#picture lucanis sighing in the back
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"We saw you from across the bar and we really dig. Your grave. The grave we are going to dig for you. Well, actually- we aren't the ones digging it, the spirits are gonna do it, but still. It will be an elegant funeral, with white cyclamens, and choir, maybe with a small reception at the end. But it's your funeral! Because we're going to ki-"
"Rook, I think she got it."
#picture lucanis sighing in the back#screenshots#dragon age: the veilguard#dav spoilers#veilguard spoilers#rook ingellvar#ellero ingellvar#emmrich volkarin#cakethrough#I live for these two <3 they're going for drinks later and complain about the new book of laws and regulation#for ellie emmrich is that one professor that encouraged you back at uni and then you meet them after you graduated and just develop#a super polite and respectful friendship <3#(in which youre both informally formal? idk how to explain it lol)#that's the vibe#I'm sure that lesson with wraiths and spirits was one of the highlights of ellie's job
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Unfinished business
Pairing: Lucanis X Shadow Dragon Rook (named: Phyrra Mercar).
Word count: 3K
Summary: Post game. Some thoughts on what would happen if someone took a Crow contract out on Rook. Will most likely be added to a longer fic later.
***
If there was any amount of gold Lucanis could pay to not speak to his cousin tonight, he’d gladly part with it. He’d found a perfumed note slipped between a dozen missives from the other Talons. The five words were enough to make his stomach turn.
Urgent business. Usual place. - Illario
He crumples it again, fixing his stare to Treviso’s darkening horizon from his perch on the Villa’s roof. It was his favourite spot as a boy, one hidden by an ivy-strewn chimney where he could rub the bruises from his Grandmother’s cane or his own clumsiness. They both could
It’s been months since they’ve talked. He wishes it were longer, but there are only so many contracts he can throw at Illario to get him out of the city. There are longer, more incomprehensible jobs that would probably have him away permanently, but he can’t quite bring himself to waste Caterina’s training on those. His cousin is still a good assassin. It doesn’t change the fact that Lucanis would rather eat his own knife collection than have another conversation with him.
Spite flickers from tile to tile out of the corner of his eye, grumbling and restless. The demon had become insufferably impatient when Phyrra’s scent finally left his bedsheets. He’d chastise him more if he hadn’t been the same the second she’d left the city again.
He rolls the parchments between his fingers. He wants her here, needs to talk to her. He’d kill any number of people for a working Eluvian so he could pull her back and spill his spiralling thoughts into the curve of her neck… then pointedly ask if the other Shadow Dragons had guilted her into rebuilding Minrathos brick by brick.
He pictures her next to him, eyes bright, hair ignited with colour from the last stripes of sunlight painting the roof. She’d put her head on his shoulder, gently jab him in the side and say something along the lines of ‘If he tries anything, I’ll politely remind him that all the grease in his hair makes it especially flammable.’
He almost smiles. If anything the next conversation should at least liven up the next letter he pens.
***
The scent of cinnamon and old coffee greets him as he enters the kitchen. Before, it had always been their place to decompress, mainly because of the easy access to pastries and alcohol. Illario sits at the small table next to an open bottle. He’s as primped as ever, coat pressed, hair styled, lips dark from the wine. Only his slightly crooked nose ruins his carefully sculpted image– a reminder of when they finally had it out at Caterina’s birthday party. It started as needle sharp words over dinner and ended with the least graceful brawl two Crows had ever been a part of. He’s not sure what stung more, his Grandmother’s icy stare as Viago pulled them apart or her short remarks on his sloppy form.
Spite lurches from the darkness. His anger is a bitter taste in the air as he glares at his cousin. “Finally. Let me finish this.”
Illario refills his glass. “Lucanis, I wasn’t sure you’d actually come.”
The way he stretches out his name makes his skin crawl. “I half expected to find your body down here with a thank you note stabbed through it,” he answers, firmly shutting the door behind him.
Illario’s smile doesn’t falter. “Disappointed?”
“Do you really want the answer to that question?”
A low muffled groan suddenly bleeds through the cellar door behind Illario. He leans back and kicks it until whoever is in there stops.
Lucanis runs a hand down his face. “Don’t bring work back here if you’re not prepared to clean the floor yourself.”
“It’s just some unfinished business. Don’t worry about that for now.” Illario pushes the second chair out from under the table. He sighs when Lucanis remains standing. “You’re always so humourless when you have to sleep alone. Convince Rook to leave Minrathos already and save the rest of the Talons a headache.”
Spite slinks forward, lips pulled back into a snarl. "You got to punch him. It’s my turn. Mine."
Lucanis shoots the demon a harder stare. “Not yet.”
“You never let me.”
“I said no.”
Illario raises a thick eyebrow. “Oh sorry, I should have asked. Am I talking to you or him right now?”
“When he’s talking, you’ll know.” Lucanis is fairly sure he’s the only man on Thedas that can confirm exactly how vivid a demon’s imagination can get. Spite had spent more than one evening painting an extremely colourful picture of all the ways he could tear out his cousin’s heart.
“Well I’m fairly certain it was the demon who tried to stab me,” Illario says.
“The first time.”
“Yes. The dozen or so times at the Opera were very necessary after I was already on my knees. You could have–”
“Illario.” Lucanis interrupts sharply. “If there’s a point to this meeting, get to it faster.”
“Fine.” He produces a small package from his coat and pushes it across the table. “I have a gift for you.” He takes a longer drink of wine as Lucanis picks it up. It’s some deep Orlesian red by the smell. Far too expensive for everyday business.
He gestures to the bottle. “I’m assuming there’s an occasion.”
“Of course.” Illario raises his cup in a crude toast. “Celebrating your loss of virginity before ascending to First Talon. I’d say tell me everything but I’m assuming it’s a fairly brief account.”
Lucanis lets the sound of tearing paper fill the heavy silence. Two years ago he might have laughed at that, maybe even stolen his own bottle from Caterina’s finer collection. Back when it would have truly just been the two of them.
Spite eyes the package, nose wrinkling.
He finds a dagger nestled inside. It’s well-made but unassuming, one of a thousand hidden up the sleeves of Crows across the continent. He can tell it was cleaned in a hurry, the surface smeared with a thin sheen of crimson and something darker– a cheap poison he surmises. The good ones don’t leave a stain. His fingers stop as he touches the serrated edge. He knows the pattern. He’d traced the exact scar over Phyrra’s shoulder the last time she’d come to his bed. She hadn’t seen who’d attacked her, just heard their screams as she quickly shoved them from Minrathos’ city walls.
Spite inhales. “Smells like. Deathroot. Iron.” His sharp eyes narrow, snapping to Illario again. “Rook.”
Lucanis’ fist tightens over the handle. “Who was it?”
“One of the lower houses. None of the Talons would ever accept that contract– at least for now.” Another whimper comes through the cellar door. Illario kicks it harder. “I’m holding onto the name until I know you’re not going to do something stupid.”
The bite of Spite’s rage prickles under his skin. He can feel the demon’s words digging into his own tongue, desperate to be spat.
‘Burn them. Burn them all to the ground.’
Illario puts down his glass and crosses the room. “You must know this won’t be the last time.”
“She made a lot of enemies. We both did. And the Houses can give up as many Crows as they can afford to lose,” Lucanis replies.
“Those contracts are not going to come from anywhere but Antiva.”
Lucanis doesn’t look up from the knife. “You cannot be sure of that.”
The words hang in the air, bitter as they are foolish. Illario leans back on the table, exhaling loudly when he doesn’t continue. “Fine, if you need an evil face to say the words, I’ll oblige you. What exactly do you think will happen when Caterina dies?”
“I’d want to see her body before I’d believe it.”
Illario huffs out a small laugh. There’s no warmth to it. “You have the title but she still holds the power with an incredibly tight leash. When she finally lets go, do you truly believe that the Houses’ hatred of me is enough to accept an abomination as First Talon? I might be banished to the shadows but it’s all the better for hearing things people are only brave enough to whisper in such dark corners.”
Lucanis closes his eyes. It’s not a conversation he needs now, never one he needs to have with Illario. He knows the knife’s edge he walks, a thousand Crows pecking at every step. They’ll kiss the ring in front of the Talons but he’s seen the way their eyes search for breaks in his expression, waiting for the demon to push through. He’s just one rung above the traitor in front of him. Neither would be standing here without the bloody weight of their surname to throw around.
“They can come after me themselves then,” Lucanis retorts.
“Oh come on. You know that isn’t the logical move. The Eight Houses still support you so any civil war would be over before it began. Even before Caterina named you, everyone knew you would be chosen, so plans were already being formed about ways to usurp. Except then, you didn’t have such a glaring weakness to aim for.”
The moaning behind the door pitches to a discordant wail. Spite continues to stare at the side of Illario’s face, shaking with hate.
"He hurt us. He hurt Rook. Let me finish it. LET ME."
Lucanis pushes down harder as the demon gnashes against his restraint. It’s relentless now, a hurricane clawing at a door that he’s holding closed with his bare hands.
“Call her weak when she’s in the room and see how long you last,” he says. He can still see the burn scars from her staff stretching like rough plaster above Illario’s collar. Leaving his face unharmed was her own kindness.
Illario rolls his eyes. “I didn’t say weak. I said weakness. I’m certain Rook could fight off a small army of Crows if she needed to. It doesn’t mean they won’t stop or that she won’t slip up. I’m not the only one that knows she can’t swim.” The noise behind the door grows louder, mixing with Spite’s growling until Illario’s words are barely audible. “And what happens after that, cousin? We saw what happened when I killed Zara instead of you. How much worse is it going to be when something happens to her? See how long all those alliances last when you finally lose control and one of the other houses has the chance to take everything.”
Spite hisses next to him. ‘LET ME. FINISH THIS.’
Lucanis’ chest burns as Spite pulls harder. “I'm not going to let that happen.”
“Not even when they send you her body so neatly wrapped in the cape you gifted her?” Illario folds his arms, words softly measured. “Or maybe they’d stretch it out and you’d get her back piece by piece–”
The knife leaves Lucanis’ hand before he can finish. It sails past Illario’s face and slams into the cellar door with a thunderous crack. Everything falls silent. Spite stays still, watching with wide eyes as Lucanis forces his breathing back into a regular rhythm. It takes all his remaining strength not to punch Illario again when he smirks, the words point proven painted there like rouge.
Lucanis looks away. He’s better than this. He should be better than this. Illario had been a pickaxe to the cracks of his patience for decades now and he can count on one hand the number of times it had actually snapped. The times his cousin was right.
He can still feel the wounds in his mind from Spite tearing through and lunging at Illario– his first taste of becoming a true abomination. It had taken every fiber of his control and the sting of blood magic to halt the knife. Even after he’d left Treviso he could still feel Spite’s teeth digging in, desperate for the revenge they were both owed.
After beating him to a bruised mess, Illario was a matter he could mostly hold Spite’s back on. But if something happened to Phyrra…
Something colder curls around his heart. He’d already lost her once. It was a miracle that the kitchen in the Lighthouse was still standing after he’d finally let the cocktail of anger and guilt pull him under. He’d woken to bloody fingers, a mosaic of broken glass and the terrified stares of his remaining companions. It was a lie to blame Spite, another to ignore the fact that the demon is as much a part of him as each breath now. Lucanis can see the scars reflected on his face, his own anger bleeding into those sharp glowing eyes. They were forced together like oil and water, constantly fighting to see who would end up on top. It’s different now. Their alliance opened something between them, Spite twisting into every muscle until the lines where Lucanis ended and he began blurred into nothing.
They’d both kill for her. Maker forbid the next person who tempted them.
Illario tugs the dagger out of the door. “What was it Caterina always said? ‘Feelings make you weak. Make you sloppy.’ She beat that into both of us and yet still favoured you for that heart of yours.” He flips the blade in the air and catches it in his other hand. “Forever doing Caterina’s bidding, even when you hated it. You never even wanted the title, always said that death was your only calling.”
Lucanis eyes the blade in Illario’s hand. “Plans change. People change.”
“I didn’t change and you're a fool if you think I did.” Illario takes a step forward, regarding himself in the knife’s reflection. “That’s why I made my plan. Antiva would be safe, I’d have what I wanted, you’d have gotten the end you thought you deserved.” He closes his eyes, frowning. “Fucking Zara.”
Lucanis stays quiet, his gaze not leaving the weapon as Illario tilts it forward.
“I’m not sorry for what I did. If you’re waiting for an apology then you might as well kill me now. This is how Crow business is done.” He runs his thumb along the metal, dark eyes boring into Lucanis’. “You’ll always be a better assassin than me. But I’d be the better Talon.”
Lucanis walks forward until the tip of the blade is pressed against his chest. “Then you should have used your own knife.”
One thrust is all it would take to put him down. Whether or not Illario could push hard enough before Lucanis smashes his face into a wall is another matter entirely— one he isn’t sure his cousin is willing to bet his currently unbroken teeth on.
A long cold moment passes before Illario sighs and tosses the blade onto the table. “It would be easier to count the Crows who don’t want me dead so I’d like to avoid infighting as much as you. Either get Rook here or end it, right now we’re both just waiting for this fragile peace to shatter.”
Spite circles him again. “Why not now? His back is turned.” He turns to Lucanis when he doesn’t answer, his form shaking with impatience. “We hate him. He made us like this.”
Lucanis ignores him. Maker knows it would be so much easier to hate his cousin, to ship him off on a glorified suicide mission like everyone, even Phyrra, expects him to. He just… can’t. Every time he considers it, the memory of them walking in tandem behind their parents’ urns swims to the surface. From then on, it was them against the world, two little boys facing the iron of their Grandmother’s stare and shouldering the endless weight of her expectations.
That little boy became the man that wanted Lucanis dead. Exactly as he was trained to. He’d heard whispers long before he was dragged to the Ossuary: House Dellamorte, a family tree with so many withered branches it’s amazing it hasn’t snapped under the weight of the rot inside. He’ll be damned before he uproots it entirely.
“If you hear anything else, I want to know,” Lucanis finally murmurs. He jerks his head towards the cellar when the muffled whining starts again. “And deal with whatever that is already.”
