#rook is devastated that he missed this

[mrsrookhunt]

Twisted Wonderland, but Yuu tells Rook they know embroidery

Rook: Ah, hats off to you-!

*dramatically sweeps his hat off*

*Sees 'YUU WAS HERE' stitched into the brim*

Rook: ....

Rook: ..Is this...?

*Yuu, already walking away*: I have my ways, Hunt!

*Rook, sobbing*: TEACH ME YOUR WAYS, MON TRICKSTEUR---

[emmriches]

emmrich’s personal choice quest holds a weight to it that i really feel like the others didn’t or tried and couldn’t

[aemondsbabe]

Care & Keeping

summary: after aegon suffers injuries at rook's rest, you and aemond nurse him back to health

pairing: aemond targaryen x sister!reader x aegon targaryen

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, canon typical incest, mentioned canon injuries, no gore, threeway relationship, threesome, teasing, orgasm delay, unprotected sex, titty sucking, oral sex (m!receiving), fingering, dirty talk, aegond fr like they kiss and stuff, playful sibling bickering but they fuck about it, aemond is a tit, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 6.3k

a/n: I DID IT! i posted a fic again! happy to be back!

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

gif creds to @tragicsiblings

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“Such a spoiled thing…,” Aemond mutters while his fingers work through Aegon’s silky hair, the strands freshly washed during his bath earlier in the day – something you and Aemond had assisted with as well, much to the displeasure of Maester Orwyle and the servants. A part of you understood the maester’s concerns, after all a slip or fall would be devastating for your brother this far along in his healing, yet… 

Well, he listened to you and Aemond. He would sit in the bath without complaint for the two of you, would let you wash over his delicate skin and comb through his hair with little more than a scoff or eye roll. Not so for the others, to whom he grumbled and carried on, insisting he need not be babied. 

“Hush, he deserves to be taken care of,” you chide your little brother playfully, chuckling as you lie against Aegon’s chest, savoring the sound of his heart beating steadily in your ear, “He’s lived through dragon fire, after all… That deserves a reward, no?”

“Listen to our sister, Aem,” your older brother chuckles, petting his hands over you in much the same way yours move over his waist and stomach – careful of the still-healing scars there, “What is it our grandsire says? Wisdom is from the children, some drivel like that?” 

“Wisdom oft comes from the mouths of babes, my love,” you correct him with a snigger, smirking when you peer up at him. 

“That’s the one!”

“I’m younger than her, you dolt,” Aemond sighs, a bite to his words even as he teases, though Aegon pays it no mind – too busy spread between you and your brother like a lazy, happy house cat. 

“Mm, then you should be smarter, no?”

“I…,” Aemond sighs before simply shaking his head with a soft sigh and teasing grumble, combing his fingers through his long hair in mock frustration. 

This is how the three of you have spent as much time as you could since that fateful day at Rook’s Rest, when Aegon and Aemond both nearly lost their lives plummeting to the battlefield in a fiery tangle. Aemond had, by the grace of the Gods, escaped without too many injuries. However, your eldest brother had not been so lucky and had been caught in the fires of Meleys, leaving him with life threatening burns and broken limbs that had thankfully healed almost miraculously well over the last few weeks. 

A soft sigh leaves your lips as you snuggle against Aegon, saying yet another quick prayer to the Seven as thanks for keeping him safe and, relatively, in one piece. Unfortunately, Aemond had been made to step in and act as regent, which meant that the three of you couldn’t spend all your time together, much to your displeasure. 

That is what had kept you all apart for most of the day – official duties that had carried on much too long, especially for your younger brother. By the time he had finished with Small Council business, it was well past supper and you and Aegon had already been tucked in bed together, enjoying the cool breeze blowing in from Blackwater Bay. As nonchalant as Aemond acts about the whole affair, his true feelings are betrayed time and time again when he stumbles when he all but rips his tunic and boots off, nearly in a frenzy, eager to join the two of you in bed. 

“How does the Council fare, little brother? Have they fallen to pieces in my absence?”

“Mm,” Aemond hums, the corners of his lips just barely lifting into a smirk while he rubs over Aegon’s sore shoulders, making the elder sigh in contentment, “They’re being much too soft on that traitorous bitch queen for my liking… forcing us sit up here like a herd of lambs for slaughter.”

Aegon lets out a soft giggle, the sound of it reverberating in your ear while he tilts his head back to look up at his brother, “And what would you do, hm? Take Vhagar and sack Dragonstone singlehandedly?”

“She could do it,” the prince regent muses, leaning down and pressing soft kisses against your older brother’s head, his lilac eye sparkling at the thought of turning that blasted place into no more than a fiery heap of rubble. His lips linger against Aegon’s pale hair, muffling the sound of his soft chuckle, “Why not turn all of those spoiled bastards into smoldering piles of ash and be done with it?”

“You, dearest brother, are beginning to sound very much like our uncle,” you tease, peering up at Aemond with a smirk, “All violence and warfare.”

A soft laugh is pulled from your lips as your brother’s angular face twists into a disgusted scowl, “You think so lowly of me as to compare me to him, sweet sister?”

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t enjoy it,” you murmur knowingly, sharing a playful glance with Aegon, much to Aemond’s disapproval. 

“You both know very well I hate that creepy old –”

“Then why is your cock hard against my back, brother?” Aegon quickly interjects, descending into raucous giggles. The sound of his laughter quickly gets to you and your lips crack into a wide smile before you can hide it, a snort of laughter following soon after. 

Above you, Aemond sputters for a few seconds before finally letting out a pained groan, though his lips are turned up into a subtle smile. 

“You want to fuck our uncle,” Aegon giggles, the near giddy sound of his laughter reverberating in your ear. 

Your eldest brother’s laughter is cut short as Aemond behind him begins peppering kisses over his neck, sweeping his hair out of the way as the elder lets out a quiet gasp, the planes of his stomach tensing beneath your cheek. 

“And what if it’s you I wish to fuck, Your Grace?” The name makes Aegon shudder while goosebumps bloom over his pale skin as he lets out a thick sigh, the sheets at his waist beginning to tent. 

Aemond’s words cause heat to bloom between your own thighs and you smile up at him as he shifts behind your older brother, no doubt pressing his clothed length against his back, letting him feel it. 

“Awful tease,” Aegon whines, the petulance in his voice making you chuckle. It’s then that he directs his darkening violet gaze to you, quirking a brow, “Don’t you act all innocent, as if you haven’t been torturing me for weeks, little minx.”

A smirk blooms on your lips as his largely uninjured arm raises to encircle your waist, holding you more tightly against him while you press a soft trail of kisses over his pale skin. 

“I’m afraid I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean,” the words leave your mouth in a soft hum, warm against the patch of blond hair on his chest. A lie, of course. Maester Orwyle had taken great pains over the past few weeks to make it absolutely crystal clear that Aegon was in no state to be played with, that all of his body needed rest and healing. 

The old man had said it in the hopes of you and Aemond keeping Aegon away from the Street of Silk, of course. There was no doubt in your mind that your older brother could talk any of the guards or servants into smuggling him into the city. Yet, little did they know he hadn’t been whoring in months, not since the three of you had finally given into your desires. 

It had been well into the night when Aemond had stumbled into your chambers, dripping with rainwater and heaving soft sobs. You’d held him closely and listened as he had explained the awful mess that had happened with Rhaenyra’s youngest bastard, his voice trembling so hard you’d had to strain to understand at parts. 

You’d ushered him into older brother’s chambers quickly afterwards, not knowing what else to do and naively praying he might be able to help – to do something, anything, as king. Being Aegon, of course, the event had devolved into drinking – just to soothe Aemond’s nerves, he had said. 

The three of you woke together in the morning, naked and tangled up in His Grace’s soft sheets. 

With the promise of war looming heavily on the horizon, you had scarcely separated from them since then. There was a possibility of losing them both and you wanted to savor them for as long as you could, for whatever time was left. 

“Ah, you don’t, do you?” Aegon’s voice cuts through the visions swirling in your head, pulling you back to the present. His hand skims down over your back and hip until he can cup the curve of your ass, drawing a breathy laugh from you, “So you’ve just been wearing these gauzy, insufferable excuses for nightgowns for no good reason, then?”

“Perhaps I wear them to catch the eye of the guards as I make my way here?” Your eyes gleam with mischief when you peer up at him, knowing exactly how territorial he can be. 

His hips rut up against the sheets, cock straining beneath the white linen of them and already leaving wet patches on the fabric while a deep groan rumbles from his chest. Behind him, Aemond chuckles while he continues to press kisses over Aegon’s pale skin, marking up each side of his neck. 

“Teasing cunts, the both of you.”

“Tsk, there’s no need for that, you ungrateful cretin,” your little brother snaps, although there’s no real meanness in his tone – merely a strange, brotherly teasing that you fear you’ll never truly understand, “To think, we’ve been kind enough to take care of you all this time and this is how you behave.”

“Aemond’s right, my love,” your voice comes out as a soft coo, even as you peer at your eldest brother with a playful smirk, “We’ve been so kind to you… How many times do you think we swallowed your seed before you were well enough to fuck again?”

“W-Well, I–” Aegon stammers, flushing so hotly that even the pale column of his neck turns a slight pink shade. 

“Mm, all so mummy wouldn’t see how you’d stain the sheets otherwise, isn’t that right, dearest sister?”

Your lips curl into an almost vicious smile at Aemond’s jab, relishing the way Aegon’s dark eyes widen at the mere mention of your mother. Poor thing, you remember how embarrassed he’d been the first time he’d been desperate enough to rut against the bed sheets until they were dirtied with his spend, left to his own devices late at night after you and Aemond had retired to your own chambers. 

He’d sobbed against your chest that evening while he recounted the Maester mentioning it in the morning, pleased that all the king’s precious parts were still in working order, yet that did little to numb the sting of your mother’s stare – evidently disappointed that he’d debase himself in such a manner. 

“Quite right, little brother,” you all but purr, rising to your knees before carefully maneuvering yourself over one of Aegon’s thick thighs, mindful still of any tender spots, “Isn’t there anything you’d like to say to us, Aeg?”

“I… T-Thank you,” he finally manages to huff out, violet eyes staring hungrily at where your warm heat presses against him – achingly hot through the thin fabric of the sheets. 

“Good boy, Your Grace,” Aemond whispers against the shell of your brother’s ear, his gaze just as hungry as Aegon’s as they both look over you – the lacy, satin material of your nightgown doing precious little to disguise anything below it. 

“He can be sweet when he wants to be,” you murmur, smiling at the way your eldest brother’s head tips back against Aemond’s pale chest when you lightly scratch your nails over his tummy, tracing a path down beneath the sheets. An amused little giggle spills from your lips when his hips rut against your hand the second you gently grab at his length, giving it a light squeeze, “Can’t you, lovely boy?”

Grunting, Aegon merely nods while soft whimpers spill from his lips at the feel of your hand on him, of Aemond’s lips against his neck. 

“Please, fuck,” he groans, swallowing thickly and licking at his lips while he tries to buck up into your hand – his movements jerky and uncoordinated from being off of his feet for so long, “Seven Hells…”

Giggling at his grumbling, you tilt your head to the side as you look over him. Even injured and half-healed, he’s beautiful. In all the places where Aemond is lean and toned, Aegon is thicker, more stocky and soft; the juxtaposition between the two of them has always made your heart flutter.

“Tell us what you want.” 

Aegon whines at Aemond’s firm command, but obeys nonetheless. The way his dark gaze immediately finds your own makes your lips curl into a proud smirk.

“Want you, please…,” he finally breathes and disentangles his hands from where they’d been clawing at the sheets to instead run them over your thighs, one moving more easily than the other – his injured arm still trembles. 

“Mm, you’ll need to be more specific,” You can resist teasing, he just begs so prettily. 

“Gods, your cunt,” the way he impatiently growls the words makes you snigger, “Insolent little wit– Agh!” 

“You’ll be nice to our sister,” Aemond hisses, smirking as he gives a harsh pinch to Aegon’s nipples, “Or you can lie here and watch me enjoy her instead.”

A scowl blooms on your eldest brother’s face at the threat and he gives an almighty huff before thankfully settling; your little brother may have no qualms about denying him, but you prefer to indulge him, truly. Smiling wickedly, you fix Aegon with an almost innocent expression – brows drawn up just slightly, eyes widened… before sliding your gaze from his violet eyes and up to Aemond’s single lilac one. 

“You know, baby brother,” you start, arching your back just enough to press your breasts out enticingly, putting on a show for them both, “If I’m to take His Majesty’s cock, I’ll need some help readying myself…”

Aemond’s snicker is such a sharp contrast to Aegon’s broken groan. 

“Wouldn’t you like that?” Your younger brother rasps into your eldest’s ear, petting through his hair with a gentleness that one wouldn’t expect from such calloused hands, “Hm? To watch while I prepare our lovely girl for your lovely cock, dear brother?”

Aegon nearly wheezes at that, as if the mere thought of it has knocked all the wind from his lungs. 

“Fuck, please,” he whines, nuzzling against Aemond’s touch like a cat, “Want it, please.”

“Anything to get my cock in her faster,” is the unspoken truth there, one he’d made the mistake of voicing before. Aemond had made sure that was a long night. 

“Shh, sh, sh,” he soothes him now, gently petting over his chest while he kisses over the side of his face, “You’ll get to watch.”

Aegon lets out slightly pained grunts as Aemond works his way out from behind him to stand at the edge of the bed, taking the time to make sure he’s propped comfortably against the pillows before his touch finally leaves him. With a dark chuckle, your little brother swiftly climbs back up on the bed, nude save for the soft linen trousers hanging low on his hips. 

“Now, I believe I have some business to attend to, don’t I, love?” He whispers against the shell of your ear while he takes his place behind you – kneeling and holding you against his chest. As always, a barely there sigh leaves his lips at the way the soft satin of your nightgown feels against his skin; it’s a sensation he’s grown to crave ever since you began ordering those special silks – the ones imported from Lys, the same ones Alicent insists on using for her sleepwear as well. 

He’s never told a soul, but the feeling brings him comfort – brings back memories of being held and comforted, of before his mother became hardened to the world. 

You can’t help the gasp that tumbles from your lips when he bites at your neck and roughly tilts your head to the side, long fingers threaded through the hair at the nape of your neck, “Please, little brother.”

“You know I’d never deny you, sweetling,” his breath is warm against the crook of your neck while his hands caress over your body, drawing soft whimpers and groans from the man lying on the bed below you. Aemond takes his time, never one to rush, and lets his touch linger over every part of you.

Starting at your shoulders, he runs his hands over your arms before skirting them back up and over your sides, making your nightgown ride further and further up your hips as he does. Just as he cups your breasts, you lean down against Aegon’s chest to let him feel the way Aemond’s long fingers work against you, mindful not to rest against him too firmly.

The heat from being trapped between their two bodies is nearly stifling but you’d never dare pull away. 

“Gods, Aem,” you whine when he plucks at your nipples, rolling them between his long fingers while you pant against Aegon’s pale throat. Your older brother’s good arm comes up to circle possessively around your waist, keeping you pressed against him, long past caring if it sparks soreness within him. 

“You feel so good,” Aegon whimpers against your hair, his voice little more than a needy growl while he ruts his hips up against your stomach. Chuckling, you nip over his collarbones just enough to leave small marks behind, painting him as yours. 

“If I feel good now, just think of how good I’ll feel around you,” you murmur against his chest, relishing the way he keens – the way his cock twitches against you, doubtlessly leaking steadily against the thin bed sheet separating the two of you.

“Fucking dripping,” Aemond mutters behind you, letting out a satisfied chuckle against your spine while his deft fingers begin circling over your sensitive pearl, “Eager little thing, aren’t you?”

“Always for the two of you,” your voice shakes as you reply, words getting caught in your throat with each movement of your brother’s long fingers against your center.

“Did you hear that, brother?” Aemond says smugly, his low voice dripping with satisfaction, “Seems our dear sister is quite the little whore for us.”

