#emmg

[lafaiette]

WIP Thursday

Tagged by @emmg ! I'm actually finishing the last chapter of a fic unrelated to DA, but I wrote this short snippet after watching all the review videos and getting inspired. I missed writing my Scarlet 😭

I don't know who to tag, to be honest - please feel free to participate if you see this on your dash!

Varric walked into the room with a weary sigh. There were times when the years weighed more than usual on his short frame, as if heavy boulders filled with regrets were pressing on his shoulders.

He forced a smile back on his face when he saw the Inquisitor standing next to a table, studying what looked like a map of northern Thedas - just like he had left her a few hours prior, when he had gone to rest his dusty old bones for a while.

"Ah, Shy, you work too hard."

She smiled at him, but her eyes quickly went back to the map, as if she couldn't look away from it even for a second. The fingers of her real hand were dirty with ink, meaning she had been taking notes, or perhaps writing letters.

She looked tired, pale, and Varric felt a pang of fatherly concern, mixed with pride.

"At least use another candle." he said, lighting one up for her and placing it on the table. Better, but the room was still a bit dark, and her golden eyes looked as bloodshot as ever.

"It's alright, Varric. I'll go to sleep as soon as I'm done checking some things here."

She nodded at the map, and Varric noticed the small symbols she had written on it with a pencil - arrows, some sort of trail leading from Antiva to Tevinter, question marks...

"I doubt Solas' hideout will appear on there, no matter how much you keep glaring at it, Shy."

He regretted his words as soon as they left his mouth, but she laughed, the sound very similar to the one she would make in the past, back when she was still Inquisitor.

"You're right, but I can't help it."

She pushed back her red hair from her face, trying to put some rebellious locks behind her long ears. He noticed her prosthetic arm moved stiffly, and made a mental note to ask Dagna to check it later.

"We'll find him, Scarlet." he swore, locking eyes with her. Her face, free from vallaslin ever since that night at Crestwood, suddenly looked younger as she stared at him, eyes wide.

Then a melancholy smile curled her lips, timid like his nickname for her, but also filled with hope.

"If this 'Rook' you found is as good as you claim..."

"Oh, they are! They're basically my right hand, at this point."

"... Then I'm not worried."

"Last time I heard them, they said they had a good feeling about a new trail." He sighed, staring at the strong flame of the new candle he had lit up. "I think this is it, Inquisitor."

She swallowed and glanced back at the map, just for a moment, the fingers of her left, fake hand twitching at her side.

"I just hope you and your friend will have better luck at talking with him than I did."

"You know me, Inquisitor." Varric gave her his famous lopsided grin, puffing out his chest. "I can be very convincing when I want to."

"Yes." She smiled again, another small victory. But she got serious and worried again, making Varric tense up. "But please - promise me you and Rook will be careful."

"I promise." He even crossed his heart, hoping to make her smile or laugh again. But Scarlet kept staring at him, pale and gaunt, anxious and worried, her love for Solas still burning strong in her heart after all those years.

Varric knew he still visited her dreams. He had - without meaning to - heard her talk about it with Dorian.

"But first..." He glared at her. "Promise me something in return."

Scarlet's eyebrows rose in surprise, and she nodded.

"Please, please, take care of yourself while me and Harding are away." Varric snorted, crossing his arms. "Solas would weep if he saw how exhausted you are. And I don't want him to skin me alive when we'll manage to drag him back to you."

Scarlet giggled - a third victory! Varric cheered - and nodded, the jawbone hanging from her neck swinging back and forth.

"Good! Now go eat something and rest. I'll tidy things up here."

"Thank you, Varric."

She left the room, her fake arm stiff, almost still. Varric turned to the table, instictively stared at Minrathous' icon on the map for a few seconds, then sighed and started putting away all the notes and letters scattered here and there, hoping he would have good news to share with her soon.

[lafaiette]

@emmg I have something a bit sad for you 🫠

“You’re pitiful,” the statue continued, his voice filled with more anger and contempt. “I should have never followed you. I should have seen you for what you really were and left you to rot! You…”

“I’m sorry for your death, lethallin,” Scarlet interrupted it, raising her voice a little to drown out the regret’s grating one. “And Solas is sorry, too.”

“Being sorry won’t absolve him.”

“What is he supposed to do, then? Do you want him to wallow in misery and sorrow for all eternity? Would that be a fitting punishment?”

She glared at the statue, at what it represented. It was a trap, perfectly conceived by the regret prison, Solas’ magicks turning the Fade into the most efficient of weapons.

“Or would you perhaps want to see him dead by his own hand, killing himself to pay for everything?”

“That’s the easy way out,” the statue spat, glaring at her in return. Unlike Varric’s, Felassan’s regret had no problems addressing her directly. It spoke to her, reacted to her, almost as if she were Solas, or as if she shared his same faults and crimes.

Was the prison changing tactics to make things even harder for Solas? Was that even possible? She would need to ask him later.

Give my yalls WIPs

@heylittleriotact @adinfernumadinfinitum @jainydoe @lafaiette @thessaralka

Also literally everyone else and pls tag me, I’m in a rut and need inspiration lmfao

[heylittleriotact]

⚰ＷＩＰ ＷＨＥＮＥＶＥＲ⚰

I've been tagged by @xxnashiraxx and love seeing their work pop up on my dash - thank you <3

The Soup du Jour is... smut! Plotless, pointless, porntacular, horny Emmrook smut.

We've got praise kinks, we've got flashing, we've got grinding, we've got trying-to-distract-this-poor-man-from-his-work, we've got Rook biting off more than she can chew when Emmrich calls her bluff. It is in this piece that I am (ultimately) going to make good on my threat of Emmrich reciting erotic poetry intimately into Rook's ear while he makes deeply passionate love to her, because that idea has lived rent-free in my head for days now and I need to manifest it. But first I need Rook to be a brat, and for Emmrich to... deal with that.

I was having doubts about this one because I am forever afraid of writing OOC, but honestly I'm just trying to chuck it in the fuck it bucket and have fun.

Tagging: @preciouslittlebhaalbae (you have TIME now MWAHAHAHA), @allofthebarks (don't hold out on me), @emmg (I know you're cooking 👀)

Under the cut because it is ✨EXPLICIT✨

𝒱𝒾𝓈𝒾𝓉𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃:

A funeral event where the prepared body of the deceased is reposed in the casket (open or closed) so that mourners may pay their respects, say their goodbyes, and grieve communally prior to the formal funeral service.

She knew exactly what she was doing when she pulled on the flimsy little camisole. She had very specific plans in mind when she slipped into the thin leggings that she knew were just a little too tight. There was a distinct reason she had chosen to completely forgo underthings. 

She tied her thick hair into a low bun at the base of her skull so her neck was clearly visible… as was the somewhat faded love bite from their previous encounter - the one that made Lace turn beetroot when she laid eyes on it at breakfast. The one that prompted Taash to reach over the table with a congratulatory high five. Emmrich had coughed awkwardly and subtly adjusted his own collar, clearly hoping the marks Amina had left on his neck in return were concealed.

She padded barefoot down the hallway to the laboratory, stomach fluttering and turning on itself in a not unpleasant way with the sheer anticipation of being in his proximity again. She couldn’t help but be drawn to him - his immense gravity could not be ignored; her need to be near him was insistent. She put little stock in the novelty of fate before Emmrich, but there was no doubt in her mind that there must have been some sort of cosmic ruling in which they were unwittingly sentenced by the stars to find one another. Her belly smouldered at the thought of such a thing… of such belonging.

She knocked gently on the door. “It’s me - may I come in?” 

She didn’t have to wait for an answer, nor did she have to turn the knob herself: she heard a chair scuff over the flagstone, the muffled jingle of gold - a sound that set her heart racing more often than not these days - and the door was flung open. Emmrich stood in the threshold, beaming affectionately down at her. 

“Of course, darling.” He took her hand and pulled her into the room, reaching over her shoulder to shut the door once she was inside. She might have been embarrassed that the sound of the lock clicking behind her made her breath catch solely due to its implication, but she was having a hard time feeling much of anything but barely restrained lust for the man in front of her. 

He drew her in close with an arm around her waist, still holding her hand between them, massaging her palm with his thumb as he bowed his head to kiss her sweetly. Her knees went weak when his lips met hers and his familiar scent filled her nose, rendering her brain incapable of anything other than inwardly chanting the same base sentiment over and over for as long as the kiss lasted: Home! Home! Home! Home! You’re home!

