diminutive woman vanish from sight behind a stack of speakers only to reappear moments later, lugging something bigger than she was across the stage.

“Is that—?”

“A real baby coffin? Fuck yeah it is," Rook smirked. "Cool, right?"

"Indeed," Emmrich admitted. He'd seen double basses before, but none quite so morbidly intriguing as this.

The shiny black coffin sized for an infant served as the body of the bass, and the scroll at the top of the neck was shaped like a skull. It was an intimidating instrument: beastly and daunting by its sheer existence alone as it lay on its side at the front of the stage where Cherry Cherise had set it down in front of the mic.

“They’ve been playing the scene for about ten years: her husband, Flitz - the guy with the flattop - is a carpenter. He built the bass for her as a wedding present - with the help of a professional luthier, of course.”

The very romance of the gesture prodded at the part of him that Johanna frequently derided for being soft and dewy-eyed: to be so in tune with your lover’s passions - to share that joy with them on a stage and know that you were part of it too.

It was rather like his dynamic with Rook, he supposed. Except instead of pin-up hair and rock ‘n’ roll, it was aspirating corpses and consoling the bereaved.

He was seized with the sudden need to hold her hand, so he did, twining his slender fingers through hers, feeling entirely content as Rook and Leon caught up over the twenty minutes or so before the band hit the stage in earnest.

The punk-rockabilly fusion of sound that payed homage to all of the greatest horrors to grace the silver screen was a wonderful novelty, and as they took down another round of drinks, and Rook shimmied and grooved in place in front of him in time to the music, laughing, singing along and exuding nothing short of unbridled joy, Emmrich felt overwhelmed with gratitude.

The fact that he got to be here with her - granted this invitation into her life and the people and things that she cared about and loved - could this admission mean that he was counted among them? Dare he entertain the idea that his darling Rook had fallen just as hard and just as fast as he had?

Clapping and hollering drowned out the end of the song, and the buxom frontwoman flicked her burgundy-tipped finger towards the crowd - the stage lights followed her gesture, illuminating the churning mass of bodies. "We don't care if you skank - or if you headbang - or if you shake your titties–" racous hooting filled the room. "– it's all good: we just want you to party with us – you gonna party with us?"

"FUCK YEAH!"

"Wooo!!"

"I fuckin' love TITTIES!!"

"That's more like it," she purred into the vintage microphone, her deep, throaty voice slithering past her lips like pure sin. "I wanna see you fuckin' move."

She slapped the strings of the bass like it owed her money, and snarled out a song about murdering an unfaithful lover.

"Aw - yes! I was hoping they would play this one!" Rook said, turning over her shoulder so he could hear her. "It's one of my favourites!"

He watched Rook (the band was good, but it wasn't her), bemused and enchantingly mystified at his own good fortune, until he felt that uncanny evolutionary awareness kick in, which alerted him to the fact that he was being watched.

Glancing around the dark pulsing room, his eyes landed on a lone figure leaning against the side of the sound booth: a handsome young man with pale eyes and dark hair styled into a tidy pompadour. His black denim vest - frayed at the edges where the sleeves used to be - was covered in pins and patches that Emmrich couldn't make out at this distance, and his white t-shirt was tucked into the waistband of a pair of rolled up Levi's so tight they might have been painted on.

The young man did not deign to look away Emmrich looked his way. In fact, his smooth features contorted into an even deeper scowl as the corner of his mouth curled back in a hateful snarl that had Emmrich wondering what he had done to offend this stranger so, but it all came together when Rook accidentally stepped on his foot and turned around briefly to apologize profusely, her hand on his chest.

The stranger wasn't staring at him: he was staring at Rook. And he wasn't a stranger at all: this could be none other than Tommy - and he was furious.

Emmrich looked away from Tommy and back towards the stage, his face stoic as he kissed the top of Rook's head and held her a little closer while she continued to enjoy the band - she didn't seem to mind.