“Mhm, mhm,” your eldest brother strenuously agrees, jerkily nodding his head while you let him hump against you, savoring the way the hard line of his cock presses against your belly, “O-Our whore, yes.”

“You’d better not let him spend,” Aemond growls, his good eye narrowing when he sees what you’re allowing to happen. He tugs at your hair hard enough to have you hissing and smirks at the sound.

“I won’t, I won’t,” you huff, rolling your eyes only to yelp when his large hand suddenly comes down on your ass. You can’t help the way you press back into it, the harsh sting settling over your skin like a warm blanket, “Gods…”

“Play nice,” he rasps, grinning at the way you cry out when he abruptly pushes two fingers inside your already-fluttering walls, “Or Aegon won’t be the only one left wanting.” 

“Mhm, yes, little brother,” you rush to say, readily agreeing – knowing all too well from experience that if Aemond meant to deny you, that there would be no talking him out of it. Lucky for him, the prospect of that was enough to placate you. Not that you even have the lung capacity to sass him, not with the way his long fingers move within you. 

Aegon whimpers in time with you each time the pads of your brother’s fingers brush against that sensitive spot within you, as if he can feel the pressure within you too. He lets you hold onto him and hardly even protests when Aemond angles your hips in such a way that the planes of your stomach don’t even rub over his neglected cock, the absolute prick. 

“F-Fuck, oh, fuck,” the curses are all but knocked from you with ear harsh thrust of Aemond’s fingers, the chambers silent save for the steady crackle of the fire in the hearth and the wet squelching noises sounding from between your legs – which only serve to spur your little brother on further. 

“So tight, Seven Hells,” he mutters, leaning over you and trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses up the curve of your spine. You can feel his lips curve up into a cocky grin when he presses his thumb against your bud, drawing a loud, gasping cry from your lips. 

“Aem, Aemond, I–”

“Shh, shh,” he soothes, smiling at the way Aegon’s hands, both of them, even the shaky, still-healing one, thread into your hair and comb through it – a gesture that’s calmed you since the three of you were children, “Be good and take it.”

That’s a lot easier said than done, especially when the world seems to tilt on its axis when he manages to slip a third finger into your aching sex. The stretch of it only makes the fire threatening to consume you burn all the brighter and twin groans fill the room when your walls pulse greedily around him. 

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Aegon all but breathes, his voice raw and shaky and dripping with a soft kind of praise he only ever gives to you, “So good for us.”

“Mm, our big brother’s right, sweetling,” Aemond hums, rubbing his thumb in tighter and tighter circles over your pearl and focusing the attention of his fingers within you on that spot that he knows makes you see stars. The effect is instantaneous and after no more than a couple seconds, you’re all but sobbing as you go limp on top of Aegon, unable to so much as hold yourself up as pleasure courses through you. 

Your younger brother smirks, you can’t see it but you can feel it, and groans low in his throat when your walls clench so tightly around his fingers that he can hardly move them at all. The only sounds coming from you are near pitiful squeaks in time with the movements of his hand. 

“Gods, so close, aren’t you?” Aemond all but growls against the shell of your ear, just as Aegon pulls you forward into a searing kiss, “Show it to me.” 

Powerless to do anything else, you let out a choked whimper against Aegon’s lips – practically sobbing into his mouth while his tongue licks against your own. Your high crests and crashes into you like the waves at Storm’s End, almost violent and bloodthirsty in the way it sends your pulse racing, in the way it nearly engulfs you. 

All the while, your brothers hold you steady. Aegon keeps an arm slung around your back, anchoring you to him, while Aemond uses his free hand to hold you upright as he wrings every drop of pleasure he can conjure up from you – not daring to stop until your pleasured moans turn to tortured gasps.

Finally, Aemond pulls his fingers from you with a satisfied grunt, leaving you panting as you slip from atop Aegon, shifting to lie beside him instead, curled against his largely uninjured side. Your eyes have hardly fluttered open before Aemond’s moving, leaning over Aegon like a shadowcat, finally victorious in hunting down its prey. 

“Taste,” he whispers, bringing his fingers, still glistening with the evidence of your orgasm, to your eldest brother’s lips. As usual, Aegon wastes no time and eagerly parts his hips and lets Aemond press them to his tongue. Your breath catches in your throat when his violet eyes roll back at the taste of you on your brother’s skin, a hungry, needy whine sounds from this throat while he takes the time to suck them clean. 

Your younger brother’s eye sparkles as he watches, his cock tenting the dark fabric of his trousers and pressing against Aegon’s thigh. 

“Aeg, don’t be greedy,” you finally pipe up, the air back in your lungs and a playful smirk on your lips, “Share with our little brother; he deserves it, no?”

Two sets of eyes land upon you, guided by the suggestive tone of your voice. Poor Aegon looks wide eyed and dazed, already half out of his mind and you haven’t even started on him. Aemond, on the other hand, looks downright predatory – dangerous in the low light. 

With a breathy chuckle, he sets upon your eldest brother, capturing his lips in a heated, almost savage kiss. Aegon sobs into it, his hips lifting on their own accord beneath the sheets as Aemond nips at his lip and sucks at his tongue with a barely contained lust. The elder reaches up with his good hand and threads his fingers through the younger’s long, pearlescent hair just as a rough, sword-worn hand gets wrapped around his throat, holding him in place. 

The sight of their frenzied affection makes your thighs clench, your core throbbing once more, uncaring that you’d found release only moments ago. Unable to resist, you lean in until your lips brush over the soft, pale skin of Aegon’s chest. You pepper it with kisses, making him whine and whimper into Aemond’s mouth. Shifting the bed sheets out of the way, you can’t help but bite at your lower lip at the sight of his cock – angry and flushed and leaking copiously, leaving a pool of it on his tummy. 

“Mm, it’s cruel to let him suffer this way,” you say lowly, meeting Aemond’s eye when he finally pulls away from Aegon, lips curling into a smirk that matches your own, “I promised the poor thing my cunt, I think he’s earned it.” 

“Please, please, f-fucking, please,” your eldest brother whimpers pitifully, hips bucking while you run your hand over his thigh as he looks between you and Aemond imploringly, violet eyes glassy. 

“Shh, shh, I’ve got you,” you promise, pressing one last kiss against his chest before turning to Aemond, “Help me onto him.” 

You’re moving before your brother can protest, can think of some other reason to tease. Ever since Aegon was injured, you’ve needed Aemond’s help to stay balanced the scant few times you’ve taken him. So much of his upper half was injured that you’re hardly able to put weight on one side of his chest, even now, which makes staying upright without assistance hardly worth the possible risk. 

“Fine, fine, I suppose the little whelp’s earned a treat,” your brother sighs and slips off the bed, taking care to help you straddle Aegon’s hips once more while he stands at the bedside. You take a second to pull off your lacy nightgown, smirking at the groans of appreciation you get in return. 

“Gah–fuck!” Aegon grunts the second your slick center presses against his aching length and presses his lips tightly together as his eyes squeeze shut, his fingers white-knuckled while he claws at the sheets, “S-Sweetling, please, please, I n-need you.”

“And you’ll have me,” your voice is sweet when you reply, soft and breathy. Your touches are the same, knowing that’s what he needs now. Balancing with one hand securely on Aemond’s shoulder, you watch as he leans down just enough to grab at your brother’s length and notch it at your entrance. 

“O-Oh… fuck, f-fuck, Seven Hells,” the words sound as if they’re being punched from Aegon’s chest, like he can hardly get enough of a lungfull to speak while you slowly sink down onto him. 

While he pants below you, nearly thrashing, you aren’t doing much better. Throwing your head back, you let your eyes flutter shut as a series of breathy moans spill past your lips. Silently, you’re thankful Aemond took the time to prepare you – sometimes they both get so wound up, preparation goes out the window and while you have come to love the nearly-painful ache of taking them without it, it’s always so much better like this. 

“Gods!” You nearly screech when Aemond suddenly rubs at your pearl, making you jump slightly atop Aegon, who lets out an equally embarrassing noise at the way your walls suddenly contract around him.

Aemond, on the other hand, looks entirely too pleased with himself as he straightens again. He takes the time to brush a lock of hair from your face and cups your cheek in such a gentle way that you nearly ignore the mischievous glimmer in his eye, “Just getting you started, sweet sister. I expect a show.” 

Your teeth sink into your lower lip at the cadence of his low voice and you nearly draw blood when he tugs at the drawstring on his trousers and lowers them just enough to free his length, the sight of it pulling twin groans from you and your eldest brother. 

Spurred on by the sight of it, of Aemond pleasuring himself to the vision of you atop Aegon, you begin rocking your hips. A satisfied sigh is tugged pulled from your lips at the feel of his cock moving within you – perfectly contoured to nestle against every sensitive spot within you as the head kisses your most inner depths. 

“Fuck, Aegon,” you breathe, letting out little gasps every time your bud brushes against the patch of blond hairs at the base of his cock. Each movement of him inside you stokes at the fire within you that’s steadily roaring back to life, greedy even after your previous release. 

“Don’t stop, don’t… Please, s-sister, I need–”

“I know, my love, I know,” you soothe him in a gentle tone, your free hand brushing gently over his chest and shoulder, trailing lightly enough over the column of his neck that he shivers, “I won’t stop.” 

A shiver runs through you when he nods and stares up at you – gazes at you with those big, dark eyes like you’re some goddess, like you’re the Mother in flesh form, taking his cock again and again. As usual, his eyes are quickly drawn to your chest and you can’t help but chuckle at the hungry look painted so clearly on his pale features – pink lips parted as he pants and whimpers. 

“Here, precious brother,” you whisper, carefully leaning forward, just enough to allow your breasts to sway in front of his face, peaked nipples just barely brushing over his lips, “Suck, go on.” 

You need not encourage him further as he quickly leans up just the slightest bit, just enough to wrap his full lips around one of your sensitive buds and suckle as if his life depended on it. A low, carnal groan sounds from his throat and vibrates against your skin, the sound of it making the walls of your center squeeze at him greedily. The knot in your belly grows tighter and tighter and judging from the desperate, harsh cants of Aegon's hips, you know neither of you will be lasting much longer. 

For a long moment, the only sounds that can be heard in the quiet of your eldest brother’s chambers are harsh pants, the noise of skin on skin, and Aemond’s barely concealed growls. 

“Gods, I– Fuck,” he pants, one hand stroking slowly over his generous length, pausing every so often to collect the slick steadily leaking from its flushed head, all the while his eye dances over you and Aegon, never settling in one place very long, “Love watching the two of you, s-so pretty…”

The little hitch in his voice makes your heart clench and sends a pleasured shiver up your spine – unlike Aegon, it’s hard to reduce Aemond to a stuttering mess so each time his words get caught in his throat is like a small badge of honor for you. 

The slick noises of your brother’s hand moving over his cock soon draw Aegon’s attention and he pulls away from your breast with a shuddered gasp, his good hand white knuckled on your thigh. He looks up at you almost apologetically, a new hunger evident in his darkened gaze, before his eyes trail over to Aemond’s length. 

“C’mon, then,” your little brother grunts, his lips pulled into a dirty smirk as he edges closer to the bedside, angling himself better for Aegon, “Good boy, go on.”

Licking his lips, Aegon leans forward just enough to get at Aemond’s cock; you and Aemond each let out soft moans when his mouth sucks at the flushed head. Aegon’s hips buck up into yours at your brother’s taste on his tongue and you know he’s close, teetering on the edge judging by how he shivers beneath you.

“Mm– fuck, yes,” Aemond grunts, rocking his hips little by little into your eldest brother’s waiting mouth, the sound makes your core clench once more and you can’t take it any longer. His low, breathy chuckle hardly meets your ears when you hastily trail a hand down your own stomach and start rubbing between your thighs – your fingers moving in tight, practiced circles over your pearl.

The feeling of your walls pulsating around his length again and again has Aegon crying out, the sound muffled around Aemond’s cock. You can feel his muscles tense beneath you while you spear yourself onto his length over and over, each movement causing the fire within you to burn brighter, to rage hotter. 

You brace yourself for his release, clinging to Aemond’s shoulder with one hand while the other works furiously at your bud, and yet…

“You don’t finish until she does,” Aemond breathes, shoving his cock deep enough down Aegon’s throat that the only reply he can give is a garbled groan. His violet eyes are wide and glassy, silently pleading with Aemond even though he knows it’s useless. 

“I-I’m close, I– Gods,” you pant, thighs burning while you all but thrash on top of your older brother, angling yourself in just the right way – causing the tip of his cock to rub against the most sensitive spot within you. Your eyes roll back in your head and stars dance in your vision and the feel of a gentle hand at your breast nearly makes you jump. 

Even lost in his own pleasure, Aegon would never forget you. He moans helplessly around Aemond as he thumbs at your nipple, providing just enough sensation to send you tipping over the edge. 

“Ah! Gods– Gods, f-fuck!” You cry out, your thighs trembling on either side of your brother's hips as pleasure overtakes you once more. Your lips part in a silent moan while your core all but milks Aegon’s high from him as well, the feel of his hot spend within you only adding to your pleasure. 

“Mmph, mmph!” He whines around Aemond as you slowly come to a stop on top of him, overstimulation quickly getting to you both. 

Aemond gasps at the sight before him, seeing the two of you in the throes of pleasure only adding to his own.

“Gonna… o-oh, fuck–” He grunts and before you can register what’s happening, he’s got an arm wrapped around your neck and is hauling you toward him. Your lips connect with his at a nearly bruising intensity and you can hear Aegon moaning with satisfaction when your brother finishes on his tongue, coating it with his spend. 

Your lips move against his for a long moment while he trembles, hardly able to stay upright while he licks into your mouth – the kiss more teeth and tongues than anything else. Finally, he pulls away, nipping at your bottom lip as he does before he fixes you with a nearly arrogant smirk. 

“Let our girl have a taste, big brother,” he drawls, pushing you back toward Aegon with a mischievous smirk. 

“Mm, how generous of you,” you say with a playful roll of your eyes, shaking your head at Aemond before meeting Aegon in a heated kiss. Aemond’s familiar taste settles on your tongue while the man in question takes his place back behind Aegon, propping him on his chest and sighing at the familiar warm weight of his brother. 

When Aegon is pulled away from you a moment later, you use the opportunity to shift back to his side, knowing he must be sore from having you atop him, even if he dared not show it. You trail kisses over his neck while Aemond occupies his mouth, greedily licking his own spend from his brother’s tongue.

“You were so good for us,” Aemond praises him, his voice soft and gentle in a way he only ever uses here – in the calm, candlelit privacy with each of you like this, “Did everything I said, just perfect.”

“Mhm, our perfect brother,” you purr into Aegon’s ear, relishing the way he shudders. He’s quiet after he spends, the only time you won’t hear a sarcastic remark or a dirty joke. Instead, he’s… subdued, pliable in your arms – breathing easy while his eyes flutter closed, relishing the attention you give him.

You chuckle softly at the easy, satiated smile on his lips before your eyes meet Aemond’s over your older brother’s mess of tangled silver hair – something that’ll need to be sorted in the morning. 

“I love you,” you whisper against the side of Aegon’s head, pressing a soft kiss there, “Both of you.” 

“Sap,” Aegon quips, making you giggle.

“I hate you,” you murmur playfully, giving his good shoulder a soft shove.

“Not nearly as much as I detest you.” 

“Both of you are absolute ballaches,” Aemond finally sighs.

[myrtlebranch1019]

My Thoughts on Solas in *Dragon Age: The Veilguard* (DATV)

It’s been about a month since I played Dragon Age: The Veilguard and I finally feel ready to talk about Solas. Yes, *that* Solas—the one who’s sparked endless debates in the Dragon Age fandom for over a decade, inspiring some of the most fascinating character analyses I’ve ever read. Unfortunately, the Solas we get in DATV feels like a shadow of his former self. Instead of the nuanced and controversial figure we know, he’s been reduced to a one-dimensional scapegoat with inconsistent writing that just didn’t do him justice.