He straightened and looked at her, smiling as though he hadn’t heard the hungry little moan that had slipped from her, nor perceived the way she’d pressed as much of her body against him as she could during their embrace. “How are you today?” He asked, genuinely interested - as always. He knew. Surely he knew that she was positively bursting with need for him.

“Fine,” she breathed, returning the smile, watching as he started back towards the desk that was covered with books, inkpots, and parchment. “I’m well, thank you. Just thought I’d come say hello, see what you’re up to.”  

He pulled a chair over to the opposite side of the desk for her to sit on. She opted to remain standing instead, her eyes flitted over the pages of drying ink spread over the desk. 

“More letters home?” She waited until he was settled in his chair again, the quill back in his hand, and she bent at the waist to take a closer look at a recent anatomical drawing he’d completed. She could feel the cozy heat of the laboratory caress the exposed peaks of her breasts as the insubstantial shirt draped downward, offering a generous eyeful to anyone who might be sitting directly across from her. 

Her eyes flicked up from the drawing when Emmrich didn’t answer right away, a clever smile pulling at the corners of her mouth when she caught him red-handed; his eyes locked on the dainty swell of her breasts. 

He came to his senses when he felt her eyes on him and he comprehended the coquettish smirk on her face. “Yes.” He licked his lips. “Yes. Maintaining alliships and channels of communication is vital as we draw closer to our confrontation with the gods.” He swallowed and smiled again as Amina straightened and rounded the desk, settling against the wood on his side now.

“A fine plan,” she concurred, leaning back on her hands, her very visible nipples more or less eye level for the handsome academic to admire. “I hope I’m not distracting you: it’s so rare that I get a few hours to just relax these days.” She made a bit of a show of tilting her chin up and slowly rolling her head from side to side, stretching out the muscles of her neck and making sure Emmrich could see the soft plum-tinted bloom of colour he’d imparted on her skin as he sent her over the edge with his name on her lips, buried to the hilt between her legs as she clenched hard around him, her fingers curled tightly in his soft, thick hair. ‘You are incredible, darling,’ he had sighed against her tingling skin afterwards when they were little more than a tangled, panting heap of limbs. It had taken a good hour after that before she could walk again…

Amina squirmed against the desk a little at the thought, aware of the burgeoning wetness that was accumulating at the juncture of her thighs. 

Somehow Emmrich managed to maintain the discipline required to look back at the letter he was working on, his lips curling quaintly. “Not at all, my dear - quite the contrary in fact: I’m so glad that you’re finally taking some time to look after yourself.” He dipped the quill, tapped it once, twice, and then brought it to the paper.

She observed him in silence until he seemingly made peace with the fact that she was not going to sit on the chair he’d brought over for her, and instead pushed his own back slightly, pulling her down onto his lap where she perched gleefully, having gotten what she wanted. 

“I must concede that you are somewhat distracting, so I will need your assistance in proofreading these before they’re sent out - I do have an academic reputation to maintain, regardless of the beautiful woman on my knee.” 

“Is that so?” Amina purred, nuzzling into his neck, her lips barely ghosting over his skin that smelled organic and clean - crisp soap and freshly cut sage… a lingering hint of pipe tobacco and expensive brandy. 

Oh yes, she was going to be one hell of a distraction…

“She sounds like a real piece of work, this woman. It’s a marvel that you get anything done at all with her around.” She tilted her hips ever so slightly. Not enough for it to be claimed that she was trying to get a rise out of him, but enough so that the fingernails of his left hand dug into her side a little where he gripped her. A pleased smile took her lips at the feeling of him against her, already half hard: he could pretend to be aloof and composed all he liked, but she knew that there was only one possible outcome for this encounter. 

“I was just having a similar thought, as it turns out,” he murmured, breath catching slightly when Amina ground against him more deliberately this time. “She’s cornered me in my laboratory no fewer than three times this week, you see: my productivity has utterly plummeted.”

The way he whispered those words, his voice so sinful and cunning…

“Oh dear…” Amina tutted. “Well we can’t have that now, can we?” She moved to slide from his lap, fully prepared to at least pretend that she cared a whit about Emmrich’s ‘productivity’ of late. 

He held her fast though, keeping her on his lap with his hands and arms, and the sheer fact of his existence alone. She rewarded him with a satisfied hum and another agonizingly slow roll of her hips, suspecting that she was probably beginning to soak through her thin pants.

His hand dropped from her waist to her thigh and he palmed the expanse of hard muscle there, dragging his fingers towards her hip as he leaned forward and his hot breath washed over the sensitive shell of her ear, driving a small gasp from her as she flinched in his grasp: he had not been idly boasting during that dinner date about his anatomical prowess.

“I fear I wouldn’t have it any other way…” he confided, those artful, nimble fingers of his straying to her waistband and slipping beneath it. He sharply inhaled through his teeth and uttered a soft ‘oh’ when he found her waiting for him, slick and needy. There was a slight tremor in his voice when he said, “She is intoxicating, you see…”

She moaned encouragingly as he swirled a finger through her, clearly enjoying the experience of her arousal alone: she could distinctly feel his hardness against her rear now.

Oh how she longed to ravish him - ride him to completion on this very chair, or on the floor perhaps. Maybe against one of the many bookshelves that lined the room - they had dallied against one the week before, her leg hitched up around his thin waist, pulling him deeper as he set a pace that stole her breath from her lungs and hit angles that caused her to see stars. 

Or she could bend over the railing of the balcony upstairs and feign interest in the curious nature of their environs while he slammed into her over and over again, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips… 

Of course there had been the rather awkward instance a few days earlier where Manfred had wandered in on them both in a state of partial undress: Emmrich’s waistcoat hanging open, Amina dragging her hands through his hair, her own shirt piled in a careless heap on the floor nearby and Emmrich’s hand down her pants as she tried to kick off her high-heeled lilac slippers without removing her lips from his skin. Manfred had launched himself between the two of them with a consternated hiss, clearly interpreting their entanglement to mean they were fighting instead of well… the other thing. The following day, Emmrich gave his first in a series of many lectures to Manfred about the birds and the bees - and reiterated the invaluable virtue of always knocking before entering a room that might have someone else in it.

She was snapped from her musing at the sublime sensation of Emmrich’s finger dragging along the ridges of her walls as he slid the digit inside of her. She let out a small gasp at the intrusion and reflexively clenched around it, hips rocking against his once more. 

“... but I really must finish these letters.” There was a playful, coy edge to his voice as he slowly withdrew his finger and slowly pushed it back in. “This striking woman of mine will need to exercise patience today, it seems…”

Something about being his striking woman in particular sent a jolt of arousal straight through her very soul. She could feel the cool metal of his rings against her feverish skin as he cupped her sex, his thumb brushing almost tauntingly over her aching clit. 

“Please, Emmrich…” she whined, arching up into his touch, making her need plain. 

The demonstration of manners earned her a second finger, but her lover did not deviate from his task as he leaned forward, dipped the quill, and began to write once more. “In good time, my precious love,” he soothed. “Try to relax for the time being - I shan’t take long.” 

“It feels so good though…” 

“That’s wonderful, darling - I want you to feel good.” 

She fell silent, the wind in the sails of her desire to argue stilling as she let her head fall against the back of the chair and closed her eyes, allowing herself to exist in the moment - holding on tight to every emphatic response of her nervous system as Emmrich touched her with a capable familiarity that suggested he’d touched her a thousand times before; the erotic symphony of the quill scratching over the parchment mingled with the sound of his fingers moving within her… her breathy moans… his many bangles shifting gently with each purposeful gesture…

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured eventually - she had lost track of time - kissing her shoulder before returning to the letter. He had to be nearly done, hadn’t he? “So good for me… my sweet Amina…”

She whimpered at his words - the reverent praise tolling something deep within her that was starved and lonely. She writhed on his thigh as he placed tender kisses all over her cheek and crooked his fingers, stroking that euphoric place inside of her that made cognizant thought impossible and made her thighs tremble like she’d been in the training hall all day. He took her apart slowly, casually… effortlessly, and before long she was fluttering around him, cheeks and lips flushed a delicate pink, staring down an orgasm that was about to be everyone in the building’s business - she could feel it: the deep fire in her belly roiling and twisting on itself, going taut, so tense and eager that one more touch could snap it, yielding the most decadent release…

And then he was gone, the absence of his touch keenly felt as her walls flexed and tensed around the sudden nothingness. 

She glowered at him, though her stomach flip-flopped enthusiastically as she watched him taste her on his slender fingers with a dignified poise she should have expected. “That was cruel.”

