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nerdanel01 · 15 days ago

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Lectionary Pursuits

Emmrich/F!Rook, Emmrich POV 3k+ wc | NSFW No spoilers for Veilguard, just smut.

EXCERPT: By now, Emmrich was not reading, not really—he was just using his eyes to recognize sound-shapes on a page, and using his tongue and his lips and his teeth to pass those same sound-shapes through his mouth. That language passed through him without leaving the faintest impression on him, without remotely registering in the cognitive centers of his brain; he was simply a transmitter, focused on the barest essentials of his task.

Every other iota of self-control and attention and discipline he could muster was being used to resist the urge to start driving his hips upward against hers.

“You can do this, Emmrich, you’re doing so well. Keep going.”

Rook’s encouragement was only a little breathy, just the slightest twist of mischief in her voice as she praised him and taunted him all at once. Her eyes were hooded, lazy and drunk with desire; from him, however, she demanded nothing but the sharpest attention and focus.

Firmly, she instructed him: “Pick up where you left off.”

The subaqueous glow coming from the meditation room’s fish tank cast Rook’s self-satisfied smile blue; an unearthly, dangerous beauty. Emmrich swallowed. A thin trickle of sweat was cooling sweetly on his neck; the chaise was firm beneath him. His trousers had been rucked untidily around his thighs, and atop him, Rook sat—naked as the day she was born—her warm legs bracketing either side of his hips, warming his lap… his half-hard cock fully sheathed inside the warmth of her body, so slick and wet and dripping around him that he was sure, if Rook moved but an inch, he’d find the thatched grey hair at his groin was soaked.

After dinner with the others, they had slipped off together—something that now happened with such regularity it no longer warranted comment from the rest of the team. They would spend what was left of the evening, then, in the pleasure of each other’s company, in conversation or companionable silence, often reading together into the night: Emmrich, catching up on the latest necromantic scholarship or perusing collections of poems; Rook, reviewing missives from their contacts abroad or (more likely) engrossed in the latest romance recommended by the Randy Dowager.

Tonight, however, Rook’s copy of Vigor Mortis lay abandoned on the shelf behind the chaise—because tonight, Rook had asked Emmrich to read aloud to her.

Of course, when she had asked him, this was not exactly what Emmrich had pictured.

She had curled up next to him, her head tilted sideways onto the chaise’s back, giving Emmrich her full attention while he began to read from his book, pausing only intermittently to catch her up on references to theorems or proposals made in earlier chapters. Emmrich had warmed with affection, but otherwise thought nothing of it when her hand had crept across the space between them to cover his knee; he had found it mildly distracting, but had made no comment, as that same hand began to climb up his leg, singeing the skin in its wake with desire.

But when she had raked her nails along the inside of his thigh—when he had felt himself begin to strain, unseemly, against the confines of his trousers—he had snapped the book shut with a satisfying dull fwump of closed pages and turned his head, ready to chastise her. “Rook—”

And then she had dragged the heel of her palm firmly over his trousers, along the swollen underside of his shaft—and all capacity for language swiftly abandoned him.

In the shock and excitement of reaction, his hands had seized upon the book, holding it tightly shut; now, even as the pressure of Rook’s palm was breaking the rhythm of Emmrich’s breathing and leaving him tight-legged and light-headed, the fingers of her free hand gently pried his loose, and opened the book again in his hands.

Told him simply, in her tone that brooked no argument, “Keep reading.”

And so, because he loved her (and loved her, especially, like this: commanding and demanding his obedience, unguarded and unabashed of her still somewhat inexplicable desire for him) he did—though the effort it took was tremendous. His eyes followed the words in the flickering candlelight, carried them to her ears in an embarrassingly breathy, hitched voice. Rook gently guided him so he was lying back on the chaise, then unfastened his trousers and stroked him to hardness.

It was a small miracle, then, that he could string a sentence together at all, never mind read from a page. When his cock was weeping and her hand was sticky from it, she stood—the sudden rush of chill in her absence left Emmrich gasping—then began, slowly, to pull her shirt over her head, to work on the fastenings of her pants.