He wasn't in the business of picking fights, nor had he any interest in humiliating the younger man by parading Rook around like she was some prize he had stolen. However, he was not above making it abundantly clear to Rook's troublesome former lover that she was not alone: that she was being looked out for and would be unavailable to Tommy, should he feel compelled to approach her tonight.

A short time later, Emmrich looked back to the sound booth and around the room: Tommy was gone.

Tommy had vanished at some point, and Rook was glad that he had.

Standing around glaring at her and Emmrich like a fucking ghoul like she wouldn’t notice - what a pathetic creep. It was no surprise that he was at the show, honestly: she’d taken the possibility into account when she floated the idea to Emmrich, taking a calculated risk by assuming that if Tommy was there, he’d be too big of a coward to actually approach her, let alone start anything - and she had been right. Not with Leon or any of her other friends and acquaintances around - Cherry alone would have happily jumped on an excuse to kick his sorry ass: she knew all about the circumstances of their breakup. Rook had already heard through the grapevine that Flitz had told him they wouldn't share bills with Tommy's band anymore - the Romantics wanted nothing to do with him. It wasn't an insignificant move: Flitz was well-known for being one of the chillest, most easy-going dudes in the scene - being a fair bit older than most up-and-coming musicians, he and Cherry garnered a lot of respect amongst their peers.

Despite that momentary unpleasantness, the rest of the night was a blur: four hours, two ATM visits, far too many shots, and one very giggly Rook later, Emmrich got out of the cab and walked around to the other side to open the door for her.

She practically spilled out onto the sidewalk with all the grace of a baby fawn, and he caught her by the elbow to make sure she wouldn’t fall while he thanked the cabbie again.

“My apologies if anything she asked about your experiences with death was insensitive - she’s just very passionate, you see? Drive safely, sir!”

The door closed and the cab pulled away as Emmrich started following Rook up the walkway to his townhouse: she was tugging against his grip like an excited hound.

“Darling, please,” he beseeched, slurring the words slightly. “It’s icy: be careful.”

“I’m being careful!” She huffed, negotiating the snow covered flagstones with as much care as she could. “You worry too much, Emmrich. I’m f-ine!”

As she’d said it, her heel slipped over a patch of melting snow and sent her flailing backwards into his arms. He caught her, but only just - his own feet slipping to the sides as he tried to find purchase on the snowy walkway.

“Holy shit!” The surprise on her face gave way to unfettered laughter as he guided her back up onto her feet and she collapsed against him, tears at the corners of her eyes, she was in such hysterics. It was enough to get him going too: only a relieved chuckle at first - but within seconds he was breathless, and they both leaned against one another outside his house, arms over shoulders and around waists as they cackled and quaked at the sheer hilarity of it all.

“C-could you imagine?” She wheezed. “How fu-fucking dumb I would have loo- hah- looked if I ate shit two seconds af-after you told me to be careful?”

“It’s not— it’s not funny, Rook!” He rasped, laughing harder still. “You could have been s-seriously hurt!”

Maker she loved when he laughed - loved being the one responsible for it - even if it meant she'd nearly cracked her skull on the pavement like a rotten melon.

“I know!” She groaned, massaging her sore cheeks and taking a deep breath. “It was j-just… the…” words failed her and she tried again to regain some composure. “The look on your face!” She gasped out before curling in on herself, clutching her belly as she howled. “You were like—” she clutched her face in her hands and pulled a ridiculous expression of panic. “— ‘arghhh!’ Hahaha - oh… haha - Maker’s balls it was funny...”

“Your own expression wasn’t too different, dear,” he retorted. “Now let’s get you inside before you properly hurt yourself, shall we?” He held out his hand to her and carefully led her up the stairs of the porch before reaching into his pocket to withdraw his keys.