“Is it cruel to strive to linger in a garden of untold majesty forever, even knowing forever is unobtainable?” He stroked those same fingers gently over her lips and she caught the tip of one between her teeth, flicking the very tip of her tongue over the fleshy pad of it. “I want to savour you, my dear.” He buried his nose in her hair and inhaled her scent. “Let me take my time.”

[adinfernumadinfinitum]

Welcome to my silly little fan theory @emmg:

How Raphael is the ‘Mastermind’ behind the plot of Baldur’s Gate 3…

…or how I give him more importance than I should.

DISCLAIMER:

In this ‘dissertation,’ I present my take on things based on Dungeons and Dragons 5e lore from the Forgotten Realms universe, along with fandom theories and headcanons where they suit me. This is NOT an in-depth analysis of anything, so I won’t be reciting specific quotes, etc.

I repeat, this is just MY take on things. If a similar theory already exists, feel free to reach out, and I’ll gladly tag the material!

Oh, and there are a lot of spoilers about, well, everything, so read at your own risk ⚠️

I thank the lovely @bitethedevil for allowing me to tag their posts, making it easier on me so I don’t have to write everything out! I also want to take this moment to appreciate their work and contributions to this fandom! ☺️

Introduction

Baldur’s Gate 3 is a brilliant, complex, multi-layered game filled with multiple villains, heroic figures, and a plot that weaves players in seamlessly. That’s why we love this game—at least, that’s why I do—the gripping storyline and its faceted characters.

The game is set in the Forgotten Realms with DnD lore and rules, while still adding and maintaining its own unique features and twists.

But what if we entirely take a look at it from DnD lore perspective?

Section 1: Raphael as the core character in Baldur’s Gate 3

Fans of the Emperor might argue with me here, but oh man, have you seen how many pies Raphael has his fingers in?

This narcissistic little shit of a cambion plotted his grand design to take the Crown of Karsus for over 2,000 years, planning everything with terrifying precision and putting in a staggering amount of effort—all to manipulate Tav or Durge into giving him the crown.

To understand just how far back his scheming goes, we have to start with the fall of Netheril. As Raphael himself tells us, this is where it all began, and when his father seized the crown, it became impossible for Raphael to obtain it himself.

Baator—the Nine Layers of Hell—has its own system and rules. The plane is aligned as lawful evil, and by its laws, anyone who breaks them is punished; in other words, theft is a crime (don’t try this at home edition).

Am I going to explain the system and rules of the Nine Hells? Hell no, or I’ll be sitting here until next Halloween. Sorry, maybe in a separate post sometime (or not) 😭

So Raphael had to get creative if he wanted to get his greedy claws on the crown.

You can read about how much Raphael’s involvement is actually found in the game Baldur’s Gate 3 here.

What’s relevant for this ‘dissertation’ are the following points, which all show how he orchestrates the plot:

1. Raphael, Vlaakith, and the Astral Prism —

Raphael even plots to capture Orpheus. Not personally, of course, but with the knowledge that it could benefit him and would even serve its purpose in the future. This is a crucial detail.

However, I don’t believe Raphael would craft or have someone craft an item like the Astral Prism, as well as the bindings of Orpheus (the mask, chains, and binding crystals) and the Orphic Hammer. It’s more likely these objects already existed in the Hells, with Raphael profiting by dealing with them.

Sadly there is no official information on that, I really find that interesting.

As for why the Orphic Hammer is called Orphic Hammer - why is Orpheus called Orpheus? He’s a liberator for his people, having inherited the power of Mother Gith, who freed the Gith from mind flayer enslavement. The character of Orpheus draws heavily from Orpheus in Greek mythology, a symbol of liberation, love, and the attempt to rescue a soul from the bonds of death. The term “Orphic” reflects this sense of breaking free from constraints or seeking transformation (of course, it has other meanings, too, but this one feels like what the developers were aiming for).

So the hammer’s name has both symbolic depth and a bit of pun, as it’s intended to free the character Orpheus from his chains.

ANYWAY

2. Raphael, Moonrise Towers, and the Gauntlet of Shar —

The amount of interwoven contracts Raphael has made in the Shadow Cursed Lands is suspicious, and each and every one of them is too , an important point.

Isn’t it just a bit too convenient that Ketheric’s misery plays right into Raphael’s hands? The Shadow-Cursed Lands—Reithwin, once ruled by Ketheric, formerly full of Selunite worshippers but ruined by schemes of the Dark Lady who turned a grieving worshipper of her sister into a Shar follower and leader of an army of Dark Justiciars—is a whole breeding ground for contracts and a stage for Raphael’s play.

Hold on, I’m not implying that I believe Raphael had a hand in Shar’s mischief here, but I do think Raphael handpicked Ketheric, a grieving and obsessed madman (a truly tragic character, honestly), to be an unwitting pawn in his schemes, without directly involving himself. To do this, he contracted with desperate beings like the Architect, Yurgir, and the last Dark Justiciar.

To understand why Raphael would even need Ketheric, we have to look a step further.

3. Raphael and my beloved raccoon boy, Gortash —

Raphael buying Gortash from his parents was a calculated move and the final piece in the Netherbrain plot scheme.

I believe Raphael specifically chose Enver Gortash, a boy with potential, for his plans to get the Crown of Karsus.

Look, Gortash is anything but dumb; in fact, he’s the exact opposite. He learned the ropes in Hell, literally imprisoned in Raphael’s House of Hope. All jokes aside about pot-scrubbing duty and overhearing Raphael and Haarlep getting it on, Gortash is a quick learner.

Raphael just had to watch as Gortash escaped the House of Hope with vital information about the crown. With this, Raphael set up an ambitious, cunning man with the drive to steal the crown.

And this is where Ketheric returns to the picture. Ketheric, the chosen of Myrkul; Gortash, the chosen of Bane; and Durge, the chosen of Bhaal.

As for how Raphael might have gotten his hands on Durge? I’ll leave that as the theory’s plot hole.

I could fill it with headcanons—like Gortash and Durge knowing each other even before Gortash was sold—but that feels a bit far-fetched.

Actually, all of this is a bit far-fetched, but hey, it’s my silly little theory.

But hey again, we’re slowly coming to a conclusion how Raphael is the mastermind behind BG3, do you see my vision?

All Raphael needed was patience. The chosen ones, Gortash and Durge, set the stage by planning the Netherbrain coup and, in stealing the crown, executed Raphael’s plan. All they needed was the third chosen, Ketheric, to carry out the rest of the plot: building the Absolute’s army, etc., the rest we know...

So, what was left? Just someone desperate enough to make a deal with Raphael and actually hand over the Crown of Karsus. And how would he pull that off?

✨The Tadpole Gang✨

Every single one of them fits the bill. Especially if the player chooses Durge.

The next question is: how could he manipulate the group if they were under the Absolute’s influence? Well, that’s where the Emperor comes onto the stage.

Because, hear me out one more time: isn’t it convenient that the Emperor, of all people, finds the Astral Prism? A figure obsessed with freedom and manipulation, ambitious and clever, who would serve perfectly as a kind of protection shield from the Elder Brain’s influence for the gang? And to that even a disposable figure as it is a mind flayer who would not be trusted in the end.

(Naturally, in the game the player is the ultimate executional force, making any kind of higher plan or scheme either perfect or useless)

Nevertheless, this is as far as I will dive into this specific pond.

I just think it adds up nicely.

But Björni, if you have a Section 1, what about a Section 2? you might ask. Well, here it comes…

… how this ‘dissertation’ is actually about Mephistopheles being the ‘Mastermind’ behind the plot of Baldur’s Gate 3.

Section 2: Raphael as the Scapegoat

DnD’s lore about fiends—and, specifically, cambions—teaches us that they’re doomed to fail from birth. While they may think they’re in control of their schemes, they’re actually playing into the hands of their fiendish parent.

Ever wondered why Mephistopheles would even bother devouring Raphael if we defeat him? Sure, cambion sons are nourishing (yum yum), but given Mephistopheles’ personality, I’d guess he does it to humiliate his son, even in death, for being a failure—a failure to retrieve the crown for his father.

But wait, Mephistopheles already had the crown—why would he bother plotting all of this just to get it back? Isn’t that a bit over-the-top, Björni?

Bear with me: it’s not officially written anywhere, but it’s more or less canon based on what we know of the Archdevils Asmodeus and Mephistopheles.

Asmodeus rules the Hells, while Mephistopheles, as the Archduke of the 8th layer, Cania, is arguably the second most powerful being in Baator. Mephistopheles has never stopped dreaming of overthrowing Asmodeus, even after repeatedly failing miserably. But if he openly tried to use the crown against Asmodeus, it would be a direct affront, and Asmodeus would have shut it down from the start.