He had thought he had paused only the length of heartbeat to admire at her—to watch as cloth peeled away to reveal the final layer of warm, soft, fragrant skin—but he lost his place on the page, fumbled, ended up reading the same line over three times as Rook stepped out of her smallclothes, smiling with amusement.

Then, without warning or prelude, she had draped one leg over his, aligned herself to him, and sank onto him fully.

She took him beautifully: warm and already wet, wetter than she had any real right to be, as untouched as she was. Emmrich could not help it, it was instinct as much as anything—a ragged gasp escaped him, and his back arched off the chaise as he tried to drive his hips against hers, to drive himself deeper into her warmth—but,

“No,” Rook told him, firmly, a hand on his stomach to push him back down. “Lie still. Behave. Here, let me help you with that…”

And with the very same hand that she’d been spreading his slick around his cock, she plucked the book daintily out of his hands. With two of hers, she spread it wide for him, just in front of her stomach. Large though it was, it did not provide nearly enough modesty to conceal the swell of her breasts… nor the dark hair between her legs, where she had sank herself around him.

“Don’t stop now,” she’d teased him, tapping the opened page with her finger for emphasis until he had begun, again, to read aloud to her.

And she had sat like that—by Emmrich’s count— for nine entire pages.

“Emmrich.” The first hint of a warning in Rook’s voice. “Pay attention.”

Emmrich swallowed around the lump of need in his throat. “Yes, dearest,” he told her, then resumed the passage. Rook followed his eyes as they scanned back and forth; when he reached the end of the page, he did not need to ask her to turn it. She did so, obligingly, her fingers delicate on the thin parchment of the pages. Emmrich used the half second it took her (time when, despite however good or obedient he would have liked to be, he could not possibly have been reading) to drink in the sight of her—the quirk of her mouth, the hairs on her arms raised in the cold—before Rook spread the book for him again, and dutifully, without needing to be asked, Emmrich began against to read aloud.

It was hell; it was heaven; the warm ooze and drip of her around his half-swollen cock (the firmness of which had flagged, somewhat, in the lack of attention or stimulation Rook had been offering it—but if she had noticed, she seemed unbothered by it; she had kept him still sheathed securely inside her warmth) and the siren-like look at her eyes as she stared at him hungrily over the top of the pages. By now, Emmrich was not reading, not really—he was just using his eyes to recognize sound-shapes on a page, and using his tongue and his lips and his teeth to pass those same sound-shapes through his mouth. That language passed through him without leaving the faintest impression on him, without remotely registering in the cognitive centers of his brain; he was simply a transmitter, focused on the barest essentials of his task while every other iota of self-control and attention and discipline he could muster was being used to resist the urge to start driving his hips upward against hers. He could feel a flushed heat in his cheeks, in his neck; he was sure he was red. She was warm in his lap and his legs were shaking underneath her with every minute shift of her hips, any adjustment in her posture on top of him. The quirk of her smile—

The self-satisfied grin imploded on Rook’s face as it tightened, eyes screwed shut; she dampened a strangled cry through clenched teeth, resolved the sound into a hiss. Emmrich was on the verge of keening himself, with the sudden flood of warmth and wetness that gushed out of her, smearing across his groin and trickling between his legs.

“I said behave, ” Rook told him, between deep breaths to steady herself, “or I won’t let you cum at all.”

“I am, dear,” Emmrich said, blinking at her in wide-eyed innocence. “Or, I genuinely thought that I was…?”

Rook let out a little huff, half amusement, half disbelief. Her best shorthand for, ‘get a load of this crap.’ One hand released the book to land, ever so lightly, on his stomach. “That wasn’t you flexing?” she asked him, running her fingers down the quicksilver path of hair that traced from his navel to his hips. “Misbehaving, making your cock jump inside of me?”

Andraste forgive him, but he loved the sound of the word ‘cock’ in her mouth, crass as it was—and this, in addition the teasing touch of her fingertips along his stomach was enough to have him swelling inside of her with renewed enthusiasm. Had he clenched his core, as she alleged, knowingly or unknowingly? “That—that wasn’t my intention.”