He disarmed the alarm and took her jacket, hanging it up in the front closet while she slumped to her knees and greeted Manfred, who graciously saw fit to arch his back when she scratched her fingers down the length of his spine - he’d warmed up to her over the past month, having only bitten through two of her charging cables, stolen away with her nice lingerie and made a nest out of it in a linen closet, and commandeered her backpack for an entire afternoon roughly three weeks earlier, swiping and hissing at either of them if they dared too close in an attempt to extract him.

“I’m glad we’re both off tomorrow,” she said, stroking under Manfred’s chin and looking up at Emmrich. “I think a day of sweet fuck all is gonna be great.”

“If it’s with you, I know it will be, darling,” he beamed and extended a hand to help her up, but she didn’t take it.

Instead, she shuffled closer to him, still on her knees, one of her shiny gold pumps dragging behind her.

The palms of her hands meandered up his thighs, and she gazed up at him with glassy eyes. She drew her scarlet lower lip through her teeth and then said, “Did you have a fun night?”

“Of course, darling - even despite the curious events of the party. I got to spend time with you: I met your dear friend, Leon, and got to watch a band whose lead singer has managed to fashion an upright bass out of a baby coffin. I can’t remember the last time I was out this late.”

Rook hummed happily and hugged his legs, burying her face into his lap and making him jump.

“I’m glad you had fun,” she mumbled. “I did too - but you wanna know what made it even better?”

“What?” He inquired gently, smiling as he drifted his fingers over her hair.

“Feeling you slowly dripping out of me all evening,” she whispered silkenly, rubbing her cheek over his pants and against his cock. “Every time I stood up… every time I shifted in my seat… sometimes just out of the blue I’d feel a little bit more of your cum oozing out of me… mmmm…”

He must have been expecting her to wax poetic with sweet words and declarations of affection rather than filth, because he made a small sound, high in the back of his throat: something caught between a whine and a sigh.

“Wanna do it again?” She inquired, the tips of her fingers curling over his waistband.

He hooked his index fingers under her wrists and urged her up onto her feet so he could kiss her properly in answer: it was a sloppy collision of lips and tongues and teeth, but it was sweeter and more intoxicating than any drink she’d had that night.

Parting from her, he ran his thumb over her shiny lower lip, seemingly entranced by the delicate smudge of crimson that trailed in its wake against her fair skin. It was silent in the front entryway, but for the sound of Manfred inquiring about their evening as he twined between their feet.

And then they were kissing again: graceless and desperate - utterly devoid of flair or panache. She felt his hands all over her, roaming, clutching, and squeezing - a handful of ass here, a palmful of tit there - Manfred skittered off.

She bit Emmrich’s lip and he groaned. She did it again - his fingernails dug into her hip and he bit her back.

“Fuck you’re hot…” she breathed between feverish kisses - between the flares of arousal that licked through her core as she started clumsily working him out of his jacket. “You’re so fucking hot, Emmrich— ah!” she shuddered and gasped when his lips closed over her neck, his teeth dragging over her sensitive skin, as he backed her against the wall in the hallway, effectively pinning her so he could continue to ravish her. “All night… this was all I wanted - all night…”

“Me too,” he panted against her neck, catching skin between teeth - making her squirm against the wall as his hand slipped up her thigh and she fumbled with his belt buckle, fingers lacking the dexterity they normally had. “You are radiant, darling… irresistible…”

She arched against his hand as his long fingers swept aside her ruined thong and he slipped one deep inside of her with ease. She bucked even harder, head tilting back with a clipped cry when he twitched that finger just enough to drag it over her g-spot.

“… how fortunate I am to find myself in your company—” his words caught in his throat when she freed him from his pants and her fingers wrapped around his hardening shaft, working him in her hand. “That you would choose me…”

“I was thinking the same thing but about you…” she managed, words threatening to fail her when a second finger joined the first and the sensations he was heaping upon her intensified. His cock was hot and heavy in her hand. “Emmrich… will you pin my hands against the wall?” She ventured, feeling daring due to the ridiculous quantity of alcohol in her system.