Mephistopheles has other children besides Raphael, and Raphael isn’t exactly useless, he’s actually the complete opposite. Strategically, it wouldn’t make sense to discard such a puppet (call him son)—unless Raphael had done something atrocious. And for someone as mighty as Mephistopheles, controlling his little cambion son would be child’s play. So, then why does Raphael hate his father so much, and why is Raphael ‘residing’ in Avernus?

As we know, Avernus is the armpit of Baator, a plane for exiles and outcasts.

I think Mephistopheles intentionally filled his relationship with Raphael with hatred, so Raphael’s ambition to overthrow his father would ignite and one day serve him. When Mephistopheles got the Crown of Karsus, unable to wield it himself, he set the stage for his son’s scheme—by casting Raphael aside, Mephistopheles set him on the path to steal the crown, with Mephistopheles only indirectly involved in overthrowing Asmodeus. Raphael would do the dirty work—taking over the other layers—before ultimately facing his father, who could then just snatch the crown from him. And yes, I do believe Mephistopheles is arrogant enough to think he’d still be more powerful than his son, even with a god-like artifact. He has that bloated of an ego.

BUT (Nr. 36,252), what about Asmodeus? Wouldn’t he step in and crush the plan?

Here’s the thing: Asmodeus generally doesn’t mind if his archdukes fight for control of their layers, as long as it doesn’t threaten his supreme authority or destabilize Hell’s hierarchy. In fact, he encourages a bit of rivalry and ambition among his archdevils, as infighting serves his purposes.

And can you imagine THE Asmodeus being worried about an over-ambitious cambion?

However, this leads to the TRUE instigator and the true subject of this ‘dissertation’…

… how Asmodeus is actually the ‘Mastermind’ behind the plot of Baldur’s Gate 3.

Section 3: Asmodeus doing things, just because

Joke’s on you—it’s been about Asmodeus all along, because even if he’d lose (not that he ever would—he’s just that powerful), he’d claim at the last minute that it was his plan all along. Losing trusted allies? What a bunch of traitors—perfect excuse to clean house. Losing Baator? Finally, he was sick of the job.

All jokes aside, Asmodeus being the cunning bastard he is, would likely pull off everything mentioned above.

To understand why he’d even bother, let’s take a quick (really quick, this is already getting too long) dive into his background and shenanigans in DnD.

Throughout DnD’s development from 1e to 5e, Asmodeus has gone through quite the evolution, eventually becoming a Greater Deity, the Embodiment of Evil, and one of the mightiest beings in existence, rivaled only by Ao.

While 5e keeps things vague to allow player interpretation, Asmodeus has consistently been the most powerful entity in the Hells—a schemer, strategist, and supreme manipulator.

(Here’s the only quote I’ll reference:) “[…] His sinister machinations could take centuries, if not millennia, to come to fruition, and his master plans extended across the entire multiverse. His labyrinthine, insidious intrigues could seem inexplicable to most outside observers, for Asmodeus let even his own servants stew in fear of his next move. With all the planes as his board, the Lord of Lies maneuvered the forces of evil like chess pieces in his grand designs, slowly and subtly manipulating everyone from deities to, when needed, lowly mortals.”

He’s described as being a thousand steps ahead of everyone. And while most of his plans serve greater purposes beyond even godly comprehension, some things he does just because—just for fun.

CONCLUSION

Of course Asmodeus knew Mephistopheles had the crown. Of course he knew Mephistopheles would never use it openly against him. And of course he knew Mephistopheles would keep scheming to use it indirectly, bringing his cambion son Raphael into the game.

Why would Asmodeus let all this happen, and why am I saying he’s the real mastermind?

Like already mentioned, Asmodeus often (indirectly) encourages and manipulates his archdukes to scheme and fight among themselves as a means to reinforce his dominance, foster survival of the fittest, and test loyalty within the infernal hierarchy. However, he maintains strict boundaries, and any conflict that risks his supreme authority, disrupts Hell’s role in the multiverse, or leads to excessive chaos would be swiftly and ruthlessly quashed. In Asmodeus’s mind, such rivalries are a useful tool—as long as they remain safely under his control.

In my view, the Crown of Karsus was never a real threat to him; this whole plot served his entertainment, tested loyalties, or helped him gauge his chess pieces.

And that’s how Asmodeus is the real mastermind behind the plot of Baldur’s Gate 3.

Thanks for reading this mass of nonsense ❤️

Why I even bothered with all this shit? It’s one of the key plot points in my longfic, Ah, You Devil!

[elgarwhore]

Probably the type of arguments they'd have before Solas' rebellion

Also I blame @emmg for the wig snatch thing because now the idea has been replaying in my mind.

[postcardsfromheapside]

No what we really need to talk about is the fact that the corpse flower's scientific name means "large phallus”

I AINT SEE NO ONE TALKIN ABOUT HIS GODDAMN DESIGN

Mayhaps I missed it from early discussions, but they made this man a goddamn corpse flower...

His designers deserve so many kisses on the forehead for this especially since he would have been a botanist if he wasn't a necromancer

[fenharel-babe]

Meow

Solas gets some…interesting news about the Inquisitor, and is shocked when he sees her again.

This is based on this post that I loved so long ago and finally am actually writing. It’s gonna be longer and cuter but have this for right now.

@emmg here you go :))). I would’ve reblogged your other post of showing WIPs but I’m on mobile rn and do not feel like copying it all one at a time since this WIP is deep in my drafts LMAO.

.

He honestly didn’t know how to deal with it. When he heard whispers of the news, he was shocked and saw it as a joke rumor that Sera spread.

But hers usually were physical pranks, not this.

Bloom was supposed to arrive at Skyhold that morning. Solas, like he always did, waited in the rotunda for her. She always came there when she arrived, no matter how tired she was. She loved getting a quick hug from him before she did whatever other business she needed to do. She’d also maybe sneak a kiss or two before she would leave. But that morning, she didn’t arrive as herself. She arrived as…

A cat.

A. Cat.

At first, he didn’t know it was her. He waited and waited that morning, but she never came to greet him, and he even heard the people whisper and say, “The inquisitor is back!” He assumed that maybe she had urgent matters to attend to, not even having time to stop by and see him. He understood that, and wouldn’t blame her. Even if a small part of him was sad he didn’t see her.

That is, until Cassandra came marching into the rotunda. He stood up quickly, expecting some kind of emergency, but instead saw her coming towards him with a small cat. The cat was white with orange and black spots around her face and on her body, and had a tail that was black. The eyes were bright blue, which was not usually found in cats.

Cassandra walked up to him and gently placed the cat on his table. She sighed and ran a hand across her forehead. “So, we have an issue.”

The cat immediately walked over to Solas, carefully avoiding his books, and sat on the edge of the desk. It stood up and reached its paws towards him. It meowed at him, and kept meowing and reaching for him.

He sat back down with an unease look on his face. “What’s the issue involving a cat?” At the mention of its presence, it reached out again for him, meowing. He gently pet the top of its head, smiling when it leaned into his hand, arching its back when he trailed his hand down.

“The cat is the inquisitor,” Cassandra said blankly.

He froze and looked up at her with wide eyes. “The cat is what?” He looked at the cat and pulled his hand back immediately. The cat meowed multiple times again, as if she’s trying to explain, but she gives up and makes a growling sound.

Cassandra sighed. “There were some mages that attacked us, and they cast a spell and it must’ve gone wrong.” She looked down at the cat—who she claims is Bloom—and gently taps her paw. “She seems to be conscious and not completely a cat, but…she’s stuck looking like this.” Her face and tone was completely serious, but she was worried. As a cat, Bloom had more chances of being hurt or even carried away by someone.

“Bloom?” Solas asked. The cat looked over immediately and meowed. He thought of how to prove it was her, and not a random cat. “Show me where my sketchbook is,” he ordered. Only Bloom knew where it was, and a regular cat couldn’t just find it by chance. The cat immediately jumped down and went over to the paint cans in the corner of the room. They were covered by a big cloth, but she squeezed her way under it, and he could hear some scratching on the floor. Only a few moments later did the book come sliding across the floor, with her following soon after.

“I have never seen a spell like this before,” Solas said. He picked up the sketchbook, quietly laughing when Bloom ran over to him and pawed at his arm. Guessing what she wanted, he picked her up and carried her back to the desk, setting her on top. “I’m assuming some sort of transformation spell went wrong.” He sighed and looked above to the library. “I’ll have to do some research to fix this issue. I’m not certain about how long it will take.”

Cassandra nodded and glanced at Bloom. “Well, what do we do about her? She can’t just walk around Skyhold like a normal cat. She could get injured, or even taken away.”