Solas has always been such a compelling character—complex, flawed, and full of contradictions. But in DATV, the trickster archetype, he represented, was so poorly handled that I sometimes wondered if the characters in the game and I were even getting the same information. Take the moments when we uncover Solas’ memories: the reactions from other characters came across as weirdly more venomous toward Solas than even Elgar’nan, who was a literal tyrant. It felt like (some of?) the writers were trying to strip away any sympathy for Solas, but if anything, it had the opposite effect, if we judge from the percentage of people who chose to redeem him. (Pro tip for game writers: players don’t like being told how to feel about a character!)

Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m not here to excuse Solas’ actions. He’s done some truly awful things. But reducing his complexity to make him easier to blame? That’s not it. What made Solas fascinating wasn’t just his lies, treachery or rebellion but his wisdom and the fact that he cared too much. Even when he convinced himself the people of modern Thedas weren’t “real,” he still supported acts of kindness and mourned unnecessary loss. That sentimentality made him sympathetic, even while he was pursuing some pretty despicable goals. It’s that balance—the caring, sentimental dreamer weighed down by his own ruthlessness —that made Solas the perfect trickster figure and harbinger of change.

That’s why some of the decisions in DATV just didn’t sit right with me. Solas has always been willing to sacrifice others for his ideals, but that includes himself—*especially* himself. Din’an Shiral, anyone? The reveal about Varric should have been this devastating, mind-blowing moment, but instead, it felt cheap. Solas manipulating Rook by hiding Varric’s death? Totally in character. But actively using blood magic to control their mind? That felt like a shortcut, and a boring one at that. Especially, after those heated debates he had with the Iron Bull in Inquisition about how important freedom of thought is for him.

This was such a missed opportunity to dive into heavier themes like the manifestation of regret and grief—both of which would’ve made Rook more tragic and relatable. What I wanted to see from Solas, was a tragic hero who’d fought for so long he ended up becoming the villain. Not unlike his mortal enemy Elgar’Nan. What I got instead was a caricature of the trickster archetype, stripped of all the depth we saw in Trespasser.

Another thing that bugged me was how DATV framed Solas’ rebellion. The in-game conversations by the Veilguard team seem to suggest that he started it out of spite toward Mythal and/or Elgar’nan, which just isn’t true. Solas rebelled because he believed—to be more precise convinced himself—that the Evanuris were waging war on the Titans in the name of freedom. And realising that this wasn’t the actual motive was his first attempt to “fix” his mistakes. In other words the part he played in the war, and at the same time protect his people from tyrany the worst of fates in his eyes. That’s such a crucial part of his story, and seeing it misinterpreted by the cast, felt like such a disservice to the complexity of the character.

That’s not to say everything about Solas in DATV was bad. The dialogue was exquisite and stood out as classic Solas, especially when it came to the contrast between his wisdom and cunning or the need to offer guidance vs the manipulation (props to Trick for really nailing those moments). The animations were incredible, too, and perfectly captured his aura. And, of course, Gareth David-Lloyd absolutely killed it as Solas. His performance brought so much life to the character, even when during the moments when the writing fell short.

Still, I can’t help but feel disappointed. Solas has always been my favorite DA character, and seeing him reduced like this was frustrating. He’s a character built on contradictions—sentimental but ruthless, idealistic but pragmatic, sympathetic yet maddening. DATV had the chance to explore all of that and take him to new depths, but instead, it just… didn’t. And as a fan who’s loved his journey for years, that’s hard to swallow. Needless to say I would still devour any novel or media about him, because I’m definitely left wanting more from his story.

[fandom-go-round]

If you’re still writing for dragon age I’d love if you did head cannons for all the veil guard companions and how they act after losing an injured rook to the fade and getting them back + nursing them back to health. I live for a good hurt / comfort and your writing is incredibly well done!

Warnings: Angst, Perceived Character Death (Rook), Nightmares, Self Blame, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms,

Davrin:

Davrin is clinical until he isn’t. Losing you had been devastating enough the first time; he isn’t going to lose you now due to injuries. He hovers a lot, letting the others heal you as much as they can and then sitting right back by your side. The team had been trying to organize, to help the allies you’d help, but all that fades to the background now that you’re back. Davrin is going to defend your bedside for as long as it takes.

It takes you a while to wake and he does his best to distract himself. He trains, works with Assan and attempts to show that he’s fine. He’s not, of course, and the others know it but they do their best to help. The first time you open your eyes, groggy and disoriented, he ignores the way tears gather in the corners of his eyes. He gives you a minute before leaning in to hold you close, almost squeezing the air of out you. He’s never going to lose you again.

Taash:

Taash alternates from being pissed to being hollow with loss, which leads to more rage. They’ve just lost their Tama and now you? One of the best things in their life? They don’t know what to do and it mostly ends with them wanting to hit something. They do hit and run missions with the other factions, but that stops once you come back to the Lighthouse. Taash isn’t the best nurse but they’re not bad, changing your bandages and telling you stories. They aren’t the best at sharing their day but they refuse to leave you for long.

This entire ordeal has been murder on Taash’s patience and it may never come back. The moment you’re awake Taash is relieved but also a little ashamed. They feel like they should have been doing something productive, not being upset. Reassure them and let they hover over you. Their hovering looks more like demanding you eat and start to move. Their touch is gentle, however and you soak up the attention like a sponge.

Lace Harding:

Lace isn’t a stranger to loss, but you hit her harder than the others. She lost friends during the Inquisition, but you loom in her mind like a specter. It’s worse now that she can dream; she sees you disappearing over and over. She doesn’t sleep much and distracts herself, sending letters and trying to track down Elgar’nan’s next move. The others worry for her but she puts on a brave face; the circles under her eyes start to rival Lucanis’.

She stays by your beside until you wake up, head bobbing with the urge to sleep. You wake up to her dozing next to you. Wake her up and she’ll start scolding you, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. Lace dotes on you for the next few days, getting you things and making sure you’re comfortable. She wants to touch you so badly but you’ll need to make the first move; hold her hand and she might just cry with relief.

Lucanis Dellamorte:

He blames himself for you going missing; he replays the moment over and over in his mind. If only he was faster or moved in a different way. It’s a dark slope he goes down and Spite doesn’t help, raging against you going missing. The guilt doesn’t dissipate once you’re back, in fact it’s worse. He wants to be with you so bad it hurts, but he feels he’s unworthy.

Spite solves this problem for him. Once Lucanis goes to sleep, Spite goes to your bedside and curls up next to you. You wake up to an exhausted Antivan man in your bed and it’s cute as much as concerning. Lucanis is so embarrassed he wants to sink into the floor, but when you start talking to him, he relaxes. You have a heart to heart and he feels better, leaving after to let you rest. None of the others say anything and he makes a huge dinner as a thank you.

Bellara Lutare:

Bellara throws herself into the study of the Fade, working around the clock to try and figure out what happened. Emmrich might be the expert, but she can help and she’s not going to sit around doing nothing while you’re gone. She gets so focused she forgets to eat and drink; Neve has to literally drag her to bed one night. Once you’re back, Bellara is finally able to sleep but it isn’t restful, not when you’re not up yet.

She does cry once you’re awake, not in front of you but in the hallway. She can hear you talking to Lace, and she’s so overcome she collapses against the wall. She soaks in your voice, your laugh (weak but stable). It takes her a little while to get herself under control, but she smile is genuine when she goes into your room. You notice she’s been crying but don’t say anything, smiling back. Later, she wants to talk about everything, but right now all she wants is to hear your voice again.

Emmrich Volkarin:

Part of him feels like he should be more prepared for this, but he’s not. Emmrich has been surrounded by death but this is different. There isn’t a body, no remains to care for and no time to really mourn. He does his best to take time to grieve, but there’s never going to be enough time for him. Fade research and working with the other factions helps; he feels your absence like a stabbing wound. Rooms aren’t as bright when you’re not in them, and it’s hard for him to focus, he keeps getting lost in his thoughts.

He does his best to heal you once you’re back with them. Emmrich isn’t someone who normally gets touchy, but this is an exception. He doesn’t want anyone else to care for you and the others are accepting, even if they don’t agree. When you finally open your eyes, he feels like the sun is rising for the first time since you’ve left. He has so much to tell you but it’ll have to wait. He wants to soak up as much time as possible with you before the final fight.

Neve Gallus:

Neve throws herself into her work, or at least, that’s what she says. She pours over notes and clues, trying to figure out how Solas has come back, but no thoughts ever stick. Her theories slide through her fingers like sand and she feels like she’s going crazy. She blames herself; for losing you, for getting too attached, for not seeing this betrayal coming. When you finally awake up, she feels so goes boneless in her chair. She needs a moment to collect herself before going to see you.

Neve does her best to show she’s alright but it’s easy to see through her. After you fall back asleep, she vows that she’s not going to lose you again. She wants your kind of trouble and you’re both going to survive this damn it. She pushes herself to get ready for the big fight, both for her city and you. Support her but also remind her that you’re on her side; you’re going to finish this together.

[waitingandwishing]

Hiii!! So erm maybe a Tyler and Taylor with a childhood friend reader?? Idk if you take X reader but it was in the tags so.. Can be headcanons or scenario, thank you so much <33

oh yes of course and also I do take x reader!!! (i didn't know if you wanted platonic or romantic so we have both!!!)

-> context: childhood friends

-> fandom:school bus graveyard

-> warnings: angst.

Platonic:

You'd met Tyler and Taylor in kindergarten. Tyler was arguing with Taylor about a box of crayons and you offered one to Taylor so then you could get them to stop talking and hopefully earn a gold star next to your name. (Spoiler: You got two friends instead)

You'd always like being with Tyler and Taylor... They were both so fun, playing baseball with Tyler was a challenge (Somehow he'd get so many homeruns you were sure he'd be a professional soon) but always fun and building lego houses with Taylor (Even though your parents always complained about stepping on them) was fun.

You were always there, whether that be birthdays or celebrations, your family was always in the picture because of how good you guys were friends.

So naturally, you were absolutely devastated when their dad died. It was almost like you had also lost a family member. Tyler was busy caring for his family and Taylor was trying to help her mom get better, so they couldn't spend as much time with you as before.

By middle school, you guys barely said hi in the halls. The inside jokes stopped. So did the birthday calls. Your mother insisted on interacting with them but her suggestions went through and out both of your ears. It would've been awkward, almost as if you were simply barging in and saying, "Hey I know it's been ten years since we've talked and you've been grieving, but I was waiting for that to be over so we could be friends again!"

That was until Savannah. Specifically, the night you were trapped in a room with four acquaintances and two childhood friends you hadn't spoken to in years. Yeah, very awkward.

But it seemed like Savannah had brought everyone closer together including you, Taylor, and Tyler. You were sitting in one of the buses, picking at the peeling leather, before Taylor had suddenly sat next to you.

“Hey… uh, I saw that phantom almost scratch you. Everything okay?” You were shocked, nevertheless, but of course relaxed when that signature smile appeared on her face. "I'm alright, you?" Taylor swallowed, knees curling up to her chest. "Yeah."

You leaned back on the seat, "Not as scary as those ducks if I'm being honest." You feigned nonchalance, a smirk starting to appear on your face.

She snorted, "“You still afraid of ducks?”

“One chased me when I was five, of course I am!” You smiled, sitting up straight to look at her.

“Yeah, and it still lives rent-free in your nightmares.” She laughed.

Nevertheless, you were glad to have one of your friends back. As for Tyler, it took some warming up to get both of you back to where you were when you were kids. But it was shorter then you had expected.

“You still do that thing with your thumb when you’re nervous,” You said, half-smiling as you tried to reach out to him. Currently, you all were gathered in Logan's room for a sleepover.

He glanced down at his hand and shrugged. “Old habits.” Tyler said, moving his pawn piece forward. You furrowed your brows at his curtness.

“You ever miss it? Us being friends?” You asked, moving your knight.

“We were idiots.” Tyler commented, avoiding the question.

“That’s not a no.”

He didn’t look at you as he moved his piece forward. “Doesn’t matter.” You sighed, moving your rook before sighing and moving it back to move a pawn piece instead before Tyler stopped you. "Illegal move."

"Didn't know you knew how to play chess." You muttered, lips curling up into a small smirk.

Tyler didn’t answer right away. He tapped the top of his pawn once, twice, before finally glancing up at you. “I didn’t. My mom taught me last summer.” He paused. “I suck at it. Still do.”

You blinked, surprised. “You? Admitting you suck at something?”

He gave a small, reluctant grin. “Don’t get used to it.”

A beat of silence stretched between you. Not tense, just... Quiet with the faint sound of Aiden scrolling through Tiktok and Taylor talking to Ashlyn while she braided her hair.

It was comfortable enough that you didn’t rush to fill it. “I wasn’t trying to guilt-trip you earlier,” You said finally, voice softer. “I just… I don’t know. Missed you.”

Tyler looked down again. The corner of his mouth twitched, but his voice stayed low. “Yeah. I missed you too,” he admitted, almost like it hurt to say it out loud. “Didn’t know if you’d want me back.”

You stared at him. “Dude. You’re literally the worst at emotions.”

“Thanks. I try.” You both cracked a smile, the air between you shifted just a little. Easier. Warmer.

Tyler nodded at the board. “Your move. And don’t cheat this time.”

Romantic: Taylor

Out of all things, you liked Taylor's smile the most. Fortunately, it was something she did all the time. Smile, laugh. But mostly, you enjoyed it when you were laughing with her. When you could enjoy your happiness with hers.

You supposed you've always had a crush on her, maybe it was when she shared the candy she had at lunch time with you and stuck out her tongue at Tyler when he sulked about wanting some as well, or maybe when you noticed how pretty she was in fourth grade but you had always liked her.

So how great is it that you two ended up growing apart? How great was it that you weren't even sure she liked you? Well, you were sure to be proven wrong because other then her brother's comfort, yours was the one she sought out the most when her dad died.

“Hey… uh, I saw that phantom almost scratch you. Everything okay?” You were shocked, nevertheless (And sort of flustered), but of course relaxed when that signature smile appeared on her face. "I-I'm alright, you?" Taylor swallowed, knees curling up to her chest. "Yeah."

You leaned back on the seat, "Not as scary as those ducks if I'm being honest." You feigned nonchalance, a giddy smile starting to appear on your face as you felt her warmth radiate off her body.

She snorted, "“You still afraid of ducks?”

“One chased me when I was five, of course I am!” You smiled, sitting up straight to look at her.

“Yeah, and it still lives rent-free in your nightmares.” She laughed. There it was, that laugh... You loved and missed that laugh so much. And it was you who made her laugh.

A moment of comforting silence enveloped the both of you before she rested your head on your shoulder. You stiffened, body heating up as she muttered, "I missed you, y'know."

"... Missed you too, Taylor."

Romantic: Tyler

I feel like the one thing you liked about Tyler was definitely his dedication. His dedication to take care of his family, his dedication to always be right, it was something you respected and admire.

And whether it was him getting into a fight with a person who had come up to you and made fun of you or maybe when you shared food together, everything had just simply been chalked up to be a crush. A crush that had formed from close proximity.

Well, it seemed like the universe had a funny joke to play because even when you grew apart you still found yourself looking for him through the crowds of people. And unbeknownst to you, Tyler had done the same.

“You still do that thing with your thumb when you’re nervous,” You said, half-smiling as you tried to reach out to him. Your heart pounded at the closeness and you swore your head felt like exploding. Currently, you all were gathered in Logan's room for a sleepover.

He glanced down at his hand and shrugged. “Old habits.” Tyler said, moving his pawn piece forward. You furrowed your brows at his curtness.

“You ever miss it? Us being friends?” You asked, moving your knight. You were treading lightly, you didn't want to say the wrong thing.

“We were idiots.” Tyler commented, avoiding the question.

“That’s not a no.” You pointed out.

His eyes widened, breath hitching slightly before moving another pawn forward. “Doesn’t matter.” You sighed, moving your rook before sighing and moving it back to move a pawn piece instead. You didn't notice how Tyler hesitated before placing his hand on the hand that was moving the pawn piece, "Illegal move."

You widened your eyes, you were sure you were about to explode now... "D-didn't know you knew how to play chess." You muttered, biting the inside of your cheek.