Rook huffed again. “Sure it wasn’t.” But whatever sudden rush of want or need had seized her then, she’d regained control of herself, now; her fingers traced back up his chest, circled pensively. A sudden gleam in her eye, she told him, “If you can make it to the end of the chapter without trying to fuck me again, I’ll start squeezing.”

A proposal she promptly demonstrated by tightening the clench of her cunt around him.

He could not help it: his back arched off the chaise; his eyes slammed shut; he practically shouted in surprise of the sudden blessed satisfaction, a sound he was not entirely confident had not made its way down the passage and out into the Lighthouse library. It petered out into breathy gasps, and supplications lined up to parade off his tongue. “Rook—”

“Mmm,” she practically purred. “You like that idea, don’t you?”

“Very much.”

“Enjoying this, still?”

“Very much.”

Her delighted grin widened, sharp enough to cut her face in two. She spread the book wide for him again.

Used her lowest, most obscene voice when she told him, “So keep reading, Professor. Don’t leave me hanging about the unexplored connections between veil lustration and fade harmonics.”

Fade harmonics? Is that what they were reading about? It was hopeless—he’d be re-reading this passage again tomorrow evening, and now he’d be lucky if he ever managed to get through it without becoming aroused. She was warm above and around him, and he was loose and tingling with arousal from his head to his toes, which were curling in his boots, ankles carefully dangling off the edge of the chaise so he did not grind mud into Rook’s furniture. His tongue was starting to feel thick and clumsy in his mouth, muddy, inarticulate; simply the vague promise of imminent tension and friction had eroded terribly what very little cognitive capacity he had left.

But he loved her, and he wanted to please her—wanted her wrapped and snug and secure in his complete surrender to her, as he was—and so he dragged his eyes back to the book spread in front of her stomach, held in her beautiful fingers (and he must not let his attention wander by thinking of all places he’d much rather those hands be holding him) and bound his eyes back to the page in front of him.

“ For further explication, we may look to the early experiments of Ligeia Argyra…”

Though Rook nearly undid all of the effort that had taken him in one fell swoop by smiling at him over the top of the book and mouthing, silently, good boy .

Then shattered his concentration utterly when she clenched herself around him.

Emmrich’s hands tightened around Rook’s thighs; the experiments of the late mage Argyra dissolved into a litany of overwhelmed, half-choked gasps of surprise and pleasure.

“You said— hha, Rook!” the accusation cut cleanly short as Rook deliberately tightened all the muscles in her thighs and her core around him, “ you said, ‘the end of the chapter.’”

“Did I?” Rook replied, innocently, sweetly.

“Rook.” He shaped her name into a devotion, a plea. “Rook, that feels—”

“Keep going,” Rook told him. Her voice was noticeably breathier now, a rosy tint to her cheeks. “Keep reading, or I’ll stop.”

Dizzy with need, the words on the page swam before his eyes—then, after a few deep breaths, finally settled. If he had thought this a struggle before, that was nothing. His progress down the page had slowed considerably, interrupted by terrible gaps where Emmrich had to close his eyes or catch his breath, when Rook was gripping so tightly around him he thought he might simply finish and spill inside of her without her ever moving her hips an inch.

“In the thirty-eighth year of the Towers age, after—after her first s-successful sublimation of the malign en-haa!—energies concentrated around—concentrated around—Aurelius’ Reach, Argyra began her study….”

And so desperate was Emmrich to focus—to behave, as instructed—to be good, for her—eyes glued to the page, he did not notice as one hand slipped free from the book and disappeared behind it. Did not notice Rook’s fingers circling between her thighs until, with a sweet, low moan, her hips gave an impulsive thrust against his.

It took him a moment to register the accompanying rush of slick warmth dripping out of her; a moment longer to realize she was so wet because she was now touching herself, and when it finally clicked his whole body shuddered deliciously. He watched, enraptured, as she stroked herself with middle and ring finger; felt his legs begin to shake behind her at just the sight and the sound of her bringing herself pleasure.

Faintly, in the recesses of his mind, a nagging—with a rush of urgency, Emmrich realized: she has not told me to stop.