“Have someone watching her at all times, then,” Solas suggested. He went to speak again, but the door opened again. It opened quick and loud, causing Bloom to yowl and moved to be beside Cassandra.

“Where is our lovely inquisitor? I have heard some…interesting news,” Dorian said with a barely contained smile. He gasped when he heard Bloom let out a high noise, and he went still as he saw her jump down from the desk. She ran over to Dorian and pawed at his leg, meowing very loudly. “I thought Sera was pulling my leg,” he said as he picked her up gently. She meowed at him even more before he laughed and gently poked her noise. “Dear, remember I cannot understand you. Talking like this is a waste of time.” She growled slightly before she went quiet again.

“Do you have a guess of how long this will take? I already know Josephine is panicking about all the things she has to put on hold,” Cassandra said with a little snort.

Solas looked away as he thought. “It can probably take a few days?” He guessed. He looked at Dorian. “I will need assistance to fix this as quickly as possible.” He ignored the small feeling of jealousy at seeing Bloom relaxing in Dorian’s arms.

“Aww, we can’t just keep her this tiny for awhile?” Dorian cooed. He rolled his eyes when Bloom growled again. “Fine, fine, we’ll fix this as soon as possible. Let’s go to the library and see what we have. I bet Vivienne is already on the case,” he said with a little chuckle. He walked over to Solas and held her out, almost dropping her into Solas’s arms.

“Be careful!” Cassandra scolded the two.

“Cats always land on their feet, she would’ve been fine if she fell. Besides, dear Solas would never let her fall.” He gestured towards the stairs that led to the library. “Now, shall we?”

.

.

[merciawintersageposting]

my gawd this fic by @emmg has everything

Lucanis getting cheese-blocked by Emmrich+Rook🤌🏻

a character study just as likely to give you butterflies as twist your gut

and help, i need hospital

[kirkwall-tourism-department]

Dirty Chai Latte

Modern AU where Emmrich is an anthropology professor and Rook is a barista at his favorite coffee shop.

Thank you so much to @ziskandra for beta reading!

also shoutout to @emmg for solving the "what subject would Emmrich teach" question

An oppressive mist hung over the parking lot, waiting to be dispelled by the sun that was preparing to creep over the horizon. The only thing illuminating  the area were the flickering streetlights  hovering in the air, dim bulbs fighting a losing battle against the early morning haze. A thick blanket of leaves rested over the pavement, wet from rain the night before. Silence hung in the air thick as fog, making Rook feel like she was the only person in the world. The plaza was always empty this early in the morning, save for Rook and her prehistoric  CR-V. 

Locking the car door, she passed by the collection of shops that comprised the Crossroads Business Park: a calzone shop she was convinced was a money-laundering front; a computer repair shop so chock-full of spare parts you could barely see the floor; and her favorite, the liquor store. Reaching her own storefront, she grabbed the keys to the door from her carabiner. The door's advanced age made it maddeningly stubborn to unlock. She pulled the wooden slab towards her, pushing it up and then away, all while slowly turning the key in the lock. Once she satisfied its demands, the door groaned open, revealing the still sleeping shop. Shelves lined the walls, housing hundreds of pre-loved books.  Mismatched wooden chairs sat upside down on tables, arranged haphazardly before the serving counter at the far side of the room, which was plastered with posters for avant-garde art exhibitions and shows of local bands. 

She flicked on the neon light that hung in the window- The Lighthouse Cafe. It was the first step of her decade-long morning routine. Despite her nocturnal tendencies, Varric, the owner, had told her she was the only staff member he trusted to be able to handle the morning rush. Especially this time of year- school had started just a month before, the rapidly increasing difficulty curve of the classes now demanding students stay up later to handle the workload. Which meant hordes of demanding, caffeine-deprived college students who usually neglected to tip. She continued through the rote motions of her mornings, clicking on all the different lamps that dotted the floor and tables of the cafe. They filled the small shop with a warm glow, turning it into a refuge from the persistent gloom that haunted the town this time of year. 

Making her way to the back room, she turned on the roaster and threw in a fresh batch of coffee beans. Waking up the ovens, she began to warm up the various pastries  Davrin had made the night before, preparing them for the display case. If she could only smell one thing for the rest of her life, this would be it. The sweet smell of croissants in the oven, punctuated by the pleasant acidity of roasting beans was the perfect thing to start the morning. Walking back to the service counter, she began to pull a triple shot of espresso and foam some milk, an extra-strong latte being the only way she survived mornings this early. Pouring the fresh coffee into her favorite mug, she layered the milk overtop, forming a perfect heart design with a practiced hand. She leaned on the counter, nursing her drink, wishing she could be back in bed.

The bell over the door rang out, reminding her of the one upside to the morning shift. Professor Emmrich Volkarin, an anthropology professor at Northern Thedas University, was always her earliest customer. Emmrich had been a regular at the cafe for several years, and was by far her favorite. As they opened before dawn, it was rare for someone besides him to come into the shop before sunrise, meaning they usually spent at least an hour in the mornings alone together. 

“Good morning, Rook,” the professor greeted her, unspooling the scarf that had been wrapped around his neck. He was always sharply dressed, radiating an aura of refined dignity, and never had a single silver hair out of place, meaning he stuck out like a sore thumb in this dive of a cafe. She never totally understood why he came here, besides how early they opened. When she had asked him a few years ago, he’d simply said that he liked to support local businesses, especially ones that made such good coffee. That had never felt like the full story to her, though.

“No such thing,” she laughed, starting to make his order before he could ask for it. It was always the same thing- a dirty chai latte, served in a mug she had reserved solely for him. She had found it at Target a year or two ago, decorated with little cartoon skulls and gravestones. Fitting, given that his area of academic expertise was funerary traditions from around the world. It was surprising, given his warm demeanor, that he would spend his life focusing on such a depressing topic. She finished her work, handing him the drink. 

“Thank you, Rook.” He took the mug, giving her a warm smile. He handed her his card and, as always, deposited a significant tip in the jar next to the cash register. His generosity was one of the many things that made him number one in her customer ranking. Taking his drink, he walked to his usual spot in the corner closest to the cash register, moving the chair from on top of the table to the floor. He sat on it, bringing out a laptop from his bag and beginning his work in earnest. This was always how he spent his mornings- carefully sipping his drink, poring over a book or working on something for his classes. He wasn’t bothered when Rook hadn’t finished completely  preparing the store by the time their doors opened, and she didn’t mind the extra company as she concluded her routine.

She finished her final opening duties, flipping over the rest of the chairs to the ground, organizing food in the display case, and grinding the freshly roasted beans into a usable medium. As she worked, she allowed herself to steal the occasional glance at the professor. In the best way possible, he looked like he belonged in a black-and-white horror movie. By far, the most anachronistic part of his appearance was the neatly trimmed mustache that she had never seen on another living human being. Somehow, he made it work.

“What are you working on?” she asked, peering over his shoulder as she walked behind him towards the cash register.

“Grading papers- the first of the semester.” 

“What about?”

“My students simply had to choose a funerary practice not used within their own culture. Honestly, the true purpose of the assignment was to allow me to gauge their writing and research skills more than for their own edification. I hate to assign busy work, but it’s a necessary evil to learn where all my students are on their academic journey,” he sighed, staring at his computer screen with dread.

“You’re usually excited about new students. What’s going on?”

“Frustratingly, the administrators of the College of Humanities decided to add my global funeral traditions class to the list of courses that satisfy a general education requirement. Which means I have significantly more students, and very few who seem to actually care for the subject matter.” He rubbed his temples, clearly trying to hide the extent of his annoyance. It was obvious that he made a concerted effort to maintain his composed appearance. His eloquent manner of speech, his refined sense of style, his unwavering kindness all contributed to the image of a perfect gentleman.

“I’m sure once you show them how interesting it is, they’ll get more into it. I mean, I know I have,” she reassured him. Over their many years of friendship, she had learned a lot about funerals- arguably, a concerning amount. It had gotten her many weird looks at parties when someone said something that reminded her of some obscure, morbid trivia fact Emmrich had taught her.

“Rook, what I would give to have more students with your enthusiasm for learning, " he said, giving her a grateful look. Rook felt blush start to prick at her cheeks, wishing she reacted to praise from him in a normal way. As much as she hated it, she couldn’t stop herself from getting butterflies when he smiled at her, complimented her, or generally gave her any positive attention. She had never had a more out of her league crush in her entire life- but as hard as she tried, she hadn't been able to stamp out the flame she carried for him. Obviously, she knew nothing would ever come from it, but that didn’t stop her from trying to impress him. One morning, she had figured out how to make a skull design in the milk foam of his latte.  Davrin had been working that shift with her, and had mercilessly roasted her for pitiful attempts to flirt with a man who was thirty years her senior. It had begun a constant deluge of daddy issues jokes. Her response, that it was impossible for her to have daddy issues since she never even knew her dad, only made the teasing worse. Thankfully, it was rare that their shifts overlapped.