Tyler didn’t answer right away., clearing his throught and quickly retracting his hand. “I didn’t. My mom taught me last summer.” He paused. “I suck at it. Still do.”

You blinked, a small smirk appearing on yours lips. “You? Admitting you suck at something?”

He gave a small, reluctant grin. “Don’t get used to it.”

A beat of silence stretched between you. Not tense, just... Quiet with the faint sound of Aiden scrolling through Tiktok and Taylor talking to Ashlyn while she braided her hair.

It was comfortable enough that you didn’t rush to fill it but sort of awkward considering you two technically just held hands. “I wasn’t trying to guilt-trip you earlier,” You said finally, voice softer. “I just… I don’t know. Missed you.”

Tyler looked down again. The corner of his mouth twitched, but his voice stayed low. “Yeah. I missed you too,” he admitted, almost like it hurt to say it out loud. “Didn’t know if you’d want me back.”

You stared at him. “Dude. You’re literally the worst at emotions.”

“Thanks. I try.” You both cracked a smile, the air between you shifted just a little. Easier. Warmer. His eyes lingered on yours, flickering down before he widened them.

Tyler cleared his throat, nodding at the board. “Y-your move. And don’t cheat this time.”

(Hope you like it! Also this is a lot longer then I intended it to be lol...)

[heylittleriotact]

*banging pots and pans* Come get your angst! Delicious, heart wrenching Emmrook angst!

𝑀𝑜𝓇𝒾𝒷𝓊𝓃𝒹

adjective

1. near death

2.  stagnant; without force or vitality

One of us needs to consider my mortality.

Had he known what would happen hours later, he would have chosen very different words indeed.

It was a foolish assertion in hindsight - a weak argument and he knew it: Amina was always considering mortality. His, hers, and everyone else’s.

A study of Emmrich's perspective after Rook goes missing: we get to bear witness to a scruffy, smelly, devastated man up to his neck in self-loathing, as well as the spirits that help him.

Contains heavy Act 3 spoilers - proceed at your own risk!

Full under the cut or on ao3

Day 0:

It was extremely unorthodox thinking - there was no evidence or theory supporting any circumstance where it might work: without a body on this side of the Veil to serve as a ballast, it was wishful thinking at best, but he had to try. Not trying meant accepting, and he refused to accept that she was gone - lost forever to the Dread Wolf’s prison. Not with their exchange from the night before being what it was…

That couldn’t be the end. 

He excused himself curtly from the others upon their arrival back at the Lighthouse, expertly sidestepping any inquiries after his own wellbeing that followed him doggedly until they were silenced by the laboratory door slamming shut behind him. Might he have come off as callous? Perhaps. Did he care? Not presently. The time for contrition would come later.

Questions lingered about the specifics of what had happened, but it was easy enough to infer by the fact that Solas walked free and Amina had seemingly vanished from existence, she had been made to take his place in the prison he’d been trapped in. Solas had been able to survive there in that pocket of the Fade, so that meant that Amina could too… for a time at least, if not indefinitely. 

He was going to get her out. 

But first…

He stood in the middle of the room and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath in, holding it… then slowly letting it go in a measured, disciplined exhalation that helped to slow his racing heart as he forced his body back into a state of calm: no mean feat when one comprehended the heaviness of the air as it pressed in around him, the tragic gravity of his task weighing on him.

He lifted his hands, felt the comforting susurrations of the Veil playing over, through, between his fingers as he trailed them through seemingly empty space: a lonely conductor at the podium, leading an invisible orchestra… the melancholy composer of a poignant dirge. 

Threads unravelled with the morose, introspective swell of a cello’s baleful hum, and the vast mystery of Beyond sang to him, a faceless, nebulous chorus of voices, ageless and legion. Some were joyful, others despondent, but they all maintained a pristine harmony that would cause even the most cruel and unfeeling of souls to take pause for the sheer perfection of their sound.

He swallowed away the tightness in his throat. Forced strength into his craven voice. Focused on the familiar verdant light that filtered through his eyelids. 

“Hear me, Amina - with my voice I am calling you!” He sent the words beyond the Veil, where no one may ever hear them again. “I set this beacon for you now: a beacon that will guide you home. Follow my voice. Follow me home: we are waiting for you…. I am waiting for you.” 

With a gesture of his hand that would look very complicated to anyone observing, he tethered the invisible line he had cast into the Fade to the only body in the room: his. Traditionally this particular spell was called upon to guide wayward spirits back to their hosts, or in rare cases, draw the spirit of a dying person back from the Fade before it was too late to resuscitate them. That anchor point in the world of the living was vital for the magic to work, but since Amina left behind no body, Emmrich could only live in hope that her spirit was as tightly bound to him as he suspected his was to her. 

It was likely folly: what affection could survive his cowardice? His preening ignorance? His vainglorious proclivity for driving something away as transcendentally pure as love itself?

But he had to try: at the very least she could live to despise him for the rest of her days. 

The green light faded as his hands stilled and the notes of the symphony resolved. Silence returned so harshly it physically hurt. He opened his eyes and clasped his hands together as he so often did. 

“I need you, dear…”

Perhaps she would hear that too. 

Day 2: 

He was awake well into the early morning hours communing with the dead, listening through the Veil for a whisper, a rumour - any rumblings amongst the spirits that would avail him of his darkest thoughts: even confirmation that she was alive would be enough. 

The spirits were indeed talkative, but not a single one seemed aware of the presence of a mortal woman in their realm.

He wept for the first time that morning as her absence in its totality hit him all at once - the first of many times that tears would be shed in the coming days as he curled around her scent-heavy pillow on the settee in her room. 

The couch which ordinarily felt rather cramped when they both shared it now seemed devastatingly wide and empty without her tangled up in him, giggling softly as she slotted her thigh between his and slipped a hand up the back of his shirt to shock him with the coldness of it against his skin.

Gone. She was gone, and it was entirely his doing…

Day 4:

It had taken precisely eight words to destroy everything, as Johanna’s remains were so eager to point out before he had her temporarily removed to a quiet alcove elsewhere in the Lighthouse. It was an astute observation, and he couldn’t find it within himself to offer a rebuttal to her further assessment that he was a ridiculous gloating twat with a truly awe-inspiring gift for cataclysmically fucking things up for every single poor soul that happened to cross paths with him.

One of us needs to consider my mortality. 

Had he known what would happen hours later, he would have chosen very different words indeed.

It was a foolish assertion in hindsight - a weak argument and he knew it: Amina was always considering mortality. His, hers, and everyone else’s. If life was a sentence in a book, death was simply the appropriate punctuation that marked the end of it: without it, the sentence lost all of its weight and meaning. 

She always spoke so romantically about the inevitability of that final mystery - the peace and freedom from pain and fear that would come with it, and the comforting guarantee of an end in a world where one could seldom rely on the guarantee of anything: food, fortune… love. To her, it was part of a treasured natural order, responsible for everything from the stars in the sky to the worms in the dirt. She was enchanted by mortality… he loathed it.

He dragged his hands through his greasy hair, hunched over an old and fragile tome.A tear splashed on the page, and not wanting to damage the delicate paper even in this state, he wiped it away.

His eyes itched and felt swollen - he didn’t need to look in a mirror to know they were bloodshot from long hours of focusing on print, missed sleep, and periodic bouts of pain and regret that would descend upon him like some great, vicious bird of wrath. It ravaged him with its talons and plucked at his insides with its wicked beak, discarding his guts methodically as it rooted around inside of him for its favored meats: his liver and his kidneys - bloody and succulent. His heart was left untouched by the cruel raptor… it wanted him to feel everything, and he welcomed its agonizing ministrations as he toiled endlessly, trying to find a way to fix his mistake. 

It was his mistake after all. 

“It wasn’t your fault!” Neve had insisted the first time he dared to speak the truth aloud. 

A thoughtful sentiment, but worthless when held up to the light: he had instructed Amina to seize the dagger from Ghilan’nain’s corpse, and she obeyed without question because she trusted him implicitly.

He had been told after the collapse that the death of his parents wasn’t his fault either - as if that was of any real comfort to a traumatized child, newly orphaned and numb with grief. 

Of course it wasn’t his fault - even as a young boy he knew the catastrophic failure of the building wasn’t his doing, but people said ignorant things when they didn’t know what else to say. Things that took root in the heart of a young man, replacing his grief over the years with a solemn and defiant indignance: ‘it wasn’t your fault,’ ‘it was the Maker’s will,’ ‘they’re in a better place now,’ ‘at least they didn’t suffer…’

Why would the benevolent and loving Maker will that a small child should be made to grow up without the love and protection of his Mother and Father? What divine goodness was there in stripping him of that and forcing him to carry the burden of their fates for the rest of his life?

Did people really put any thought to the shallow platitudes they babbled to fill space and tidily rationalize that which is utterly and completely irrational? Or was it merely a performance to give the one who offered them some measure of absolution - a sense that they’ve done the ‘right’ and ‘helpful’ thing in such a circumstance, when in fact they’ve unknowingly heaped another layer of despair on top of an already smothering, lonely mound of it?

Dizzying, petulant questions he had pondered for years… bitter, angry little things that buzzed around his head like grave-flies: when one died, three more seemed to take its place. 

A small, dark part of him - a squirming, fanged thing with gnashing teeth and a tongue like a wooden switch had been sorely tempted to enlighten Neve to the futility of her words… perhaps subject her to what would come across as an overly curt and somewhat sardonic lecture on what one might instead choose to say to a bereaved person that wasn’t the verbal equivalent of spitting in a wound and rubbing salt in it. He might have made her cry, and he would have felt shameful for it later, but in the moment he would have taken what glee he could find in the seed of misery he planted in the world.

Instead he stuffed that wicked, bristling, fanged shade of himself away and reminded himself that Neve was grieving too… as were the rest of them. Not only was Rook gone, but Harding had bravely given her life to defeat Ghilan’nain. Bellara had been captured by the enemy, her fate unknown…

The Lighthouse had taken on the solemn stillness of a mourning parlor, and he should have been the most understanding and compassionate among them of their shared sorrow. He should have been helping them:  shepherding them ably through the tribulations and challenging waves of emotion they would grapple with over the days and weeks to come like he was solemnly sworn to do, but he couldn’t… not when his every thought was occupied by her and the sheer, unrelenting compulsion to right this wrong: he was responsible for her being caught in Solas’ trap - it fell to him to get her out. 

Her hips swayed with her familiar feminine gait as she strolled away from him in a memory, and her dark hair was piled on top of her head in a messy knot… she was breathtakingly radiant in the morning.

He never got to tell her that every morning he got to spend with her - disheveled, heavy-eyed, and often in a state of partial undress - was more precious than life itself to him. He never got to tell her how much he admired her maturity and well-organized mind, because the truth of it was that despite his enviable list of accomplishments and considerable years of experience, Amina possessed an enterprising bravery he knew could not be learned from a book. 

Before the day ended he called through the Veil to her again, and as it had each time, the echo of his words came back empty.

“Oh darling…” He said to the absolute silence of the laboratory. “I’m so sorry.” 

Just like Neve, he knew she’d tell him it wasn’t his fault.

Day 7: 

He had been immersed in the dagger: the act of shaping the raw shard of lyrium into something deliberate and precise. It hung in the air, rotating slowly as he manipulated the Veil around it, giving the material form and purpose. Solas’s dagger was the key to the prison, and he had reclaimed it when he freed himself. Rather than wasting valuable time trying to get it back, it had been communally decided that attempting to duplicate it would be a wiser course of action. Letting Amina go - abandoning her to her fate - was no more of an option for their companions than it was for Emmrich.

He had thrown himself into the work - it gave him purpose and an outlet for the despair that threatened to overwhelm him when his hands and mind stilled for too long.

It was momentum. A direction. 

“Pondering, planning, praying–”

Emmrich nearly leapt out of his skeleton - the shard of lyrium clattered to the workbench. He put out his hand to keep it from bouncing over the edge and shattering on the floor. 

“Never a man of faith - but what else is there to turn to when reason has fled? ‘Please keep her safe.’ Words whispered through a curtain of song: ‘Darling, come home.’”

He took a breath and turned around, finding himself face to face with a spectral woman with ragged, dirty hair and a tattered, stained gown. Her translucent, faintly glowing form was in an advanced state of decomposition: her tongue dangled morbidly from her mouth, attached by the smallest scrap of connective tissue. Her skin was mottled and discoloured and sagged tenuously from the outline of her skull. He could see all of her teeth - not due to a smile or a snarl, but because her lips had dehydrated and withered away.

A rather unusual form for a spirit of this variety to take, he decided. It was a blessing she decided to manifest here in the laboratory and not Taash’s room - she would have given them quite a fright. 

But was he truly so wretched that he had drawn Yearning to this place?

The spirit seemed to pick up on his moment of self-pity and it stiffened slightly, smoothing its decayed hands over the skirt of its ruined dress as it tossed what remained of its hair testily. 

“At least there exists one Watcher who can identify me correctly.” Her voice was an autumn breeze, sharp and stinging. 

He examined her closer, lifted a hand and felt her aura tingle against the bare skin of his palm. “Oh, my apologies,” he pulled the hand back and twined his fingers together in front of himself. “Devotion. I’m humbled by your presence given the circumstances. It couldn’t be that you’ve heard anything in the rippling currents of the Fade?”

“No.” The answer was abrupt but not unkind - the spirit did not dally with unnecessary semantics. “The Lost Watcher is hidden from all but the oldest and most sensitive of us, but she is a being of unique substance and did a great service and kindness unto me once - as she has done for many before me.”

Though the sting that came with confirmation that she was deeply, deeply hidden in the Fade hurt, he couldn’t help but be warmed with a sense of pride by the reminder that his Amina was a champion for spirits like Devotion and had spent her life aiding such beings… a fact that was clearly known amongst spiritkind. 

Glowing green eyes landed on the rough likeness of the dagger on the workbench. “I have heard of you, Professor Volkarin. The others whisper of you even in the deepest halls of the Necropolis as I soothe their loneliness and seek to mend that which has broken them. I would not have found them if not for her.”

He’d heard rumours months earlier of a spirit that had manifested in the deepest, most rarely travelled corridors of the Necropolis. Despite its lesser classification it allegedly sought out the maligned and tormented and cared for them stalwartly with a dedication that was nothing short of admirable. If Amina had been the one responsible for it manifesting in the Necropolis in the first place…

Another thing added to the ever-growing list of things he wanted to ask about - there were so many stories he wanted to hear… but he wanted to hear them from her.

“I will remain here with you, Corpse Whisperer while you toil to reunite with your beloved. I cannot do much, but I can keep the likes of Sorrow and Diffidence at bay, for they are drawn to your labours as I was. Work, Watcher… and I will keep you safe.” 

Day 11:

Was she even still alive? The thought burst into his mind unbidden, taking immediate precedence over the words he was half trying to read. Had she languished away by now, her mortal body incapable of sustaining itself in a prison designed for immortal gods? Beyond the need for obvious necessities like food and water, what horrors lurked in that place as retribution for the sins of the gods? Could she defend herself indefinitely? And if she had died, were those final moments peaceful: the welcoming of the sunset at the end of a long day? Or were they desperate seconds that stretched into eternity as she realized her impending and unavoidable demise, her entire being gripped with loneliness and terror as life slipped from her grasp like the finest grains of sand…

“No.” The assertion possessed defiance he didn’t think he was capable of. “I cannot think like that.”

She isn’t dead… she can’t be dead for the simple fact that there’s so much I have yet to say to her…

Denial, this was called, and it was a common coping mechanism amongst the bereaved. The mind was tremendously skilled at protecting itself during times of immense emotional and psychological strain. Comforting rationale would parse itself into a neatly packaged alternative that was easier to confront than the truth - a temporary neurological repair not meant to last forever, but rather allow one to withstand the immediate shock of a loss. But was he suffering the rigors of grief, or was he on the right path with his stubborn refusal to accept anything that didn’t result in Amina warm and safe and alive in his arms?

Did he even deserve her back after how he’d treated her? 

