#just to prove that I am indeed still obsessed with Warden Rook x Emmrich

[mojo-bro-tho]

In the deepest part of night, voices always run high. A Warden’s mind is never fully clear, never fully still. Always tattering seams at the edges of the brain or gnawing maws scrapping around the interior of their skulls. And it’s never consistent either.

At first it’s debilitating and insomnia inducing. The fear of sleeping becomes commonplace. Many younger Wardens try to keep themselves awake for as long as possible just to avoid it. That only gets worse the younger the Warden is.

Then, as time marches on, they get used to it. Some claim they can block it out entirely but what they really mean to say is that they smother their own dreams. Buried beneath heaps of grey matter and exhaustion. That’s as good as it gets.

And finally, they get older. Their own blood a slow moving poison that muddies the senses. Sleep is… easier. But that only unlocks a new fear. It’s nice to sleep again. It’s not the Calling, not yet, but it’s closer now. They’re afraid to go to sleep because it feels good again and when they wake up they’re even more afraid because they wished they hadn’t woken up.

Warden Thorne can fight it most times for whatever constitutes as night in the Fade. They don’t tell Davrin, because if they told Davrin then well, he’d know what it means. Rook doesn’t want that. They don’t want to see that look of knowing in someone’s eyes and have themselves become a reminder of what’s on the horizon.

So Rook will seek a different comfort. Knocking softly on the wooden door and mere moments later being greeted to the smell of a fire, fresh aftershave, and leather. Emmrich peers down at them, confused but not unwelcoming. Rook was not normally up so early, he thought to himself. In truth, no one was besides himself.

They looked tired. Still dressed in their night clothes that perhaps reveals a tad more skin than what he was expecting from them. Of course, he wouldn’t say anything as it’s improper to make those sorts of comments. Not like he’s against the sight either, you’d have to be a fool to not enjoy the sight of them like this.

“Bad dreams, my dear?” He asked, voice slightly lower than he usually kept it on account of not having used it much yet that day.

“Something like that.” Rook didn’t like to lie.

“I was just about to retrieve Manfred and have him make my morning tea. Would you care to join me?”

It was a polite request. Emmrich would never turn down the opportunity to spend more time with Rook, least of all when they looked so softened by the early morning. They smiled in a way that nestled against Emmrich’s heart. Only to then see a glimmer of something else to twist it.

“Maybe after.” Rook’s whispered. The question of ‘after what?’ only lasted for a few seconds.

Rook’s lips found Emmrich’s, entirely devoid of any barriers of modesty. It was a fervent, hungry clash that despite it taking him by surprise he was able to swiftly match it in intensity. No one was around for him to worry about keeping up appearances. So Emmrich swept them inside by the small of Rook’s waist.

The heat of their body seared into Emmrich’s hand even through the night clothes. And he clung to it as though to seep the life out of Rook. Warm, alive, vibrant, if only he could siphon it to meet them half way.

Little did he know that Rook felt something quite similar boiling under the surface. That need for a comma rather than a period, or an ellipses, more likely an exclamation point that always came at the end. They wanted what Emmrich had. Continuation. If only they could bottle up Emmrich’s experience and cram it directly into their singing bloodstream.

Both starved for touch and a lapse in reality that could be temporarily soothed by the screech of a desk being misused. Scars didn’t bother Emmrich and a few wrinkles were never unwelcomed by Rook. There was still enough life in both of them to enjoy this carnal craving.

The tattered seams became the shift and strain of clothing being wrenched away. A gnawing maw replaced lips stuck between teeth, pressed into the neck. Voices melted into hums of approval. Grunts and moans and commands that could make them forget and force them to listen.

Now that was a calling that Warden Rook could get behind.