He didn’t hesitate: he simply did as he was told and pulled her hand from his cock, collecting her thin wrists in one large hand and guiding them up over her head, pressing them firmly to the wall while his ministrations continued.

“Like this?” He whispered, parting from her neck long enough to look into her eyes, his own gaze lust-blown and somewhat unfocused, a flush of colour on his cheeks, signaling his own intoxication.

“Yes!” She whined, and he clearly understood the assignment, because following confirmation that this was indeed what she wanted, he scissored his fingers, stretching her deeply before adding a third. Her hips jerked at the fullness, and his thumb found her clit, circling it in time with the movements of his hand, all while holding her firmly in place.

“Does that feel good, darling?” He queried sinfully, notching the outside of his leg against the inside of her knee, making it even more difficult for her to move.

“Yes!” Was her reply: a pitched whisper. “Ohhh fuck yes!” His fingers stroked over her g-spot again and her vision went spotty, a moan warbling past her lips. “Please - please don’t stop—”

Maker - every time: he knew exactly how to undo her with an efficiency that was nothing short of staggering.

The thick squelch of her cunt and the smell of sex filled the entryway as he worked his fingers inside of her, and Emmrich laved his tongue over her earlobe, breath searing the shell of her ear when he said, “Are you going to come for me, dearest?”

His thumb pressed down on her clit and she writhed in his grasp - desperate - wanting. He braced his arm, making it impossible for her to chase release on her own.

“Yes!” She panted again, apparently incapable of anything more complex than single syllables as his erotic proposal ricocheted around her skull.

He stooped down and rewarded her with a wet, sloppy kiss, not quite crushing her against the wall, but leaning enough of his weight against her that she was truly at his mercy - and it was amazing.

The quavering groan that accompanied her orgasm was muffled by his mouth: he kissed her all the way through it, feasting on the sounds of her elation - pleased moans of his own accompanying the sweep of his tongue against hers.

Her knees went weak and she sagged against the wall, thighs quivering as he withdrew his hand from between her legs and lifted it to his mouth, tasting her before drawing the tips of his fingers over her flushed lips, watching with half-lidded eyes as she drew them into her mouth and sucked gently - her own tart sweetness mingled with the slightly salty semen that was reminiscent of vanilla… one of the reasons she was so taken with the perfume she was wearing: it reminded her of Emmrich.

“Shall we retire, my darling?” He asked gently, as if he hadn’t just completely rocked her world.

“Yes please…” she mumbled, kissing his fingertips and massaging the palm of his hand with her thumb now that he’d relinquished his hold on her. She could feel his still erect cock resting heavily against her belly, throbbing occasionally, and leaving a dark spot on her black dress where precum had leaked from the tip. “I’m not done with that,” her eyes drifted pointedly downwards.

He pulled away enough to give her space to push away from the wall and support her own weight. She kicked off her heels, instantly becoming a few inches shorter, and watched - transfixed and feeling rather like a pervert - as Emmrich stooped and picked up his jacket from the floor and straightened before gripping his cock and stroking it slowly a few times.

She felt a bit faint at that, completely taken off guard by how unexpectedly intrigued she was at the sight of Emmrich touching himself.

“Darling?”

“Hmmm?”

“I asked if you could manage the stairs on your own: I’m going to feed Manfred and ensure everything is locked up, then I’ll join you.”

“Oh! Oh - yeah. Yeah I’m good!” Her feet found ground again, and she forced herself to look at Emmrich’s face instead of his cock.

He leaned in and kissed her again, hand curling into her hair: her bun was already in a state of disarray - no need to be careful with it anymore.

“Aren’t you just?”

Oh, she felt dizzy again…

“Don’t take too long…” Adjusting her skirt and shifting her panties back into place, she parted from him and started down the hallway, punch drunk, actually drunk, and hoping that her stroll through the kitchen and towards the stairs read as a sexy and alluring saunter instead of a spontaneous and poorly-timed attempt at imitating Quasimodo - she was never sure...

