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kirain · 2 months ago

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Part six of my appreciation project.

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

Emmrich shivered as he huddled on the couch, scarcely drawing any warmth from the fire he'd conjured. His breath was shallow, throat raw from the relentless coughing that left him weak and aching. He had draped a blanket over his shoulders, but it did little to wane the enervating chill in his bones.

Manfred had helped him to the study, but he didn't want the frolicsome wisp to waste his entire day watching him suffer. Instead, he'd told him to go play with Davrin and Assan—and Manfred, not grasping the gravity of the situation, eagerly obeyed.

"That's it, Manfred. I'm sure Assan has shed a few feathers. Feel free to—" He gritted his teeth, dizzy, his lungs throbbing. "To... make something pretty out of them."

He kept a brave face, but the moment his skeletal protégé disappeared down the hall, a strained wheeze escaped him, his head sinking back against the cushions. He hated this. He hated the frailty that came with sickness, the way it stripped away his strength and left him vulnerable. At his age, illness always felt like a cruel reminder of mortality—a whisper in the back of his mind that he wasn't going to live forever.

But the worst was the solitude.

He'd spent too many nights curled up alone, longing for someone who cared. He had always dreamed of a lover's gentle touch—a hand smoothing damp hair from his forehead, fingers lacing through his own as he drifted into fevered sleep.

A fantasy, nothing more.

"Palee..."

The name slipped from his lips before he could stop it. He knew he couldn't, but he wanted to see him, to be held by him.

His breath hitched, his mind wandering back to the day they met.

-----

The redheaded elf strode into the Necropolis with an undeniable presence, his piercing blue eyes locked on Emmrich as he made his bold request.

"Join us. Fight the gods."

Though immediately intrigued, Emmrich had little time to dwell on the offer before chaos erupted, his attention drawn to a distant scream.

"I'd be pleased to continue our conversation after I tend to some small business here," he said.

But it wasn't small. It was horrendous. Far more severe than he'd anticipated—Venatori zealots desecrating the sanctity of the tombs.

To his astonishment, Palee and his companions rushed to his aid, driving back the invaders and protecting the resting dead with a reverence Emmrich had never seen from outsiders. They were neither necromancers nor Watchers, nor even Nevarran, yet they treated the Necropolis with the respect it deserved, unshaken by the rituals and rites most considered unnerving—if not outright wicked.

As they fought, Emmrich caught glimpses of Palee between spells. He moved like quicksilver, his toned form twisting and striking with effortless grace, swinging an axe as though it were weightless—and Maker, his outfit accentuated every blow. His sleeveless cropped top clung to his chest, dipping into a deep, shameless plunge that revealed far too much skin for Emmrich's already-fraying focus. High-waisted pants hugged his hips, the lace-up front drawing Emmrich's gaze lower before he forced himself to look away.

He had only just met the young man, and yet...

As their opponents thinned, he looked back. A gold necklace with multiple pendants glimmered against Palee's sweat-slick chest, catching the torchlight as he slashed through his foes, and Emmrich hated how easily it pulled his attention. His concentration should have been on the Venatori, on the magic thrumming at his fingertips—but instead, he was painfully aware of the burly elf dancing through the chaos, radiant and confident, a fire burning in his eyes.

A distraction. He was a stunning, infuriating distraction.

When it was over, Palee faced him, grinning from ear to ear. "I think it's time for a proper introduction, Professor."

Without hesitation, he seized Emmrich's hand and pressed his lips to his knuckles.

The touch was fleeting, yet it sent a bolt of shyness through the older man, unravelling his carefully held composure. It was such a simple act of politeness, yet so foreign, setting his nerves alight in a way nothing ever had. Kindness from a stranger was rare enough—kindness from one who had witnessed his craft without fear was unthinkable.

Yet, this charming elf, scantily clad and courageous, seamlessly undid decades of negative encounters—decades of people running, avoiding, or blatantly accusing him of vile magic. As the feeling of Palee's lips tickled his skin, Emmrich's thoughts swirled, his fingers dainty against his own. He blushed furiously, but he didn't pull away.

He never wanted to.

-----

A deep cough wracked Emmrich's body, yanking him back to the present. Hunching forward, he clutched his chest, each breath burning in his lungs. His brow furrowed, his body torn between hot and cold, sweating and shaking. He barely heard the approaching footsteps until a familiar voice broke through his haze.

"You look awful."

His head lifted sluggishly, and through bleary vision, he saw Palee standing by the couch, a steaming cup of tea in hand. His usual smirk was softened by something gentler—concern.

"Y-you shouldn't be here," Emmrich choked, but Palee plopped down beside him, pushing the cup into his hands.

"Too late for that," he hushed. "Drink up."

Emmrich relented quickly, too tired to argue, and brought the cup to his lips. As soon as he swallowed, the heat soothed the rawness in his throat, and he hummed in relief.

"That's... better," he rasped, taking a moment to savour the taste—medicinal yet zesty. "Thank you, darling."

Palee grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Let's see if I can make you feel even better."

Without warning, he leaned in, capturing Emmrich's lips in a fragile kiss, leaving him just enough room to breathe.