Illario strides to the door, fingers poised on the handle. “It’s another gift actually. As it turns out, Rook didn’t quite finish the job and I happened to find said Crow crawling back to Antiva.” His smile sharpens a little. “I may have told that particular House that you’d be more forgiving if they let you clean up.”
Spite is off Illario in an instant, staring through the door like a bloodhound zoned in on wounded prey.
Lucanis calmly takes off his jacket and plucks the knife from the table. He remembers the size of the scar ruining her back, the surrounding bouquet of broken veins where the poison had burned through. A target placed there because she chose to love him.
Illario watches him pull open the door, chin resting in his upturned palm. “It’s almost a mercy I suppose. You’re usually so efficient.”
“Yes, I am,” Lucanis quietly affirms. Spectral wings burst from his back, feathers curling forward like scythe-blades. The whimpering ceases entirely as he steps into the darkness, eyes flashing a brilliant violet. “He isn’t.”
***
Bonus Phyrra
#dragon age#dragon age the veilguard#lucanis dellamorte#lucanis x rook#illario dellamorte#my writing#da the veilguard
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Trivialities
rings the bell I have completed the filthy, smutty, absolutely plotless breeding kink one-shot that the Emmrook tag needs more of. May hell reserve me a throne.
Emmrich wants. He wants, but he doesn’t want to admit to wanting.
Rating: Explicit
Under the cut or on Ao3
Toodeloo~
She watches Emmrich crawl around on his hands and knees, her teeth sinking into her apple with a satisfying crunch.
"Did I not caution you against chasing after Assan?" His voice emerges from somewhere beneath his desk, muffled and laden with mild exasperation.
In the corner, Manfred hisses—a small, sheepish sound that seems to shrink him even further into the shadows.
"I do not have an assortment of phalanges at my disposal," Emmrich continues, shifting lower, his voice growing tighter as he leans closer to the floor to fish under the desk. "At least," he adds, huffing as his hand gropes blindly, "none in stock that would suit your particular proportions."
Another hiss—this one softer, forlorn. Manfred’s skull droops forward, a picture of contrition, if such a thing were possible. She bites back a snort, savoring the sight.
With a sigh and a quiet, triumphant "A-ha," Emmrich sits back on his knees, holding two skeletal toes between his fingers.
She tries, and fails, to piece together the connection between Manfred’s detached toes beneath Emmrich’s desk and whatever incident involved Assan.
Manfred hisses again, brighter this time.
"Don’t torment the child," she says, finishing her apple, tossing the core aside with an idle flick of her wrist.
"Manfred is not a child," Emmrich protests, slowly rising to his full height and brushing off his knees. His finger points toward the poor creature, long and accusatory. "And he knows better. Off you go, my boy. I’ll see to these in the morning."
Manfred hesitates, his sockets wide with something that might be pleading.
"Lucanis is boiling coffee in the kitchen," she offers, raising her eyebrows conspiratorially. "Sooo much steam."
A delighted hiss escapes, and Manfred scuttles out of the laboratory in a peculiar, gleeful waddle.
"Oof," she says, watching the door swing shut. "Not much discipline there. Brats would eat you alive."
Emmrich dismisses her with a wave, already pivoting toward the desk to pull open a drawer. From his breast pocket, he retrieves a handkerchief, unfolding it with care before wrapping the toes delicately within its folds. The bundle is tucked neatly into the drawer, which he slides shut with an air of finality. "Please," he says, "I am more than capable of managing children, thank you kindly."
"Are you?"
"Of course," he says, a touch too quickly.
"Ah yes," she quips, "because the Grand Necropolis is simply teeming with children. How silly of me to forget such a perfectly normal detail."
"There are… some, occasionally," he stammers, a faint crack in his usually polished delivery.
She shrugs, one shoulder rolling. "If you say so. I just assumed you avoided them out of preference."
A peculiar silence follows, taut yet not unkind. His gaze snaps toward her, brief and searching, before falling away again, as if it might find solace in the floorboards. When he finally speaks, his voice has softened, dipping into a quieter register. "Not out of choice, my darling," he murmurs. "Simply circumstance."
Oh, she thinks, and again, oh, as something sharp and unexpected twists behind her ribs. Her eyes sting faintly, and for once, she feels the unwelcome prickle of remorse. Perhaps she’s growing a conscience, she muses bitterly, or at least the beginnings of one. Watching him now, as he continues to speak—his voice light, his words polite, as if nothing has shifted—she notes the faint slump of his shoulders, the thin veneer of ease stretched too tight over something raw.
She has mourned possibilities before, small, inconsequential what-ifs. But never anything as vast, as shattering, as this. He sinks into his chair, the grand throne of the room, resting his elbows on the arms and pressing his fingers to his temples.
''Today has been a very long day,'' he says softly.
The apple’s last tartness clings to her tongue, bitter now. She swallows it down and moves to him. Lowering herself to her knees at his feet, she clasps her hands together atop his knee, forming a small, steady platform. She rests her chin there, tilting her head just so, her lashes fluttering as she peers at him through them.
"Dear?" he asks, his tone weary but still holding a thread of curiosity.
"Take off your pants," she says, her voice syrupy sweet, the smile she offers far too innocent to be trusted.
His sigh is long and drawn, bordering on a groan. "How romantic," he says dryly.
"Very," she answers, cheerful. "Hm?"
He doesn’t move. Instead, his hand rises, a quiet counterpoint to her insistence. He traces the slope of her nose, lingering on the faint upturn at the tip, as though contemplating something entirely unrelated. When he finally speaks, his voice is gentle, but firm. "You do not need to do anything for me, darling," he says. "As I’ve mentioned, today has been particularly tiresome."
"Hm," she hums again, unperturbed. "I have a pocket knife."
His eyes narrow, suspicion sneaking through the exhaustion. "This is expensive fabric."
"Lovely," she says brightly. "Then take them off."
The command hardly leaves her lips before her hands move of their own accord, reaching for his belt. She doesn’t need to look. By now, her fingers know the notch he prefers, the button he always fastens. The movements are second nature, mechanical and swift, her fingertips tracing familiar grooves as though the leather and thread carry the weight of memory.
She tugs the fabric down, just enough to bare him, enough to slide her cold palms against his thighs and press them there, skin to skin. He jolts at the contact, his breath catching, and she snickers softly as her palms begin to warm against his startled flesh.
Once it's warmed up, she licks her palm, slicking it thoroughly before wrapping her hand firmly around him, her fingers gripping him with what she hopes is just the right amount of pressure as she begins stroking. The weight of him feels substantial in her hand, half-hard but responding immediately to her touch, twitching with each slow pass. Her knees protest the position, a dull ache spreading, but she ignores it, shifting her weight back slightly onto her ankles to ease the strain without losing her focus.
When his cock pulses against her palm, she leans in, letting her lips brush over the flushed head before taking him into her mouth. He’s still soft enough to be pliable, but as her tongue swirls around him, tasting the salty bead that’s already gathered, she feels him swell and stiffen with each careful motion. She licks along the underside, tracing the vein there, her hand stroking the base as she takes him deeper, inch by inch, until her lips meet her fist.
It’s an intimate sensation, feeling him come fully to life in her mouth, growing harder, heavier, the stretch of him against her cheeks making her hollow them further. Her tongue presses firmly against him as she sucks, pulling back just enough to tease the head with her lips before swallowing him again. The lewd sounds echoes in her skull, spurring her on as her free hand drifts to his thigh, fingers tracing light circles over his skin.
When she finally pulls off, it’s slow and languid, a wet suctioning pop breaking the tension as his cock slips free from her lips. She lets it rest against her mouth, brushing her lips back and forth along the sensitive ridge, her breath hot against him. Her eyes flick up to meet his, her tongue darting out to flick against him again.
As she speaks, the vibrations from her words hum against him, rippling through his cock, and she knows he feels it; sees it in the sharp intake of his breath, the shudder that runs through his body, the way his thigh tightens beneath her touch. It’s intoxicating, watching him respond so viscerally, and she imagines how much more she could pull from him. If she dug her nails into his thigh, just hard enough to mark him, dragged them down his skin to peel back a layer of flesh mixed with muscle, just one, just enough to peer beneath.
"It’s almost a shame," she murmurs.
"What is?" Emmrich asks, his voice strained. His cheeks are flushed a deep pink, and his gaze wavers, flickering between her hand wrapped firmly around him and the way her lips hover just shy of him, glistening with spit and filth.
His hand rises to her face, brushing her cheek in a gentle stroke before moving upward, fingers threading into her hair. He pets her slowly, smoothing back the wild strands clinging to her sweat-slicked skin. She feels the static against her scalp, a faint crackling as strands cling to his fingers, then stick to his wrist, before snapping away with each pass. His thumb grazes her temple, ever soft, just as his hand keeps moving with quiet persistence, brushing her hair aside as if to clear his view.
She doesn’t answer immediately, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip in a show of feigned thoughtfulness. Her gaze flicks up to meet his before she leans back in, her lips parting as she takes him into her mouth once more. Her tongue presses firmly along the underside of his cock, dragging slowly as she sucks him deeper. Her hand strokes what she can’t yet fit, her fingers curling tightly around his slick length, pumping him in time with the slow bob of her head.
The heat of him fills her mouth, the stretch just this side of too much, but she doesn’t stop. Instead, she shifts, angling her head and relaxing her jaw as she pushes him further, past her molars, until the head of his cock nudges against her throat. She swallows instinctively, the tight contraction around him drawing a sharp groan from his lips. His fingers tighten in her hair, seizing in a way that’s no longer gentle. She feels the twitch of his hand, the slight forward push as if he wants to guide her down, bury himself deeper, to feel more of that constriction.
And, oh, he seems to like that, the way his hips jerk just slightly forward, chasing the sensation. His breath hitches audibly, and she can feel the tremor that runs through him as he briefly lets his need overtake him, pressing her head down further for just a moment. Her throat tightens again, but the guttural sound he makes is worth it.
Just as quickly, he catches himself, his grip loosening as his fingers relax in her hair, returning to the gentle petting from before. He strokes her scalp almost too quickly, as if the motion is meant to distract himself.
There’s an unpolished quality to her technique, something crude in the way her hand grips him, sometimes too firm, other times not enough. Her pace wavers, alternating between confident strokes and hesitant experimentation. She’s aware of the occasional stumble, the uneven flow, or the unintended scrape of her teeth that makes him hiss softly. And she knows it might be too much at times, imperfect and messy, but he’s been nothing if not patient.
Patient, like he was the very first time he parted her legs, his hands gentle even as she winced and bled under him. Patient as he coaxed her through the awkward, trembling motions of this wet, slick, and utterly shameless intimacy. Patient still, as she navigates her way through the ropes of mastering this act, finding a rhythm that is as much hers as it is his.
"As I was saying," she resumes, breathless as she pulls back, her lips red, and draws in air through clenched teeth. "It's almost a shame you didn’t get to sow your wild oats."
Above her, Emmrich frowns, brows knitting together. "Rook."
"Have a few vigorous harvests," she continues, her grin unapologetically wicked.
He exhales, long and slow. "I believe your metaphors require a touch more finesse, darling."
"Pollinate a few flowers," she goes on, undeterred, her fingers stroking him faster now, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. "Spread some fertilizer. You know, to take advantage of a fertile plot."
His lips twitch, though his frown remains in place. "Rook—"
"Plow the fields, till the soil," she interrupts, her thumb teasing over the sensitive tip of his cock with each pass. "Sow your seed far and wide. Make a bumper crop of—"
"That’s quite enough," he says, his tone clipped but far from cold.
She rolls her eyes. "Fine. Let’s try another. Play hide the eggplant until you’ve got a garden full of… succulent produce."
"Good gods, Rook," he mutters, his voice tightening as his hand briefly rakes through his hair. "Do you catalog these in secret, waiting for the most inopportune moment to unleash them?"
"Not at all. They come naturally," she says cheerfully. "Shove the zucchini into the compost."
"That one, in particular, manages to defy both logic and practical application, my dear."
"Tenderize the meat for the stew. Lay some bricks, build a whole… legacy foundation."
Emmrich groans, though it’s unclear whether it’s from her words or her hand. "Your creativity is boundless, if utterly unhinged," he sputters, though his cock twitches again in her grip.
"Come on," she teases, leaning in closer, her lips brushing against him as she whispers, "Dip the ladle in the soup. Spread the batter until it’s… dripping off the edges. Fill the eclairs. Frost the—"
"This is obscene," he cuts her off, and his voice cracks slightly as he does.
"Obscenely good," she purrs, stroking him faster. "And you're still hard. Clearly I'm onto something."
"Unsurprising," he replies. "Your persistence is impossible to ignore."
She pauses, her tongue darting out to taste him again, but instead of taking him back into her mouth, she sits back slightly, her voice dropping to a whisper that’s almost too soft to hear. "You should do that with me," she says, her words laced with heat. "Plant some tulips. Wiggle the worm in fresh dirt. Mix the genes cocktail for… posterity."
For a moment, his jaw slackens, hanging loose in a way that almost defies anatomy, like a snake caught mid-unhinge, preparing to devour her whole—she, the hapless gerbil frozen in the scrutiny of his gaze. She half expects him to scold her, to find some refined, cutting retort, but then, instead, she feels it. The sharp twitch of his cock in her hand, pulsing hot and insistent against her palm. His breath, warm and ragged, fans over her face as he leans down.
Before she can react, his arms hook firmly under hers as he hoists her, dragging her upward. The world tilts, and she’s pressed flush against his chest. His hands span her waist as he maneuvers her into his lap, pulling her down against him so that she can feel every inch of him pressed intimately against her.
He kisses her with a roughness that feels displaced given who he is, who she knows him to be, his mouth landing on her jaw first, catching the edge of her skin as she instinctively tilts her head. She feels the blunt press of his teeth through his lips, the almost-bite making her pulse spike as she shifts, adjusting herself, offering him her mouth fully. He takes it greedily, his kiss deeper than she’s ever felt from him. It’s sloppy, wet, and just before he pulls away for a breath, she feels the drag of his tongue tracing the underside of her top teeth.
"Did you know," he begins whispering. He doesn’t kiss her again, but the proximity of his mouth forces hers to move slightly with his, her lips following the enunciation of his words as though he’s speaking through her. "Healthy teeth and gums reflect impeccable nutrition, fastidious hygiene, and the absence of chronic ailments."