She flicked on the bedside lamps via the switch on the wall when she got to Emmrich’s room, unzipping her dress as she wandered towards the bathroom.

By the time Emmrich joined her, she was naked except for her pine green stockings, makeup washed away, a number of bobby pins wedged in the corner of her mouth as she reached behind her head with both hands and worked the last few free.

She tucked one in into her lips, following Emmrich’s reflection in the mirror when he appeared, still fully dressed, closing the distance between them and standing behind her, his hands grazing her hips.

“Allow me.”

He gently parted her hands away from her hair and kissed her temple before resuming the task of removing the bobby pins on her behalf.

She let the mouthful of metallic tasting pins tumble from her lips and into her palm. “Thanks.”

“Of course, darling,” he said, utterly focused on his work, managing not to pull or snag a single hair.

It was silent for a time but for the hushed ‘clink’ of metal meeting the marble vanity as Emmrich methodically freed Rook’s hair leisurely, a placid and blatantly smitten look on his narrow face.

“Such a soft touch,” Rook remarked, meeting his eyes in the mirror when he glanced up at her words. She leaned her hips against the countertop, still very much drunk. “I usually end up getting impatient halfway through and yanking the rest out.”

He tilted his head almost sheepishly to the side and looked back down at his hands, one side of his moustache lifting with the corner of his mouth.

“As the skin of a cadaver begins to dehydrate postmortem, the dermis and epidermis shrink, and weakened cellular adhesion makes the hair exceptionally delicate…” He spoke almost distractedly, tilting his head to the left this time, lost in the tending of her hair. “The gentlest touch must be used when washing or combing the hair of the dead, or it just… falls loose.”

His hands stilled and the lazy smile was replaced by a look of wide-eyed panic.

“That’s— it’s not that— I’m not comparing you to a corpse, I only—”

“I get it - dead people hair pulls out easily - so you’re gentle,” Rook interjected. “Please don’t stop?”

He relaxed, looking tired and relieved, strands of his silver hair falling over his forehead as he went back to work.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“For what? You’re the one fixing my hair.”

“You understand me, Rook.” He set down the last pin on the black quartz countertop and combed his fingers gently through her hair, guiding it down over her shoulders. “Sometimes what I intend to express gets lost in translation and… it doesn’t seem to happen quite so often with you...”

He reached for the hairbrush on the counter, presumably to brush out her wayward and hair-sprayed curls, but she stopped him with her hand over his. “I want to go to bed.” She announced, turning so she was facing him properly. “But let’s get that lipstick off your face first, shall we?”

She hopped up onto the countertop and parted her legs, beckoning him close. He obediently slotted himself between them, placing his hands on the countertop and nuzzling playfully up her neck, chasing the fading notes of her perfume while she reached for her package of makeup remover wipes.

His moustache ghosted over her skin, tickling her and causing her shoulder to jerk upwards.

“Hey!” She giggled. “You’re being a goof!”

“There is a very beautiful and naked lady perched on my vanity - I daresay some goofiness is warranted…” he grinned at her with drooping eyelids, and she realized then that she’d never seen Emmrich so deeply in his cups as he was now.

Certainly he’d split a bottle of wine or two with her at dinner most nights, and occasionally indulged in a nightcap when wasn’t on call, but Emmrich was very much a wits-about-him-at-all-times kind of man - except for right now.

Right now he was staring at her like she’d hung the stars in the sky, twirling a strand of her hair around his finger and looking pleased as anything while she quickly wiped the smeared and smudged lipstick stains from his mouth, cheeks, and chin for the second time that night.

“And there is a very handsome and tipsy man in front of me,” she said in retort. “I can’t help but wonder: is this gentleman gonna take me to bed and fuck me, or is he going to stand around all night staring?”