“I see you made a new addition to your gallery.” He pointed to her wrist, seemingly oblivious to the reaction his complement got from her. 

“Yeah!” Rook rolled up her sleeve, revealing the remainder of the tattoo that had been peeking out from underneath it. A griffon was perched on her forearm, its wings wrapping around the sides, the tips of the feathers reaching the sides of her wrist. It was nestled in a sea of other designs, ranging from a small blue dagger she had gotten as a Friday the 13th flash to the waterfall of coffee from a mug on her shoulder that spilled all the way to her elbow. “Left arm is officially finished.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what compelled you to get that design?” he questioned, regarding her arm with academic curiosity. 

“There was a storybook I loved as a kid about a griffon learning to leave the nest and fly. My mom read it to me all the time. I thought it would be cute and it was the perfect shape to fill in the last gap,” she explained, flattered by the genuine interest he showed in something as small as a tattoo she’d gotten. Admittedly, this was not the first time it had happened. He always pointed out when she got a new tattoo or haircut. She always assumed it was a side effect from the analytical eye he’d had to develop for his work as an anthropologist making him overly observant.

“Such an ancient practice. Comparing historical motivations to modern American attitudes towards them is quite fascinating. I recently had a colleague publish a paper on the tradition of Buddhist Sak Yant tattooing in Thailand- I’m sure you’d find it intriguing.”

“I feel like you overestimate my ability to understand stuff like that,” she joked, thinking back to how much she’d struggled to make it through the books she had been assigned back in high school English. As interesting as the topic was, she doubted she would be able to get anything from it.

“Quite the opposite, Rook. I think you underestimate yourself,” he responded, his tone serious. This happened every now and then- she would make an off-handed self-deprecating comment, and he would immediately refute her point, no matter how light-hearted it was intended to be. “I feel like  you would excel, given the proper support in an academic setting.”

The blush returned to her cheeks as she imagined what exactly “proper support” could mean. Going to office hours, somehow ending up laying on his desk, him on top of her, whispering things in her ear that would make her do more than blush, pressing his mouth against her neck, traveling down to…

The doorbell rang out again, snapping her out of her daydream. Neve stood in the entrance, calm appearance belying the tangle of anxiety and stress that always lay just beneath her icy exterior. Neve had been coming to the Lighthouse since she was a freshman, and Rook had watched her caffeine addiction get worse and worse every year. 

“Rook, I need a trainwreck.”

“Neve, you are a trainwreck.” 

When Neve had started her master’s program for journalism, Davrin had added a modified red eye- swapping normal coffee for cold brew- to the menu just for her. Neve walked to the closest table, and slammed her shockingly heavy backpack onto it. She unzipped it, and a waterfall of textbooks that absolutely could be used as murder weapons flooded out.

“My god, Neve, what are you working on?”

“What am I not working on?” she sighed, exasperation weighing heavy on her voice, slumping in the chair and putting her head in her hands. Neve was more than a student- she volunteered all over the city, ran the journalism club, and worked as a TA. She lifted her head up to look at Rook, and raised an eyebrow in question when she saw who Rook was sitting with. “Dr. Volkarin?”

“You know him?” Rook questioned, surprised at Neve’s recognition.

“I know of him. I just wrote an article about him winning the J.I. Staley award for the school paper,” Neve explained slowly, still processing her surprise at seeing two wildly different people sitting at the same table.

“When did you win an award? Why didn’t you tell me?” Rook whipped her head around, Emmrich meeting her surprise with an embarrassed smile. 

“About a month ago, and I can find much more interesting topics to discuss with you than my own achievements," Emmrich explained, before turning his attention to Neve.  “And I read your article- you’re a very skilled writer.”

“I… Thank you, Professor.”

“You’re not my student- you’re welcome to just call me Emmrich,” he said, before his attention was drawn away by a small ding from his laptop. “Ah, I’ve lost track of time. If you’ll excuse me, I must take my leave. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Rook.” He packed up his things and stood, waving goodbye to her as he ventured into the fresh dawn air. As soon as the door closed behind him, Neve snapped her head to Rook, her brows furrowed in confusion.

“Rook. Why do you have a vibe with one of the most successful professors at the school.”

“What?!” Rook gave a laugh of disbelief, staring at Neve like she just told Rook aliens were about to invade the city. She had never fallen under the scrutiny of Neve’s investigative eye before, and she was not a skilled enough liar to obscure the truth that she deeply, desperately wanted Neve’s accusation to be true. “What vibe?”

“Oh my god, the ‘see you tomorrow morning’ thing?”

“He’s just a friendly guy.”

“Rook, someone like him would not come to a coffee shop like this without a special reason to.”

“Have you considered that I’m good at my job and make great coffee?”

“He could get great coffee a million different places in the city- but this is the only place he can get you.”

“Neve, if I get you your coffee, will you drop this?”

“Maybe. No promises.”

Sliding Neve’s trainwreck to her and leaving her to her work, Rook walked back behind the cash register, making herself look busy cleaning espresso machines to avoid any further conversation with Neve. Her comments stayed at the forefront of her mind, making it impossible to actually get anything done. What if Neve was right? Had Emmrich been flirting with her this whole time, and she had misunderstood it as a kindness he extended towards everybody?  What if he was interested in her? What would a relationship between the two of them even look like?

As her thoughts started to get away from her, she dragged them kicking and screaming back into reality. Why would someone like him have any interest in someone like her? Emmrich was successful, handsome, and painfully kind. He wouldn’t have any interest in a broke barista with no direction in life.

Right?

[elgarwhore]

Too bad @emmg is always trying to put me in prison. It's only a safe space UNTIL I open my mouth 😔

yeah it's called my mutuals circle on tumblr

[dodorimo]

5 pieces of media to describe me (no commentary)

tagged by @tellmeallaboutit <3

tagging @pouralaura @alwachart @adinfernumadinfinitum @emmg @neglectedincubus

[lafaiette]

Tagged by the wonderful @emmg, I LOVED these questions about what our Inquisitor would do in Veilguard!

Tagging @lateforjianghu @andauril @canticle-of-apotheosis @beardedladyqueen

1. Their reaction to the Evanuris (fangirl/sigh/show them the middle finger/blink because they have no idea who they even are??/ask if evanuris is a new gluten free diet/suggest a ghilan’nain-elgar’nan-themselves 3sum because hot shit when will they ever get an opportunity like that again) → Scarlet is like "DAMN, you're ugly 💀" when she sees Ghilan'nain, and I'm pretty sure she will curse at Elgar'nan

2. How are they saying hi to Solas (punch/kiss/hiss/once again—middle finger/offer him a stylish hat??) → kiss ❤️first she smiles at him, then once things are less awkward between them, they hug and kiss (and make love). TEN YEARS. TEN YEARS OF LONGING.

3. What’s their go-to reaction when Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast recommends them a book? → She reads it straight away - they have the same tastes when it comes to literature. Smutty books with campy dialogues, over-the-top plot twists, and cliffhangers? She's in.

4. What did they do at the Winter Palace? No like really. Hook up? Get drunk and chat with the golden nug? Egg on every noble? → She ate and pocketed away all the sweets she could find. She also ate a lot, because the food was genuinely good and interesting! At the end of the night, when it was time to finally go to sleep, she and Solas used his hat to stash away the squishier, more delicate sweets and eat them in their room. <3

5. This is very important—did they have the ugly Qunari Par Vollen bed in their quarters and if not why did they make the wrong choice? (lmao I love that bed, so stupid) → sdkfkdglf no, Scarlet had the Free Marches bed! Comfortable, large enough for her and Solas, and she covered it with Dalish blankets her clan sent her.

6. Who is their bff? → Dorian, Cole, Cassandra, and Varric. But Dorian is definitely her top BFF.

7. What have they been up to in the 10 years between Inquisition and Veilguard? → Recovering from the loss of her arm, giving advice to Dorian through their crystals, helping her clan in Wycome, assisting Varric and Harding in their search for Solas even though she can't be directly involved.

8. The most important question: how do they plan to annoy Solas in Veilguard? → Talks about the funny things they went through during their time in the Inquisition. It's not really annoying, she actually tries to make him smile. 😭

"Solas, do you remember when we fell into that bush of nettles, and our backs itched for days?"