His hand finds her chin as he tilts her head back just enough to part her lips further. "And yours, my darling," he asserts, "are pearly white. Perfectly straight. A testament to enviable care. Open up." Her jaw obeys without hesitation, her mouth widening as his smile flickers, quiet and satisfied. "My very good girl," he murmurs, briefly caressing her cheek with the back of his hand.
His thumb slips inside, curving over the bottom of her lower teeth, not harshly but with enough force that she feels it distinctly, the pad of his finger dragging over the smooth enamel as though he’s inspecting her. He makes a contemplative sound before withdrawing, utterly unhurried, and smears the faint sheen of her saliva across her lips as if applying a balm.
"Oh," she breathes, her tongue curling around the salt of his fingertip. She lets the taste linger, savoring it for just a moment before swallowing the sound. "I see."
Her hands find his face in turn, cradling it as she cocks her head to better study him. Slowly, she begins to recognize the undercurrent of a very particular want behind his words. He’s already assembling the pieces, the blueprint unfolding behind his eyes. That earlier "oh" leaves her lips again, drawn out this time, deepened by the heat pooling in her belly. Her thighs clench involuntarily around him as she straddles him, leaning more heavily into his warmth.
"Mm," she hums instead, dragging her own thumbs over his cheeks. "My teeth. Your eyes. Maybe even your hair?" She tilts her head, watching the way his expression changes, how the idea takes root, growing and twisting and morphing.
She sees the image forming in his mind as surely as if it were projected onto the firelit walls, and the thought draws her tighter against him. He’s painting this child already, with scrupulous brushstrokes, and she can’t resist the urge to reach out and dip her own fingers into the paint.
"Yours is so much lovelier," he objects softly, as though he is stating a fact rather than issuing a compliment. His fingers thread through her hair, combing through the strands.
His grip tightens subtly, winding the pale locks around his hand, pulling her head back until her throat is exposed.
"Yes," she agrees on a wheezing laugh. "It’s prettier than yours."
"And your bone structure," he continues, his breath skimming over her throat, warming the damp sheen of sweat that glistens there. "So symmetrical. A marker of stability, of optimal development. Fewer genetic mutations. Fewer environmental insults."
His fingers are explorers, prodding gently at the ridges of her skull as though mapping the contours of her being. "From your high cheekbones," he murmurs, his lips pressing a faint path along her jaw, "to the graceful curvature of your spine, the exquisite arch of your vertebrae."
What strange and delicate alchemy they might achieve. A rib, his or hers, sawn off cleanly. A braid of her hair, severed at the base with exacting care, coiled like a dead snake. The color of his eyes, drawn drop by meticulous drop, an aqueous tincture suspended in a vial, as though the shade alone could beget sight. Her chipped tooth, still warm from the gum. His breath, captured, preserved. A ribbon of her blood, vivid as crushed pomegranate, soaking through the blank, pristine plane of possibility.
His genius, wrenched untidily from his skull, whispered and cajoled into solidity, its formless brilliance molded into something tangible. Her arrogance, sly and sharp-edged, the necessary companion to his intellect; because genius, no matter how luminous, cannot thrive without the scaffolding of audacity.
"Just like that?" she asks, as she realizes, belatedly, the rhythm of her body, grinding, rocking against him in an unthinking cadence. "We’ll make it happen just like that?" Her hand slips between them, closing around his cock once more, dragging her grip along its length.
He hisses into her shoulder, his breath stuttering as his eyes flutter closed for a moment. "Perhaps," he manages, the word softened by a trace of breathlessness. His hips jerk against her hand, though the weight of her on top of him makes the motion shallow. "Or perhaps it will take time, and we will have to plan accordingly."
"How so?" she murmurs, shifting her body until her legs frame his thigh, her core pressing firmly against it. She begins to move, her hips rolling, grinding against the muscle. The heat builds, and she feels herself grow wet, wetter still, the fabric of her smallclothes clinging slickly, uncomfortably, to her cunt with each rut.
"Consistency," he stammers, his voice catching as his lips skim her throat, trembling against her skin. "I believe—consistency is key in such endeavors."
"Yes," she agrees, eager and giddy. "Yes, and we’ll be so very, very consistent."
She sighs, content, trying to press herself closer, to sink deeper into him, when his fingers, impatient and insistent, begin tapping against her hip. "Up, up, darling," he mumbles, already shifting beneath her. Before she can fully register the request, he’s moving, rising awkwardly even with her weight pressing down on him. She shuffles back as he stands, watching as he tucks himself back into his trousers.
Silence falls, just a beat too long, teetering on the edge of discomfort. His gaze fixes on her, unblinking, and before she can ask why, his hands come to her face, cupping it gently. He moves her head—left, right, then left again—as though searching for something, some bizarre glimmer he’s convinced might vanish if he doesn’t check. Whatever it is, he seems satisfied. Or uncertain. Or both.
One hand lingers, hovering near her temple. In her periphery, she sees his thumb curl inward, folding neatly into his palm before he snaps the tendon with a sharp crack. The sound echoes too close to her ear, and she exhales shakily, her breath hitching as a shiver crawls up her spine.
Her mind flickers back to that thumb, the firm press of it inside her mouth, the slow drag across her teeth. A stray thought worms its way forward: would her teeth make the same sound if he pulled them free, one by one? Not with the detached efficiency of tools, no, but with his nails, working each loose with loving care. She imagines the roots, slick with blood, pooling in his palm, the faint wet patter as they fall, one after another, against the hard glint of his rings.
He would soothe her after, murmuring, exquisite, my dear. His lips would find hers, kissing the ruined edge of her mouth. And then those teeth, her teeth, would cease to be hers entirely. He would polish them to an unearthly gleam, fracture them into malleable pieces, resetting them into new shapes; more rings for his fingers, perhaps, or small, intricate talismans. Artifacts of her, transfigured, as though she were nothing more than raw material awaiting his touch. And she is, isn't she? That's precisely what she is.
Emmrich tugs at her hands, and she follows without thought, stumbling once over the uneven edge of the rug, her laughter bubbling up. Always laughing—she cannot help it, just as he cannot help but lecture anytime an opportunity arises. Stupid, stupid girl she is around him, always, always laughing. Between them, there are words, or perhaps only the suggestion of words. She is certain she hears them, though they might be figments conjured by the rhythm of his steps, the insistence of his pull. Come, come, and yes, yes, whispered or merely imagined, drawing her toward his room the Lighthouse hides so well, the one tucked behind the great expanse of bookshelves.
She sits at the edge of his bed, her feet just brushing the floor, watching him as he looms above her. It clings to her, that gaze of his, like damp fabric, and she almost asks—what, what is it, why do you look at me like that—but before the words find their footing, he leans down. His lips touch hers, a fleeting, maddeningly sweet kiss, so brief it feels almost accidental. Then he straightens again, his hands moving to the buttons of his vest, as if the kiss had been nothing at all.
"Let me help," she offers, her hands already at his hips, tugging him closer.
"I would be ever so grateful," Emmrich says. The vest, she notices, is already off, discarded as though it had never been there. His fingers are now working at his cufflinks with the precision of someone determined not to waste a moment.
She grins. "Mm-hm."
His trousers hang low on his hips, precarious and loose, and with a single tug, she sends them pooling around his ankles. His cock is firm in her grasp before they even hit the floor. Her fingers curl around him, stroking slowly as she watches his eyes flutter shut for just a moment. She shuffles closer to the edge of the bed, her knees brushing against his thighs, urging him to close the gap entirely.
The sound he makes when she takes him into her mouth is anything but composed, a downright broken moan that tastes almost like a confession. The surprise of it fuels her, and she responds with one of her own, humming against him, the vibration sending a shudder through his body. Then, for one glorious moment, she feels it—his selfishness, finally set free, as his hand cradles the back of her head. He begins to move, his hips thrusting into the heat of her mouth.
The thrusts are shallow at first, cautious, but soon greediness takes over, and he drives deeper, a little faster. His breath catches, then whistles through his teeth, his groan breaking into something softer, needier, a small, desperate whimper. His cock presses further, burrowing against the back of her throat, his motions growing more erratic. She tastes him, salt and heat, leaking onto her tongue, and her body tenses in response, her nails digging into his thighs for balance.
He shivers, his body a taut line of tension, and for a moment, it seems as though he might lose himself entirely. Suddenly, his voice comes through, though she doesn't hear him at first. His hand softens, guiding her off him, though the drag of his cock across her chin leaves a wet, glistening trail. He is quick to wipe it away.
"As lovely as this is," Emmrich says, his voice roughened to a rasp that forces him to clear his throat, coughing lightly into his shoulder, "and it is, immensely so, I would like to gently redirect your efforts. If you’re agreeable, of course."
She snorts. "Oh, I’d be more than agreeable."
"Wonderful," he murmurs, smiling.
Her clothes are gone in a flurry, barely tossed aside before his mouth crashes onto hers, askew and hurried, his teeth grazing her lip, his tongue pressing insistently into her.
He crawls between her legs, settling heavily, and, briefly, she feels the shadow of her sweet Emmrich, her careful Emmrich, always so tender with her, so indulgent. But his hands give him away, moving with a kind of fevered urgency, fingers roving over her breasts, down her abdomen, between her thighs. He cups her sex and exhales sharply into her neck when he finds her wet, the sound torn from his throat as though it surprises him as much as it does her.
He doesn’t wait, doesn’t want to wait, or simply can't, and there’s something raw in the way his fingers tremble as he rubs her, his usual precision abandoned, his mind lost somewhere. She feels the heat of him, the head of his cock slick with moisture as it presses against her leg, insistently, clumsily.
"Emmrich, Emmrich," she whispers, her lips brushing his ear. "How about you redirect your efforts, hm?"
For a heartbeat, he stills, his body taut above her, and then his hand pulls away. She barely has time to register the loss before he grabs her knee, yanking it up and out, spreading her wide open for him. She yelps, then laughs; another breathless, ridiculous giggle, yet another in the long string of laughter she’s offered him today. It’s cut short as his cock drags through her folds, slick and hard, the blunt head catching against her entrance. Above her, his brow furrows, his jaw tight, and then he thrusts forward.
Finally, finally, finally, he fills her.
"Oh," she says, and the word tumbles out of her lips like a reflex, the only thing she seems capable of saying today, oh, oh, oh, punctuating her laughter and her gasps alike, as he begins to move.
Hot, quick, deep. He fucks her like a man undone, and it is fucking, no gentleness in it, none of the patience he usually lavishes upon her. This is something else entirely, each thrust driving the air from her lungs in uneven bursts.
"Consistency," she manages to choke out, her arms wrapping tightly around his back. "Didn’t you say something about consistency?"
He moans against her neck before his lips detach, trailing downward. His mouth finds her nipple, closing over it with a heat that makes her back arch, his tongue circling lazily after a long, indulgent suck. "Consistency," he says, though it sounds more like a pant, a gasp forced through clenched teeth. "Always consistency. The foundation of excellence. I would have you in the morning, before the day begins, leaving you loose-limbed and full, a pillow beneath your hips."
Their bodies stick together, sweat-slick, his skin peeling away from hers with a sound as sticky as honey, warm and cloying. She tastes it now, the salt of his sweat mingling with hers, dripping from her upper lip into her mouth. His hand moves blindly, curling beneath her knee to draw her leg up, folding it tight against her side. The shift in position makes her cunt clench around him, and he groans, deep and hoarse, his cock twitching against her inner walls. The stretch of him is maddening, matched only by the drag of his hips as the wiry hair at his base rubs against her clit with every thrust, every flush press of his body against hers.
"And then," he says, his voice breaking even as he presses forward, "at dinner, I would offer you something sweet. Figs, honey, almonds. Foods to heat the blood, to make your body ready, to make it more—" he thrusts sharply, and she whines like some kind of animal, "—receptive."
His mouth finds hers again, his words muffled against the slide of her tongue. "A drink," he whispers, his lips brushing hers, "of cinnamon, ginger, cloves."
His thumb presses past her lips, pushing down on her tongue, flattening it with just enough force to almost make her gag. "And—and," he stammers, his voice breaking as his body shudders, the tremor running from his chest to his shoulders, "I would feed you dates, one by one, from my own mouth."
He shifts, sitting up on his knees, his weight pressing into the bed as his thrusts quicken, growing erratic. His fingers dig into her hips, pulling her against him. His eyes flicker shut, his jaw tight, and she sees the tension rippling through him as he teeters on the edge. "And finally," he groans, "I would have you at night. Slowly, gently, while you’re half-asleep, sighing so sweetly in that way you do, my love. You would not have to lift a finger, I will take care of everything."
His gaze drops, riveted to the place where his cock drives into her, disappearing between her folds again and again, glistening with slick. One hand moves to her lower belly, pressing down, and she gasps at the sensation, knowing he can feel himself inside her. That thought seems to unravel him. He collapses forward, his chest flush against hers, his face burying into the crook of her neck. His hips jerk once, twice, and then she feels it, the first hot gush of his release, flooding her as he shudders above her. He keeps moving, his thrusts shallow, even as his spend leaks from her, coating her thighs in proof.
It takes him a long time, longer than before, to lift himself on trembling arms above her, but she doesn’t mind. Not the weight of his chest pressing too firmly against her small breasts, not the cooling sweat between them that begins to cling, itchy and uncomfortable. None of it matters. She kisses him wherever her lips can reach—his shoulder, his neck, the damp curve of his jaw—her fingers threading through his hair in repetitive strokes. Words trip from her lips, soft and disjointed, sounds more than sentences, but she thinks they’re something about how beautiful he is, how impossibly, unbearably beautiful.
At last, Emmrich stirs, pushing himself upright and allowing her ribcage to rise freely once more. Slowly, he rolls off her, his movements reluctant, as though loath to abandon her warmth entirely. As his cock slips from her, softened now, she feels the wetness that follows, a viscous spill.
His lips find her forehead, pressing there with a gentle insistence. His mouth is dry, faintly cracked—worry marks from her teeth, perhaps—and she feels the faint roughness with each kiss as he moves across her face, trailing affection in soft pecks.
"Darling," he murmurs finally, the word brushing the space between the corner of her eye and the slope of her nose. "My beautiful darling."