She thought about wrapping her arms and legs around him and making him carry her to the bed, but thought better of it: Emmrich wasn’t a brawny man to begin with, and surprising him with her entire body weight unannounced in his condition might end up with both of them on the floor.

Emmrich had other plans anyway: he helped her down from the counter and began loosening his tie and unbuttoning his waistcoat. He stooped slightly to kiss her. “You have somewhat of a head start on me, I’m afraid,” he remarked, slipping loose a button and then gently rolling one of her pierced nipples between his thumb and forefinger.

“I suppose we’d better do something about that…” She helped herself to his belt - still undone from earlier - sliding it free from his thin waist and setting it down on the counter behind her.

She undid his gold cufflinks and removed them next, then shifted his shirt off his shoulders and down his arms, leading him from the bathroom, the light switch clicking as Emmrich darkened the room behind him.

The shirt was tossed on the small settee at the foot of the bed, and Rook scraped her fingernails gently over his chest, kissing here, licking there… sucking his own nipple into her mouth, feeling him shiver against her.

His bare skin felt comforting and familiar against hers - as though within the span of a month, he had imprinted on her at a biological level, setting off the quadrants of her brain that told her she was safe and loved. She sighed and wrapped her arms around him, inhaling the spicy, luxurious waft of his cologne mingled with the distinct but not unpleasant musk of his sweat - maybe it was because it was his and smelled unique to him, but she didn’t mind: it got hot at the Night-Owl when it was packed with bodies, and he was wearing a three piece suit, after all.

She dropped to her knees and undid his shoes, loosening the laces of the eccentric brown and mauve oxfords enough so he could step out of them.

Pushing them aside, she straightened, lifting herself so she could undo his trousers and slide them down over his skinny hips, along with his underwear so that he was exactly as naked as she was: he in his black dress socks, and she in her stockings.

“There - now you’re all caught up,” she followed the slight curve of the small of his back and squeezed his ass: she loved his ass. It was adorable. It was small but shapely, and she had a particular soft spot for the little horizontal folds of skin - the gluteal sulcus, according to her anatomy textbook - that were nestled right under the curve of his cheeks: they were downright lickable.

“I’ve always been impressed by your efficiency,” he walked her back towards the bed until she fell back onto it, enveloped in softness and the finest synthetic goose down money could buy. He followed, slinking over her, enshrouding her with his form. “Sweet, beautiful Rook…”

He wasted no time burying his face between her thighs, and while his technique was perhaps not as refined and elegant as it usually was, there was something undeniably exciting about seeing him a bit less poised and deliberate than usual: a rawness to his broad, flat tongue-strokes - as if he finally felt emboldened enough by the alcohol in his veins to allow himself to truly, properly indulge - not just for her, but for himself as well.

Her toes curled into the duvet and she fisted one hand in his hair, grinding languidly against his face.

Fucking Tommy - he could never love her like this - never bothered to put nearly as much effort into making her feel amazing the way Emmrich did. Yet he was the one that felt like he had the right to be butthurt when she threw him out?

I’m so fucking glad I did…

I might never have met this one…

She looked down and realized she’d forgotten to take his glasses off… oops - surely they were a smudgy, sex-fluid smeared mess by now...

I fucking love him.

He readjusted his grip on her thighs, his eyes closed, expression one of intense focus as he teased her clit with the tip of his tongue.

“Oh… Emmrich… Emmrich - I lo— woah.”

The drunken admission was cut off abruptly when the sight of Emmrich eating her out started sliding left… while she simultaneously felt like she was being pulled right...

Her stomach lurched and her eyes slammed shut and she willed herself to pay attention to the pleasant sensation of a man’s tongue between her legs rather than the brutal spin of the room around her.

It wasn’t working: she could still feel him absolutely going to town on her - but it was like they were inside a centrifuge.

She let go of his hair and gripped the bed instead, hoping the static, non-moving surface would be enough to convince her inner ear that she was not in fact twirling madly in circles.