"I... Yes."

"And when Cole brought all those rabbits into the stronghold, and they nibbled at your notes?"

"Ah, how I mourned that research. It took me hours to rewrite it all down."

"And that day in Emprise du Lion when we were out of supplies, but finally found some wild game to eat?"

"You made quite the good stew!"

"We wolfed it down, wouldn't you say? :D"

"Vhenan."

[caffeinatedmunchkin]

ao3 tag game

Thank you @emmg for tagging me! I am so star-struck oh boy

How many works do you have on ao3?

11

What's your total ao3 word count?

92 k

What fandoms do you write for?

BG3 & DA:TV pseudo-regularly. POTC and Blazing Saddles once each because I got possessed by the ghosts of crushes past or something idk. Gene Wilder still owns me

Top five fics by kudos:

1. La Petite Mort 2. An Iron Hand in a Velvet Glove 3. Nourishment, Beyond the Physical 4. Hanging By A Thread 5. The Cost of Devotion

Do you respond to comments?

Every last one. I’m so grateful to anyone who takes the time

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Mmm, probably A Promise Kept

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Nourishment, Beyond the Physical

Do you get hate on fics?

Not that I’m aware of 😬

Do you write smut?

Sure do!

Craziest crossover?

I’m not a crossover gal, I’m boring

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of ! That’s a scenario that would both irk me, but also kind of flatter me LOL

Have you ever had a fic translated?

I don’t think so

Have you ever co-written a fic?

Nope

All time favorite ships?

Off the top of my head I’m gonna say Mulder and Scully. I’m sorry I’m sorry I love my short ladies getting their tall beaus. I’m also down bad for Clarice Starling and Jack Crawford from Silence of the Lambs

What's a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

After voraciously and repeatedly binge reading @thepatronsaintoffilth’s incredible series You Smell Like Trouble I got hit with two ideas for Heisenberg x Reader smut fics, but Saint is like, the authority in that department, and those WIPs are sad and stubborn, so. May they rest in peace in the depths of my abandoned docs lol Anywho everyone go check out You Smell Like Trouble if you want 👏 quality👏 they are hardcore 21+ MDNI behave yourselves

What are your writing strengths?

I’m good at ending my fics, I think. Identifying and abiding their natural conclusions

What are your writing weaknesses?

Actions, emotions, descriptions, flow, redundancy, efficiency, cohesion, etc.

Thoughts on dialogue in another language?

I’m allllll about it. That’s sexy

First fandm you ever wrote in?

Oh God I want to say either the movie Van Helsing from 2004 or the video game Folklore from 2007 (please anyone out there remember that one? Anyone?) I feel like there was something before that but I really can’t remember. I can’t believe I’ve been writing fanfiction now for as long as I have.

Favorite fic(s) you wrote?

Anytime I go back and skim what I’ve posted I cringe harder and harder, but I’m still proud enough of An Iron Hand in a Velvet Glove. And To Bear Witness only because I didn’t quit on it even though I wanted to MANY times

No pressure tags! @xxnashiraxx @bardic-inspo @verbenaa @chaoticbardlady99 @obsessedwhyyes @khywren @roguishcat @nerdallwritey @inkymoonbunny

[jainydoe]

idek how to talk about this fic - I'm left stunned once again

What if I made everyone uncomfortable with visceral, creepy, morbid descriptions of longing, I said, and then I did it lol

[abyssbeckoner]

talking about haarlep and raphael like

@emmg

[heylittleriotact]

💐WIP WEDNESD-ENEVER 💐

@emmg asked for a WIP so here's a chunky one. It's also spicy. Under the cut for length.

I wanted to elaborate on what I imagined Emmrich and Rook banging in a coffin was like. So....

Pairing: Emmrich x Female Rook

Rating: Explicit

Casket Spray:

A large, ornate floral arrangement that sits on top of the casket. It is usually the centrepiece of the funeral flower display.

“What I said the night we had that argument…” she trailed off, not sure what else to say. Was it stupid? Obviously. She knew that even before she got unceremoniously thrown into Solas’ prison in the Dread Wolf’s  place. Was it upsetting? Very - for both of them. Reiterating that now would be pointless. “It feels like it was just yesterday for me, but it was over a fortnight for you.” She squeezed Emmrich’s hand tighter and sidled even closer to him on the stair that they were occupying in a quiet corner of the Necropolis. 

It wasn’t that she was afraid that at any moment she might be dragged away from him again - this time for good, except, well… that was actually exactly what she was afraid of. 

“Thank you for not giving up on me.” 

That was the sentiment she ended up settling on. Thin and somewhat trite, even to her own ears - she had little doubt that he could see through it too. She might as well have told him it wasn’t his fault.

She just hoped he understood that she wasn’t solely referring to rescuing her from the Fade. 

And… there it was - that smile: effortless and comforting by virtue of its existence alone. 

His cheeks were once again clean-shaven (Amina’s gentle suggestion that maybe he should give the beard a chance was politely rebuffed), and his hair was washed and neatly coiffed as usual. One would never guess by looking at him now that only a few hours earlier he looked like a man on the very brink of insanity. 

Over her. 

Over a few poorly chosen words uttered out of fear and pain. Over being plunged into the sudden reality that those might have been the last words exchanged between them. 

Something deep within her stirred at the knowledge that he had been so undone by what had happened at Tearstone Island. If she’d had any doubts that his affections towards her were genuine, they were long gone. There were no lengths that he wouldn’t have gone to in order to retrieve her from that prison, and as flattering as that fact was, she was grateful that Emmrich had not ultimately been called to challenge his definition of what was ‘right’ in this scenario…

People probably wouldn’t have understood…

People probably wouldn’t have liked it. 

And he was nothing if not palatable, right? What with his deliberate togetherness that he presented to the world: a reassurance in and of itself. 

Take that away though…

Watchers were indeed oath-sworn caregivers of the living and the dead, but their approachable, kind nature was of a deliberate sort designed specifically to foster trust. Beneath that compassionate altruism, they were fundamentally guardians and protectors… and they were capable of staggering violence. One only had to consider the damage Johanna nearly caused to understand that a Watcher willing to operate outside the boundaries of their oath was dangerous.

Her beloved Emmrich was no different in that respect, though she was probably one of the few who knew it.

And still he had made a point earlier of talking her down from naming Solas as a ruined spirit and vowing to destroy him for his betrayal and cruel manipulation…

She wasn’t sure if this section of the Necropolis was particularly drafty this evening, but she felt the small hairs on her arms raise slightly and forced her mind away from such thoughts. 

Instead, she thought about how much she loved him. The way his eyes glittered cleverly in the light of the veilfire, and the soft shape of his lips. He was looking at her like she was the center of the universe, and she knew that she didn’t want to go anywhere without him for the rest of her days: she wanted to see his face in the morning when she opened her eyes, and when each day was done, she wanted the last thing she tasted to be those soft, slightly pouting lips. 

She’d see to it that he never felt alone or unwanted again: she would want him always.

She wanted to come back here to the Necropolis when all was said and done and make a home with him and Manfred. The three of them would be so happy together.

And… oh.

Her breath caught as a new thought stole into her mind.

In time - if they desired it - she could cease imbibing the weekly tonic she’d taken for so many years to ensure her monthly cycle. His seed would quicken within her and they would create a child borne of their loving union - blood magic in its purest and most literal form: a legacy crafted of their own flesh. And Manfred would make such a fine big brother with a little sibling to dote on…

Her stomach flip-flopped as arousal curled up through the very marrow of her bones and set a fire deep within her belly. Of course when she was young she’d thought she’d like to be a mother one day, but she’d given up on genuinely putting any thought to such an aspiration years earlier: she never thought she’d find someone who’d truly want her.

Now Elgar’nan and Solas were the only ones in the way of such a future. It was so close she could practically taste it…

She swallowed roughly, feeling her heart hammering away in her breast as the future unveiled itself in Emmrich’s eyes and she burned for him with an imminent need to be united with him utterly.

They might die tomorrow, after all…

“Amina? Are you alright, darling? You look as though you’re a million miles away.” He gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and she nuzzled into his hand. 

“I’m sorry, love.” She dragged herself back to reality with a smile. “I’m listening.” 

“I was just saying how relieved I am that you’re safe.” 

And he was. He really, really was. Amina suspected he had been counting each of her breaths since she tumbled out of the Fade; kept an eye on the steady thrum of her carotid artery when he could glimpse it just for the visual reminder that she had a pulse and was in fact alive and not just a figment of his grief addled imagination the way Varric had been for her.