For a time, it is only this: the soft, delicious calm of him speaking to her. His voice meanders, touching on nothing of consequence, and she only catches fragments of it. But it doesn’t matter. Emmrich likes to talk, and she likes to listen. Understanding feels secondary; if the words matter, truly matter, he will shape them for her, take her hand and guide her through their labyrinth, plucking them off the pages of his thoughts, pressing them gently onto her tongue until she can taste their meaning. He is good like that. He cares.
At some point, she notices her fingers have laced through his. She lifts his hand to examine it, turning it idly, her gaze snagging on the rings he always removes before bed. But not tonight. The gleam of gold is there, caught in the dim light, and it makes her smile, foolish and wide, as though she’s stumbled upon some great secret. He has forgotten. Or, more thrillingly, he has chosen not to care. Poor gold, she thinks, the silent witness to their debauchery.
She presses a kiss to his hand, the cool metal brushing her lips, and without meaning to, asks, "What do you dream about?"
The question hangs in the air, and for a moment, dread knocks at her skull, demanding to be let in. Before he can answer, she barrels forward, filling the space with her own voice, needing to stamp out the awkward, saccharine edge she suddenly feels, the absurd mushiness curling in her chest.
"I dream of being rich," she blurts. They are like loose change, her stupid words, spilling from a pocket that's been slit at the seams by a thief. Her snort escapes first, blunt and ugly, followed by a laugh, both curling back on her, mocking not just the question but the fragile sentiment that dared to surface with it.
Can she just stop fucking laughing, she wonders. Why is she always laughing, always, like some deranged, overwound automaton? Not an elegant, costly one, no, nothing like that. A cheap, broken thing, its key jammed tight, grinding out the same rasping, ungainly refrain over and over again.
"Oh, simple things," Emmrich replies. He pauses for a moment, humming softly into the quiet. "A stroll through town with you. An evening in the countryside—"
"I like the countryside," she interjects quickly.
"Yes," he says, smiling faintly, "I thought you might. I do as well. Star-gazing over a fine drink. Making love to you under the stars in the next moment." He goes quiet for a single breath. "As I said, my dear, simple pleasures. Perhaps I’d take you to a jeweler," he continues, his tone lightening as he lifts her hand to his lips, nipping gently at her pinkie finger, the one sticking out from their entwined hands.
Predictably, and to her own irritation, she laughs, a sharp burst of sound that only encourages him. "Cover you in gold," he muses, his voice warm with amusement, "to dissuade you from wandering into a dragon’s hoard. Again. And yes," he adds, chuckling softly himself, "I suppose in doing so, I’d make you rich. Two birds, one stone, as the saying goes. Two dreams for the price of one."
"You're a sentimentalist."
"So I have been told."
His hand glides over her hip, tracing idle paths up and down, aimless but soothing. For a while, she simply lets him roam, savoring the quiet between them. He disentangles their hands, his fingers slipping from the hollows between her knuckles one by one. She feels him push gently, rolling her onto her back, palm settling on her stomach before venturing lower. She parts her thighs without a thought, her body moving ahead of her mind, and a dizzy smile threatens to split her face. Oh, the sheer joy of it; she could smile herself silly, smile her way into an early grave.
He dips into the slick mess between her legs, parting her folds but not yet pushing inside. Instead, he rocks his touch back and forth, teasing the edge of intrusion before retreating, his fingers pressing against her clit just long enough to blur sensation into numbness. Then he circles back, reigniting the pleasure in waves. She lifts one leg, angling to meet his rhythm, and hums, a soft sound of encouragement.
"I shall never tire of how eager you are," he admits. When her eyes flutter open, she finds him watching her intently. Only when she meets his eyes does he let his own trail downward, tracing the flush spreading across her chest.
"Just an opportunist," she breathes, her hips tilting, seeking the relief of his fingers, desperate to catch them, to pull them inside her where she aches for him most. But his touch remains tentative, merely skimming over her.
"You need never wait for an opportunity with me."
"Not you, no," she concedes, smiling just a little. "But..." Her gaze drops lower, to the glistening trail he is spreading further, the evidence of her desire, of him, spilling from her with every slow stroke of his hand. "Waste not, want not, or something like that, hmm?"
His eyes follow hers, and she feels the moment he understands, feels it in the sharp twitch of his cock against her skin. The weight of it presses against her, hot and heavy, as his hand finally dips lower, and his fingers press into her.
"Oh," he murmurs, but his voice is distant, his attention entirely on his fingers. Those long, deft fingers that abandon her briefly to caress the insides of her thighs. He gathers the seed that's leaked out of her, dragging it back up, spreading it over her folds, before pressing it back into her. Two fingers sink knuckle-deep, curling inside her as she sighs, her hips lifting eagerly to meet him. "Indeed," Emmrich whispers, and that single word—two simple syllables—lands like a punch, each one punctuated by the wet, obscene sound of her cunt clenching and spasming around him. "Let us be mindful."
"Yes, yes," she echoes, her breath catching as her hips roll against his hand, angling herself perfectly so that his palm grinds against her clit with every movement. "With all that grey in your hair, who knows if you’ll keel over sooner rather than later. Gotta make the most of it."
"Very amusing, Rook," he mutters, though his lips curl at the edges. His fingers don’t falter, still driving into her with a steady rhythm, fucking his seed back into her with every thrust. The wet, filthy sounds between them seem to grow louder, drowning out her teasing bullshit.
"Your stamina’s not bad either," she pants, her tone breaking with a gasp as he curls his fingers just so. "Your hand's, I mean. For someone who probably remembers when the wheel was invented, at least."
This earns an actual eye roll from Emmrich. He moves to tickle behind her knee, making her jolt. "Comedy gold, dearest," he deadpans.
She huffs, unable to resist her own antics. "I’m just saying," she insists, giggling as her other leg shifts forward, trying to hook around his waist to pull him down on top of her. "Let me know if we need to stop for a water break. I know you need to stay hydrated at your age."
Gently but firmly, he pushes her wandering leg away with a tut. "Behave," he chides, his free hand gripping her hip hard enough to leave the faintest imprint as he presses it down, keeping her spread wide for him. He pulls out of her for a moment to caress her thigh, then her lower belly, humming thoughtfully. "At any rate," he says, voice rich with dry humor, "I trust you won’t let me die of thirst."
As if to underline his point, he leans down without warning, his lips brushing against her swollen, aching cunt. He drags his tongue up in one long, slow stroke, making her inhale sharply, before he pulls back just as casually and resumes his position on his haunches. His hand returns between her legs, seamlessly replacing his mouth, fingers plunging back inside her.
A third finger joins the others, stretching her further, and her back arches off the bed. It’s not his cock—no, nothing is—but they are dexterous, caressing her from the inside, and she can’t hold back the moan that slithers from her throat. Her thighs tremble as she grabs his wrist, holding him there, grinding herself against his hand, desperate to chase the high building inside her.
"There you go," he says, his gaze locked on the obscene mess between her legs, utterly entranced. How his fingers disappear inside of her, how it ought to be his cock, how it might be his cock soon enough, if the stirring interest she keeps feeling brush against her is any indicator. "There you go, darling, my darling. Oh, well done."
She thinks it should embarrass her, how quickly she falls apart under his touch; her leg jerking violently, her nostrils flaring, her hand forcing his fingers deeper, harder, until she swears she can feel the faint scrape of his nails inside her. She can’t bear for him to stop, not until the wild pounding of her heart begins to subside, not until the pulsing deep inside her settles enough that it doesn’t feel like he could feel it there too, throbbing around his fingers. When at last her body stills, she releases his wrist, and his hand is his own again.
He doesn’t pull away entirely. Instead, he drags his fingers through the evidence of her climax, spreading it across her skin in languid sweeps. From her stomach to the curve of her left breast, he paints her until his fingertips dry. Only then does he lean down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the center of her sternum before he turns his head, letting his cheek come to rest against the same spot.
His breath ghosts warm over her skin, almost a lullaby. She tries to part her legs wider, inviting him back into her, but instead of moving he shakes his head, the motion rubbing his stubble faintly against her chest.
"I believe," he murmurs, his tone heavy with drowsy amusement, "I might fall asleep."
"Then do," she replies simply.
Emmrich huffs, a short, wry sound. "Absolutely not," he haughtily objects. "You and I have never been more in need of a bath. Give me but a moment, my dear."
He leaves her to draw said bath, and the sound of rushing water trickles into the edges of her awareness as she closes her eyes. Of course the Lighthouse would give him a tub, she thinks. Emmrich without his nightly ritual soak? Unimaginable. The salts, the oils, the soaps, his little arsenal of comforts.
Without it, he might very well crumble into dust. He already plays the tragic martyr every time they’re forced to spend more than a single night in Arlathan Forest. She can practically hear the sighs, the kvetching, see the subtle curl of his lip as the rest of them splash around in the river like heathens. How vulgar, his expression always seems to say, as though cleanliness not sanctioned by perfumed water is beneath him.
The memory makes her smile. She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, hard enough to feel the pressure sink into her skull, hard enough to drown out even the sound of the bathwater. When she finally opens them again, fireworks of color burst and bloom in the darkness, like a garish encore to her thoughts, leaving her blind for a few seconds longer than feels reasonable. And he is there too, inviting her into the water.
She takes his hand, letting him pull her up and off the bed, her steps dragging as though weighted with some unseen anchor. The walk to the bath is short, mercifully so, as her body feels languid, loose, and tired in the way only moments of deep intimacy can summon. The water steams faintly, hotter than she likes, and she pauses on the edge before stepping in. It licks at her flesh, turning it an alarming, blotchy red that she knows will fade.
Usually, she folds into him, her back pressed to his chest, her spine nestled against the softness of his skin. But tonight, something feels different. She wants to see him, to watch him. Slowly, she adjusts, settling into his lap, her legs draped over his, facing him instead.
She gathers water in her palms and lets it spill over his hair, again and again. She knows it’s enough when the strands are slicked back, heavy and gleaming, ready for the lather of the soap he reserves for it. A rich, herbal thing that smells like damp forests and earth, one that never leaves her skin raw no matter how much she uses. Her hands work without thought, smoothing the lather between her palms before massaging it into his hair.
Because she wants to talk. Needs to. But she can’t, not if her hands are still, not if there’s nothing to distract them. She doesn’t know how to begin. Doesn’t know how to say it, how to shape it, how to—
She exhales.
"Emmrich," she says, and immediately it’s as though she’s stepped outside herself, not seeing but hearing, listening from some distant corner. Her voice disgusts her; pathetic, thin, trembling with a kind of vulnerability that makes her stomach twist. She tries again. "The things that you want..." It falters, slips through her fingers. She tries again. "I mean, not the ones you told me about after I asked, the other things..." And even then, she can’t finish.
Immediately, he lifts his hand, waving it in an airy, dismissive gesture, as if to brush away her worries before they can settle. His eyes crease at the corners, weary in a way that mirrors her own exhaustion. That same hand, mid-wave, finds its way to her hair, smoothing it down.
"Fantasies, dear one, are precisely that—fantasies," he says. His palm cups the back of her head fully now, his fingers splaying, curling ever so slightly against her skull, until he gently guides her face toward him. His lips press to her forehead and he keeps them there for a long moment, breathing her in.
"You dream of gold," he continues, his voice lilting, thoughtful, "but that does not mean you wish to be encased in it." There’s a faint sound as his lips part from her, a soft pull of air that seems to punctuate his thoughts. "Whimsy is a necessity, a salve for the spirit. I have envisioned myself in a thousand different lives, a million postures and possibilities, each one its own fleeting delight. And yet, none of them came to pass, nor did they need to. Dreams are dreams for a reason," he concludes, his other hand lifting to trace the curve of her cheek. "Because we are creatures who must dream and life, my darling, would be unbearably impoverished without them.''
Bullshit, she thinks. Pure, uncut crap. He can wrap it in poetry, layer it with pretty words and polished sentiment, but she knows a con when she sees one. She is one—a walking, breathing embodiment of artifice, having swindled men and women out of time, money, patience, and whatever else they held too loosely. She watches him now, smiling tiredly, stifling a yawn behind his hand, and the signs are all there. Emmrich wants. He wants, but he doesn’t want to admit to wanting.
She shakes her head.
"When the gods are dead," she says eventually, "we’ll have this conversation again. The dreams you dream are far from trivial. You deserve them. And next time," she adds, cross, "you won’t feed me hogwash."
His eyes widen, her name forming on his lips. "Rook—"
"I didn’t say I don’t want the things you do," she interrupts, as her fingers begin moving, rewetting his hair where the soap has dried into brittle peaks. "Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. Maybe someday I’ll wake up and want them so badly I can’t think of anything else. Or maybe the very thought will make me sick."
Her hands still for a moment, water trickling from her palms, before she shrugs. ''But right now?" she says, her tone shifting, lifting, shaping itself into something lighter, more playful. It has to be funny again; she has to be funny again, has to summon back her stupid laughter, her idiotic giggling, his soft, indulgent smiles. "Right now is obviously not the time. And frankly, every child within earshot already annoys me; I've got way too much on my plate."
''Yes,'' Emmrich drawls, ''I do recall the Minrathous... incident.''
"That kid deserved to be kicked in the teeth," she points out, defensive. "Honestly, he got off lightly. Besides, you didn’t exactly leap to object in the moment."
"That’s because I did not anticipate you would, if you’ll pardon the vulgarity, flip off a child. I was, shall we say, momentarily struck speechless."
''He spat on me, Emmrich. He. Spat. On. Me.''
He looks at her, one eyebrow arched, and she braces instinctively, ready for the lecture that is sure to follow. The carefully measured reprimand about setting an example, being better, Emmrich’s usual litany of moralistic platitudes. But instead his head tips back, and out comes a laugh. More of a bark than anything, uncharacteristically loud, the kind of laugh she’s only ever heard when the wine has loosened him too much to care. It ripples through him, shaking his shoulders, and when it finally ebbs, he rubs at his eyes, catching the faint shine of unshed tears on his fingertips.
"Oh, my Rook," he says, his voice softened by the remnants of laughter still rumbling faintly in his chest. "My pretty, beloved thing." He pauses, his gaze locking onto hers with something that feels almost too raw to bear. "Forgive the selfishness," he requests, ''but how profoundly grateful I am that you once looked my way—and that you keep looking still."