Nope.

Her stomach roiled unpleasantly again, and saliva poured into her mouth, thick and indicative of the impending inevitability.

Shit! I shouldn’t have laid down–

“Emmrich— Emmrich!” He paused and looked up, clearly concerned by the urgency of her voice. She squirmed out of his grip. “I’m gonna… oh fuck— think I’m gonna be sick–” she mumbled, feet colliding with the floor. Not waiting for any confirmation that Emmrich had heard her before sprinting towards the dark bathroom, desperate to at least save herself the humiliation of puking on his fucking carpet.

She felt tile her feet, then veered in the direction she knew the toilet was in, feeling cool porcelain greet her just in time: a few shots and what was left of her dinner spewed forth, her abdominal muscles contracting painfully.

Aware of the deeply unpleasant sounds Emmrich must be hearing from the bedroom, she tried her best to stifle the sounds of her heaving and retching, but knew it was futile. She thought she might have heard Emmrich call out to her, but the horrific groans she made drowned anything discernible out.

Not entirely sure if she was done, she lifted her clammy left hand to flush, but frowned when it passed through air.

But… huh?

She reached again for where the handle on the side of the tank should be, and once again found nothing - not even the tank.

But if there was no tank, then that meant that this…

Oh no.

Oh my fucking god.

Please no.

Please tell me I didn’t…

She leaned to the left, reaching blindly into the darkness, a very quiet, “fuck,” slipping past her lips when her fingers found the solid confirmation she had been dreading.

If that’s the toilet, then this is…

No, no, no - please fucking tell me I didn’t just puke in his bidet.

I. Puked. In. His. Fucking. Bidet.

I’m trash. That’s so fucking trashy. What is he going to think?!

Rook kept the light off, unwilling to embrace the visual reality of what she’d done.

I can’t stay in here forever - he’s going to come check on me… it’s actually strange that he hasn’t already, come to think of it…

She wandered to the doorway out into the master bedroom still faintly illuminated by the bedside lamps, her heart bottoming out when the bed came into view: Emmrich was prone on the mattress - groaning and stirring feebly.

Rook made a sound - she wasn't sure what kind of sound it was, but it wasn't a good one. “Holy shit! Emmrich?!”

Heart attack? Stroke? Aneurysm? She needed to call an ambulance—

She piled onto the bed, snatching her phone from the nightstand, setting it next to her knee as she shook him and leaned down so she could see his face - it was paler than usual, but she could feel his breath on her skin.

“Emmrich— hey!”

Thankfully he moved: his eyelids fluttered open and she helped roll him onto his back.

“Emmrich what the fuck?! Can you hear me? I need you to tell me you can hear me!” She shook him again and was slightly encouraged when he managed to wrap his fingers around her wrist. She grabbed her phone again, adrenaline ruling her thought-processes. “I’m calling an ambulance.”

“Don’t…” he rasped, reaching for the phone which she jerked away.

“Don’t my ass - you fucking fainted!” She snapped, all concerns about the bidet replaced with the horrific familiarity of this scenario.

“I did,” he agreed sluggishly, swallowing and taking a deep breath. “… got up to help you… but — suddenly light-headed… I stood up too fast, I'm afraid.”

“You seem troublingly unconcerned,” Rook ground out.

He managed to gently pry the phone out of her hand and set it on the bed out of her reach.

“Nothing to fear, darling,” he assured her, pulling himself into a sitting position and stroking her thigh as if he hadn’t just been face down, unconscious in the bed a minute earlier. “Just an uncommon side effect, I think...” He was wearing the same expression he wore when dealing with a devastated family: patient, humble, comforting.

“Side effect of what?!” She demanded, panic rapidly being replaced with impatience: what wasn’t he telling her? What was he hiding? Had he shot up in the kitchen or something while she was upstairs getting undressed?