The older man tensed, his febrile mind struggling to catch up. When it did, he pulled away and yelled, "Darling, no! I could be contagious."

Palee scoffed, brushing a thumb over Emmrich's flushed cheek. "I could be immune."

His lips curled into a playful smirk before he set the teacup aside and pulled Emmrich closer, tilting his head to kiss him again—slower, deeper.

"Let me take care of you," he purred, freely speaking the words Emmrich longed to hear.

Finally, he wasn't alone. Palee wouldn't allow it, not even when he was a clammy, feeble mess.

"Darling, I'm disgusting. I—"

"Shh. Come here, my heart."

Palee's hands were warm against the tender goosebumps on his skin, tracing over his arms, down his back—pulling him in like a moth to flame, tantalising but safe. Emmrich let out a whimper, grateful and yielding. This simple act, again so small but significant, nearly broke him. His eyes squeezed shut, overwhelmed by the kindness—by the way Palee held him as if he mattered.

"Let's get you nice and toasty," he teased, cradling Emmrich's head back to pat tiny kisses along his neck.

"Darling..." he gasped, his cheeks somehow swelling a deeper shade of red. "You really shouldn't—ah!"

Emmrich melted against him; he couldn't help it, his heart pounding. Years ago, he'd given up hope that anyone would truly care for him. Yet Palee—the strapping, adventurous elf who had swept him off his feet in every sense—accepted everything: his age, his necromancy, his troubled past with Hezenkoss. Every flaw, every insecurity. And as Palee continued to kiss him, licking and sucking at his skin, tugging the neckline of his nightdress down to taste more, Emmrich felt something stir in his soul.

He was loved. Unconditionally.

"Darling..." he shuddered, tears welling in his eyes.

Palee paused, cupping Emmrich's face and pressing their foreheads together. "No, my heart, don't cry." He kissed his nose, wiping his tears with his thumbs. "Or is that mucus?"

"Oh, for the love of—!"

Emmrich groaned, flustered and embarrassed, and tried to pull away, but Palee caught him, wrapping his arms around him and gently sliding a hand to the back of his head.

"I'm kidding!" he cried humorously.

But as Emmrich squirmed, Palee's demeanour shifted, his fingers threading through the older man's hair, calming him instantly.

"I've got you," he whispered, his milky eye sharp with sincerity. "Through rain or shine, in sickness and in health. I've got you."

Emmrich froze, his stomach fluttering at the sudden gruffness in Palee's tone. He had waited so long to hear a vow like that. And when Palee kissed him again, he returned it—pressing their lips together with a fervour that bared his devotion and drained his energy all at once.

"Let's get you comfortable," Palee said, his lips trailing lower.

"Please..." Emmrich begged, arching back instinctively.

But the fever was ruthless, and before Emmrich could fully lose himself in the allure of Palee's ministrations, darkness crept into the edges of his vision. His body sagged, exhaustion pulling him under.

"Whoops!" Palee laughed, catching him with ease. "Are you all right?"

"Ugh..." Emmrich moaned, barely conscious. "I-I'm sorry, dearest. I can't seen to... stay awake."

Palee smiled and gently guided Emmrich down, settling his head against his chest, his body nestled securely between the elf's legs. The couch was spacious, almost as if designed for two—or perhaps Palee refused to leave his side.

"You really are sick," he giggled, pulling the blanket over them both. "Sleep, сердце моё, and get better soon," he murmured, his fingers rubbing soothing circles into the older man's back.

Emmrich let out a soft sigh as his weary mind finally began to quiet, and with the steady rhythm of Palee's heartbeat in his ear, he drifted into a peaceful, protected slumber.

#emmrich volkarin #emmrook #emmrich x rook #rook x emmrich #dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age the veilguard #veilguard #da: the veilguard #fan fiction #fic #lords of fortune rook #manfred

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cosmicdeity746 · 19 days ago

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Short Fic - 'Sun'

Lucanis & FemRook (Laidir) Not sure where this came from but enjoy lovey dovey language.

If Lucanis Delamorte was asked to describe Anya “Rook” Laidir, he’d start with how she reminded him of the sun.

However, if given a chance to really take the time to think about it, he’d say that it was more than the sun.

The Lord of Fortune reminded him of a desert oasis, still hot with the heat of the sun, but with shade and cool water that allowed one to rest easy knowing they would be comforted and safe just a little longer before a long journey continued. She reminded him of the glitter of gold, found in a pouch given after a tough contract. One that left a Crow weary, but content that the reward was worth the long hours of waiting and planning. Rook reminded him of summer days, sitting among the canals of Treviso, an iced treat melting against the hand that held it, sticky and sweet.

Rook reminded him often of a warm cautious hug. One that came slowly at first, testing the boundaries long engrained and tightened by necessity, but engulfing is such a way the receiver would find themselves burying deeper without intending to. Purely for the express reason to keep that feeling alive.

If Lucanis took the time to answer in such a way, he knew many would give him pointed looks. Some would roll their eyes, claiming the “smooth charm of an Antivan strikes again”. He didn’t have the time or energy to tell those people that “charm” hadn’t been in his repertoire, nor skill set. He hadn’t ever had to “seduce” a mark, given most of his marks never saw him coming to begin with, so what reason could he have to “charm” them.