Words evade her, slippery as minnows in a dark pond, darting away before she can grasp them. They do not reside in her the way they do in him, coiled neatly, nestled against the plush warmth of his inner cheek, waiting to be shaped. Hers are buried somewhere deep and low. But perhaps she can press them into him instead, push their meaning into the pores of his skin, let them seep beneath the surface where he might understand without her needing to speak.
She kisses his forehead first, the heat of it damp against her lips, a soft communion. Then his eyelids, fluttering faintly beneath her touch. His temple is salty with sweat, his cheekbones cold and sharp despite the heat of the water. Her lips rest there, pressing, inscribing, as if she can carve her thoughts into him, etch the unsayable into the planes of his face.
He is pretty too. So unbearably pretty that it makes her chest ache. But not the kind of prettiness that lives in novels or in the polished symmetry of soft-featured men. His beauty is stark; all angles, shadow and bone. His silver hair catches the light in a way that gold never could. Gold, which is gaudy and loud, has never suited her. Silver, though, oh, silver is cooler, cleaner, the kind of thing that fits her—he fits her—like a finely wrought bangle clasped around her wrist.
The lines by his eyes are her favorite part, she thinks. They betray him in ways nothing else does, giving him away when he’s surprised or angry or sad, and she treasures them for that, for their honesty. They are the marks of someone who feels deeply, someone who cares, someone who can be trusted with fragile things. Those lines soften him, make him approachable in a way no smooth, unmarked youth could ever manage. She could stare at them for hours, watching their tiny twitches and shifts, memorizing every single one.
If there is a crime in the universe, it is that there is only one Emmrich Volkarin. It feels absurd that the world has been granted just one of him. Any child of his should look only like him. She should contribute nothing. No smudges, no imperfections, nothing to mar the clarity of his design. She is the inkblot at the end of a pristine manuscript, while he is the volume itself, bound in dark leather and gleaming gold leaf.
How could eternity ever be long enough for someone like him? He deserves it, yes, deserves it entirely, but only the kind that cradles and preserves, the kind that shields instead of consumes. Not the ugly eternity of bone and ash, not the endless emptiness of lichdom. She cannot bear the thought of him reduced to such a thing, his beauty stripped away, his brilliance devoured by the erosion of time. That he doesn’t see it this way only deepens her frustration.
Hand me a spoon, she muses, her imagined voice so calm, so terribly polite. Thank you, thank you, you are ever so kind.And with that same borrowed civility, she would take the utensil and gouge out her own eyes. She would pluck them from their sockets, let the blood spill down her cheeks, let the nerve endings dangle like roots freshly torn from soil. Not forever, no, not forever. Just long enough for him to borrow them, to press her ruined vision into his own skull and see what she sees.
He is so, so pretty, she thinks again, wrapped up in his polished clothes, perfumed and proper, and she wants to scream it into him, to shove it into his head. She would ruin herself for him, scrape her knees raw on the ground prostrating at his feet, would choke on his cock until she tasted him in her lungs. She would swallow him whole, his seed flooding her throat, coating her insides, until she was painted with him, an Emmrich-colored thing from the inside out. She would fuck him any way, every way he likes, let him break her apart and remake her, just to ensure he never doubted how utterly lovely he is.
She doesn’t know how to say any of this, how to dislodge the words from the thicket of her chest and shape them into something he might understand. Instead, she presses her lips to his cheek and kisses him there. Again. Again. Again. Once, twice.
"Pretty," she murmurs. Her lips brush the edge of his jaw, where the first hint of roughness begins to bloom. "You are so, so pretty."
#i have better things to do with my life but not actually i dont#shortstories#my stupid writing#emmrook#emmrich x rook#emmrich romance#emmrich x female rook#emmrich volkarin#dragon age the veilguard#datv#nsft
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The Wrong Kind of Spice
Summary: Manfred helps Emmrich prepare a romantic dinner for Rook at the Lighthouse. Things are going pretty good at first, until Manfred accidentally uses one of Lucanis’ very special spices. The kind of spices that are hidden away at the bottom of chests, meant for no one else but a skilled assassin to find and use.
Notes: Hide your knives, hide your spices, no one is safe when Manfred is around.
You can find it on AO3 too.
“Ah! No, no, Manfred. That’s not how you hold a knife. Must we go over this again?”
Knives were pretty tricky for Manfred. He didn’t like how they slipped out of his hands whenever he picked them up from the non-pointy part, which apparently was very, very dangerous for anyone with skin on their bones.
Once he cut four of his fingers clean off while trying to chop an apple with a butcher's knife. Manfred chose that knife because it was big and blocky and he could see his reflection in it. Emmrich had searched for his longest finger all afternoon, which had somehow rolled underneath the stove in the Lighthouse.
Manfred was upset at first because he thought he’d need to get a new one. He really, really liked that middle finger. It had been a painter's finger, and Manfred knew almost everything about painting. It’s pretty colours, and how Emmrich’s face brightened like one of his fancy spells whenever Manfred showed him a new picture. But the day he cut off his fingers, Emmrich huffed and puffed the entire time until he found it, his nose doing the funny thing that made him look like a dragon.
Emmrich asked Lucanis to hide all the big knives after that. Sometimes, the assassin still lets Manfred see them if he asks politely, and especially if he’s absolutely sure Emmrich has gone to bed. It's their own little secret.
Emmrich carefully took the knife away from Manfred, positioning it the correct way around. He stared at the pile of Manfred’s squashed tomatoes for a long time, rubbing the middle of his nose.
“Again?” Manfred asked, reaching for another tomato. He could almost see the bottom of the basket now. When they had started, the different vegetables were stacked higher than Manfred and he had to stand on his tippy toes just to reach one.
“Perhaps, Manfred, it's best if I cut the rest of these? They may still be salvageable but I will have to rethink the salad. I’d hate for them to go to waste… especially after Neve’s valiant efforts to acquire them.”
Manfred rested his elbows on the table, leaning in as Emmrich sliced the tomatoes. Emmrich cut them so fast and so perfectly that the tomatoes soon turned into small, tiny squares. Manfred needed to get a good look, needed to get every detail so he could copy his master the next time he picked up a knife.
He got so close to the chopping board he could barely see the knife move at all anymore. That’s when Emmrich froze, looking down at him. His mouth was in a straight line, and he tilted his head back. This told Manfred two things: that he might be in trouble, or maybe he was about to get another lesson, so he better pay attention.
”Manfred?”
“Yes!”
”What's the most important rule when dealing with sharp objects?”
Manfred brought a hand to his chin, placing the other on his hip, pretending like he was Emmrich thinking long and hard when someone asked him a question about the Fade, or necromancy, or even about Rook.
“Sharp? Knife.”
”That’s correct.”
”No running… No throwing. No… putting in mouth.”
Emmrich let out a long sigh, like he was releasing all the air from his chest. And Manfred suddenly found himself thinking about breathing, wondering why people needed to breathe in the first place. If they were surrounded by air all the time, then why did they have to keep putting it ‘in and out?’
Manfred tried to make the same sound he heard from Emmrich, of what he thought everyone at the Lighthouse sounded like when they breathed. His ribs started rubbing together in a weird way that made him tingle all over.
“Manfred. Whatever are you doing?”
Manfred’s sounds got crunchier, louder, his jaw rattling.
“Practicing. Breathing.”
“That’s quite enough. If I ever had the misfortune of hearing someone breathe like that, well, I’d send them straight to the infirmary. And administer their last rites while I was at it. Now, back to our aforementioned topic…”
“Knives!”
”Yes . It‘s imperative we keep our distance, Manfred.”
“Oh! Distance… Stay. Away.”
“Precisely. It’s hazardous.”
“Hazard. Danger. Emmrich hates.”
“Indeed, to a certain degree, but it’s entirely for your own good. I shudder at the thought of any more damage happening to your form, Manfred, seeing as I’ve only just gotten you back.”
Emmrich moved his nicer chopped tomatoes to a separate bowl, then scooped up Manfred’s dripping ones. He carried them over to a small pot on top of the stove, dumping them inside.
“And it’s ‘ I hate danger’, never ‘danger I hate.’ We are not speaking in riddles, Manfred. I will have to increase the number of our elocution lessons, it seems we’re not making as much progress as I hoped.”
“Class now?”
Emmrich shook his head, instead giving Manfred a big wooden spoon.
“We must make haste and finish cooking before Rook arrives. Now, could you kindly do me a favour and start mixing the soup?”
This was an easy task, it was just moving the spoon in circles, like the paint brushes he used before. Manfred tilted his head one way, and then the other, trying to decide where he would put the spoon first.
“Let it simmer, just like I showed you. Vigorous stirring will only ruin the consistency. We don’t want to make another mess either...” Emmrich said this a bit quieter, but Manfred could still hear him, “And I can’t afford to change my garments a second time.”
“Slowly. Stir. Stir!”
Manfred stared at the liquid, at the chunks of food that floated in the pot, until he saw bubbles forming, and then more and more appeared.
“Simmer!” Manfred shouted, pointing the spoon towards it.
Emmrich grinned from ear to ear as he looked at Manfred, nodding. He liked when his master smiled at him, at his books, and at Rook too. That’s how Manfred knew he was doing a great job, and that Emmrich was happy. And when Emmrich was happy, so was Manfred, even though he didn’t really understand what that meant either; just like breathing, people's emotions were confusing, but he knew it meant nice. It meant safe.
Manfred finally found the perfect spot to place the spoon, right in the middle of the soup and started stiring.
“Brilliant work, Manfred. Now can I trust you with this as I finish assembling the other dishes?”
Manfred stopped and pointed his arm towards Emmrich, turning his hand into a big fist. He then stuck his thumb up really tall, like a gravestone. Rook had taught him that one, and some other fun hand gestures, but she told him those were ‘inappropriate’ to do around Emmrich.
“What kind of…? Agh, I’m almost afraid to ask.” Emmrich shook his head and left him alone at the stove.
Manfred focused long and hard, counting to 10 and then stirring. And then counting again, and stirring some more. He wanted to stick his finger in the liquid and put it in his mouth, like he’d seen Emmrich do once or twice before. But that would only get his fingers dirty, and it wouldn’t taste like anything. Plus, the food would fall right out of his chest and onto the floor. And Manfred did not want to spill even one more drop of this soup today.
While Emmrich was busy preparing the other food dishes he made a new, buzzing noise, like he was singing, but without words. His master did this a lot lately, especially when he started spending all his free time with Rook; almost as much time as they spent together with their lessons and tasks. The buzzing reminded Manfred of those small toys he’d find around Emmrich’s study. Those box-shaped things that played all sorts of songs, but only if you twisted the handles round and round. Sometimes Emmrich would even play a song for Manfred before the day was over.
“How is the stirring coming along, Manfred?”
Emmrich came back to the stove, looking into the pot.
“Yes, it looks nearly done. May I?” Manfred handed the spoon to Emmrich. He scooped up some of the soup, blowing on the liquid before he gave it a taste.
“I wonder… maybe it could use a little… oh! Yes, Manfred! I’d like to try some of that new spice from Lucanis. Would you be able to fetch it for me?”
Manfred approached where the spices were normally kept in the dining hall, right by the fireplace, but he stopped. He needed Lucanis’ spices, not the normal spices. And Manfred had seen where Lucanis kept his very special spices, because it was also the same place he kept the knives.
Manfred peeked over his shoulder, triple double checking Emmrich did not see him walking away. His master was too busy looking into the oven now, poking at some more food, to bother noticing him.
He opened the door to Lucanis’ room like he was sneaking around the Lighthouse at night, or walking around the Memorial Gardens while Emmrich was talking to wisps or messing around with roses. Quietly and slowly. Very slowly.
Lucanis was snoring, talking to himself in his sleep again. He slept way more than usual since becoming closer with Spite. Manfred didn’t have time to stop and listen though, so he walked right up to the wooden shelves. He went straight for the big chest that was hidden underneath all the other boxes and sacks. It was so big Manfred could fit inside it. He tried it once, and Lucanis said it could hold at least two more bodies if he ever needed it to.
Manfred found the spices at the bottom of the chest, after moving through the knives he loved so much, and the other interesting shaped objects and papers that were hidden in there. Lucanis had a lot of spices, and Manfred was unsure which one Emmrich wanted, so he picked the jar that looked the most interesting.
He returned to Emmrich as fast as he could and gave him the spice.
“Ah, thank you, Manfred.”
Emmrich looked at the jar and turned it around in his hands, lifting one of his eyebrows in confusion.
“Turmeric? Is this what Lucanis was raving on about?”
“Orange! Like soup.”
“Yes, nice observation, Manfred.”
Emmrich opened the jar and measured a large amount of the spice he called turmeric, putting it into the pot. He stirred it a couple times, then gave it another taste.
“Hmm, perhaps they do turmeric differently in Treviso? A slight variation… but I suppose this’ll do.”
Emmrich placed a lid on top of the pot and moved it off to the side. He then bent down, removing a pile of dishes from a crate.
“Manfred, the dinner plates, please.”
Emmrich gave Manfred two big plates and he placed them towards the end of the dining table, where Rook and Emmrich usually ate together. When he was done, Emmrich gave him another set of plates, these ones were smaller and a different colour.
“And where do the salad plates go, Manfred?”
Manfred glanced at Emmrich for a moment, instantly remembering all the old lessons they had about properly setting the table.
“On top! On top of big plates.”
Emmrich nodded and Manfred stacked the plates on top of each other. His master gave him more plates and bowls and glasses that he set down around the others in a circle. When Manfred was finished, Emmrich handed him all the forks and spoons and boring looking knives. He laid those out as he had been taught, bigger to smaller. The last step was laying down the napkins, which Emmrich had folded into something that looked like a bird.
“Hey Manfred!” A familiar voice called out to him, “I see you’ve been hard at work. Don’t tell me Emmrich is giving you a hard time again?”
He turned around and found Rook standing at the entrance to the dining hall, waving at him. She was almost as tall as Emmrich, with pointy ears that sprouted from her cropped purple hair. For some reason, Manfred didn’t hear the doors open. Maybe it was because he was too focused on making sure everything was perfect, and that no fork or spoon or glass was crooked. Or else he would’ve greeted Rook with a big bow, maybe even another ‘high five.’