His expression softened further despite the harshness of her words, and she almost felt bad when he collected her hand in his, drawing his lips over the backs of her fingers in a clear attempt to placate her.

“When we started seeing each other, it quickly became clear to me that I’m not as… vigorous as I once was… no fault of yours - of course.” He chose his words carefully, “So I…” he trailed off, looking somewhat bashful. “I began indulging in an occasional regimen which would help to keep me up to snuff…”

Rook blinked: what the fuck did that mean?

“You’re… you’re gonna have to be more clear.”

“A medicinal aid,” he clarified, though he looked like he’d prefer to change the subject. “For our intimate encounters…”

Then Rook got it.

“Oh. You mean the Viagra.”

“Yes!” He confirmed, eyes widening hopefully, grateful that she understood. “You mustn’t think that I’ve been taking it because you aren’t attractive to me - which isn’t the case at all: you’re the most attractive woman I’ve ever— hang on…” he frowned. “You knew?!”

The accusation was a scandalized squawk: if he’d been wearing pearls, she was certain he would have clutched them.

Feeling relieved at the knowledge that his brief fainting spell had been wrought by too much blood in his dick, and not enough in his brain, Rook cracked a smile, though her heart continued to gallop.

“Yeah. Found it in your medicine cabinet the first time I spent the night. You know, if you really wanted to hide it from me, you should have stashed it somewhere that wasn’t the first place most people would look."

He was trying to glare at her, but the smile on his lips fought through. “Oh, Rook… you… you…”

“Brat?”

“You are a brat!” He chided, though there was no real heat in his tone. He sighed and finally discarded his glasses, clearly coming to terms with the fact that his girlfriend was a nosy snoop who apparently took zero issue with plundering people’s medicine cabinets when presented with the opportunity to do so. “And you’re… you’re not upset with me?”

Rook jerked a shoulder nonchalantly and played with the rings on his right hand.

“No. Now that I know you’re not having a serious medical episode in the middle of the night.”

“I mean about the…”

“Oh.” He was talking about the boner pills. “Should I be? Like you said: you’re not twenty anymore. It only stands to reason that an old dude like you would need some extra pep in his step from time to time.”

“Rook!”

He was taking this seriously.

... and she had just vomited in his bidet.

She unclasped the heavy gold watch from his left wrist and slid it onto her own, tilting her arm up and down and admiring the weight of the expensive timepiece.

“No - I’m not upset with you. Honestly, I thought it was kind of sweet that you would even consider doing that for me.” She tapped the face of the watch and held it up to her ear. “Most guys would be too attached to their shitty male entitlement and not give a fuck about wanting to make sure I was satisfied in bed.” Her hand fell to her lap and she looked at Emmrich. “But you’re not ‘most guys’ — are you? This thing isn’t ticking.” She held out her arm with the watch on it.

“It needs to be wound.”

“They have these new things called ‘batteries’ — not sure if you’ve heard of them?”

He ignored her jab and reached up to push her hair - away from her face: tucked a strand behind her ear, palming her cheek with his big warm hand. Rook leaned into the touch, and he drew his thumb tenderly over her skin: she really was happy that he was okay.

She hated to think of anything bad happening to him. Not when she was around. But what if it was a real emergency - what would she have done? What would she feasibly been able to do to help him?

"Are you all right, darling?" He clearly noticed her ruminating.

She looked at him, nibbling her lower lip before taking a deep breath and coming clean with the simple, casual admission:

“I puked in your bidet.”

He blinked once… twice, puzzlement gracing his features as his eyes left hers and he comprehended her words, his hand stilling on her cheek.

Another little sigh slipped past his lips and he shook his head slightly - bemused, but not exasperated.

He pulled her down beside him, eyes wandering her face as if committing every aspect of it to memory - his expression not at all the one she anticipated when she decided to tell him of the incident with the bidet. His hand slipped down to her naked waist.

"I love you, Rook."

And then he kissed her.

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