“I did have someone to come back to.” She took his hand and stood. 

She gently pulled Emmrich to his feet too and rocked up onto her toes, rising through her knees – up into her hips… lengthening her spine until she could press her lips to his, kissing him and putting all of her devotion and love and fear and sorrow into it along with all of her hunger and yearning. 

When she drew back, the sight of that hunger reflected back at her drove a small gasp from her - it wasn’t an exclamation of surprise, but rather the sound one might make when they find themselves suddenly breathless upon viewing a deeply moving piece of art.

He had apartments in the upper levels of the Necropolis - as did she - but when one considered their surroundings – this quiet, esoteric corner of the wing and the privacy that had clearly been paid for; the fact that this was an owned but unoccupied plot… and the individual it belonged to was suddenly kissing her again – his intent was clear. 

Her fingers twisted into his soft hair and a sumptuous moan rumbled through from him at her touch. Her jaw slackened and his tongue swept past her lips with a desperation that would have shocked her if she hadn’t been privy to the knowledge that he thought she might be dead for the past two weeks. 

Then he was walking her back, back, back, and she offered no resistance, feeling herself bump up against the raised stone sarcophagus in the center of the room. She didn’t need to remove her lips from Emmrich’s to spare a look, nor did she need to remove her hands from his to spare a touch: she knew that the stone wasn’t humble lime - none of the monuments in this section were: they were all at least marble or high-grade granite. She’d stared at the classic, hexagonal shape of the sarcophagus while he was telling her about Hope and Devotion, and as he talked her down from her determination to destroy Solas for his betrayal. She’d stared at it for long enough this evening to mark it as a monument hewn of coveted blue granite from the Anderfels. It had to have cost a fortune – interesting for a man so terrified of his eventual death to sink so much gold into it, she had thought at one point.

She captured his lower lip between her teeth as she leaned against that monument and posed a wordless question as she bit down gently: Are we really doing this, love? 

He whined in response as she worried at his lip, soothing the sting of her bite, his slender long-fingered hand slipping around her waist and splaying across her lower back to bring himself close and erase any space between them.

The familiar and welcome sensation of his hardening length pressed against her in spellbound and equally silent answer: If it pleases you, dearest. 

Every day it seemed he found a new way to surprise her. She shivered at the thought of how many other surprises might await them…

It wasn’t that they both knew that this section - regardless of how serene it was - was ultimately open to the public and anybody could happen by them at any time, though that had its own ribald appeal…

No, it was for the very fact that Emmrich I-Choose-My-Words-Carefully Volkarin did nothing accidentally and left no room for coincidence when his actions were called into question. He was just as aware as Amina that a comfortable feather bed in a warm apartment complete with a crackling fire, expensive Orlesian massage oils, and a selection of the finest wines were all things they could have within minutes should they desire them - all they needed to do was take the lift a hundred-odd levels up, and that was that.

But he wanted this.

After all, what could possibly be more sacred than making love in your eternal resting place on the eve of the end of the world? 

So she shimmied up and seated herself on the edge of the sarcophagus, her legs parting so he could slot himself between them. She could feel the slickness between her thighs clinging to her underthings as she ran her hands over him, dragging his coat down his long arms. 

“I love you, Emmrich.” 

The words were still so new to her tongue and her ears, but it felt like her heart had been beating to the rhythm of them for her entire life. 

“And I love you, my darling, precious Amina.” He shrugged out of the coat and draped it over the side of the cold stone. 

“I don’t think I’ll ever tire of hearing you say that,” she grinned against his skin, kissing up his neck - tasting the slight saltiness of him and the tang of his cologne. She nibbled at his earlobe and he tensed against her, another pained little gasp slipping past his lips. 

Unable to bear it anymore, she gathered him to her, wrapping her legs around his waist in a fluid movement that sent them both tumbling backwards into the soft velvet lining of the sarcophagus - it was surprisingly soft: quilted and down-filled. There was even a pillow at the head end - a proper one with a silk slip trimmed with scalloped lace, also probably down-filled… not one of those dreadful thin ones filled with wood shavings that offered little to no support for the reposed decedent when it came to the purpose of viewing them.

Indeed Emmrich appeared to have spared no expense when it came to the question of quality and craftsmanship of his final resting place - or was it more accurately theirs now? Destined to be put to use sooner rather than later depending on the outcome of tomorrow?

Most married couples shared the space of an owned crypt but each had their own sarcophagus or niche based on what they could afford. But as Amina’s lungs filled with oxygen, and her rib cage expanded, and she and Emmrich suffused into the cramped space, filling it completely with their bodies and limbs, she decided that the existence of things like space and stone between them for eternity simply wouldn’t do.

No, whichever one of them went first would rest in gentle repose in this exact spot, patiently waiting until the day when the heavy gilded lid was slid aside and a second set of remains were introduced, lovingly deposited and tucked in alongside the other: a cold, rigored hand posed with experienced fingers would lovingly cradle a dry, waxy chin; a leg would be positioned delicately over a fragile lower torso, bony fingers artfully arranged to look almost like it lovingly stroked the recently embalmed flesh of a thigh that would maintain its weight and mass for a few years at least.

Their heads would be gently maneuvered - a chin tucked down here, a jaw tipped up there - to create an enduring tableau of the memory of this exact moment and the reverent, passionate kisses she was tracing along his mandibular foramen: an eternal embrace in which the passing of time was inconsequential when compared to the irrefutable and immortal permanence of their affection. 

A yearning sound escaped her, urged on by the adoring vulgarities and soft praises Emmrich was whispering into her ear as they writhed against each other in the too-small space, his fingertips digging into the curve her ass, guiding her movements to help her rut needily against his thigh, each roll of her hips sending a wave of blissful sensation through her aching core.

She managed to free a hand and wriggle it down between them so she could palm his straining cock through his pants, feeling a hot wet spot against the fleshy base of her thumb where it passed over him - exhilarating evidence of his mounting anticipation. 

“Your cock is perfect,” she whispered. “Beautiful… made for me...” 

Emmrich’s response was a ragged groan and her hips pushed the flat of her palm against him through the fabric of his trousers as she bent her other wrist somewhat awkwardly to start coaxing his collar pin free.

Undressing in the limited space was easier said than done, but something about the obligation of their proximity caused the pooling heat in her belly to intensify with every huff of breath that skittered over her face and neck as they both twisted and groped in the tomb-light, tempering genuine attempts to gain purchase on things like buttons and clasps and ties with exploratory, wandering touches that lingered, caressed, and teased. Lips and tongues dragged over freshly revealed swaths of skin, trailing oaths and tender promises in their wake: sacred incantations that invoked the ancient magic that was responsible for the existence of this place to begin with. 

Amina managed to dislodge herself from between Emmrich and the wall of the sarcophagus, and used her newly found mobility to straddle his lap: her legs might fall asleep if she stayed like this for long, but the angle it provided her allowed her to deftly finish unfastening his waistcoat and shirt. 

“This shirt has about two dozen too many buttons,” she complained breathlessly as he finished with the last of the many moonstone fastenings, and Emmrich sat up to slip free of the clothing in question. 

“I can’t help but notice that their presence didn’t slow you down terribly, dearest.” He regarded her with a lascivious smile as the sleeves of the shirt slid down over his numerous bracelets: it was a filthy expression that only she was privileged to bear witness to - one of lidded eyes and swollen lips quirked in a decidedly smug countenance… the perfectly combed moustache in disarray. Almost a sneer… so vastly different than the compassionate, kind face he presented to the world. It called to something absolutely feral within her – it drove her wild when he looked at her like that, and with his torso now bare and his hair slightly mussed just the way she liked it…

She managed to exercise enough patience to allow him to strip away her own shirt before returning to her self-assumed duty to taste every inch of him that she could reach. Her hips pressed against his from her place atop him, and she closed her mouth over a nipple, lingering in place for a moment to suck gently and flick the delicate gold hoop there with the tip of her tongue. She caught it with her teeth too and ever so gently tugged on it, earning a stammered exclamation from Emmrich before she began trailing kisses downward over the warm flesh of his abdomen, seeking his ribs with her lips, counting each one in her mind as she descended: five, six, seven… onto the false ones – a silly name really – eight, nine, and ten… 

Her fingers curled into the layers of expensive red silk at his waist and she looked up at him then with lust-darkened eyes.

“Lay back,” she ordered, her voice a sensual husk that was not remotely lacking the authoritative cadence of a Reaper who was accustomed to being obeyed when she issued instructions to anyone this far down in the crypts. 

So lay back he did, and Amina made short work of any fabrics and fasteners, freeing him into her waiting hand.