���Oh come now, Rook. You make it sound as if I’ve forced some sort of arduous labour upon Manfred. He is simply assisting. He does love being involved, even if he can’t partake in any of the fare.”
“Rook! Table is ready!”
“Oh wow, super impressive, Manfred. Thank you!”
Emmrich stood beside Rook, with his hand on her lower back. He slanted towards her and they pressed their faces together in what Manfred had recently learned was a ‘kiss.’ His master then led Rook to the table, pulling out a chair for her.
“Emmrich, I told you this didn’t need to be another fancy meal.”
“It’s no bother, really, dearest. Besides, it gave me an excellent excuse to dig out this old crockery from my residence in the Necropolis. It would’ve continued collecting dust otherwise.”
“The skull designs are a nice touch though, I’ll give you that.”
“I’m delighted you think so.”
Emmrich poured some wine into their glasses and took his seat at the table. His master never stopped looking at Rook, his eyes twinkling like stars and his lips growing bigger every minute Manfred stood there watching him. They held hands as they talked, playing with each other's fingers and laughing at jokes Manfred didn’t really think were funny at all.
Manfred wasn’t sure how much time passed before Emmrich turned to him and nodded. He knew what that meant, what he had to do next: it was go time, he would serve them food and refill their glasses whenever they got too close to being empty. Never keeping them waiting . Manfred brought over the bread first, the appetisers, and then the salad. After that he brought over the soup and the main dish. He was about to serve them the dessert, a fluffy cake Emmrich had spent all morning baking, when he heard Lucanis scream from his room.
“Who’s been – no! Where is it?”
Lucanis burst into the kitchen, nearly tripping over his own feet. When his eyes found Manfred he rushed towards him, putting both hands on his shoulders.
“Manfred! Did you take the po–”
Emmrich opened his mouth as if he was about to ask Lucanis a question, just as Rook unexpectedly fell out of her chair and onto the floor with a loud THONK.
“Rook! Are you alright?”
Emmrich jumped from his chair, but before he could even reach her he stumbled backwards, holding onto the table to balance himself. His face was scrunched up, like he had just dropped a book on his big toe.
“Spice!” Manfred pointed to the jar near the stove. “Borrowed!”
Lucanis’ head slowly moved to where Manfred pointed, his eyes getting wider as they stared at the jar. He practically flew towards the stove, picking it up.
“My word… my head. What’s… what’s the meaning…?”
“Please don’t tell me you used this ?”
Emmrich looked up at Lucanis, his face covered in sweat.
“The turmeric? Of-of course, I only put a s-smidge into the soup.”
There was a long pause. So long, Manfred was about to ask Emmrich and Lucanis if they wanted some of the cake he was still holding or if he should maybe put it away.
“Mierda.”
“Why do you look…”
Emmrich’s face turned white, whiter than Manfred’s own body or any skeleton he had ever seen walking around in the Necropolis. His mouth fell open and his eyebrows crawled to the top of his forehead.
“Ah. Th-That’s not turmeric, is it?”
Lucanis shook his head.
“No! Special spice!” Manfred shouted, just in case they were still confused.
“Curiosity. Killed!”
“Spite. No.” Lucanis immediately cut in.
Emmrich fell to his knees, reaching for Rook. “Darling… C-can you hear me?” He put his hand on her neck, searching for something and sighed with relief when he found it. “She’s still breathing.”
Manfred wasn’t sure why Emmrich was getting so upset. He had seen Rook fall a few times when she drank too much of the wine, and they had gone through almost two bottles of it already tonight. Manfred knew why the assassin was mad though, because he took something from him without asking permission.
“Lucanis, may I-I suggest you mark your spices accordingly?”
“How could I call myself an assassin if I left my poisons so obviously labeled?”
“You didn’t think for a second one of us might've accidentally used it?”
“Of course not! None of you know how to cook.”
“What impudence! I’d like you to kn-know I am a perfectly f-fine cook.”
“Spices. Too hot?” Manfred cut in, putting down the cake. He poured some water into a glass, handing it to Emmrich.
“Manfred… oh my dear, Manfred. T-thank you. Pl-please put it on the table there. This is not… you could never have known...I mu-!”
Emmrich squeezed his eyes shut, still on his knees as he swayed back and forth. He placed one trembling hand on his head, his chest moving faster and faster. His breathing was starting to sound a lot like Manfred’s.
“I’ve doomed us all.” Emmrich whispered.
“Curiosity has hands. Hands that kill. Kill!”
Lucanis sprinted back to his room and returned in a matter of seconds, holding a small vial.
“Here, I have an antidote, but I must warn you… it’s quite potent.”
“Rook… first, I insist.” Emmrich gasped.
Lucanis knelt by Rook, tilting her head slightly and pouring a few drops of the antidote into her mouth. She still didn’t move, but both Emmrich and Lucanis seemed to relax when she swallowed it; the assassin loosening his shoulders and his master falling onto his backside.
“Now you, drink.”
Lucanis quickly handed the vial to Emmrich. He grabbed it with both hands and finished it in one big gulp. He instantly started coughing, shivering even, throwing the vial away from him.
“Positively ghastly.”
“I’ve never actually tried it myself. I don’t usually hand out antidotes to poisoned victims. I’ll make sure the next one is more to your liking, when you inevitably get yourself poisoned again.”
“Very amusing, Lucanis.”
Emmrich held onto the table as he tried to pull himself up. He staggered dramatically as Lucanis caught him. His master leaned on the assassin for support as he walked him towards the doors.
“How about we take you back to your room, yes?”
Emmrich’s movements were a little stiff now, almost like that one time when Manfred skipped a ‘joint rotation day’ on purpose. He wanted to see what would happen and could barely bend his knees or move his arms. It was like he turned into a statue, which was fun, but he wasn’t going to do that again any time soon. Especially since Emmrich lectured him for hours on the importance of ‘routine and structure.’
“Yes, a-an excellent idea… but wait! What about Rook? She-I cannot leave h-her…I must… if anything were to happen, I wo…”
Emmrich pushed against Lucanis, trying to turn around but Lucanis held him in place.
“Manfred will watch over Rook until I’m back. Isn’t that right, Manfred?”
“Yes! Watch. Rook safe.”
“Thank you, Manfred.” Lucanis and Emmrich seemed to say together as they promptly walked through the doors, leaving Manfred alone with Rook.
Manfred sat on the floor next to Rook and rested his head against her body. He could hear her heartbeat thumping slowly and his head rose and fell along with each of her small breaths. He’d watch over Rook just like Emmrich did, that way his master didn’t have to worry. And he’d make sure no one woke her. As Emmrich said, it was ‘imperative to get a good night’s rest if one was to face the next day with success.’
As Manfred listened to Rook’s heartbeat, he wondered about the spices. When Lucanis got back he’d ask him about the others in his chest, and if that’s what usually happened when people put them in their soup.
#emmrich dragon age#emmrich x rook#emmrich the necromancer#emmrich volkarin#da4 emmrich#dragon age emmrich#dav#dragon age veilguard#manfred#dav fanfic#emmrich#emmrook#datv#lucanis dellamorte
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Birds on a Wire, Lucanis/f!Rook, 2/?
Part One.
The next morning she is awake before him, as has become usual the last few months. Lucanis sleeps well these days, now that he no longer fears what his body will do once unattended. Her troubles with the dreaming world have no such simple solutions. Lucanis makes a mental note to confer with Emmrich the next time they meet, and goes looking for his wayward lover.
He finds her in the courtyard, debriefing with the Caretaker. "-need tending," she's saying. "They all think they're real now and start wilting if they don't get watered. And Bellara will be back from Arlathan in a couple days, can you make sure she eats and sleeps at regular intervals? She's pretty good about it if you remind her."
"Of course, Dweller. I will see to it."
"Thanks, mate. I know things have been quiet but if you have any problems in the Crossroads send a message through the Treviso eluvian. We'll be back in a flash to see it handled."
"Of course, Dweller. Safe travels."
"We'll certainly do our best. Hullo, pet," she says, turning with a smile as he approaches on her right. "You all packed?"
"The essentials, at least," he confirms, hefting his duffel. "What about you, is that all you're taking with you?"
Rook shoulders her own much smaller rucksack and grins at him. "Not much to take, you know me. Couple spare daggers and a change of clothes and I'm all set."
Clothes that are just as stained and tattered as the set she's currently wearing, unfortunately. The past months have not been kind to anyone's belongings but… Lucanis pictures his grandmother's face and winces. "We could both use a refresh of our wardrobe," he says diplomatically. "We'll have to visit my old tailor, if he's still in business."
She only shrugs. Someone told Lucanis once that Rivainis like to wear their wealth; clearly no one saw fit to inform Rook. "Your coin, dove. You ready to go?"
"At your lead, signora."
If someone told him six months ago that he would grow accustomed to traveling halfway across the continent in the blink of an eye, Lucanis would have laughed in their face. But he thought the same thing when he first took a life, and with enough repetition that grew to hold all the intrigue of yesterday's lunch. Today he steps through the eluvian at Rook's heels and into the cool, damp air of an Antivan winter, and thinks only with irritation that it looks as if it's going to rain.
Rook's clearly thinking the same. "Oh, look at that sky. Might have a storm on our hands."
Ugh. "You're not wrong," he's forced to agree, eyeing the sky with disfavor. "If we don't hurry we're going to get caught in it."
"Oh, you think?"
He turns the skeptical look on her. She's practically bouncing on her heels, giddy as a child. "You cannot be serious."
"Do you know how long it's been since I've even seen a storm? In Minrathous it's a light drizzle four hours a day like clockwork, and the Crossroads are mildly sunny night and fuckin' day."
Yes, and Lucanis loves it. He'd go back right now if he could. "Have you ever tried to run rooftops in a downpour?"
"I've boarded ships in a hurricane, love, still think they're cracker." She laughs at the expression on his face. "Can't help it, I just love loud weather."
"Thunderbolts and lighting!" Spite agrees.
It's Spite's nature to be argumentative, and if he can suck up to Rook in doing so then all the better. But Lucanis thought better of her. "You are a very strange person. There is nothing enjoyable about wet clothing."
She laughs again and slings an arm around his shoulders. "Aww, poor grumpy Lucanis. C'mon, Spite, let's go before his highness gets his feet wet."
There is a fledgling waiting for them at the canal docks, though Lucanis did not take the time to send his grandmother a reply. She must have set the boy to wait as soon as she sent the letter, as if to remind Lucanis that it is beneath the First Talon to procure his own gondola. He tucks his sigh behind his teeth.
"Your name?"
"Marco, monsignor."
Lucanis doesn't recognize him, but then, he doesn't know most of the fledglings in Treviso these days. Caterina kept herself busy during the occupation, pulling in all manner of disaffected youths with dreams of being freedom fighters. He wonders wearily how many of them will survive the brutal reality of a Crow's apprenticeship without the numbing salve of patriotic fervor to fuel their ambitions. There will be a great many failures over the next few years, is his estimate, and as always, those few who succeed will be forced to cut their matriculation from the throats of their less fortunate brethren. And Lucanis will have to be the one to order it done.
(didn't want this. never wanted THIS)
"Good to meet you. Are you to take us to the villa?"
"Yes, monsignor." His gaze roams unsubtly around the empty dock. "And will, ah, your luggage be traveling separately?"
"Most people just call me Rook, lad."
Under other circumstances Lucanis might enjoy the fledgling's wide-eyed look of panic. "Signora- Monsignora, I did not mean-"
"Ignore her, Marco," Lucanis instructs with a sigh. "We're ready to depart when you are."
Rook gives the white-faced boy a clap on the shoulder and jumps into the waiting gondola, sure-footed as a cat. Lucanis follows her more circumspectly, dropping his duffel at her feet. "Play nice with the children, cara."
"I'm always nice."
"I know of several who would disagree."
"Yeah, but how many of them are still alive to say so?"
"Ah, the 'leave no witnesses' approach. Very Antivan."
"Learned from the best."
Lucanis soon falls silent as the gondola progresses through the canals, his capacity for banter exhausted by the presence of their witness, but Rook nobly takes up the banner of conversation with some convoluted story of a failed treasure hunt involving three pirate ships and a dragon. Lucanis listens and makes noises at all the right intervals, but his attention is fixed on their surroundings as they pass.
(enemy territory)
It's not like this for normal people, Lucanis thinks. Neve is justifiably cautious taking a stroll around Docktown's meaner streets, but she watches the crowds, looking for a common thug or paid mercenary to try their luck. Harding keeps an eye on her purse and Taash shoulders through crowds like a ship cuts the water, but neither of them move through the world as if death could come at any minute. Even Rook, who handles her blade with a particular familiar flourish that Lucanis has very carefully not questioned how she might have been taught, doesn't share his reflexive, ceaseless paranoia any time they go somewhere he hasn't personally vetted. He wouldn't wish that fear on his worst enemy - but neither would he want her denied of any tool that might keep her safe.
(WE will keep her safe!)
That's what Lucanis's mother thought, and his father, and all his aunts and uncles. Thirty years ago, House Dellamorte numbered in the dozens: five children, four spouses, eight grandchildren, countless body servants and retainers. Of those, only Lucanis remains. And he dares to imagine Rook beside him in this pit of vipers?
(blood and brine. storm and steel!)
True. Rook has survived worse things than any the Antivan Crows can offer, that's to be sure. Even now, her laugh comes easy, her haphazard tale flowing like good wine - but her gaze is watchful, flitting from the rooftops behind Lucanis to the streets ahead and back again. And underneath the fold of her tattered traveling cloak, her hand rests casually near the hilt of her sword. Perhaps it will be enough.
Part Three
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The Spirit of Determination
Nyra "Rook" Thorne is somehow responsible for the fate of all of Thedas. If she's going to pull it off, she's going to need a hell of a lot of determination. Lucky for her, she knows a guy and his demon who can help her out with that.
Part 2: Guilt is a Painful Poison
Rook had just made it to the bottom of the first set of stairs into the library and was preparing to head down the second when a voice stopped her in her tracks.
“Where are you going, Rook? Are you going alone?”
That voice, that damn voice. Smooth as velvet, with a deep rumbling tone that she could feel down in her core.