He would say that Rook- wise-cracking, dependable, multi-faceted as she was- brought out the poet in him just by looking his way. By being exactly as she was. A little boisterous, a little manic, and a lot kind. She gave gentle kisses when his mood soured, gave intense heated looks when he felt the same, and back talked when Spite pitched in the conversation.

Spite too would have words to described Rook, although the demon would have said, “smoke of the fire”, “iron and steel”, “spicy and tasty”. But the sentiment remained. Lucanis could not disagree and considered such words practically poetic for the demon inside him.

Lucanis would say that Rook changed him. His Crow training had taught him to always keep his focus on his surroundings, to be aware of threats that could mean his immediate death if his concentration slipped. Such habit became necessary during his imprisonment in the Ostuary, and even with the added benefit of Spite being his “second set of eyes” he’d come out of the events that transpired hyper aware of even the breath of his companions if they ventured too close.

Lucanis was surprised- irritatingly at first, pleasantly after a while -when he’d realized he began to experience some difficulty focusing on anything other than Rook when she spoke. Her words quick, but clear, full of emotion, whether she was directing the conversation at him or not. He found himself lost in her voice. In the way her hands seemed to talk with her when she needed to make a stringent point. On the way her eyes couldn’t seem to focus on one point, flitting about when lost in thought or looking at all parts of the person face aside from their eyes.

Except his. He found that she had no issues looking him in the eye. Over a cup of coffee, steam billowing between them as she sipped, more cream than bean filling the topaz yellow cup he’d found on a grocery run one evening. Sweet like her, with a kick of caffeine that woke you up. Revved, and warm, and just the right side of comforting.

Lucanis found that after so long fighting his attraction to the leader of their merry band of colorful individuals, it had been so very easy to fall into love with the woman that was Anya “Rook” Laidir. The little things causing carefully crafted clouds of despair to dissipate. Like the sunbeam peeking through the rainstorm.

For Lucanis, the poets couldn’t hope to notice the things he did.

The glittering gold of dangling earrings, that catch in the sunlight while walking long stretches of coast, amicably arguing with her fellow Lord about the merits of treasure hunting underwater. Spite commenting that he could hold his breath longer than either of them, in some mock pride, that had them ogling and considering. Considering it himself, for a moment, just to see her happy at the results…ignoring the disappointed pouts when Lucanis eventually shook his head to deny them the pleasure.

The fingers dancing through his hair, gently untangling the little knots that accrued while fighting. Lips pressed against his shoulder blades, no need to flinch at the contact, because he was so aware of her presence behind him, around him, everywhere.

The glide of his hands over scarred skin, marked by memories he’d been too fearful to ask about, but knowing only enough to understand the life she led before had been harsh and cruel. Something that had not changed her. Or had in its own way; changed her to make it so easy when talking about himself. His life as a Crow, the time of his imprisonment. To allow her the access to his mind, pulled to him by an unlikely guest who trusted her as he had been so unable to.

The arms that enveloped him. Her whispered sentiments of love echoing in his skull as they were pressed against his jaw, his neck, his lips. The feel of her warmth, embracing and encompassing to make the darkest shadows of duty, terror, cold evaporate into dust. A desert storm that erased the footsteps that trampled before it. Never forgotten but made anew.

And he was often buffeted and thrown about when he was with her. A force of undeniable nature that fascinated, and terrified in equal measure.

He’d been terrified, still was if he was honest with himself, to love the sunshine that Rook brought to him. It made it so much easier to deny himself what he craved, the affection she’d brought to him with such ease. A hand pressing against the cage walls, not cruel but offering. He should have, could have, bitten the hand that stretched towards him. Had almost done so on occasion, if she hadn’t shone so brightly and gave so freely of her own trust.

Spite had known, fingers pressing back against hers more than he’d allowed, pushing through the subconscious thought so that he’d made escape attempts from his scarce dreams to seek her aid. Fortunate for them both, the demon had finally found the way to pull her in instead, past the bars with its many prison guards posted by his whims.

He’d thanked Spite for that, the smug bastard that he’d been. “I told you so,” he’d cawed at him, smirking in his minds eye, snickering when Lucanis had only told him to “be quiet” as he watched Rook’s sleeping face beside them. As one, their fingers brushed aside sun kissed hair, the feeling of lethargic warmth seeping into his bones. And he’d let himself fall into that, finally, after years of denying that feeling. Into the warm embrace of her hugs, her smiles, her shining soul. Spite would not walk tonight, he knew, for the demon had crooned his own strange contentment. It was strange indeed how sleep came easy to them both when basking in the sunlight.

So, if someone had asked Lucanis Delamorte to describe Anya “Rook” Laidir at that moment, he would have called her many things the likes of which poets would weep at. But wonder upon wonders, and above all else-

He could call her “Mine”.

#lucanis dellamorte #lucanis x rook #da4 lucanis #dragon age veilguard #lords of fortune rook #da4 fanfic #romance fiction

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