Devotion was a welcome companion and had been a tremendous balm to his soul with its presence alone, but as hours drained away and days seemingly raced past, it was becoming more and more difficult to ignore the mounting odds that there may not be a favourable outcome to this problem. 

He heaved a sigh and straightened in his chair, his spine protesting at the sudden shift in positioning. He ran a hand pensively over his chin as he stared at the pages upon pages of notes, figures, and calculations before him, decently lengthy stubble rasping against his palm. He normally wouldn’t be caught dead with even a day’s growth shading his jaw, but these were extenuating circumstances indeed. That’s what he told himself at least - the truth was that he couldn’t bear to look himself in the mirror for the guilt he carried. 

He could have just ignored it - that persistent tightness in his chest that forecasted the all-encompassing terror that would consume him in short order, stampeding through his body and reducing him to a shivering, clammy skinned likeness of a man. He could have done the intelligent thing and kept it to himself instead of trying to appease it by feeding it more pain. But no. He was Emmrich Volkarin - a smart man; an overachiever; an academic and philosophical force of nature - he knew what was best for him in that moment… and what was best for her, because for all of her quaint cheerful talk about death over breakfast, she hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about, and honestly, that pointy, vile little part of himself that he kept shackled with clever repartee and gentlemanly manners wanted to break that naive innocence.

So he bit. He lashed out like one of the dirty, malnourished, terrified strays that scurried between the narrow gaps of the crumbling buildings in the part of the capital that he called home in his youth. His brittle fangs caught skin and drew blood as he called her age and maturity into question, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before someone hunted him down and put him out of his misery - too dangerous, you see: the world has no need for a creature prone to such violence, even if it was shaped by its circumstances…

Perhaps he belonged in that prison with the gods. Perhaps the Maker had seen fit to free his parents from him: if they were dead, they no longer had to deal with the burden of a third mouth to feed while earning enough gold to maybe sustain one. Perhaps death had been freedom and relief for Rupert and Elannora Volkarin, because there was something wrong with little Emmrich, and it was in everyone’s best interests that he was alone. Perhaps the Maker looked upon Amina with that same kindness and called her away too, not willing to subject this kind, lonely woman to the wrongness that was Emmrich, and his carefully crafted palisade of goodwill that could only temporarily conceal the utter rot that dwelled beyond it. 

He stared sullenly at the now room temperature bowl of roasted tomato soup Lucanis had brought him hours earlier. He couldn’t remember the last thing he’d eaten. Maybe a handful of the spicy peppermint candies that Amina was so taken with. Shortly after she started spending more and more time in the laboratory with him, she strutted through the door one day with a bowl full of them that she set on the mantelpiece, declaring that she was tired of going back and forth to her room to get more every time she fancied another. 

He was always telling her that she couldn’t live on mints and needed to eat properly and look after herself. He ought to take his own advice, but the very thought of food only made his already unsettled stomach turn on itself more. 

His eyes returned to the page as he tried and failed to summon the formidable academic concentration that had gotten him this far in life. 

It was so odd how the words on paper kept replacing themselves with the words he should have said to Amina that night instead of hurling insults at her.

I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you…

He sniffled and rubbed his eyes again, wiping away tears with the heels of his hands. He was so tired of crying. He had cried so much already. Couldn’t he be finished with crying?

He knew if he asked her that question, she’d look at him with that serious but perceiving smile of hers… maybe run her hand soothingly down his arm and say, “I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that, but I’ll keep you company if you’d like: shared sorrow is a halved burden.” 

Fade take him… what a fool he was…

“Professor?” 

Emmrich flinched at the unexpected greeting and looked up. Had Davrin been standing there long? His eyes flicked over to Devotion standing by the door only a few feet from Davrin - it seemed that she was invisible to everyone but himself.

“Davrin,” he put on what he knew to be a cheerful, amiable tone that might have been believable if not for the complete absence of vitality behind it. “What can I help you with?”

He’d spent so much of his life helping the living and the dead to avoid confronting his own horrors… the loss of his parents, his fear of death, the deep and persistent suspicion that he wasn’t worthy of love - why stop now? 

The warden considered him, his handsome face grim and somewhat drawn; that usual fiery spark gone from his warm eyes. Emmrich watched those eyes take note of the untouched tomato soup, then the tear tracks on his gaunt cheeks. “Assan is going stir-crazy, and honestly I think I am too. I thought I’d see if you and Manfred wanted to come for a walk with us. The fresh air and a change of scenery might do you some good… inspire some grand epiphany or whatever you want to call it.”

The mockery of a smile slid off of Emmrich’s face. Davrin surely meant well, but even the fact that he’d asked was yet another painful reminder that she was gone: Amina was the one that usually ventured out with them. “Oh. That’s… that’s very kind of you to offer, Davrin, but I simply haven’t a moment to spare. Every second that passes is precious, and I believe I’m nearing a breakthrough with the tuning of the metaphysical oscillations in the lyrium dagger… I dare not walk away now.” 

It was a blatant and terrible lie: the dagger was on the other side of the room on his workbench where it had sat untouched for two days. Despite this, Davrin seemed to possess the decency to pretend he bought the falsehood. 

“You’re always on her case about taking care of herself - maybe consider taking your own advice, Emmrich: you can’t find a way to bring her back if you’re dead.” 

There was truth in the warden’s words that echoed his own thoughts, but Emmrich struggled to feel inspired by them. 

If he had been the one to retrieve the dagger instead, he could be the one to die alone in the Fade, and she would still be here… safe. Broken hearted, surely, but she would have recovered in time…

He bid Davrin farewell and paced over to the workbench, sitting into his hip and wrinkling his nose slightly. He stared at the softly glowing twin of the dagger bound to Amina’s fate. It would not be arrogant to say that it was an impressive fake. He’d never handled the original personally, but he’d watched Amina fidget with it enough that he was confident that he hadn’t overlooked a single seemingly insignificant detail - he was willing to bet that it was identical right down to the weight. 

A shame that a pretty fake was all it would ever be. 

Their plan to duplicate Solas’ dagger had screeched to a gutting halt when it became clear that there existed no means to enchant the dagger such that it would function the same as the original - not without accessing the unique aural resonances of the Fade that remained a mystery to anyone who didn’t happen to be an ancient elf. His theory was that Solas and the evanuris’ connection to the Fade was fundamentally different on a physiological level than that of a modern mortal. Whether that was a byproduct of their spiritual origin, or the result of them manifesting physically millennia earlier, he couldn’t rightly say… all that mattered was that unless he found a way to transform himself into an ancient elf, the dagger would remain as useless as Neve’s platitudes... 

It was a petty, childish fantasy to stare at the dagger and imagine what it would look like buried up to the hilt in Solas’ eye socket, but when he could feel himself becoming overwhelmed with hopelessness and despair, it helped keep him going. 

Few could guess by looking at him, but he was a creature driven by quiet anger: injustices and wrongs, big and small, collected and deliberately curated; claimed with the same detached fascination one might feel when they spot an interesting stone on a riverbank and slip it into their pocket. 

As he amassed success and wealth and renown, he remembered those who had done wrong to himself and others, and he learned how to smile easily at them with warmth and kindness in his eyes as he shook their hands. He even learned to forgive some of them. 

But he never, ever forgot what they were capable of, and he never ever let himself be fooled into believing that they were good and decent people. 

This ire for a spirit was unusual for him, but impossible to let go of: had Solas known? Had he any idea what Amina meant to him? That she was a beloved person, and so much more than the piece on the chessboard that she was named for? Certainly as a spirit Solas would struggle with the seemingly static, immutable nature of people, but that hadn’t been enough to stop him from falling in love with the Inquisitor, had it? He was not so bound to his spiritual nature that the concept of love was beyond him. 

The fact that Solas was originally a spirit and Emmrich was sworn to protect his kind did not excuse him of the fact that he betrayed Amina… perhaps even killed her.

Her. Amina. Rook. The woman he’d known for such a short time, and whom he could no longer imagine life without. He needed her back - was that so hard for Wisdom to comprehend? Life without her was as much a shallow mockery as the dagger he’d crafted. 

He had waited so long for her - all but resigned himself to a life empty of the companionship and love that he craved with a desperation that had hollowed him out over the years, etching unwritten sonnets and love notes into his ribs until he was certain those words would die with him: an epitaph on the monument of his bones. He would take them to his grave where they would desiccate and become dust with him - imbibed and consumed slowly by uncaring, unfeeling time. 

He could have spent their last night together reading those words to her: letting her peel away his flesh and muscle so she could split open his chest and bear sacred witness to every secret hope and abandoned dream. He should have breathed them directly into her lungs between long, hungry kisses that would serve as his confession that the that his sacrosanct duty as a Mourn Watcher was little more than a facade now, for he no longer belonged to the living and the dead: he belonged to her, body and soul… with what life dwelled in his breast and what eternity his soul could endure. 

But he had done none of those things, and he could almost hear the Dread Wolf laughing at what his hesitation had cost him.

All he could do now was keep working… keep trying. Keep thinking. 

Day 15:

In his dream, he found himself in the vast center of nebulous nothing. There was no sky, no ground, no walls. Nothing with which to orientate himself - up, down - such things appeared not to exist here. 

The only other thing occupying it aside from himself was a faintly shimmering golden haze. It stretched into eternity in all directions. Endless. Incomprehensible.

He might have been gripped with terror at the idea of being alone in a place as strange as this, but he knew better than that: he was most certainly not alone. Of course he was terrified, but more awestruck than anything: if this was what he suspected it to be, this was a very, very rare encounter.

“To what do I owe this great honour?” He spoke into the golden eternity.

Two small suns burst into existence before him. They glowed with white hot fire, but radiated only a gentle warmth that permeated every cell of his being. Slowly the miniature stars rotated around each other, and a voice spoke that he perceived not with his ears, but with his soul, the agelessness and sheer power of it driving the breath from his lungs.

“One who has been drawn to this place many a time as I wander to and fro. Were you aware that it was once a refuge for the newly liberated?”

Its voice almost hurt - it felt like it was vibrating through him at such a frequency that it might rip him apart. Not its fault… it was a trait that likely came with being older than measurable time…

“I was aware,” he responded collegially. “It makes sense that such souls would attract Hope.” 

The orbs of light circled each other slowly… passed through one another in a smooth, hypnotizing motion.

“Verily,” it said. “It stood empty and still for a long time, but still I would visit now and again, if only to revisit the memory of that which dwelled here once.”

“And now?”

“A lone spirit called to me without knowing it. By the time I returned, it was gone. I found you in this place instead.”

The lone spirit it spoke of could only be Solas…

“It’s as plain as anything that you are most certainly not Wisdom. There’s a sort of… desperate imprudence about you that gives it away.” The suns stilled for a moment, shivered, and resumed their languid orbit. “So what are you?”

Did Hope just insult him? How unexpected…

“Only a man of little importance on a journey of great urgency.” He felt emboldened, though he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the spirit’s existence alone that made him feel such a way. “Perhaps you could be of assistance with the matter in question?”

The suns flared slightly, streaks of streaming colour sparking over its surface. His surroundings went slightly rigid, the auric mist prickling his skin. “You carry brittle echoes of death within your spirit. There is bone dust in your lungs. The scent of corpses lingers inside your nose though there are none nearby.”

Emmrich swallowed hard, but remained in place.

“You shepherd the living and the dead towards purpose and convalesce unsettled entities all while fearing your own demise. Despite this you willingly relinquished your only chance to live on in perpetuity - why?”

The immensity of Hope was overwhelming. The fact that a spirit of this magnitude existed was remarkable on its own - the fact that he was conversing with it… unimaginable. But it had asked him a question, and he knew that the manner of his answer was of utmost importance if he was to obtain the aid of this being.

“Because with her I am less afraid to face that fear. It may always hold sway in my heart, but with her beside me, I have hope that all of my days won’t be dark.”

The orbs of light rose and fell… trembled faintly as though excited…

“Fascinating,” it breathed and its air caressed him like a triumphant spring breeze, smelling of honeysuckle and luscious young grass. “I feel the pull of the one that you speak of: she is palpable.”

He was glad to know he and Hope were of the same mind in that respect. 

“The prison she is trapped in is designed specifically to keep me - and others like me - from penetrating its walls, but despair not - you are close to finding the one you seek: there is a ripple in the firmament that you may exploit - a fold in a place of significance to her… a crack.”

Emmrich’s stomach dropped - that could be almost anywhere, and even with a network of eluvians at their disposal…

“The beacon you have set for her is strong and although she cannot hear you, her spirit is joined with yours: look for her in the same place where the initial spark of curious infatuation between you quickened and became flame.”

He looked down at his hand slightly obscured by the actuality of Hope, and turned his mind to the puzzle: was there a single defining moment? Was it a culmination of weeks of stolen glances, shy smiles, and utterly fabricated excuses to find themselves in each other’s proximity once again - innocent and coincidental? 

Yes - there had been a lot of that: dancing around one another politely, both undeniably smitten but neither willing to set aside the consummate professionalism that their vocation burdened them with. 

It could have gone on forever. They might have passed like ships in the night for all their efforts if it weren’t for that one evening that seemed like so many other evenings until it wasn’t: a night of research and reading - both of them hunkered down in the library well past midnight when everyone else had retired. 

The comfortable silence that dwelled between the soft husk of a page being turned every now and then. The easy conversation that flowed between them as they discussed matters ephemeral. Their knees almost brushed more than a few times on that uncomfortable couch. Amina, smothered a yawn here and there; Emmrich glanced up at her every time. 

“What?” She’d ask, a confused little smirk on her divine lips.

“Nothing,” he’d answer. 

He suggested she get some rest: he could continue reading - it was more important that she slept. 

A defiant shrug and a polite refusal - but she did tuck her legs under herself and rest some of her weight against him - nothing familiar… just her shoulder against his. 

Shortly after, he asked for her take on Orlok’s Theory of Asomatous Transitory Regression, and he thought she was taking time to consider her response, but when she remained silent for far longer than he knew was typical for her, he chanced a look down to find her sleeping soundly, her head on his shoulder and her book still spread open on her knees. He thought to rouse her - send her to her room where she’d at least be able to stretch out properly, but something held him back and he found himself gently slipping the book from her hands and setting it aside. Felt himself readjusting his right arm slowly - carefully - so it was around her, and he could share his warmth with her in the drafty space. 

His heart had leapt into his throat, and apologies and placations lined up on his tongue a few minutes later when she made a soft noise from behind her curtain of hair and shifted, lifting her head enough so he could see slivers of green under heavy lids. 

His lungs ceased working.

But instead of lurching away from him, blushing furiously and stammering her own stream of awkward, rushed excuses, Amina just blinked… once… twice… smiled groggily… shuffled down the couch some, rested her head on his thigh and fell back asleep, her hand on his knee.

He read until the morning - the same book three times cover to cover, in fact - because he didn’t dare move her - didn’t dare be responsible for ending that moment because whatever he had glimpsed in her sleep-filled eyes when she looked at him was a kind of magic he had never seen before. 

Everything about it felt like home.

Even when he plucked up the courage to softly capture a strand of raven hair between his trembling fingers… even as he guided it away from her face as she slumbered, even as his touch lingered and he stroked down the silken length of it, his heart thundered. 

That was it. That was when everything had changed for him - and for her. 

“The library,” he croaked, throat tight. “It was in the library. I– I need to go. I need to go there now!” Tears filled his eyes as hope flooded him for the first time in days. A broken laugh burst from his lips and he clutched at his hair, aware that he looked like a madman. “Thank you!” He wept. 

The orbs flickered again - rather like twinkling eyes - and then blinked out of existence. 

“Live well, creature, and of all things that you may choose to abandon in the days to come, may hope be the last of them.” 

He woke on the too-large settee to the cool green light of an aquarium that made no sense. He scrambled to his feet, flipped his hair out of his face, and bolted for the door.

Muffled voices… all familiar - one in particular. His voice. 

Then his shape - his outline - a shape she would know anywhere. 

A hand - a beautiful, soul-shatteringly, heart-achingly artful hand that was capable of healing and holding… destroying, creating, and calming; teasing and caressing - and everything else in between. 