She closed her eyes. Of course it’s him. It’s always him. Rook turned to face Lucanis, who stood by the round table in the center of the space. This table was the one the team gathered around to discuss their upcoming plans of action, and Lucanis was standing directly behind the chair Rook normally sat in. He had his hands placed lightly on the back of her chair, and she couldn’t help but picture him doing this while she sat in it. She yearned to have someone who would always stand protectively behind her when she let her guard down, so that she actually could let her guard down. Now was not the time for those types of girlish fantasies, however. Rook was a Grey Warden, a soldier who stood between darkness and the people of Thedas. She wasn’t some damsel that needed protection or saving, no matter how badly she sometimes wished she could be. With that thought in her mind, she answered Lucanis.
“I’m headed to Dock Town. Morrigan wants to meet me to discuss some things before we face the gods. I’ll be fine going alone. It’ll be a quick jaunt to The Cobbled Swan, there shouldn’t be any huge dangers that I can’t handle on my own.”
Rook put on her best “I’m tough, I don’t need anyone” face as she said this. If he insisted on accompanying her, she wouldn’t be able to say no to him. She should go into a meeting like this with Morrigan clear-headed and focused, and she had trouble being either of those things with the handsome Crow around. Of course, he couldn’t back off and make it easy for her.
“Danger finds you every time you leave this Lighthouse, Rook. You should have back-up. Give me a moment to grab my blades and I’ll come with you.”
She opened her mouth to turn him down and assure him that she would be just fine, when Lucanis cut her off.
“Don’t argue with me Rook, you know damn well that if anyone on this team heard you were planning to go alone, they’d insist at least one other person go with you. Harding and Neve would insist on two people accompanying you. I’m coming along, or I’m telling the others that you’re planning on going alone to Minrathous. Your choice.”
Rook’s green eyes narrowed at him for a moment before she sighed and threw herself down onto the small loveseat that Harding and Neve normally occupied for their meetings. This man is going to be the death of me, she thought to herself. She wasn’t nearly as upset about that as she wanted to be.
“Fine, you win. Hurry up though, Morrigan made it sound like it could be somewhat urgent. You know, world ending type stuff.”
She said this last part lightly in an attempt to mask her growing anxiety about it. Rook was definitely concerned. Morrigan wasn’t one to exaggerate when it was important, and she had never requested Rook’s audience in such a pressing manner before. She knows something we don’t, and I don’t think I’m going to like it. A frown twisted her mouth again, and she was unable to school her expression back to a neutral one before Lucanis caught it. His brow furrowed as a twin frown appeared on his own face. He gave her that concerned look he got on his face when she seemed unhappy or worried. Instead of commenting further though, Lucanis simply gave her a nod in response and turned quickly on his heel to fetch his gear.
Rook watched his figure retreat and exit the main room before letting herself crumple a bit. Her shoulders sagged and she let out a frustrated sigh. She was too weak to refuse him anything, especially when she wanted him at her side pretty much constantly. Those warm brown eyes made her brain slow as all of her rational thoughts flew out the window. She wanted nothing more than for him to hold her to his chest so she could just sit and listen to the strong, steady beat of his heart. But she couldn’t allow herself those luxuries, nor could she afford to be distracted by her girlish affections for such a vital member of her team. Control Nyra. That’s always been your weak point. Control your emotions, don’t let them control you. Blindly following your heart is what has gotten you into your biggest messes. What happened at Weisshaupt can never be allowed to happen again. Your lack of focus and reactionary nature is what caused the Grey Wardens to go into battle without their First Warden at the helm.
Rook could still feel the phantom pain in her hand from the force that she had struck First Warden Jowin down with that day. He had been a massive prick, but she had made a decision that had huge consequences for all of the Grey Wardens. And she had done so out of wild rage and frustration, not conscious thought. That wasn’t the kind of thing good leaders did. Varric never would have handled it that way. Her mentor would have talked the First Warden down and gotten him to cooperate willingly. He definitely wouldn’t have struck down his superior so hard his knuckles nearly broke.
“You chose wrong, Varric.” Rook whispered to herself quietly in the silence of the Lighthouse rotunda. “I’m not cut out to lead this team. I’m not fit to be the one holding the fate of Thedas.”
Rook heard someone clear their throat in front of her, and her eyes snapped up to meet Lucanis’s. Eyes wide, she opened and closed her mouth for a moment. How long has he been there?? The thought made her heart rate pick up. Had he heard her voice her doubts? That was not a good look for the supposed leader of the Veilguard. Luckily for her, Lucanis said nothing about her whispered comments to herself, and instead gestured towards the stairs behind her.
“Ready to go, Rook?” he asked, watching her closely but not with any hint of judgement. He was wearing his fighting leathers now, and had at least 4 blades strapped to his person. Rook knew that he absolutely had more hidden from view.
“Yeah, let’s get moving. If the world really is ending sooner than expected, we don’t have time to waste.”
With that, Rook got to her feet and held her chin up high as she purposefully strode down the stairs to the Eluvian room. Lucanis moved silently behind her, the only indication of his presence and proximity was the small hairs on the back of her neck prickling. Now focused and with the dutiful mind of a soldier once again, Rook led the way through the large mirror. Out of the frying pan, and into the fire, she and her silent companion ventured forth.
* * * *
The Crossroads were as calm and quiet as always, the only sound to be heard was a faint whisper on the wind coming from The Tree a few yards in front of them. Rook wasn’t actually sure what The Tree actually was or if it had a proper name. She had taken to calling it “The Tree” simply because it had one golden “trunk” that opened into golden branch looking pieces that formed a hollow sphere. Inside the branches was what appeared to be pure, swirling energy of The Fade. At the base, there stood three ancient, fossilized elvhen people with distressed expressions. Rook had never heard The Tree whispering before, that part was new to her. Cautiously, she took slow measured steps towards it until she could finally make out words.
“You will have new subjects, in recompense. Whatever you wish.”
“Rook’s favorite Spite demon and its host. Wouldn’t it be so fitting if I gave him real wings to match his true demonic nature?He could be a masterpiece…”
“Inspired sister, consider it done.”
Rook ground her teeth so hard she thought they might shatter in her mouth. Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain, she thought, Those bastards. Rage coursed through her veins, hot as molten lava. They planned to hurt Lucanis, because of her. All because she had been far too obvious in her fondness for the man. Another person with a target because of her.
“I’d like to see her try.”
Rook heard his voice behind her, and then a more twisted, growling version spoke up.
“We will make her regret. She will die by Our hand. Soon”
The last word of Spite’s declaration was a violent hiss. When Rook turned to look at Lucanis behind her, his eyes had already returned to their warm, brown color. His expression however, was equally as murderous as she imagined it had been when Spite had spoken through him.
“If she touches you, death will be the least of her concerns.” Rook spit the words from behind her still-gritted teeth. She wasn’t sure what her face looked like at that moment, but whatever emotion her expression held seemed to shock Lucanis a bit. Pink tinged the tops of his cheekbones and he cut his gaze to the side before chuckling lightly.
“The gods are wrong to underestimate you Rook. With a fire like that in your eyes, you could bring dragons to heel.” Lucanis met her eyes again after these words, and now she was the one uncertain of what she saw in his piercing gaze.
She smiled ruefully in response. “I’m pretty sure Taash would disagree, but thank you Lucanis.”
The two of them then began the trip to the mirror that was connected to the one in the Shadow Dragon’s, now destroyed, base of operations. Neither of them spoke, but the silence was comfortable rather than awkward. Lucanis’s presence had a calming effect on her when she was out on missions, a fact she had momentarily forgotten in her lovesick panic earlier. It was good that he came with her, she felt more centered now than she had all day. The Caretaker’s boat finally pulled up to the dock they needed and Rook clambered out first with Lucanis close behind. They made their way across the small island to the Dock Town Eluvian. Stepping inside, Rook tried her best to prepare mentally for whatever Morrigan was going to tell her. Upon reaching the correct clearing, she and Lucanis stepped through the giant, rippling mirror.
One thing most people didn’t realize was that travelling via Eluvian took some serious getting used to. It still made Rook’s stomach flip every time she exited on the other side. Both sets of boots crunched as they came in contact with the rubble and debris covered floor on the other side of the portal. Lucanis seemed to read her mind, because before she could spiral into her pit of blame and self-hatred at the sight, he spoke firmly to her back.
“It isn’t your fault Rook. It was an impossible choice, and not many people have the nerve to even have made it at all. You aren’t to blame for every tragedy the gods have caused, and beating yourself up doesn’t bring the dead back to life.”
Curse him for being kind AND correct. Rook wanted to scowl at him, but she knew he was right. It didn’t help anyone to continue to blame herself every time something went wrong or someone got hurt. Knowing that he spoke the truth didn’t make it any easier to swallow though. She wasn’t sure the wounds those decisions left her with would ever completely fade. Scars were permanent reminders of the past. They were undeniable evidence of both victories, and losses. Instead of responding, Rook just nodded her head and continued forward into the ruined city. She had somewhere to be.
Rook made an effort to keep her eyes averted from the weeks-old bodies that had been left hanging on the Venatori’s makeshift execution stands. It wasn’t easy, they littered every street corner and filled the squares. Even if she could avoid seeing them, their presence was undeniable and unavoidable. The bodies of innocent citizens filled the air with the sickeningly sweet, rotting, scent of decomposition. Bile filled her mouth as Rook swatted flies from her face. The flies in Dock Town were another indicator of the atrocities the city had undergone. The insects swarmed the corpses, giving the impression of black clouds hanging low in the streets. Their irritating buzzing became a drone in the background of every thought and spoken word. Rook truly hated every second she spent on these ruined streets, and that made her feel even worse. She had the audacity to hate the aftermath of the devastation that had befallen Minrathous because she had defended Treviso instead. Grimacing from the sting of those thoughts paired with the foul sights and smells, Rook forced her legs to continue moving as she numbly made her way to The Cobbled Swan.
Lucanis could clearly see that Rook was deeply upset and disturbed, and he hated that she had to be here. Though, the fact that she blamed herself was something he hated even more. She carries too much and relies on others too little. Then again, he thought darkly, I am guilty of the same things and I hate it when she points it out. With that thought in mind, he said nothing about her mood shift and simply followed her towards their destination. He knew the weight of guilt, and was familiar with the way it seemed to curl around one’s very soul. It wasn’t an easy thing to let go of.
After about a 10 minute walk, Rook and Lucanis reached the tavern. Rook let out a sigh of relief at the excuse to get off the streets and hurried up the stairs to get inside. She could see Morrigan waiting for her at a table off to the side, and turned to Lucanis.
“Could you wait here while I speak to her? She asked for me and I’m not sure what she wants to say is meant for an audience.” Rook felt bad for making him stand across the room while she met with Morrigan, but she had the feeling that this was going to be a conversation meant to be had with her alone.
Lucanis bobbed his head in the affirmative and said, “It’s not a problem Rook. I’ll wait near the door. Spite wants to people-watch anyway.” He rolled his eyes with the last part of his statement and Rook couldn’t help but laugh a little. Spite’s curiosity and non-understanding of human behavior was one of her favorite things to witness these days. Well, outside of Lucanis cooking with sleeves rolled up and a serene look on his face. That was her favorite thing.
“Thanks Lucanis.” Rook spoke in a relieved tone before turning and walking towards Morrigan’s still form at the last table. Just as she was coming up behind the witch, Morrigan began speaking.
“Thank you for coming quickly, Rook. It is best that the things I am about to say are spoken before the last part of your battle begins.”
Rook swallowed down her nerves and took the seat opposite of Morrigan. Rook’s vibrant eyes were suddenly alight with a fire she felt deep in her soul. Time to get serious. “Alright Morrigan, what do you know, and how much time do we actually have left?”
Part 3 here!
Part 1 here!
DATV Masterlist here
#dragon age the veilguard#dragon age the veilguard spoilers#veilguard spoilers#datv spoilers#lucanis x rook#spite dragon age#lucanis dellamorte#GreyWarden!Rook#fem!Rook#the spirit of determination
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From our discord writing prompt- Illario and Lucanis post game banter. This also mentions my M!Shadowdragon!Rook and his brother.
I have been writing for the Mercar Trio for awhile and I adore them. I have finally established enough of Rook's story in the Closer series to move on with this
Lucanis sighed as he placed his hand on the door of Illario's study. Once, he almost lived in this wing of the Dellamorte Estate. He and his cousin had been more like brothers, and he longed more than anything to go back to that time.
He hoped, for his sake, that Rook was right about their plan.
“Cousin!” Illario was just a little too enthusiastic to see him as he draped across his chair with his feet over the armrest. He looked the picture of perfect ease, though Lucanis could see how his eyes flashed about the room.
Wants an exit. Just in case.
He ignored Spite's low growl beside him. The demon had promised to behave. For Rook. But Lucanis kept his hold on his control tight just in case.
“Illario. You seem well,” he nodded as he took a seat across from his cousin. He wanted to appear non threatening. Friendly maybe.
You do a bad job.
Ok so maybe his hand hovering next to the daggers at his thigh was a bit too obvious.
“Oh come now,” Illario chuckled as he swirled a glass of Antivan Brandy. “I'm sure you didn't come here just to explain pleasantries, cousin.”
Lucanis hated that knowing look. How Illario could always read him so easily. Could even finish his sentences sometimes.
“Actually I came to discuss the wedding,” Lucanis began. To his cousin's credit, he simply smiled at the topic.
“Ah yes. The impending nuptials between Thedas’ most eligible bachelor, and his assassin abomination-”
Blood and ash. Let Spite have him.
Lucanis’ hands clenched at Illario's words, but he kept his breathing even. Both to keep Spite calm and himself.
“Yes, my wedding to Rook,” he just agreed as he didn't want the tension. But he couldn't avoid allowing one dig at his cousin. “And with one Dellamorte wed, the other houses will be curious when our- fallen member will also be settling down.”
Illario choked on his drink, though cleared his throat and regained his composure.
“I'm sure the other houses are lining up to take that role,” he chuckled as he leaned back in his chair. “But I'm not interested. In marriage or any sort of arrangement.”
“Actually,” Lucanis couldn't help but smile as he saw Spite bouncing with glee. Delivering this news was going to be the best part of his day, he decided. “The other houses have turned down all negotiations. From both myself and Caterina.”