Her thighs were trembling with coiling pleasure; the book had become unsteady in her grasp. Emmrich lifted one of his own from her thigh to secure it, had to lick his lips and swallow against the sudden dryness in his throat. And as the contractions of her soft, swollen sex began to accelerate, signaling her imminent finish, he forced his eyes back to the book.

“...of the phenomenon—scholars—would later t-term veil lustration, though of course—of course, no such designation existed in her time…”

Above him, Rook’s eyes widened. Gone, now, was the haughty, controlling demeanor with which this encounter had begun. She looked at him now with only open adoration. Emmrich kept reading, though he did not think she really heard a word that he was saying. But the look on her face only became softer and more vulnerable when confronted with such relentless obedience, and it was not long before adoration was slipping into desperation, need—

“Emmrich!”

Her whole body shuddered, curling around herself as reached her own satisfaction, drawing her climax out with tight little twitches of her fingers on her clit, and it felt—it almost never felt this good just to watch her finish, to feel her grip and writhe on him as her body sang with pleasure, but perhaps because she had done nothing more than sit on him until now, it was nearly enough to tip him over the edge.

But not quite.

It took Rook a moment to recover, breathing deeply, eyes squeezed shut. Still, she kept the book adamantly fixed in her grasp. And when she finally opened her eyes, she looked at him with such a smouldering, devastated look—a wild look—a predator daring prey to run, eager for the chase.

Emmrich swallowed. He turned his eyes back to the book.

“These early ventures would later form the basis of—”

Rook wrenched the book out of his grasp and in one swift, dismissive movement, tossed it to the floor.

Emmrich had about half a second to be consternated about this rough treatment of such a precious volume before Rook had pinned his shoulder in one hand and, leaning over him, began to fuck him in furious earnest.

It was too much, all at once; the stimulation; the friction; the brisk chill of the air in the meditation room every time she withdrew from him; the ecstatic warmth and velvety wetness of her when she took him inside of her again. The way she spoke to him:

“By the Maker, Emmrich, but I love your voice.” Nothing practiced or sultry about, pitched in a frantic, keening sort of tone that told Emmrich she really meant it; if he hadn’t already been red he’d be coloring from head to toe. “And you were so good. So, so good, so patient. So focused, even with your cock twitching like that inside of me—”

“Rook.” He practically wept her name. He could barely think, nevermind speak, body so alight with pleasure it had begun to crowd out everything else. “Darling, please, may I…?”

“Yeah,” Rook answered, emphatically—enthusiastically. “Yes, Emmrich, you can cum—cum inside me now, cum for me.”

And she began to thrust against him in the way she knew by now he liked best: grinding in his lap, long, smooth rolls of her hips against his, driving him fully to the hilt within her. Emmrich felt his own hips rolling to meet her, to match her rhythm—this time, Rook did not stop him. Then with a gasp and a shout every muscle in his body was diamond-tight and scintillating, though he shook like so much dust; and he spilled himself inside of her as she moaned his name and clenched around him, meeting his orgasm with her own.

…the warm weight of her in his lap; her sharp huffs as she caught her breath, her breasts rising and falling—the world came back to Emmrich slowly. With the book discarded, he could see plainly now the damp sheen on his stomach, the mess Rook had made leaking over him. A situation not likely to be improved in the short term, Emmrich thought, as he could already feel the the thick warmth of his own seed beginning to spill out of her, around his softening shaft.

And Rook looked at him… like he was everything. With a love that he had coveted in others but had come to believe he would never really possess himself.

Rook looked at him with a love that would make Death itself quake.

Slowly, delicately, she leaned her face down to his. Emmrich sighed, closing his eyes, expecting a kiss.

Instead, Rook pulled away; and opening his eyes in his ensuing confusion, Emmrich saw she had plucked the book back up off the floor, and was spreading it open again in her lap.

He was practically flaccid inside of her, but she had not unseated herself from him; it seemed, she had absolutely no intention of doing so. At least, not yet.

“Now, pick up where you left off,” she told him, “and keep going while you drip out of me.”

#emmrich volkarin #fanfic #smut #I swear I have insightful intelligent things to say and write about this character but for now he's just getting slammed down sloppy style

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