She heard herself sob as she seized that hand with her own and felt muscles and tendons reflexively tense in surprise for a fleeting instant before slender fingers clenched around her wrist in an unexpectedly bruising grip that wrung a clipped scream from her. Her feet left the ground as she was dragged into the bright light, and she was falling forward, up, down, and in directions that didn’t exist all at once. 

Then something solid. Something warm and firm. The feeling of well-worn wool and meticulously cared for linen against her face… a familiar scent, though it was more rustic than usual…

The excruciating pain in her wrist persisted as her eyes struggled to adjust and she looked up. She blinked… once… twice…

“Emmrich?” 

He had a decent start on a beard for one - that was new - and his hair was messier and dirtier than she’d ever seen it. The dark circles under his eyes were a particularly haunting shade of aubergine, and his sclera were dull and bloodshot. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. He looked terrible…

“Where’s Varric?” She demanded hotly, panic rising in her chest as she tried to step back so she could get a better look at him - he wouldn’t let her, and she already knew the answer to her futile question. The grip on her wrist tightened and so did her throat as her mind raced to try to comprehend the situation. The grief she felt in Solas’ prison at the revelation of Varric’s death was rapidly being replaced with incandescent rage directed at the Dread Wolf: she was going to destroy him - spirit or not, he had gone too far… “Emmrich!” She yanked her wrist free and let out a cry of surprise as he toppled forward into her arms, a disheveled, weeping mess that took them to the ground. She managed to keep them both upright and Emmrich caged her in an embrace that took her breath away.

“I’m sorry, darling - I love you - I’m s-so very sorry…” He half-sobbed into her ear as he stroked her hair. His voice was so ragged... She felt tears splashing against her, wet and abundant, and her own joined them: confusion and anger and joy converged on her in a baffling wave - she couldn’t house all of this. And Emmrich…

How long have I been gone?

She managed to pull far enough away from him so she could cup his scruffy jaw in her hands and meet his gaze - his haunted, hollow gaze. 

“It’s all right now,” she soothed, summoning up enough calm for both of them - she was beyond furious, but he was despondent, and like any experienced Watcher she knew she needed to meet him on his level - manage herself for the time being. 

She softly traced her thumb down the familiar plane of his cheek and he leaned into her touch, his hand covering hers. “I love you too… I’m here and I’m safe, and I’m–” her voice trembled and broke. “Oh Emmrich… I’m sorry too.” If what she was beginning to suspect was true - if she had been lost to that place of regret for much longer than a few hours - it meant that Emmrich had been sitting on that argument for days at least, judging by the looks of him - her promise that they would talk about it at home a dangling thread that would remain forever untied if she never returned… 

She pressed her lips to his and he sighed into her, some of the tension finally leaving him. “You found me…” she murmured against his skin. “You got me out. Of course you did.” Her arms tightened around him and she kissed him properly - deeply. 

“I couldn’t live with myself knowing the state I had left things in.” He rested his forehead against hers and twirled a strand of her hair around a finger as they sat on the floor, both aware of their audience of companions - both utterly unconcerned about their presence. “Will you forgive me?” 

“If you’ll forgive me,” she offered: she carried her own regrets about that argument… though evidently not as long as he had.

His mouth curved into a smile for the first time and he chuckled weakly. “There is nothing to forgive, my dearest Amina.” His eyes continued to sweep over her as he took her in, mapping every line and angle of her, committing it to memory as if it would ensure she could never be taken from him again. 

“You really love me, huh?” 

“I have for some time, and I’m afraid that rather than embracing that fact with the deference owed to it, I acted like a cowardly fool. If I had only–”

She silenced him with another kiss, his mouth opening as her tongue brushed the seam of his lips. Her fingers stroked through the coarse, straight hair that covered his jaw and she realized with a jolt somewhere around her midsection that she rather liked it. She made a mental note to discuss the future of the beard with him later on, but for now…

“No academic theories right now, Professor…” she whispered. She was exhausted and overwhelmed. She needed to take a minute and just… come to terms with everything. With Varric, Harding, and Bellara; with how long she’d been gone… what the hell she was going to do next. What she was going to do to Solas when she got her violent, creative little Reaper hands on him… 

“Humour an old man,” he smirked tiredley. 

“I’ll consider humouring him in the bath.” 

“You’re no basket of roses either, dear.” 

“Regret bringing me back yet?”

He caught her hand and brought it to his lips, placing a chaste kiss to the back of it, his eyes locked on hers - as red and puffy as they were, the love that dwelled within them was unmistakable, and Amina knew they would never be parted in this life again. 

“Never.” 

[shivunin]

Filed Under 398.2

In which Lucanis and Rook don't quite manage to have a post-game interlude in the Necropolis library. (Inspired by this post) *The beginning of this is a bit risqué, but not explicit

(Rook Ingellvar/Lucanis Dellamorte | 2,470 Words | AO3 Link)

“We only have—mph—half an hour, maybe forty-five—why do you have so many belts?”

“Poisons,” Lucanis murmured against Rook’s mouth, hands already working deftly at the buckles. “Throwing knives. Other things that I—ah!” 

Lenore caught his lower lip between her teeth, thumbs already hooked into her underthings to push them down and out of the way. The library shelves, carved sturdily from stone, absorbed his weight admirably when she pushed Lucanis back into it. Sometimes, she wished she was just a little taller, or that she owned any shoes with a heel. It was hard to reach his mouth for kissing without a little assistance.

“Where is everyone?” he asked, shedding three belts in quick succession and starting on the last. 

“Symposium,” she told him. “Compulsory. I waited until they swept for apprentices or we would’ve had company. That’s why we only have half an hour.”

And she was infinitely grateful she’d worn a dress for once. Lucanis was coming straight from a contract, and thus his clothing would take significantly more work to get off. She couldn’t complain, though; it’d been nearly a month since she’d seen him and he’d have to go straight back to Antiva from here. She was fortunate they had even this long. 

Climbing to her own quarters would have taken too long, and she’d been content with catching up in a crypt while they’d waited for the library to clear out. He’d given her the wide bracelet she wore on her left wrist now, malachite beetles inlaid with gold. She’d given him wyvern venom enchanted with a potent paralysis spell, just in case his target had built up a resistance. It was tucked into the bandolier on his belt now, discarded amongst the others on the library floor. It was gratifying that he’d seemed to appreciate it—his thanks had been enthusiastic enough that they’d wound up, well, here. 

It was unfortunate that she held the Necropolis too sacred to do this in the crypt because they probably would’ve had a little more privacy. Ah, well; she’d have to thank Emmrich later for holding a symposium at such a convenient hour. Sex in the library was so much better than no sex at all. 

As she thought so, Lucanis’s sword belt fell to the floor. In an instant, he’d gathered her up into his arms and reversed their positions. His mouth was—she’d missed kissing him so much. She’d gone much of her life not doing it or thinking about it at all; it seemed ridiculous that she would feel the absence of it so keenly now. It was not something she could understand through logic, so she’d stopped trying. 

There was something disarming about the way he sometimes curled his hand around the back of her neck, as if she was something precious, something that must be held carefully. Nothing else in the world—no accomplishment, no heady wine or hard-won victory—ever made her feel the way she did when he touched her. It wasn’t even the sex she needed, it was just—being near him, feeling his hands on her skin. The need was as urgent as breathing. 

His hands slid up her thighs now, pushing the dark fabric out of his way with agonizing care. Lenore had wrapped her legs around his back for stability, but she shifted them enough for him to move the skirt out of the way. All that remained between them was a thin, unfastened layer of leather. So very little was left to separate them.

“Are you ready?” he asked, and tipped his head so his kisses fell over her exposed collarbones. Lenore squirmed against him, half-laughing. 

“Ready? I’m melting,” she told him, and made a soft, wanting sound when his hand slid between them to trace the length of her. She loved the quiet Antivan curse he mouthed against her skin, the devastating care present in every touch, the heat of his skin, the—

She loved him. She loved all of him. 

Lucanis removed his hand from her waist and looked up—presumably to find a spot to brace against. Slowly, his eyes focused on something to the left of her head. Oh, dear. There were spiders and wisps and things in here sometimes. Had one of them crept closer? She turned her head to look where he did and smiled. 

Ah. No, not a wisp or a spider at all. 

“The Ways of Wyverns: Provincial Folklore and Mythology,” Lenore read aloud. 

Lucanis cleared his throat, glancing at her and then up again. 

“I don’t suppose I could…borrow that? Return it to you later?” he asked. 

“Enchanted, I’m afraid,” she told him sympathetically. “Whole section is. We’ve the best research collection on monster hunting here, all donated by a foremost Nevarran scholar on the subject. There’s a standing bounty for any copies of a lot of them and they’re only lent out on special occasions. After the third or fourth theft, they took measures. Nothing from the collection leaves the Necropolis.”

Absently, she reached over her head and slid the volume free, propping it on her exposed thigh. 

“Oh, I’ve read this one,” she told him. “It’s actually rather interesting. The folk in rural Orlais have all these elaborate traditions around wyvern hunts. There are altars and rituals associated with them, even given how dangerous wyverns can get when fully grown. One of the families even…”

She trailed off, abruptly aware of the position they were in. Half-naked in the arms of the man she loved and hadn’t seen for a month and she was telling him about wyvern hunting traditions in Orlais. How were things like this always happening to her? It was nearly as bad as the time she’d had to stop touching him so she could coax a freshly animated skeleton to leave her quarters. 

“Go on,” Lucanis said, angling his head to look at the book. “What do they do? I have heard about the hunts, but I have never seen this—” 

Lenore snorted, then laughed, moving the book out of the way so she could press her face into his half-exposed shoulder. For a moment, laughter overtook her and she was helpless to explain herself. 

When she gathered herself at last, she lifted her head to look at him. Already, she could see the shift in his expression. It was the same one she felt herself. It hardly mattered that they’d been waiting to see each other for a month or that they had very little time before he would leave again. The idea of sitting propped in his arms while they read together was every bit as attractive as making love against the cold bookshelves of the Grand Necropolis. 

Actually, it sounded more attractive than what they were doing. Her hip was starting to hurt and the shelves really were frigid. This had seemed a lot more spontaneous and romantic than it actually felt. Ah, well. One fantasy punctured by reality, one likely realized—if he felt as she did. 

“You are perfect,” she said, and unwound her legs from his back. “Why don’t we read this together instead?” 

“You’re certain?” he asked, setting both hands on her hips. He was frowning, as if trying to work something out. “You don’t want to…?”

“I’m certain if you are,” she said, still half-laughing. “But only if you stay close to me. I’ve missed having you close enough to touch.”

“I was going to say the same to you,” he told her, dipping his head to kiss her again. 

He really did feel perfect, she decided happily, sliding down his body. She could see her underthings just behind him. If she hurried to get them back on, they might make it through two or three chapters before their time was up. Last week, she’d even found an inordinately large chair near this section, one big enough for two if the two were comfortable with each other. 

They passed nearly an hour together in the quiet library, Lenore snuggled back against his chest while he paged through the volume on wyverns. At intervals, Lucanis would set the book down to exclaim over some piece of trivia and Lenore would respond with other things she’d gleaned from the library. 

“Why do you know so much about wyverns?” he asked her after one such moment. 

Lenore, now fully clothed and comfortably ensconced between his chest and the arm of the chair, grinned at him. 

“Why do you think?” she asked him. 

Lucanis set the book face-down on her lap, which covered his. 

“You read this for me?” he asked, reaching for her face. Rook pressed her cheek against his palm, closing her eyes. 

“When I miss you, sometimes I come down here and read about them. I think about which things you’d like, what I ought to tell you later. I have a list somewhere. Under a book in my rooms, probably.”

“You—” 

Lucanis cut himself off, surging forward to kiss Rook. Carefully, he lifted both hands and cradled the base of her skull, holding her exquisitely still. His lips moved against hers, delicate at first, as if conveying some unspeakable emotion. Slowly, he leaned into her, pressing his cheek to hers. Lenore’s hands slid down his shoulders, touching the leather below, the criss-crossing belts, the vee of bare skin below his throat and above his heart. She’d grown accustomed to the soft brush of his beard, the way he angled his lips against hers, and she cherished it all. 

How horribly she’d missed this while he’d been away. She’d never truly understood how lucky she was to always have him near the Lighthouse. Being with him, especially like this, felt right in a way she had no means to articulate. 

For long, sweet moments, he simply rested against her, their lips pressed softly together. When he pulled away at last, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against hers. 

“You think of me,” he said at last. 

“Of course I think of you. Both of you. I’ve boxes of things for Spite to smell and touch too, if we have time. When we have time.” 

He touched her face, tracing the angle of her jaw and the curve of her cheek. He didn’t move away from her. 

“I want to stay,” he said. “For tonight, at least.” 

“Don’t you have to go back to Treviso?” she asked him. The lines beside his eyes deepened. 

“I can send word that I’ve been delayed. It will give us until dawn at the earliest.”

Lenore leaned back, studying his face. They both knew who’d demanded he return as soon as this contract was completed. It was the same person who’d chosen contracts increasingly far afield. Any contract would do, so long as the fee was paid and the target was far away from Nevarra. 

“I can’t ask you to do that,” she said at last. 

The book still rested on her lap. She flipped it closed to protect the pages, leaving a finger tucked into the edge to save their place. 

“You don’t have to ask,” he said. 

“Lucanis, I don’t…” 

Didn’t what? She wanted him to rest in her bed, to read with her, to be there when she tracked down that list of things she’d wanted to tell him. How could she say no to any of that, especially when she’d rather his grandmother trip into a canal than get to have him back? 

And it was precisely that—the animosity between her and Caterina Dellamorte—that meant she was reluctant to be the one who asked him to stay. His family was everything to him; it was not a bond she would test for her own gratification. 

“Do you want me here, Rook?” he asked, resting his hand over hers on the book. 

“Of course I do.”

“Then I will stay,” he said. “We can take this book to your rooms. Finish what we started.”

Yes. Oh, she wanted that so badly that it almost hurt to imagine. She’d resigned herself to sleeping alone already, had braced herself for the pain of curling up alone in her bed after having him for so brief a time. 

Solitude still came more easily to her than company. That was what she told herself when he was gone, anyway. It was easier to tell herself so than it was to admit that it cost her something vital every time she left him at the eluvian to Treviso. 

Endearments did not trip easily from his tongue, and she would have accepted them with just as little grace if they had. Long experience had taught her that there were other words that amounted to the same thing. 

“Lenore,” he said quietly, and brushed his thumb over her cheek. “Lenore. I would always wake with you if I could.”

“I know,” she told him, and slid from his lap so he couldn’t watch her gather herself. “Come on. If we stay up late, we can finish this in my rooms.” 

Already, there were voices at the doors to the library. The symposium must be done, later than expected. No doubt, she would hear the broad strokes of it tomorrow. If not, she’d get the tale from the one who’d led it. Catching up would keep her busy, and that would be good. 

But—none of that had to matter right now. Corpses and spirits and necromancy could wait for tomorrow. Right now, she had a book to read and an assassin to hold. 

The voices drew closer. As if he did not care whether or not they saw, Lucanis took her hand and kissed it slowly, one knuckle at a time. It had been the first place he had kissed her and the gesture, no matter how briefly it was performed, always did something funny to her knees. When he was done, he did not let her go. His thumb ran over her knuckles instead, back and forth, as if reminding himself where they were. 

Lenore swallowed around the tightness in her throat and hurried toward the exit. Every moment of happiness they’d ever had together had been carved from a universe that didn’t want to share. This would be no different than any of those other moments. They had a whole night ahead of them—eons and eons of time stretching out before her, so much more than she’d thought she would have. She didn’t want to waste a second thinking about his inevitable departure, how he would turn to look at her one last time before he stepped through the mirror to the Diamond. 

No. Instead, she would think about…about wyverns. 

As long as he was with her, as long as she could feel him near, she was satisfied.

[cherrypikkins]

I will continue to be insufferable.