Illario jumped to his feet, face shocked at his cousin's words. Being rejected was a new concept. He was Illario Dellamorte. Men craved him and women pined for him. How dare they-
“That is why Rook has a plan.” Lucanis was enjoying this way too much. He was reminded of when they were younger. When they would torment each other across the estate. Always in trouble but always having each other's backs. Illario would come to realize this really was what was best for him, in time.
“I don't want to hear of any plans,” the man spat as he made a dramatic show of slamming his glass on the table beside him. “Whatever you and Rook have cooked up, leave me out of it-”
“Caterina has agreed.” The words were quietly spoken, and the color immediately drained from Illario's face. “She has already made the necessary arrangements with the Viper. You will meet your intended at the wedding. So please, try to behave.”
A mix of emotions flitted across Illario's face. But he finally settled on a sneer as he placed his hands on his hips.
“You could at least tell me her name,” he grumbled.
“His name is Brick. And he is Rook's brother,” Lucanis stated as he stood to leave. He had enough of his cousin's company for one afternoon. And Spite was in way too good of a mood as he watched Illario sink back into the chair.
Illario ran a frustrated hand through his hair as the door closed behind Lucanis. This was almost as bad as his fall from grace. He was trapped with no choice but to accept the proposal. He would have to cooperate. He wouldn't cross Caterina again, and he wanted to remain in the good graces of House Dellamorte and the other Crows.
“Mierda!” He took his frustrations out as he threw his drink against the wall. The glass shattered, and he huffed as he racked his brain for ideas.
But suddenly, it came to him in a flash.
“I will just have to make him want to break it off,” he mused with a devious grin. Yes, that could work. They would have to accept if this Brick rejected him.
Brick, what kind of dumb Minrathous name was this? Hopefully he was as unappealing as his name, because Illario hated admitting how lonely his bed had been lately.
“It will all work out,” he reassured himself. He would just have to make himself unlikable, which seemed to be his specialty lately.
Now, to set his plan in motion.
#dragon age the veilguard#da: the veilguard#dragon age#dragon age lucanis#lucanis dellamorte#da4 lucanis#da4#lucanis x rook#dragon age rook#rook#give illario a redemption arc and a cute boyfriend#illario dellamorte#lucanis to illario#datv rook#male rook#rook and lucanis#rookanis#da spite#spite x rook#spite dragon age#lucanis
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It's tomorrow where I am, so have chapter 10!
In which Lucanis gets some answers from Zara, and has a talk with Teia and Viago about his findings. And gets a hug.
Snippet:
When she made her way over to Lucanis some time later, she carried her mage knife with her, handle wrapping carefully pried loose. She had noticed that he liked to feel useful and seemed calmer when he had something to do with his hands, so she hoped that a small task might help calm him down. “Lucanis?”, Rook called out, knocking on the pantry door before entering. “Come in”, he answered, sounding preoccupied. There were several throwing knives sticking out of a board hung from the wall, and another followed them with a thud just as she stepped through the door. “Trying to find an outlet?”, she remarked ruefully. “Need a picture of your cousin to make it stick?” He snorted, faintly amused despite his obvious frustration. “You were right”, he said, turning to face her, pain carefully hidden behind a mask of calm. “You must be pleased.” She scowled. “How could I ever be pleased about something like this? I would happily have been wrong, if it meant you didn’t have to deal with this.” She crossed her arms, unhappy and unsure what to do about it. “I can’t believe he did that to you.”
Lucanis sighed. “I can. Illario has been coveting the title of First Talon for a long time. I knew this. I just never suspected he would …” He shook his head. “We used to talk about how he was clearly better suited for the role, even if Caterina preferred me for it. I always believed we could change her mind, given time”, he said, hands on his hips, eyes to the floor and mind clearly lost to memory. “You didn’t want the title?” she asked cautiously. He scoffed. “Dealing with Crow politics, interviewing clients, being our face to the public? No. I would have been happy to remain a blade in the dark.” She looked at him intently, choosing her next words with care. “You’re more than a weapon for somebody else to wield, Lucanis.” He looked back at her then, his expression unreadable. “... maybe.” he eventually answered in a quiet voice, dropping his eyes. Frowned. “What happened to your mage knife?” She shot him a lopsided grin. “The end came loose, and I thought I could just re-wrap it, but I can’t seem to get the hang of it.” “Give me that”, he requested with an exasperated huff of breath, holding out his hand. She happily handed the weapon over to him, a sly note in her smile.
He carefully unwrapped the leather string the rest of the way, then rewrapped it expertly, deliberately going slow to show her how to do it. “... and this is how you secure the end. See?” He looked at her then, his expression growing thoughtful. Narrowed his eyes at her. “... you did this on purpose, didn’t you?” She couldn’t hide her wry grin. “Maybe. Did it help?” He considered her question for a moment. “A little.” A short pause, as he handed the knife back. “Thank you.” “No need to thank me”, she replied gently. “What are you going to do now?”
#dragon age#dragon age the veilguard#datv#lucanis dellamorte#rookanis#lucanis x rook#dragon age fanfiction#fanfic#blighted treviso au
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They appeared sometimes around the Lighthouse, violets. Rook would just laugh and put them in little vases or maybe teacups. Yet he would catch him sometimes looking at them with an uncharacteristic melancholy.
That day (Night? Hard to tell it was always sunny in the Lighthouse) he wasn't sleeping, as usual. He just needed to open the door to get the smell of a good Antivan coffee, that was freshly done at the kitchen table. Rook was sitting at the table, with a book, but he wasn't reading, he was just staring at a little violet he was fiddling with his fingers.
Lucanis took the coffee and inhaled the aroma before taking a sip, for a tea lover Rook was remarkably good at making a good cup of coffee. He approached the kitchen counters, may as well repay the gesture by making something he knew Rook would like, even if that something was tea.
He placed the cup of tea next to Rook and sat down to enjoy his own drink. Rook chuckled:
“You didn't have to” he said, with a smile
“But you did?” he asked
“I figured, since you were probably going to be awake anyway”
He leaned back on his hand, trying not to look tired, but it had been a while since he last slept. If anyone could tell that, it was Lucanis.
He was impossible to figure out that Rook. Ever since he broke him out of the Ossuary he could see it, behind the charming smile and the pleasant dialogue. Rook did not like him. Or more accurately he probably didn't like the Crows. He would catch glimpses of truth sometimes hidden on what Rook would say, maybe it was typical Warden righteousness. But it felt different than his squabbling with Davrin.
And yet some days, he would just open the pantry door to find a coffee made just for him. He was used to seeing Rook being uniquely empathetic. He read the words of prisoners on the Ossuary, he promised they would be remembered. He watched him give money to every beggar they met and pet every animal they saw. Lend a hand to every person who asked and smile at every misfortune.
He did that for them he was sure, so he would appear like a beacon they could turn to. He certainly was that for him…
And yet there he was, tiredly looking at a violet:
“Where should I put this?” Rook sighed
“You always save them, the violets”
“Might as well, they appear because of me”
“Do they?”
“Are you trying to get information out of me, Lucanis?”
“Only if you're willing to share”
“How nice of you…” he fiddled with the teacup “They make me think of when things were simpler, do you have things like that?”
“I…try to…”
His eyes wandered over the coffee again, when he would open the door and find one made just for him, how distinct the aroma was when Rook was the one who made it, he could've sworn it tasted differently than anything before. How during his sleepless days he would study the wyvern tooth dagger he got him, picturing that little kid he once was, with a smile that somebody took into consideration what he wanted.
He thought about the way his voice sounded when he would hum to himself, or his little laugh when he would joke to himself almost.
“They make me think of Ferelden, the flowers, a little garden my mother had in the Alienage”
“Tue… sometimes I forget…”
“Yeah, people usually do, until it's convenient to remember my mother is an elf. That's why I try to make a point to remind people, I'm not human even if I look the part.
I moved out of the Alianage when I was still young though, the only Cousland left besides my uncle so…” he rubbed his eyes “Do you remember…in the Café…when we talked about family expectations”
Lucanis nodded
“I think…I understood you…a little bit more after that. Do they expect you to…No, that's a stupid question. Of course they expect you to…as a heir”
“Are you talking about carrying the family name?”
“You understood that quickly, didn't you?
It was…complicated…back home things are not as bad for elves back home…well not as much since the Hero of Ferelden.
But they're not as good as to expect a noble woman to…”
He thought about it for a moment, looking deeply into Lucanis' eyes. Oh how beautiful his green eyes looked with the lights of the fireplace flickering in them. As he meditated on how much he wanted Lucanis to know. He looked away, but he continued:
“There was one…”
“A noble woman”
“Yes” he drank a bit of his tea, looking down “Violet, her name was incidentally
Good girl, was willing to get married, have a couple of kids, the whole thing…and one day I walked into the room and asked her to leave…”
Lucanis fiddled slightly with his fingers, looking over at Rook. Why was he telling him this? Of all people? Or maybe he had already told the others. But what if he was the first one? Why was he putting this trust in him after…?
But why not listen? After everything he had done, even if nothing was specifically to save Lucanis. He had done so anyway and how little was to just offer a listening ear after all of that?
“Why did you…” he contained himself, thinking carefully “Why did you tell her to leave Rook?”
“... because I'm selfish…because I knew she didn't love me and I didn't love her…”
The tears came so seamlessly even Rook was a little surprised when he noted he had started crying. He tried to wipe his tears but they wouldn't stop:
“Shit, I didn't…” he buried his face in his arms “I just…I wanted it so badly for someone to see me…I wanted someone to want me as I am…
And I know I will never find that person but maybe I wanted to keep the illusion…”
Lucanis extended his hand to him, but stood frozen in place, unable to really reach him, touch him.
How comforting was the illusion that he could ever be that person for Rook. That he would see him the ways he saw him. But Lucanis couldn't be that person.
He didn't know if he lost the ability to be comforting long ago, or during that year in the Ossuary but whatever it was, he retracted his hand.
“You carry all of this besides the weight of the world?”
That got a little laugh out of Rook, he turned to him with a slight smile:
“I don't even know why I'm telling you this”
“Neither do I, but I'm…here to listen, if that's what you need”
“You also make really good tea for someone who scoffed at me finding out what my favorite drink is”
“It's just water with some leafs in it”
“Careful Crow, or I'll start putting ice in your coffee”
“You wouldn't dare”
“I'd watch out, Neve’s always close and she doesn't get much sleep either”
“I think she has enough murdering her own coffee”
And there was that big smile, the one that made you feel like every problem would melt away.
Maybe one day he’d be able to figure him out, maybe take a piece of the burdens he carried. Today wasn't that day, but maybe…someday…
Writing Challenge
Alright now that I was both sincere and pedantic(warned y’all I’m almost always both) here’s your writing challenge for the day. Don’t forget there’s no time limit to these, if you find it in a month I’ll still reblog it. I’ll take pretty much any BW fic not just DA. Reblog, tag, or link me!! My ask box is always open as are my DM’s! Without further ado:
I want flirty dialogue without physical touch OR flirty touch without dialogue.
OR OR
If romance like that isn’t your thing I want angst. Give me the longing. Give me the hurt/comfort. I yearn for yearning. Emotional distress???? I love that shit. I’m leaving this one wide open. Bonus points if you manage both categories. Look for mine later.
#bioware#fanfiction writing#writing challenge#reblog#dragon age#dragon age the veilguard#lucanis dellamorte#rook thorne#finn cousland#finn tabris#rookanis#mine writing#i did this super quick so its not very good but ah well
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I actually love the idea of Bellara walking out of a book discussion with Lucanis, absolutely bursting at the seams to go talk to Neve about it and she's like "No Neve, you don't understand. He picked out the /slow burn/ romance... the one with all the yearning, light touches, and subtle glances." And Neve just sighs. (Maybe even the whole book club gets in on it eventually, just something to try to alleviate the weird vibes.)
The post-pantry stuff gets even funnier when you consider that Lucanis sends Rook a missive about doing the Zara stuff with Emmrich instead of any other form of communication. They've been dancing around each other for DAYS making everything and everyone awkward, then Lucanis ropes Davrin into giving Rook his message. Davrin who at this point respects Lucanis enough to not get involved or say anything (which he was planning on doing before to save for just the right time for maximum impact), has been staying in his lane as much as possible, ends up cornered by Bellara (picture her cicada blocking him in the corner) trying to get information on if the awkward tension is FINALLY going to stop. (Davrin didn't even look at the message.)
post inner-demons and everyone is just eyeing each other because the tension is gone and Lucanis and Rook were making doe eyes at each other after coming back from Minrathous. Everyone wants to know because what the heck they just met up with Teia and Viago and were gone for only 20 minutes max, whoever was third-wheeling (even though they're not there for the quest i like to think they're at least physically around still) is like 'they spaced out for a bit and it was awkward and then they were fawning over one another?? I wish I knew.' Then Emmrich announces with the seriousness of the grave that Lucanis has reached out about a beloved dessert recipe and is slated to make dinner. The gossip crew (mostly Bellara) loses their mind.
I imagine the night with dinner and dessert everyone is just as giddy that the tension has abated as Rook and Lucanis are for finally locking in their Whatever It Is. It is purely a coincidence that everyone leaves after dessert fairly quickly to give them both some alone time together (even though Bellara reaaaally wants to eavesdrop on them. For research purposes for her writing of course.)
#Like Teia is walking away from that meeting absolutely confident that Rook and Lucanis are together#eventually they are both capable of aknowledging feelings but baby steps yk#also hi nice meeting you and doing an excited yell!!
Teia believes they are together, Viago says it's ridiculous, Lucanis has never fallen for anyone in his life ( especially wouldn't for a non-Crow Rook, and especially not with HIS protege if Crow!Rook.) The argument that follows has their ever-evolving situationship on the rocks until the night Lucanis confronts Illario and she sees him and Rook sneak out of the party. Viago never lives it down.
when you don't romance Lucanis he opens up about his anxiety of making dessert for Neve, so like, does a romanced Lucanis open up like that with another companion
#long post#HI#thanks for somehow stumbling on my post and rambling with me it's fun :D#im tired and barely coherent so sorry if its a disjointed mess lol
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