...Because I still have my Rook Seiren on the brain and also because of how hard GreyWarden!Rook x Lucanis goes with some of the main story beats. Not to mention how fucking stressed Lucanis during and in the aftermath of Weisshaupt - which weighs heavier on a Warden background.

Throughout the Siege of Weisshaupt, Seiren is absolutely hurting in every way possible. Not only must she watch helplessly as her Order is completely decimated, her warnings ignored by the First Warden, she must nevertheless endure the brunt of the Darkspawn assault head-on to protect the non-Warden Veilguard members from risking infection. Lucanis most of all, because in order to get close enough to take a shot at Ghilan'nain, he needs to survive in one piece. All the while, she and Davrin are arguing furiously over who should get the 'privilege' of sacrificing themself to slay the Archdemon, only for Davrin to have his way.

Lucanis witnesses all this, and he thinks - the pressure is on. Under the veneer of cold professionalism, there is a new raw anxiety of wanting to succeed just so this nightmare can end. Not only to save the world at large, or to fulfill a debt for freeing him and safeguarding Treviso from the Blighted Dragon attack, but so that Seiren can finally get a fucking break and heal from this devastation. He knows by know that stopping the Blight means everything to Seiren, has costed her too much, and that means Ghilly must die. He's the Demon of Vyrantium - he can do this, he must, he will, and he is the only one who can even make the attempt.

…Except he falls short, misses when it counted the most, when it could have made all the difference, after everything Seiren had done, putting her neck on the line, to make sure he had a clear shot. He's failed and the Wardens paid the highest price, all for naught.

And the worst part is how she doesn't blame him. How she even tries to console him and cheer him up. Which makes it even more pathetic. He'd feel a lot better if she'd at least yell at him about it a little. Because even if she refuses to show it, the loss of Weisshaupt still weighs heavy on her, with Ghilan'nain still alive and nothing to show for their troubles.

The one thing that snaps him out of his despondence is hearing her remark on "how good it felt to hear Ghilan'nain scream like that when you cut her face open."

That's when Lucanis/Spite starts to contemplate making sure every last blighted god dies screaming - all so Seiren can have some peace of mind in a world where Wardens don't often have gentle fates.

[caughtnyact]

hihihi welcome to thedas weekend 💖💖💖 perhaps your Kayla Mercar and Emmrich with "i had a lot of dreams about you recently" from the pining/yearning prompts

OR!! Emmrich and Johanna with "you should know me by now" from the preestablished connections prompts

whichever inspires you most! 💖

I love u and these @thedasweekend prompts <3333 Trust and believe that I am going to eat that Volkoss prompt up some time soon 😩

@draco-illius-noctis wrote the most beautiful letter from Emmrich to my Rook, and I just HAD to write a response letter!!

No warnings - 280 words

To my most verbose esteemed Professor,

I would very much like to read the previous seven drafts of your letter to me. I think ‘runaway carriage’ is too generous a description of just how ugly you make me laugh; Davrin told me that it’s more akin to a screeching griffon (which, of course, made me laugh even harder.)

I’ve had a lot of dreams about you, recently. While I would love to see your ears turn the most delightful shade of pink at whatever absolutely lecherous fantasies I could concoct, they were dreams of a different kind. I dreamt of the most mundane domestic vignettes with you. How I would love to listen to you lecture on about the metaphysics of autogenous liminality, or snuff out your candle as you doze off at your desk so you don’t set fire to the laboratory. I would be absolutely devastated to see you smoldering by means other than by my hand.

I miss you almost as much as I miss my sweet Manfred; I was just about to close the gap in our eternal struggle for Rock Paper Scissors supremacy when you both were summoned back to the Necropolis. I’m sure he’s just as inconsolable, which means that you simply must get back to us as quickly as possible.

I would be remiss if I didn’t take my teasing foot off your lovely neck to give you the chance to take a breath. While toying with you is my favorite pastime, I’m not interested in torturing (unless you’re into that, of course.) My answer, by the way, is ‘yes’— I would love to get dinner with you.

Don’t keep me waiting,

Rook

[serstolas]

Watch Over Them

He'd checked throughout the Lighthouse, and Assan was no where to be found. That left the one room he hadn't been to yet.

Davrin sighed and rubbed the back of his neck as he regarded the door leading to Rook's quarters. Slowly, he pushed the door open, revealing the ugly green couch and fish swimming in the tank that made up the far wall. He walked around the room, knowing what he would see when he reached the other side of the couch.

Lucanis lay on the couch, the evidence of his sleeplessness showing in the dark circles under his eyes, dark as fresh bruises. Lucanis was pressed against the back of the couch, with Assan curled around him. The Crow appeared to be asleep, which told Davrin he'd finally collapsed from exhaustion. That was the only way he'd been able to sleep since Rook had been trapped in the Fade Prison.

Assan lifted his head, squawking sadly at Davrin. The Warden sighed and scratched the griffon behind the ears. "I know, boy, we all miss Rook."

Lucanis's eyes snapped open, but Davrin saw immediately they were purple, not the assassin's usual purple.

"Spite," he acknowledged the demon.

"Davrin came looking for Assan," Spite made it a statement.

"Couldn't find him earlier," Davrin replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "What are you doing controlling Lucanis's body?"

"Not controlling, just talking," the demon muttered. "Assan misses Rook. Spite and Lucanis miss Rook. We. Need. Rook."

"Emmrich and Neve are working on it," Davrin reminded the demon. "We'll get Rook back again." He lifted a brow, "I'm surprised Lucanis is asleep."

Davrin refused to accept that his fellow Warden and friend was gone. they had to find a way to get Rook out of that Fade prison. The world needed Rook, the team needed him...Davrin needed his friend and fellow Warden back.

"Spite promised Lucanis I would keep watch," the demon informed him. "Emmrich says Lucanis must sleep to stay alive, to stay alive for Rook. So Spite watches while Lucanis sleeps."

"Huh," Davrin wouldn't admit aloud he was impressed by Spite's grasp of the situation. "Alright then. If we get anything, we'll let you know."

The demon made Lucanis's head nod, then the assassin's eyes closed once more and the purple haze around him vanished. Davrin reached out and scratched Assan under the chin. "Keep an eye on them, boy. Rook would be devastated if something happened to Lucanis and Spite while he was gone."

He glanced once more around the room, then turned to go check in with Emmrich. He put his trust in Emmrich and Neve, that they would locate the Fade Prison and find a way to pull the other Warden out.

They had to.

[prettybugsinbandages]

GRRRRRRR IM EATING THIS CHAPTER UP!!!!

Do they understand tho??? Do they know what Blot! Reader means??? When they say they died alone???

Do you think they're thinking back to the winter, wondering when they changed? Or did they only realize they changed now that they're thinking back on it?

Did Yuuna skim over her memory of winter? Did she wonder when Blot! Reader left, when they could’ve died? (Not could, when they did die, she must’ve thought to herself)

Do you think Yuuna couldn’t think of a time? Not because she always saw them but because she rarely saw them? She never avoided them, but she didn’t seek them out either. (Was that their death sentence, she must’ve thought to herself. Did she inadvertently kill them?)

And Rook calling Blot! Reader Petite Star :( did he just call them Star after the reveal cause no Star could be petite if it still lives on after death? Maybe there was a reason, maybe not. Maybe it doesn’t matter either way, they’ll be the small overlooked star that so few take the time to admire to him.

Ace :( oh Ace… he must’ve thought so hard to that winter. When did they die? How could he have missed it? Why didn’t he notice how they were dead? … why can’t he remember what they were like before then…?

AND LEONA AHHHH. BLOWING HIM UP WITH MY MIND!!! Oooh I got SO annoyed when he started biting back. “Do you want an arbitrary?” I so wanted to snap back and be like “would you even know what to say about me before my death?” CAUSE LIKE!!! HOW DARE HE?? I know it’s the emotion he must’ve leaned on to cope with the situation, but that shit? Most definitely would’ve bitten back worse. What leg does he have to stand on over a dead body that will plague his mind for so many nights?

AND ADDING ONTO THAT!! The birthday thing!! I personally have a birthday in the winter, and being able to say “well, it already passed and I didn’t really wanna celebrate my birthday without my family” would’ve been so nice…just the angst potential, that little bit of negativity rising over the “they mean well”.

And lore wise (in game) I saw my winter birthday would’ve happened over the Kidnapping In Scarabia. And the thought that MC wouldn’t have been able to celebrate their birthday cause they literally had to death with a kidnapping, hostage situation, AND an Overblot? UGH so much angst potential.

Omg I’m so sorry for the total word vomit!!! I just have so many feelings about the whole Blot! Reader thing!!! The angst!!! The emotions!!! The peak writing!!! I’m eating it all!!!!!!! Thank you so much for the meal 🙏😋🍽️

Woah! I love the super long asks like yay talk to mee

The understand the basics and they sorta understand the reader died alone. Though the reader had only become someone noticeable after making a deal with the blot and "dying", so its more a realization they've been friends with a dead person the whole time.

Yuuka did think back to that one blizzard where reader returned completely different. She assumed they'd had some sort of internal revelation. As one of the Yuus, they never actually actively avoided her. In fact, they were one of the few that interacted with her on a normal level and couldn't understand why nobody else did. Still, the guilt is def there.

I chose the name Étoile or Petite Étoile because of how brightly he thinks the reader shines, yet how distant they seem no matter what. There'd always been something unreachable he couldn't place.

Ace is an extra hard one dealing with it. He had technically known the reader before the Blot contract though they barely spoke and he tended to forget about them anyway. Finding out someone close to you died and you could've saved them just by reaching out more and bringing them into the group was devastating. Especially because post contract when the reader finally is able to interact with people, they grow close.

Leona is an annoying character and not the most emotionally intelligent in some regards, I'd think. Especially with dealing with grief. He's mad of course. Mad he didn't know the reader before beyond the overblot and couldn't have done anything to help, but especially mad because of the situation now and how he still can't do anything. What's done was done. He's honestly feeling pretty hopeless. And because of that, he snaps out at anything (really needs therapy). Leona's the type to have something bad happen and instead of doing literally anything normal, he acts like an edgy teen, shuts people out, and lashes out.

I was thinking of giving the reader a birthday, but since the reader is well, a reader, I don't want to set and assign personal things. Instead, I hoped that section dug into birthday memories and experiences for them instead.

But yeah. Having a birthday around the same time as an overblot must've been crazyy. I'd be mad as hell w that

I love long asks so I totally don't mind ty ty ty and thank you for reading my little project<3

[pixiedurango]

Since you said to put this in ask. A letter to Rook from Viago once he realizes she’s dating Lucanis. And he’s the last to know.

Thank you so much for putting this here as a reminder to actually do it. It was - again - so much fun and I stuck with the theme of Teia hijacking Viago's (private!!!!!!!!!) letters. Here we go, hope you and everyone else has fun, too.

Transcription:

Viago bold Teia italic

Rook, Anyway I think we've come a long way for him not starting this type of letter with 'Idiot' anymore

But as much as he claims to hate it, he would hate it even more to remain silent I really hate to have to address this at this most inconvenient of all times – Given the tasks at hand that you and we all have to face all to soon, as we are just about to rally for one last and final strike on the enemy. Our last chance of restoring order and peace for all of Thedas – and also us as Antivan Crows - to thrive. I think he wants to point out how great you are doing and how far you've come. Bear with him. He tries. Really he does.

However. You see me upset, devastated even. - I – have seen him upset. It was... something, believe me.

About how a crow of the 5th Talon's house – and MY sister of all people, decides to just blatantly defy the things taught to her and, dare I say, ignoring direct orders of a superior (that would be me!) We KNOW, Viago. not only responsible for the welfare of my house but also your own blood!

I know, you already know what this is all about but let me spell it out for you: Have I not explicitly warned you, to not entangle yourself with Dellamorte family business astray from whatever contract you had with them? This family is nothing but trouble. And what did I (and the entirety of the Diamond!) have to witness the other day when you and your team dropped by? Lovey Dovey eyes at each other. Touching hands (WITH NO GLOVES ON!)

We are working on this 'gloves stay on at all times' thing. I promise!

Have I really raised and trained you this poorly? To be this oblivious to lingering dangers? You might run yourself into a dagger all the same with such little concern and respect for you life. And the reputation of your house! Hooray! He eventually noticed what everyone already knew for months.

I mean there are always options worse than who you chose to be your spouse. And maybe I should be grateful you didn't choose another Grey Warden to reenact the story of the House, we don't speak about all over again. Or you could have chosen a necromancer whos sole purpose in life seems to ridicule our honorable profession into a never ending joke by bringing back the dead. I personally would not have judged you for choosing either of them. Because both are mighty fine gents. BUT A DELLAMORTE? You are aware that years ago your beloved Lucanis threatened me and all House de Riva, right? By sending a dagger to make his point clear. You must remember this incident. I won't tell him another time, what this 'Dagger Incident' was all about. This torch now goes over onto you now. I've tried all I could. It's now your job, to make him understand. You and I, little lady, will have a serious conversation about your poor sense of judgment once you are back from your contract of killing that ancient God. And if I have to pull you out of the fade (again!) in order to do so, I will! I'm sure he actually would, I give him this much! In short: Don't die, because your brother (and 5th Talon) needs to talk to you about your life choices. He loves you, you know that, right? - Viago PS: And tell Dellamorte not to die either, because I'll kill him myself! We really need to make Vi understand, what the 'Dagger Incident' was all about asap. Maybe he'll be so embarrassed by missing the cue that he'll forget about wanting to kill Lucanis. Oh wait, maybe that'll make things worse... we really have to think about something here. Always yours - Teia xxx

[deaddaygal]

Rook and Hawke Head Canon because I like crying.

Spoilers Ahead

Before I get started here are some other head canons that inform this one.

Varric and Hawke had an intimate moment after Hawke arrived at Skyhold and this….exchange….resulted in a pregnancy.

Hawke didn’t suspect pregnancy since after the Arishok fight where she had been impaled (a few times, I’m bad at video games), she believed it wasn’t possible for her.

There is no time technically in the Fade, no day or night. Lucanis doesn’t sleep because he worries about Spite, but I suspect that everyone has trouble sleeping at the Lighthouse. Aging gets a little slower, those with periods’ cycles are either messed up or have stopped. Do you know where I’m going with this?

Hawke survived the Fade and has been there for over a decade. This is basically confirmed with that armor drop the devs did a few months ago.

Hawke finds her way through the Fade and is eventually found by Rook and the gang. She’s too late. Varric is gone. She wants to be angry with Rook, but what she finds is a person as equally devastated by his loss, although in a different way.

Hawke is fragile and ashamed in a way that makes her uncomfortable. She had hoped going into the Fade and “sacrificing” herself would absolve her of her own guilt for “failing” Kirkwall, among others.

But she lived. She was trapped, tempted and terrified but she was still alive. The only solace had been that maybe one day she’d find a way back to him.

She missed her chance.

Now, the realization of a pregnancy in stasis feels like a miracle and a slap in the face all at once. She’s afraid to go it alone, her friends and brother far away.

Maybe it’s pity, maybe it’s a sense of responsibility for what happened to Varric, or maybe it just feels right, Rook steps up to help. In doing so, the two of them realize how much they have in common. The regrets, the sense of duty, the anger. They know what it’s like to lose everything. They share stories of the pitfalls of leadership, the hassles of being a mage in a world still skeptical and the joys of their time with Varric.

Emmrich finds that Rook is happier, that they are healing in a way he hadn’t expected with Hawke around. When the child is born, a red haired thief of the heart, Rook and Emmrich are made godparents. It feels natural when they all decide to live together.

Hawke helps Rook through their own pregnancy. Their children grow up as siblings practically. Hawke’s daughter looks so much like her father and is twice as stubborn.

As they watch their strange family grow, they’re sure Varric would have been proud.

[nerd-fandom-drabbles]

Paper Trail

Description: Lucanis wrestles with the possibility of betrayal as he delves into the mysteries surrounding his capture and subsequent disappearance. With Rook by his side, they piece together what few clues they have.

2461 Words

Characters: Lucanis Dellamorte and femme, elven Rook

Pairings: Lucanis x Rook, hint of potential Teia x Viago

Genre: Mystery???? Hurt and comfort.

Content Warnings: I'd rate this T for teen. Mostly for a few dirty words in English and Spanish and some adult themes. Adult themes: mentions of violence, betrayal, suspicion, sex. Spite being less of a physical gremlin and more of a voice in Lucanis's mind.

WARNING: Spoilers for all released Dragon Age: The Veilguard gameplay footage as of 10/26/24, The Wigmaker Job, and Eight Little Talons. Not necessary to have read the Tevinter Nights stories, though. I probably over-exposit for clarity.

Note: Probably will be OOC once the game comes out. Story details will probably be totally wrong, too.

Note 2: This is a part 1 of ???? If anyone actually reads it I might feel cute and write more.

Lucanis Dellamorte was tiring of sifting through papers. Although normally he was happy to compile and review intelligence dossiers or post-op status reports, today, he faced another beast entirely.

He sat at an old oak desk in Emmrich's library facing off against a tall stack of envelopes, the newest of which were freshly delivered. The twine bindings and wax seals all broken, their contents had been dumped out and arranged in some vague groupings for analysis. He had read through them all at least once already, but felt like he was missing something obvious. Exhaustion aside, he wasn't ready to stop digging for clues just yet.

He let out a big sigh.

His positioning in the room wasn't ideal and he knew he struggled to concentrate because of it. He would have preferred to be sitting with his back to a wall, as would be usual for him, but that wasn't currently possible due to the layout of Emmrich's furniture. It was already kind enough of Emmrich to let him use his space without a condition of said use being a complete reorganization of the room. So, he was instead situated as close to the door as he could be, relying on the sounds of footsteps, gait recognition, and the wide oak door's creaks to give away any potential intruders.

As a result, when he heard those familiar, soft-heeled footsteps make their way to the door, he already knew what to expect. Still, she opened the door ever-so-slowly and crossed the room quietly, maybe on tip-toes. Probably trying to surprise him.

“Boo!” she whispered, wrapping her arms around him and kissing his cheek, “Did I get you?”

“Ah, yes, mi amor.” He responded flatly, and softly stroked her arm, “You got me.”

“Lies,” she whispered in his ear, “What are you up to?”

“Tying together loose ends... or trying to, anyway.”

“Loose ends?” she asked and pulled away from him. He instantly missed her warmth.

She leaned against the desk now, pawing at his papers inquisitively.

“Old ship records. You're looking for details of your capture?”

“You know the one,” He leaned back in his chair, and met her eyes, now giving her his full attention.

And indeed she did. A year before they had met, Lucanis had been the target of a devastating kidnapping plot on his return voyage to Antiva from Tevinter. Venatori had surrounded and overrun his vessel, and with nowhere to escape, he was captured. He had spent nearly a year in their custody, subject to endless torture and experimentation in retaliation for the assassinations that earned him his moniker: “The Demon of Vyrantium.”

By the time Rook and Neve found him in his underwater prison, he had been saddled with more than a few extra demons of his own. One of them more literal than any of them could have expected.

She swallowed, “Hmm.”

“Months ago, when we were in Vyrantium looking for Zara, I went seeking the manifest of my ship from that night.”

“Alone? I would have come with you.”

“I... didn't entirely trust you yet.”

She wasn't hurt by this. Knowing everything he had been through, his caution was more than warranted. Still, she wished she could have joined him.

“Anyway, with the ship's captain having been killed in the attack, I went to the local port authority and asked for a copy of any documents. They said the ship I was on was with an independent trading company, and they'd inquire to the local merchant's guild.”

“And it took this long for them to get back to you?”

“It seems that particular ship had an incomplete record. It took months of back and forth between the three of us to confirm that some parts of the manifest simply did not exist.”

“Convenient.”

He shot her a knowing look of agreement. He gestured to the mountain of papers and envelopes on his desk, “This is the result of those exchanges.”

Her heart skipped a beat as his glance returned to her. The quiet intensity in his eyes never ceased to strike her.

“I've been scouring for clues, but... nothing stands out,” he said, rubbing his beard and leaning over his papers, “Any thoroughly incriminating evidence must have been among the redactions.”

“Still, there might be something they missed. Even a fake name or suspicious piece of cargo might be of interest to us,” Rook replied, and when Lucanis nodded, she then continued, “Have you shared this with Neve, yet? Following this sort of paper trail is her bread and butter.”

“Ah no, not yet,” Lucanis swallowed, “I wanted to reach a conclusion on my own before getting a second opinion.”

Rook sighed. She knew the real reason was that he was still sorting out who among the Veilguard he could trust. She had earned his good opinion through ceaseless dedication, honesty, and an uncanny ability to help him through his arguments with Spite. The hot, soul-bearing sex had probably helped, as well. The others on the Veilguard team, however, had presumably not been so lucky.

“Well, there is one thing. Something I expected to see that, conspicuously, wasn't there.”

“What?”

“I don't want to say. Not yet. Not until I'm sure.”

She sighed. This was a lot. “You know, your grandmother suspected that you were betrayed. By an ally.”

He stared blankly, “She said that? To you? When?”

“When Neve and I first met with Crows regarding your whereabouts. Before we met.” Rook fiddled with one of the pens on his desk, “She said it was why she didn't tell anyone about the fake body at your wake. She didn't know who to trust.”

“Mi amor. That is an important detail,” His forehead creased with frustration and he rubbed his furrowed brow, “Why didn't you mention it earlier?”

“I planned to tell you eventually, but I knew the rest of the Crows were looking into it and would report to you if they found anything. Besides, I didn’t want to add to your worries if there wasn’t anything you could do in the meantime.” She shook her head, “You had enough on your plate.”

“That is for me to decide, Rook. I know you were trying to protect me. But that was for me to decide.”

“I'm sorry. I... should have told you sooner.”

“I'm a big boy. Don't leave me in the dark.”

He could feel Spite weaving a sickly web in the back of his mind. She hides. She lies. And you think she loves you? He fought against the thoughts, knowing Spite's only interest was in isolating him further.

He met her pleading eyes and sighed; he was utterly unable to stay angry at her. “That changes things. She may have kept records of her thoughts on the matter somewhere... But where?”

The obvious place to look would be their ancestral home, however, this was Caterina they were talking about. She had kept a million secrets, and probably had a million different places to stash them. Plus, if Caterina had been correct, and the traitor was a close ally, it's possible they may have already been beaten to the punch, with any evidence destroyed or altered... But even if so, it was another lead.

He wondered briefly if she might have kept a safety deposit box in a bank vault somewhere. As next of kin, he would be able to get his hands on it, but anyone else would likely have more trouble. Anyone else except...

He thought for a moment, and then asked, “Who else knows about that little tidbit?”

“Uh, just those of us who were in the room, I assume.” She counted on her fingers, “Teia, Viago, Neve, and your cousin.”

“Illario?” He paled and she nodded, “Shit.”

“Why, what's wrong?” She paused in her tracks, blood running cool in her veins, “You suspect him.”

“He was supposed to be on that ship with me, but ran off on a 'job' last minute. If he bought a ticket, his name would have been on the manifest next to mine, but it wasn't. The page was ripped out.” He growled, “I know. Convenient.”

“Your own cousin? Luca, but why would he-?” She stopped, her mouth becoming dry, “Oh.”

“Oh?”

More secrets. Spite hissed.

“I've been... spending some casual friend time with Teia.”

He raised an eyebrow. This was news to him. Not good or bad. Just... news.

“What? She's fun! And I think when she and Viago finally hook up, they'll be great for double dates.”

He cracked the slightest hint of a smile. He actually liked that idea, even if the chances were slim. Those two were utterly hopeless.

“Anyway, she told me about your rivalry.”

“Rivalry? What rivalry? There is no rivalry.” At least, no more than any other set of boy-cousins around a similar age.

“She also told me you'd say that,” she chuckled dryly, “That Illario was always comparing himself to you but you always brushed it off.”

“What? No, that's a misreading of the situation,” he shook his head, “No, I was just older, and so he followed me around like a puppy.”

“Vhenan, I love you. But you are literally brushing it off right now,” he let out an annoyed little groan, and she continued, “You were Caterina's favorite. Everyone thinks you should be the heir. He's barely even a contender. He's jealous.”

He blinked. He had considered Illario a suspect, but hadn't been able to pin down a compelling motive. There had been conflicts in their past, over everything from jobs to girls, sure, but enough to collaborate with their enemies to take down family?

And jealousy? What even was a little jealousy among relatives, anyway? He was jealous of Illario's even bronze skin, ease with women, and ceaseless, grating charm, but he would never wish him harm over it. They were different, yes, but that was what made their friendship work.

Still, he was pulled back to the Wigmaker job. That entire night, Illario had seemed preoccupied with the possibility that Lucanis would be selected by Caterina to take on the role of First Talon in her stead. In fact, Illario had asked on one - no - two separate occasions, what Lucanis would do if she tapped him. In response, Lucanis had been honest and told him that he had no desire for the role, and would prefer Illario have it for himself. But he'd also been honest that Caterina could force him into it if she wanted to, and that they would need a plan to convince her to name Illario instead. And at the time, Lucanis had assumed that was enough to sate him.

But maybe he'd gotten impatient. Maybe he was more ambitious than Lucanis had given him credit for? Maybe he wanted his dear cousin out of the picture entirely?

Fuck off, Spite. I feel you in there. The entity merely cackled and retreated to the deeper parts of his sub-conscious, done stoking his fire, for now.

Truthfully, Illario was only a somewhat skilled stealth infiltrator, but he certainly had enough skill to break into a lightly-guarded private shipyard and alter the records unseen. If the Venatori had reached out to him and made him an offer... maybe let him in on the plan to get rid of their Demon problem...

The simmering in Lucanis's blood turned to a boil. That made motive, means, and opportunity. He gripped the armrests of his chair so hard he thought they might break. After a few tense moments, he bit his thumb and muttered under his breath, “Ay, ese mierdito. Imbécil. ¡Bastardo, coño!” He clenched his fist.

The air in the library was thick with silence. It wasn't a huge outburst; he'd hardly moved, but still, Rook was surprised. She didn't have to speak Antivan to know that he was angrier than she'd ever seen him. This was highly unusual, to say the least, and she wasn't sure what to do. It was far more common for her to have to pry his feelings out of him, or ply him with alcohol or affection to get him to emote at all. And even then, even with Spite's chiding haunting his waking thoughts, she'd never seen him so volatile. And yes, the circumstances were dire, but there were still so many unknowns.

“Luca, please. We don't know it was him.” She firmly placed her hand on the table and leaned towards him, “Besides, doesn't this all feel a little too easy? Anyone – anyone – could have requested copies of these documents. They're public record. Whoever did this knew we would get them eventually.”

“So?”

“So... The page was removed. His name might have been on it, but we can't know now. This could all be a frame job to tear you two apart when you need each other.”

He blinked hard, breathing heavy, slowly coming down from his rage.

“You're right. You're right. Thank you.” He took her hand and gave it a little kiss, “I'm sorry I-”

“We need more information,” she interrupted his apology. It wasn't necessary. Not from him. Not now. His rage, though perhaps momentarily misdirected, was perfectly valid in her eyes. And she knew that when the time was right, it would be useful.

He gave her hand a little rub with his thumb and then let it go. He took a deep breath. He fastened the nearest group of papers with a paper clip and set them down on the desk in a neat stack. He took another deep breath, firmly gripping the desk's edge. He needed to set aside his feelings and think clearly. Think. After a moment, he looked up at her.

“Let's set up a meeting with Teia and Viago. You, me and Neve. If we meet at Caterina's, we can kill two birds with one stone: go through her effects to see if we can dig up anything, and get a status report on anything they've uncovered through their investigations.”

“That's a good plan, Luca.”

He nodded. To anyone else, his expression might look neutral, but Rook knew him well enough by now to see the distress clearly on his face. Something about where he held his tension, probably. To be surrounded by so many enemies, and not know who to trust? Her heart sank for him. No wonder it had taken so long for him to open up to her.

“I hate seeing you like this, vhenan.” She reached out and placed a tender hand on his jaw. “Come.”

She pulled him into a warm embrace, and he melted into her, nuzzling into her neck as she snaked her arms around to stroke his hair and lower back.

“We will find who did this. I promise you."

[soodalgwayeou]

Veilguard spoilers ahead but I have to get this out of my system

the good:

it's still good to go back to Thedas and see old characters

if this is your first Dragon Age game, it's interesting and good enough to make you interested in the other stuff

ASSAN

the griffon quests and the Weisshaupt mission are insane, heart attack upon heart attack

the villains are much better than Coripheus ever was

Emmrich Volkarin my beloved, there is nothing bad I can say about you

Mannfred (especially knowing that all those hissings are just Mr. Matthew Mercer having the time of his life and getting paid for it)

most of the locations have really unique vibes that make you invested in their storylines (especially the Anderfels), even though they are much smaller than in Inquisition

the completely useless tradition of gathering stuff during the final combat persists and I absolutely adore it

you can have a fatty Rook (and since my Rook was much like Hawke in personality, I made Varric's story of a fat hero rolling in gravy a reality)

coffee culture is canon

a coffin fuck in the Grand Necropolis that would make Cassandra crawl out of her skin

the bad:

everybody talks like they were in therapy for years. you don't talk like that in real life unless you want to sound real pretentious and dishonest. you don't thank Solas for sharing his feelings. you chuck him in the head with a stone over the abyss for talking shit.

everybody is so polite and understanding it hurts. even the characters in conflict talk it out pretty quickly. I miss Fenris and Anders trying not to murder each other behind my back in a random Hightown alley.

no choice matters. not the ones from previous games, nor the ones you make in this game. things will work out. everyone will love you. you can't upset anyone so much they'd rather leave or go behind your back.

not to talk about whatever they're claiming about the ruin of Ferelden, Orlais and the Free Marches

since nothing matters, except whether your Inquisitor smooched Solas or not, seeing Morrigan without Kieran and knowing that it could have been different...

no mention of the Architect who could've changed things

the characters are... I don't know. I don't feel much for them (except for Emmrich. Emmrich can stay forever.) it feels like after playing Awakening - you like these people, but not that much. Anders only hurt because you saw how cheerful he was and what happened after. but even after Tevinter Nights, after Vows and Vengeance, after tens of hours of playing, I did not shed a tear for loosing anyone. I was so concentrating on the survival of griffons I was ready to sacrifice most of them. honestly, that small war table quest where Sebastian is ready to attack Kirkwall and you know Aveline is there devastated me more than almost anything in this game.

the ugly:

since everybody is so polite and nothing matters, there are no real conflicts that matter, no real hard choices

nothing about mages or templars

nothing about slavery - you are standing in the middle of Minrathous and you see none of this. you can be a breaker of chains and it's just a backstory for you to make you a righteous person, but no quest about liberating slaves. Fenris would've burn this place down in a minute and leave nothing for the dragon.

nothing about racism - you've played 3,5 games where it is really important, with slums and jokes about elvhen ears and fear of the Qun and a linching of a priest in Orzammar just for his faith and now the world is a multicultural bonanza. you can live in a city under Qunari occupation and still have a friendly Tal-Vashoth merchant. In DA2 he'd be a quest to save from angry locals just because he has horns.

nothing about exploiting orphans - the Crows are all about FAMIGLIA and yes, they are assassins, but they are good guys. they definitely don't buy and train children from brothels to brainwash them and kill them if they try to leave. Zevran would poison Rook for helping them.

Isabela, who caused two acts of utter chaos in DA2 took the lesson to heart and now she runs an ethical pirate gang which - and I try not to laugh - give back stolen cultural items to their owners. honey, we both know you're lying. I love you, but you're lying.

nothing about Nevarran culture reveling their dead so much they forget to live - some point out they are creepy for being around corpses, but nothing about freaking out about spirits. characters in Jaws of Hakkon grabbed their pearls for less, not to mention Rivaini culture and all of these had potential to unravel and get conflicted about.

still, knowing there are griffons and a magical skeleton boy running around makes me sleep better and wait for the next chapter of this story (hopefully going back to its roots)